“She will kill me.” Leonardo whispered. “She will be there tonight and she will kill me. I can sense it. There’s something evil on the air.”
Marcheti suppressed a scoff. Leonardo’s great musical gifts came at a price. He was wilful, vain, selfish to the core and harsh to anyone less talented than he was, which meant almost the entire population.
And most of all, he was sensitive. Sensitive to moods, to places. Marcheti believed he didn’t really sense anything peculiar but just said so to make himself special. As if he needed anything but his talent to make him special. He never voiced that out loud.
He came over and placed a sympathetic hand on Leonardo’s arm. “Nothing will happen tonight. Trust me. You’re just highly strung before the performance like you often are.”
Leonardo looked at him. For a moment Marcheti believed he had reached him, driven the silly notions of flamenco music and evil from his mind. But then Leonardo pulled his arm away from under his touch and hissed, “You’re to blame for all of it. If she wants to kill someone, it should be you. I hope she comes and kills you. You!”
Marcheti shrank under the white hot rage in Leonardo’s eyes. In the back of his mind the voice whispered of his brother who had lived with Leonardo and him for many years. The child is brilliant, because the child is intense. But the child is so intense he might one day just melt down his brains. And then he will be dangerous. To himself or to you.
His brother had died years ago. An accident, while Marcheti had not been at home.
Despite the warmth in the room, Marcheti shivered.
* * *
Lord Bantham entered the palazzo and stood in the hallway for a moment to adjust his eyes to the dimness, after he had come in from the bright sunshine. It struck him how silent it was in the house. He believed it was never this silent in his house in England. Here it was as quiet as…
A grave.
The macabre thought breathed through his head, vanishing as quickly as it had surfaced. He didn’t feel any strong connection with graves, although his parents, younger brother and first wife were all interred in the family tomb. People whispered that bad luck followed his family because of all the accidental deaths. His mother’s fall off horseback when he had just been four years old, his father’s death during a hunting party when he had somehow ended up in the shrub where the deer were and been shot by his best friend from boarding school. Then his brother setting sail for South America and the ship vanishing.
Perhaps it had been the constant disappearing of people from his life that had first planted the idea in his head: if Olivia ever gave him trouble, she could vanish as well.
Just a thought he hadn’t elaborated on. Just a way out in the back of his mind whenever he had had enough of the bills from dressmakers and hat shops lining his desk and the tennis instructors coming and going. It wasn’t just her spending his money on those chaps, but the way she flirted with them. And then expected him not to notice.
Or to care.
He frowned a moment, and the annoyance he felt whenever he remembered those days disappeared. It wasn’t back then any more. It had all changed now. He was in control. With a smile he took the stairs, two steps at a time, to go and see if his wife was done dressing for the party.
* * *
She couldn’t keep her eyes off her mirror image. The woman standing there, so trim and statuesque in that dress with the long skirt, the lace cover over her head giving her an air of mystery; also suggesting something almost demure, but then the wide, life-hungry eyes looking at her with daring, ready to embrace it all. Was this really her? Or was it someone else desperate for a night of carefree laughter, desperate to forget?
The door opened and in the reflection she saw her husband come in. The first time she had seen him, in a club in London, she had already known he was someone with a title, with money, with a position in society. You could tell by the way he carried himself, never slouching, never forgetting for a moment who he was and what he was capable of. She had admired him for his self-confidence and his determination. The same things she now sometimes hated in him.
More often than not, recently.
She forced a smile, but it froze on her face as she watched him halt, look her over. His eyes widened in disbelief and then he dashed for her and arrested her arms. “Where did you get that dress?”
She cried out in pain. “Let go of me. That hurts.”
“As it should. Where did you get that dress?” He squeezed harder. “You were going to wear a Tudor costume tonight. What is this?”
“I just thought it was too hot for brocade. Let go now, please.”
He released some of the pressure but his voice was harsh when he spoke. “This dress… where did it come from? Did you bring it? Did you find it in our home? Where? In what closet? I was so certain it was gone.”
“How do you mean, gone?” She watched his expression in the mirror. “Do you know it then?”
“Yes. Olivia wore it the night before she died.”
Suddenly the smooth silk against her skin felt like poison seeping into her. She pulled away from him and tore at the dress. “Get it away from me! Take it off.”
He arrested her shoulders. “Do you claim not to know this was hers?”
“No! I didn’t find it in our home. I never knew…” She tore so hard at the dress that the seams were bursting. “I don’t want to wear it. It’s horrid. Horrid!”
He slapped her across the face and she became still and stared at him.
“Where did it come from?” he pressed in a low voice that frightened her even more than the slap. It was the first time he had struck her. But the fire in his eyes was worse.
“It arrived in a paper parcel.”
“When? Where? At home? Why did you decide to bring it here? You should have told me that—”
“Here, this afternoon. Just two hours ago. I only wanted to… It was so pretty and the fan—”
“The fan is with it too? Where is it?”
She gestured to her dressing table. He rushed over and picked up the fan, snapped it open and stared at it. “It’s hers,” he confirmed in a low voice. “I’d recognize this anywhere. Why did you have to go through her things?”
“I just told you it was sent to me. This afternoon. Someone brought it to the house. The butler must know.”
He snapped the fan shut again and pointed it at her as if it were a pistol. “I will go and ask him – your story had better be true.”
He left the room and she stood motionless, feeling like she was caught in a whirlpool. She rushed to the bed and got herself out of the dress, put on her dressing gown and threw the dress on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. Then she sat on the bed, hiding her face in her hands.
He came back in. His footfalls beat across the floor towards her. They stopped. She waited for something to happen. He had never been violent to her before, but everything was possible now.
“The butler confirmed your story. An old woman in black came to the door with the parcel. He can’t tell me anything about her – didn’t pay attention to her.” He sounded frustrated. “This must be some cruel joke. The same kind of dress, the same kind of fan. Not hers, of course, just looking like hers.”
He took a deep breath. “Yes, just looking like hers. Hers burned with the car when…”
He fell silent.
She looked up and saw how he stood there, his head down, devastation in his posture. She got to her feet and went over, throwing her arms around his neck. “Poor darling. I know how hard this is on you.”
In fact, she had no idea as she had never liked her predecessor, and had gathered from whispers among the personnel that she hadn’t been faithful to her husband, so why on earth would he miss her or be sad about her death? But then men were too strange to ever understand.
He let her hug and hold him and as they stood there together in the silent room, she believed for a moment this could actually make them stronger. That he would like her bet
ter because she had come to him in his grief and hadn’t stayed away like she might have considering he had just struck her.
He let go of her and looked her over. “You have to get dressed. We’re leaving soon.”
“You still want to go to the party?” She realized with a shock she had somehow hoped they could now stay at home. The dress had made her happy for a time, diverting her from her morose feelings about her situation, but now they were back full force. Something wasn’t right here. She could tell.
He patted her on the head, a gesture she hated. “Do as you’re told. I’ll wait downstairs. But hurry. The boat will be brought out soon to take us over to the palazzo.”
She stood with her head down, reluctant.
He put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to him. Something she hated as well. He was always treating her like a little girl.
He said with a smile, “I want to be proud of you tonight.”
She suddenly had to swallow. He might be proud of her, but she wasn’t proud of herself.
Chapter Three
Larissa Kenwood threw one last look down over her costume before reaching for the door knocker on the broad palazzo doors. It was a ring in the mouth of a lion whose stone eyes seemed to regard her as critically as she regarded herself. She had changed her mind a dozen times about what dress to wear to the party, what figure from history to portray, how to make sure she looked dazzling. More dazzling than all the other women present.
The trouble with you, my dear, the voice of her late best friend teased in her mind, is that you can never quite make up your mind. And once you have, you’re immediately certain another choice would have been better.
Oh, yes, right now Larissa wondered if any choice would have been better than this satin gown with countless tiny roses attached to it, the towering wig which itched terribly in her neck and made sweat pour down her forehead. How could one ever flirt with a man when conscious of the little droplets forming on one’s cheeks and upper lip?
Another choice would have been much better. Anything but this.
She sighed as she knocked again. Where was everyone? Could they already have left without her?
But no, the door swung open and she stood face to face with the man she had hoped not to see again for a long, long time. Perhaps never?
Her cheeks flamed at the insolent grin with which he let his gaze travel over her figure and then he reached out for her hand. “Bonsoir, Madame. Enchanté.”
“We’re in Venice, not Paris,” she groused, painfully aware of the events in Paris that had to be on his mind as clearly as they were on hers.
“Pardon me, but you are Marie Antoinette, are you not?” He leaned over, his brown eyes twinkling. “I was just trying to stay in character.”
“And what are you?” she asked, surveying his all black costume with a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his handsome face.
“A highwayman. At your service.” He made an exaggerated bow, then peered at her feet. “Is your dog not with you?”
Larissa flushed again as she recalled how when they had first met her Pomeranian had attacked him and torn his trousers. Cleopatra was a little darling but she had her moods. “She’s staying at home tonight. She can’t stand loud music. Or crowds.”
“Just like her mistress.” He winked.
Larissa flinched as she recalled the moment of feigned weakness she had used to lure him away from the party in Paris. The dark garden, his arm to lean on. The moment they had halted so she could catch her breath and she had looked up into his eyes and known for certain he was going to kiss her. He had leaned over, so close his lips had almost brushed hers and then whispered, “Are you sure it’s not my brother-in-law you wanted to take out here? One cannot miss the lovelorn look upon your face the moment he is near.”
How mean, how low, how humiliating.
“He’s a married man,” she had stammered.
“Yes, again. And again you’re the best friend of his wife.” His tone had lowered, taking on an almost menacing edge. “I haven’t forgotten that the first Lady Bantham died. And I will not let my sister die as well.”
Larissa felt a shiver go down her spine at the idea that the man opposite her believed she had somehow been involved in the accidental death of the first Lady Bantham. She had never told the police about the words her friend had shared with her shortly before the accident. How she had seemed to be restless and eager for something, throwing her arms up in the air and sighing, ‘Oh, how one wishes for freedom, just out of reach. To simply vanish and be done with it.’
It had been bad enough for Lord Bantham after his wife had died, rushing away from the estate. Of course, the police had covered up where she had been headed. The newspapers had written that Lady Bantham had been on her way to shop for clothes. A simple trip to London, like she made so often. But Larissa had laughed when reading the articles. To London, yes, but not for shopping. For meeting lovers. That had been kept away from the public eye to protect his lordship’s reputation.
And Larissa herself had been the first to judge this was right. She had no reason to alienate Lord Bantham. On the contrary. She had wanted to stay good friends with him. Very good friends.
To know the man standing opposite to her now, knew or at least suspected she had hoped to become the new Lady Bantham was painful. Extra painful when one took into account that this man’s sister was now taking the place she had allotted for herself.
Why had she even flirted with him? To prevent him from saying those things about her that he had now said? Diversion?
Or genuine attraction to his trim physique, his rogue character, everything about him that was slightly inappropriate? Had she ever felt about Lord Bantham, as she felt about him?
But then it had never been about feelings with Lord Bantham. Just about security. Spending time with his first wife she had been able to see often and firsthand how well the couple lived, what luxuries they had access to, not to mention their influential friends. Being married to such a man would be perfect.
“Larissa!” A clear female voice rang out from the stairs, and Larissa saw the new Lady Bantham rush down to meet her. Rushing might be the wrong word as she did seem to make an effort to hurry but it was hard in the thick brocade dress she wore. Of course she had decided to come as a Tudor queen. Pompous and vain, empty headed and self-centered.
And about to die.
The latter thought just brushed Larissa’s consciousness, like a cloud passing across the moon. There was no reason for it as the new Lady Bantham was young, healthy and full of life; she went over and reached out a hand to her, feigned a smile.
Feigned, as Larissa knew that the woman was wary of her. After all, the new Lady Bantham had not been well received among the friends of the late Lady Bantham and Larissa was considered to be among those. Nevertheless, she had made genuine attempts to befriend her and these days they were considered to be as thick as thieves, something some gossips found endearing, others wholly inappropriate.
Lady Bantham halted and looked at her brother who gave her the same mocking bow he had treated Larissa to. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was husky, her eyes wide as if she was upset.
Larissa looked at her closely, trying to determine if the annoyance was genuine or an act. It was whispered in Lord Bantham’s circle that Lady Bantham’s brother was around too often, sponging off her with her full cooperation. Of course such talk was common when a man showed himself frequently at another man’s home. It wasn’t justified, Lady Bantham had assured her in a moment of rare confidentiality, because her brother was actually a very wealthy man, with shares in a gold mine in America. He had connections at the finest clubs in London, not to mention all the noble houses and even the royal court.
Larissa had discreetly inquired after George Arundell and learned that he was indeed well known at the clubs, as guest of other gentlemen whose pockets he emptied in high stakes card games. Larissa had judged that he had made up a story about the American g
old mine to explain his income, as he could hardly refer to the gambling as the source. It had added to his roguish charm and made him even more attractive in her eyes. A dangerous man.
“Sister, dear,” Arundell kissed Lady Bantham’s hand. “You look… just like a stuffed peacock at a banquet.”
Lady Bantham withdrew her hand, her eyes flashing. “And you look like an assassin lurking in the shadows to pounce on someone.”
“The best compliment I’ve had all day.”
Larissa had the impression Lady Bantham wanted to scold her brother but didn’t want to do it in the presence of others.
“Arundell!” Lord Bantham came down the stairs, in the checkered costume of a harlequin. Although it was a beloved choice for costume parties, Larissa thought it rather out of character for a man who took himself so seriously to dress up as a clown. The sword which was part of the character’s traditional outfit hung from a belt on his waist. It didn’t seem to be wooden but made of steel.
Arundell shook Lord Bantham’s hand. “I was just done with some business in Padua,” he explained, “and thought I could join the party for the night.”
“Have you been invited?” Lord Bantham asked with a hitched brow.
Arundell feigned to be hurt. “Do I need an invitation when I am practically a part of your household?”
Lord Bantham seemed to want to argue, but his wife put a hand on his arm. “We’ll be late.”
He glanced at her, then sighed. “You’re right. The boat must already be waiting for us.” He suddenly seemed to notice Larissa for the first time. A smile curled up his lips, and he reached out his arm to her. “Allow me.”
Surprised, Larissa accepted his arm and was led outside to the waiting boat. As if she were Lady Bantham.
Under the Guise of Death Page 2