The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 9
‘Am I being uncouth?’ he asked. ‘It is probably as someone once told me: I am far nicer when drunk.’
‘Goodness!’ Milly’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you such an uncouth thing?’
Wrexham looked to Phoebe, his smile twisting a little. ‘Someone with a disconcerting tendency to be honest at the worst possible moment. Watch yourself with von Haas, Rosie; he’s not as blockish as he appears. Now I’m off to do something about making myself nicer.’
Phoebe wasn’t foolish enough to respond to that, however much she wished to. He was soon swallowed in a group of Russians and Venetians, the Russians handing round flasks that she presumed were filled with their adored vodka. That would probably work even faster than his own flask of whisky. She wondered how much he would lose to the Montillio bank tonight.
‘Rosie?’ Milly asked, one dark brow arching. It was a very annoying skill her aunt had mastered.
Phoebe shrugged. ‘He enjoys mangling my name. Brimford became Primrose and then somehow Miss Rosie Prim. He thinks he’s clever.’
‘He is clever. That’s the problem. I’d give him the same advice he gave you about von Haas. Watch yourself with Wrexham; he’s not as blockish as he appears. Whatever he is now, he was once a very clever young man.’
‘I know. I don’t trust him in the least.’ It was only half a lie, she assured herself.
‘Good. Now, since for some unfathomable reason von Haas is clearly not interested in moi, I shall have to settle for a Russian bear instead of the Austrian variety. Come along. The game’s afoot.’
* * *
Dominic watched the two women cross the Faro room. Lady Grafton was clearly on the hunt after being overlooked by von Haas. The surprise on her face when von Haas had clearly preferred speaking with Phoebe had been almost comical.
Dominic wasn’t as surprised as he would have been only a week ago. As he’d learned much to his dismay, Phoebe Brimford might be overlooked at first, but she most definitely had a way of making herself seen and heard. And felt.
‘A frowning jester. The worst kind,’ drawled a deep voice behind him.
Dominic didn’t turn to greet Sebastian Crawford. ‘History’s best jesters are melancholic, Seb.’
‘Perhaps, but it suits you ill. Have a drink.’
Dominic took the flask Crawford extended towards him and drank while Crawford surveyed his little kingdom.
‘Do you realise, Dom, if the Palazzo Montillio were to sink into the sea, half the ruling houses in Europe would be sorely deprived.’
‘Tempting, then.’
Sebastian threw him a cynical look. ‘Dukes’ heirs make poor anarchists.’
‘I’d rather be a poor anarchist than this particular duke’s son.’
Sebastian pressed his hand to his chest. ‘I think... I think my heart is bleeding.’
‘An achievement, since by all accounts your heart, if you possess one, is little more than a shrivelled old prune.’
‘You’re in a fine mood today, Wrexham. By the way, what did von Haas want with your little companion?’
‘She’s Lady Grafton’s companion, not mine. He invited her to visit the Giardini Reali.’
‘With him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Very strange.’
‘Apparently they share a passion for Venetian history and art.’
‘So long as that’s the only passion they share. He’ll eat her alive.’
‘Not Miss Prim. She’s made of sterner stuff than most,’ Dominic replied, trying not to show how unpalatable he found the notion of Phoebe and von Haas sharing anything at all. ‘Give me another pull on your flask and I’ll go fleece your casino of some of its ill-gotten gains.’
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe inspected the female croupier presiding over the Faro tables of Casino Montillio. The woman was dressed in a black silk and lace dress, which was almost nun-like in its stark simplicity, yet succeeded in looking anything but innocent. She was called La Flamme, probably due to her flame-coloured hair which was cleverly echoed in Veronese’s painting Mary Magdalene in the Wilderness, which hung on the wall behind her, as if Mary Magdalene herself had paused her discourse with her conscience and stepped out of the painting to fulfil the fantasies of the men crowded around the table.
Even von Haas seemed taken with her, watching her with a concentration that was clearly unsettling her because she evaded his gaze unless absolutely necessary. Phoebe could sympathise. Von Haas’s stare was unnerving even if one did not know he held the reins of power in Venice. He stood tall and stiff and yet compelling. Phoebe had to admit he was a handsome man, but unlike her aunt she did not find him attractive. He had no...vulnerability.
‘Didn’t they teach you in Companion School that it was impolite to stare, sweetheart?’
Phoebe’s hand tightened on her wine glass at his sudden appearance. Again. The man must have velvet instead of leather on the soles of his shoes.
‘No. They taught me it was impolite to sneak up on people, Lord Wrexham. And I wasn’t staring.’
‘Were, too. I wouldn’t start getting ideas about von Haas based on a few gestures of politeness. He might look like an overgrown angel, but believe me, he is anything but.’
‘I wasn’t staring,’ she repeated. ‘I was watching the play.’
‘Of course you were.’
She turned to him. ‘If you must know, I was watching my aunt and her new beau. Do you know anything about him?’
It worked. He transferred his attention to Milly and Alexei Razumov, a stocky yet handsome Russian officer almost two heads taller than Milly, whose laughing gaze was currently fixed adoringly on Razumov as she hung on his arm. Razumov’s gaze in turn was directed at Milly’s bosom—or at the diamonds that pulsed and winked above it, it was hard to tell. His grin was wide and toothy and he looked as if he could eat her in one bite, and Milly actually looked as if she might enjoy it. Phoebe smiled inwardly. Milly’s acting abilities never ceased to impress her.
She turned from Milly’s practised exhibition to her new nemesis. Lord Wrexham was watching the players, giving Phoebe an opportunity to examine him. In the two hours that had passed since their earlier meeting, he had clearly been enjoying the liquid refreshments. His hair was tousled, his cravat loosened, and there was a warm, reckless edge to his smile. But she could tell he was still not as drunk as he was likely to be by the evening’s end.
Again she had the urge to tell him to stop there, go home. Go back to England even.
Foolish Phoebe.
‘Alexei Razumov,’ he replied to her question. ‘He’s the son of a Russian prince and a pain in Count Nesselrode’s behind.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Because Razumov’s father supports Nesselrode’s long-time rival for the ear of the Tsar, a very canny man named Kapodistrias. He lost his last tussle with Nesselrode and is currently in exile in Switzerland, but there are rumours Razumov is here to make friends with the Austrians and sway them into inviting his patron to the Congress next month as well.’
‘Oh. And that would be bad for this Nesselrode fellow?’
‘Not just for him. Kapodistrias is all for convincing the continental powers to pick a war with the Turks.’
‘Is there a chance of that?’
‘It depends. Razumov has two advantages over Nesselrode. He knows how to make friends, and no matter how deep he plays he always finds people to frank him. Like your aunt.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Phoebe sighed looking back to the Faro table, where a male croupier had now taken over the bank. ‘I do wish Milly would find someone less profligate.’
‘Is that part of your duties? Chaperoning your aunt’s funds if not her virtue?’
‘Chaperoning her funds is my virtue. I must find her someone more stable. Who was the man who was remonstrating earlier with Razumov at the Faro table?’
‘That was Nesselrode himself. The Russian foreign minister.’
‘Oh. Is he married?’
‘Good lord, woman, you aim high. Don’t waste your aunt’s time on him. Unlike many of these uniformed quacks, he is truly only here to promote the Russian cause ahead of the Congress. Find her someone more...doughy. They’re safer.’
Despite herself, she burst into laughter. Two men who’d stood with their backs to them turned, brows raised. She flushed a little and directed an admonishing stare at them before turning back to Lord Wrexham. He was now watching her with the same narrow-eyed look she caught sometimes—assessing, focused.
Not very drunk. She frowned. She’d thought him further along by now. His gaze lowered and settled on her mouth.
‘I didn’t think it was possible but you have an even more seductive laugh than Lily. You should let it loose more often, Rosie.’
She swallowed, heat battling a completely unexpected surge of jealousy. ‘Who is Lily? One of your local innamorata?’
The watchful panther look became even more intent. ‘The wife of my closest friend.’
‘Oh. That sounds...uncomfortable.’
He smiled. ‘I’m not attracted to her, just her laugh. It set the standard. Until now.’
She shook her head, at him and at herself. For some reason he had decided she needed to be won over. She wasn’t certain why or for what, but she would have none of that. That would be a bad, bad mistake.
‘I give you credit for fashioning your compliments with the skill of the glass blowers of Murano, but surely you could gain more by employing your arts elsewhere?’
‘Gain?’
The warmth had evaporated from his voice and she flushed again, this time with shame. She’d been cruel and for no other reason than he made her uncomfortable.
‘I apologise, Lord Wrexham, but I don’t care for compliments. Not that I often receive them, but still... I prefer not being noticed. For any reason, good or bad.’
She’d given him a wide opening and she waited for the counterattack, her cheeks hot and her heart thumping. She’d dealt with far worse in her life, but she felt as exposed as a crab who’d just shed its shell.
‘I wish you’d call me Dominic.’ There was no acrimony in his voice, and a wholly different heat joined the fray.
She shook her head. They weren’t in the quiet alleyways of Venice now. All she had to do was look about her and see that she did not belong in his world except in so far as her role required.
‘You’re a very stubborn young woman,’ he said and turned away, inspecting the crowd.
‘And you are a very stubborn young man.’
‘I’m thirty-five. Hardly young.’
‘I’m twenty-eight. Hardly young either.’
‘You wear your years better than I do, Rosie.’
She smiled. ‘That’s not true, but thank you.’
‘You see? That wasn’t so hard.’
‘What?’
‘Accepting a compliment.’
She shrugged.
‘And up go the battlement and fortifications,’ he murmured and returned to observing the crowd.
She watched his profile, more puzzled than ever. The more he revealed, the more obscure he became. It was unsettling and she disliked being unsettled.
‘Don’t you ever tire of flirting, Lord Wrexham?’
‘Does a prima donna singer ever tire of singing or a pianist of playing?’ he answered without looking at her. ‘I’m good at it, it isn’t hard, and it’s expected of me.’
‘But a singer probably derives enjoyment from her art. Do you?’
His chest rose and fell, just enough out of rhythm to be telling.
‘Or is it merely a matter of survival for you?’ she prodded, and he turned to look at her.
‘Everything is a matter of survival in the end.’
‘That is no answer, or perhaps it is.’
He gave a grunt of annoyance. ‘What do you want? A confession that it bores me half to tears sometimes? I dare say an opera singer practising her scales is bored with that part of her art as well. And yet she practises her scales for far many more hours than she sings upon a stage. So?’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Are you singing now? Or is this the slogging part?’
‘If you think this is flirting, my performance is truly abysmal.’
‘Oh, no. It is masterful. I notice you tailor your charm to your object. Perhaps this is one of the arias in your repertoire.’
‘I am not flirting with you,’ he snapped.
‘Honesty can be very charming, especially when rare,’ she noted calmly, rather pleased to have annoyed him so. She watched his temper teeter on the edge, but then that same honesty seemed to spread over the rest, his eyes lighting with laughter.
‘You truly are a menace, Phoebe Brimford. And annoyingly observant. I dare say you will say it is my fault for needling you in the first place.’
‘Oh, I never say I told you so. I am above such pettiness.’
He laughed. ‘An absolute, abominable little menace. In answer to your question, on some exceedingly rare occasions I very much enjoy flirting. Unfortunately, that is usually when my performance is at its worst.’
She didn’t tell him he was wrong. That this performance, if it was that, was indeed masterly. She might have achieved her aim of exposing a little more of his inner workings, but with each lever and cog revealed she was being drawn in, some fabric of her caught between the wheels, tugged deeper and deeper into the mechanism. She could feel it as firmly as a tide dragging at her feet.
His eyes narrowed. ‘I wish I could read that twisty mind of yours, Rosie. I have a feeling it would be a revelation.’
She was saved from answering and from the burst of fear and heat deep inside her by the trill of the piano. A Scarlatti sonata swept in from the adjacent salon and she turned to listen, her heart beating hard.
‘How beautiful,’ she managed, and Dominic took her arm lightly.
‘Let us go to listen, then. Your aunt is fully occupied in any case.’
She didn’t resist and he led her out into the corridor, which was empty but for footmen carrying trays. She hesitated, but his hand curved over her arm, not pressing, just...warm.
‘Trust me, I know the best place to listen in peace.’
Trust me.
An absurdity, but she followed anyway. After all, she liked places to listen in peace. Her speciality. And she could use some peace to calm the sudden clamour of her nerves.
The wall at the end of the corridor was covered by a thick burgundy curtain from ceiling to floor and Dominic pushed it aside to reveal a modest door that had been covered with the same gilt-embossed wallpaper. It led to a narrow veranda along the side of the palazzo where light and music streamed out, the shadows of the guests etched on the balustrade like dark fingers reaching into the night. She took a step towards the light, but his hand tightened.
‘No, this way. It is even better.’ His voice was a warm promise and the hairs on her nape rose. It was foolishness incarnate, but she followed again. Up steps that hugged the outside of the building guarded by an iron railing and onto the veranda on the floor above the salon.
‘Listen,’ he murmured.
The windows of the room behind them were dark and shuttered and they seemed to float above the small canal flickering with the lights from the palazzo. Only a few feet beneath them were guests and lights and noise, but up here they were in a separate world—darker, quieter...safe. The last sensation made no sense, but she could not chase it away. Didn’t want to.
Listen.
For a moment all she could hear was her heart and then the music pushed its way in.
Downstairs the rumble and murmur of the crowd had dulled those beautiful notes, but it was as if they’d risen above the clouds where only the lightest birdsong reached. Here the Scarlatti was as pure as water bubbling up from a mountain spring. She leaned on the balustrade, soaking in the music as it rose, broken now and then by the faraway call of the gondoliers.
The pianist continued with Mozart, a tribute to the city’s conquerors, then a lovely French ballad full of joy, and finally a Russian tale of passion and yearning.
Like the food and wine Dominic had offered, the music robbed her of her edges. She hadn’t felt so full or so empty for a long time. Not for years and years. Perhaps not ever. The strange fear that had struck her fell away and for once she was completely at peace with herself and with the strange, damaged man beside her. When it stopped and the applause broke her dream, she turned to him and smiled.
‘Thank you, Dominic. That was a lovely gift.’
He was facing her, his hip against the balustrade, but for once she didn’t mind his scrutiny. Nor the silence that stretched. She was content.
Finally, he spoke. ‘I’m not a completely useless fellow, then?’ His voice was more gruff than rough and the increasingly familiar surge of pity at the waste of him coursed through her. She held out her hand.
‘Not useless at all. You’ve been very kind to me and I’ve often been ungracious. I’m sorry.’
He took her hand. ‘I don’t think kind is the word.’
‘It is the word I choose. It is kind to want to share something you enjoy with others when you have nothing to gain from it.’
‘You think I have nothing to gain from it?’
‘Nothing but in the sharing of that pleasure,’ she replied. ‘As you did by taking me to the Schiavantis. That was a kindness, too.’
‘Perhaps I am trying to seduce you.’
She tensed a little, but his words sounded more an accusation than a suggestion and there was a sulky twist to his beautiful mouth as if he was struggling against the current of her words. The foolish part of her that kept stirring when he approached wished his words had been a suggestion. A kiss on a Venetian veranda between the starry sky and the indigo canal would be something more than a kindness.
