The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 6
‘I thought I heard Mr Hibbert mention you served with some of the local soldiers during the war,’ she said and his gaze shifted to her, the rapier focus tucked away even as she watched.
‘Did he?’
‘I am quite certain he did. In Waterloo.’
‘Hibbert’s grasp of geography is no stronger than his grasp of recent history. Those fellows are Bavarian. They were nowhere near Waterloo.’
‘But they did fight the French, did they not?’ she asked, widening her eyes as Milly did when she wanted to show she was interested. His own eyes narrowed.
‘Eventually. They switched sides just before Napoleon was walloped at Leipzig. Clever fellows. Why the interest, Rosie Prim?’
‘Why not? I find all manner of things interesting.’
‘So you do. What a valuable companion you have acquired, Lady Grafton.’
‘I am quite aware of Phoebe’s value, Lord Wrexham,’ Milly replied with more hauteur than usual. He transferred his smile to her, clearly aware she was feeling snubbed, and just like that Milly’s coolness melted. Phoebe wanted to pinch her aunt for being so easy to appease.
They passed San Moisè Church and he held out his arm to Milly as they came to the bridge, standing aside to allow Phoebe to cross first. She hurried ahead, stopping on the other side. For a moment the couple stood silhouetted against the backdrop of the grand Baroque church, two dark-haired beauties against the ornate, pale marble structure. It would have made a delightful painting, but it filled Phoebe with foreboding.
She was not worried Milly would become involved with someone like Lord Wrexham; her aunt had far too great a sense of self-preservation. But still, something made the world darken, as if a mist had come between them and the sunny skies of Venice.
She turned away and tried to put her foolish fancies aside. Premonitions were all well and good, but she dealt in facts, not fiction, and the facts were far more mundane. A handsome man on his way to ruin was no true threat to Milly or to her. He was merely another of the many, many casualties of life. Some had died and some were dying, slowly. In the end they would all feed the worms.
She listened idly to them talk as they wove through the narrow passages towards San Stefano Square. Lord Wrexham fed Milly’s hunger for gossip, amusing her without the malice Phoebe had been so concerned about.
When they reached the Duodo o Barbarigo bridge a high nasal voice hailed them from an approaching gondola.
‘Stop this boat, young man,’ Mrs Banister commanded the gondolier. ‘Rupert, tell this fellow to pull alongside here. We shall take Lady Grafton and her niece with us back to the palazzo. It is far too hot to be out walking in these noxious alleyways.’
Rupert conveyed this command in his far more pleasant voice and the gondolier pulled alongside the steps leading down to the water by the bridge, all the while protesting in Italian that his gondola was not large enough to bear more than one additional passenger.
‘Surely there is no need,’ Phoebe said. ‘It is no more than ten minutes...’
‘Ten minutes?’ Milly moaned. ‘Every time you say ten minutes, Phoebe dear, it somehow becomes an hour. Would you mind handing me down, Rupert dear? We have been walking simply for ages.’
The gondolier threw up his hands and Rupert eyed him dubiously.
‘Perhaps I had best walk back so the ladies—’
‘And leave Lady Grafton and me to the mercies of this scurrilous fellow?’ demanded his mother. ‘And who shall help me onto the jetty at the palazzo? Have you no thought to my welfare, you wicked boy?’
Rupert had been holding out his hand to Phoebe to help her down, but she smiled at him.
‘You see to your mama and Lady Grafton. I know the way and it is not far. I shall likely be there before you.’ She crossed the bridge before a new drama could take hold. The gondolier’s exhortations that he had his gondola and his reputation to look to continued as he and his passengers glided towards the Grand Canal.
Chapter Seven
Somehow Phoebe was not surprised to hear Wrexham’s now familiar footfall behind her.
‘I do know my way, you know,’ she said without turning.
‘Yes, yes. The master navigator. That was very prettily handled. Poor Banister. That is what he is, no? A Banister for her to lean on. A few more years of that and there won’t be much of him left. With any luck the gondola will sink and he’ll be spared more of that nonsense. Why don’t you rescue the poor fellow?’
‘I don’t rescue people.’
‘No? You rescued Lady Grafton from the arrow I was just tipping in poison. Who were you saving? Her or me?’
‘Neither of you need saving.’
‘Then why bother?’
‘You are imagining things, Lord Wrexham. Not all the world revolves about you.’
‘But of course it does. As your world revolves about you and your aunt’s world about her. We are each the only fixed point in our little dramas and the only person we can never escape, more’s the pity.’
‘Except in death.’
‘Ah, yes. I forgot you believe in the finality of death. Practical even about the hereafter.’
‘At least I am practical about what can or cannot be and I do not indulge in sulking or dipping arrows in poison when I am thwarted or upset.’
‘I beg to differ. You have slung some rather impressive poison-tipped arrows at me when you are upset. And I am eminently practical. I’ve managed to survive this long on my wits and a few winnings at the tables. I choose my path, Miss Prim. It doesn’t choose me.’
She snorted. ‘So you think. You are just like Spinoza’s stone.’
‘Like who’s what?’
‘Spinoza’s stone. You have heard of Spinoza, have you not? The philosopher?’
‘I know who Spinoza is. In principle. I didn’t know he had a stone. What did he do with it? Toss it at other annoying philosophers?’
She turned to face him. She knew that glimmer in his eyes—he was toying with her. Well, she would toy with him.
‘It was a parable about free will. He said: imagine a stone that was thrown with great force and suddenly while racing through the air it gains the capacity for thought but has no way of knowing that it was thrown. It would attribute its motion to its own desire to be in motion while in truth it would be ignorant of the true causes. Shall I explain the parable in your context, Lord Wrexham? Or have you caught the gist of it?’
He rubbed his cheek. ‘If you happen to find yourself thrown with great force, Rosie, I don’t think you need wonder at the cause. You are annoying as all hell.’
‘Ditto.’
‘I wish you would stop trying to reform me.’
‘I am not trying to reform you. But so long as you continue following me about I shall continue to share my opinion that you are an idiot as freely as I wish. You can of course remove both our objections by leaving me alone.’
He had a magnificent glare. She folded her arms. She had dealt with much, much worse than the glare of a spoilt pretty boy...man. Very much a man. And pretty was an insult to the power of his face and physique. It was very annoying he could have such an effect without even trying.
She tightened her arms. It was time to put an end to this strange...what? Friendship? Connection? If they’d been sixteen, she might even have thought it flirting, just as a boy tweaked a girl’s braid. Except someone like him had no need to flirt with someone like her.
Pique. That was what it was. On both their parts. Perhaps a little more than that on hers. All the more reason to chase him away, like a stray dog one had mistakenly petted a little too long and to whom one was in danger of becoming attached.
She set herself in motion again, turning into the narrow passage that led to the last bridge before San Stefano. Halfway down the shadowed alley two men stood arguing with an old man brandishing a broom.
‘Damn,’ Wrexham muttered. ‘Let’s go another way.’
‘There is no other way. Not without adding a good mile.’
‘Sometimes it is safer to walk a mile rather than rub up against the Luzzattis.’
She slowed. Despite Austrian rule, the Luzzatti family controlled several of the parishes in Venice and not even the likes of von Haas cared to cross them. Perhaps it was best...
Too late. The smaller of the two men had glanced over and spotted them. He smiled and beckoned them forward. ‘Domenico. Fratello.’
Wrexham made a small sound between a snort and a laugh, but he took her arm and moved her towards them, addressing the man in his perfect Italian.
‘Did I lose anything valuable to you last night, Donatello? I’m afraid my memory is fuzzy.’
‘I’m tempted to say you did, Domenico mio. But there were too many witnesses that you paid your debt. This time.’
The old man with the broom took advantage to scurry away. The large Luzzatti, who had the face of a crushed gargoyle, looked as if he would give chase, but Donatello Luzzatti patted his arm and the latter grunted and went to lean on the wall, his gaze watchful as the smaller man addressed Dominic.
‘I merely wished to remind you of your promise to Pietro. Since your memory is notoriously fuzzy.’
‘Then you wrong me, Donatello. If there is one thing I would never forget, it is a promise to play calcio with your son’s team. I value my hide too much.’
Donatello Luzzatti’s smile widened. ‘Good man. Don’t make me come looking for you. I am happy when Pietro is happy. You like it when I am happy, yes?’
‘I certainly prefer it to the other option. But I come for Pietro, not for you. He is a good boy.’
Donatello sighed and spread his hands, the cocky bravado slipping off him for a moment. ‘He is too much like his mother. He wants to go to Bologna, to university.’
‘Then let him go.’
‘Perhaps. At least the boy plays good calcio like me. Don’t fall off any bridges before the game. After that you may do as you wish.’
They stood aside and Wrexham took her arm and led her past. Once over the bridge and out of sight he gave a small laugh.
‘There in a nutshell you have Venice. You and Donatello have something in common, you know.’
‘We do?’
‘Yes, a tendency to mention falling off bridges in a manner that makes me deeply uncomfortable.’
‘I wasn’t threatening you. Do you often play calcio for the Luzzattis?’
‘When they ask. Aside from the tendency to lead to broken bones it is a healthy pastime. You should approve.’
‘What happens if you lose?’
‘Not quite as healthy. But they won’t toss me off a bridge. Merely break something the game hasn’t.’
‘Really?’
He laughed at her expression. ‘No. Then I won’t be able to play in the next game. I’ve helped them win more than I’ve made them lose. They are also practical, Miss Prim.’
‘I have read in the old travel books on Florence that it is a brutal pastime. I did not know they still play it, and in Venice.’
‘They don’t, not in the old Fiorentine sense. This is a local, informal version, rather like the one we played at school in England. The Luzzattis are rather a vain lot and they don’t want their precious scions covered in scars and sporting broken noses. And since there is not enough sand here in Venice to soften the impact of being thrown to the stony San Polo piazza floor, the rules about how much damage you can wreak on your opponents are a little more stringent. It is mostly for enjoyment. Calcio is no longer in its heyday in Italy, but the people enjoy it, especially since bullfights were outlawed some years back.’
‘So, no bets are made?’
‘This is Venice. They would bet on the direction a horse’s tail will twitch; it’s in their blood. Why? Are you looking to bet against me?’
The sun fell on them with the suddenness of a swooping eagle as the alley opened onto Santo Stefano Square. She squinted and smiled up at him.
‘Would that spur you on to win?’
‘It might. On the other hand, I would hate to deprive you of what little wages Lady Grafton deigns to provide you.’
‘She is not ungenerous.’
‘Given your devotion and loyalty, unless she pays you a thousand pounds a year, I would say she is ungenerous.’ He sounded offended on her behalf, so she didn’t take offence. The sympathy of one purse-pinched person to another.
‘Well, I shan’t bet against you, then. Thank you for your escort, Lord Wrexham.’
‘Wait a moment. We haven’t arranged where we shall meet tomorrow.’
‘I... What?’
‘Tomorrow is Thursday. You promised to return to Matteo and Giulia’s. The trattoria.’
‘I don’t think that is a good idea.’ She shook her head. Not a good idea at all.
‘You promised, Rosie. You would disappoint them?’
‘They won’t remember.’
‘There you go, underestimating yourself again. They will. You do realise your cowardice will have grave repercussions? They will wonder whether you were merely being polite when you sighed over their squid and their son’s wine and that will likely have them crying into their limoncello. Not to mention that it will reflect badly on me.’
She laughed at his nonsense, her strange fear unravelling a little. She was being foolish. He wasn’t a threat. And he was proving to be useful.
‘Come, you won’t leave me to dine alone, will you?’
‘I am certain you could convince half the noble ladies in Venice to dine with you.’
‘Not at Matteo and Giulia’s. They would be more shocked at the suggestion than if I asked them to undress in public. Much more.’
She noted he hadn’t denied her assertion, only the location. Well, it was true. And not merely because he was so damnably handsome. She’d focused so much on his drinking and profligacy during their first weeks in Venice and she’d not adequately valued his charm. In fact, she’d been prejudiced against him because of it. That had been her first mistake. She’d made quite a few since and was about to make another.
‘Oh, very well. When shall I meet you there?’
He raised a brow. ‘I shall meet you at noon on the other side of Ponte dell’Accademia. You might become lost otherwise.’
She shook her head. ‘I am almost never lost.’
‘Stop arguing about everything. I shall meet you on the south side of the bridge at noon.’
He strode off before she could answer, swallowed up in the darkness of the passage.
Chapter Eight
Dominic settled against the wall of the church, squeezing into the slim strip of shade it provided. The bridge was crowded with Venetians, as loud in the noontime heat as they had been in the midnight cool.
He glanced at his pocket watch. There were some moments yet to spare before noon. He sighed. He would likely regret this.
When he’d first made the suggestion, his mind still steeped in Matteo’s limoncello, it had seemed like a very good idea. He hadn’t liked the way Phoebe had put herself down and he’d wanted to please her. The vestiges of a long forgotten chivalrous sliver pricking what was left of his soul.
That was a fine excuse for his first invitation, not so much for the second. She certainly hadn’t expected it. If he’d just let her disappear back into the palazzo, she would likely never have thought twice about it. Like everyone else she had few expectations of him. Unlike everyone else, who often delighted in watching his self-destruction, she truly seemed sorry for him.
It stung, but it also made him do foolish things. Such as invite her to Matteo and Giulia’s. Carry her parcels. Escort her and her aunt back to the palazzo. Be useful.
But she is useful, too, he pointed out to his cynical side. She might appear quiet and meek, but by some strange alchemy she put people at ease. Made them like her. Lady Grafton was a hedonistic cynic, but she was clearly extremely fond of Phoebe, not merely dependent upon her. And there was Phoebe’s ability to engage difficult people without the slightest sign of effort. Like Mrs Banister and von Haas. The last person Dominic would expect to hold someone like von Haas in an extended and clearly mutually fascinating conversation was an English spinster with no consequence and more countenance than looks.
Strange, that.
And then there were Rupert Banister and George Clapton and even Hib. Perhaps it wasn’t very surprising that the young men at the palazzo were so comfortable with her. Banister appeared torn between regarding her as a favoured older sister and something less innocent. As for Clapton... There was nothing innocent about the way Clapton regarded women. Perhaps he ought to warn her... No, it was none of his business.
Besides, he had little doubt she’d already noticed. She had a knack for noticing things others missed. People who had to survive on the favours of others often did. She’d certainly noticed some of his slips, like rescuing her book from its close encounter with a canal. She might not understand the strings pulling the puppets, but she noticed the anomalies. That could be useful.
He would make it useful; that would lessen this guilt and discomfort.
He glanced at his pocket watch once more. Still shy of noon. There was no call to be impatient.
‘The bells have not yet rung, so I cannot be late.’
Her voice, both cool and warm, made him turn in something like alarm.
‘Where did you come from? I didn’t see you come over the bridge.’
‘I didn’t. I was out walking.’
She was fidgeting with her reticule, her gaze on the paving. She looked distracted. And tired.
‘Did something happen? Did your aunt leave you in limbo all night?’
She shook her head. ‘No. What is the surprise today?’
