Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  “We’ll stay in tonight,” he whispered, brushing his lips across my forehead. “I’ll have someone bring food up.”

  “It’s too expensive,” I murmured.

  He ignored me. His caress was mesmerizing, soothing. “We’ll save Florian’s for tomorrow. I wanted you to meet Dane, but it can wait.”

  It was what I wanted to do. To lie here and be comforted and think of nothing and go nowhere. To not have to pretend at something I did not feel. But a whole night, wasted. . . . We could not afford it. I pushed myself away. “No. No, I’ll be all right. We should go to the cafe.”

  “A night won’t change anything.”

  “You say he can help us?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then we shouldn’t lose him.”

  “Are you certain? We could stay here. I don’t mind it. I could send him a message. It’s not much of a delay.”

  “But I do mind it. I want to go,” I told him earnestly, and it was what I wanted just then; the specter of poor Mr. Stafford drifted away for the first time since I’d laid eyes on his corpse. “We haven’t a choice. Our money won’t last long. We have to take every opportunity. You’ve found him; now I must do my part.”

  Joseph was quiet for a moment, measuring me. He sighed. “Very well. If you insist.”

  “I do,” I said firmly. “Now, tell me all about him. Is he handsome?”

  “You’ll find nothing to complain of, I think. And it shouldn’t be difficult to snag him. He’s half in love with you already, thanks to me.”

  That too had been part of the plan. A man was mine to manage; a woman belonged to Joseph. “And the Bronsons’ salon?”

  “If he knows Loneghan, it’s a safe bet he knows the Bronsons, don’t you think? Besides, Loneghan’s got the money for patronage. He’s the more important one.” He leaned his head back, looking dreamily at the ceiling. “I never thought there would be a chance at him. Not in a hundred years.”

  “It seems fated, doesn’t it?”

  “I told you it would work out, didn’t I? It’s what we’re meant to have. It could be no other way. But now it’s up to you, Soph. You’ll need to reel him in.”

  By the time we left for Florian’s, I was well prepared to meet Nicholas Dane. I knew of the cafe, of course; everyone did. It had been there forever, one of those that served the greatest drawing room of all, the Piazza of St. Mark’s, and in the evening it was at its most brilliant. The setting sun gilded the herringbone pattern of the pavement and sent a rosy golden glow over the basilica and the pink and white of the Doge’s Palace. When Joseph and I arrived, the tables crowding the Piazza were already nearly full; the supposedly ubiquitous pigeons had mostly retired for the evening, though one or two strutted about, scattering beneath a careless foot.

  There was no band tonight; but it was noisy. Talking and laughing; flower girls calling out; vendors crying, “Caramel! Caramel!” as they bore their baskets of shining candy; boys performing tricks for pennies; a man with an accordion and a ragged girl with a pretty voice singing whatever anyone would pay her to sing. Promenaders circled the square and dodged into the arcades, waiters hurried about bearing ices and syrups, coffee and the occasional chocolate. It seemed nearly everyone in Venice must be here.

  Joseph pulled out a chair, then waited for me to sit. “Let him find us. It wouldn’t do to look too anxious, would it?”

  I took my seat, but I was never so confident as my brother, and I worried that Nicholas Dane might even now be at another table, waiting the evening away for us. But Joseph seemed perfectly at ease. He ordered a lemon ice for me and a coffee for himself, and when they were brought, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm along the back of mine, lounging and looking for all the world like a man at his leisure.

  I picked at the ice, taking only the barest of tastes.

  “You look ready to shatter,” Joseph said in a low voice. “Shall we give it up for tonight and go back to the hotel?”

  Before I could answer, his gaze leaped past me, his worry for me disappearing in a quick smile. “Dane!” he said, rising. “I’d wondered if we’d missed you.”

  “Oh, it’s early yet, isn’t it?” said a voice—smooth and British, and I looked over to see two men standing there, one very tall, with lank brown hair, who kept poking at the round spectacles sliding down his long nose, and the other, shorter and more compact and quite handsome, with a chiseled face and wavy blond hair cropped short, a high forehead and very blue eyes.

  Joseph said, “Sophie, may I present Nicholas Dane and Giles Martin.”

  I held out my gloved hand and smiled. “I’m Sophie Hannigan, and I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

  Mr. Martin gaped at me like a fish. “So very pleased, Miss Hannigan,” he said, grasping my fingers a bit too tightly before he released them.

  “As am I,” Mr. Dane put in smoothly. “You look very like your brother. Hannigan said you were his twin?”

  I said, “Yes, but even so, I’ve never thought we looked much alike. Beyond our coloring, I mean.”

  “Fortunately Sophie escaped Papa’s nose. I was not so lucky.” Joseph touched the tip of my nose affectionately, teasing.

  We sat again, and Giles Martin looked at me hungrily, but I already knew, given what Joseph had said, that Mr. Martin wasn’t the one I had to charm. Still, I wasn’t certain how important he might be, so for now, I included him in my smile.

  Joseph said, “We almost didn’t come. I’m afraid Sophie’s had a bit of a scare.”

  “Is that so? Nothing too bad, I hope.” Mr. Dane motioned to the waiter for coffees. It gave me a moment to survey him. He looked well put together, in his deep-brown coat and fashionably checked trousers, though I suspected he wasn’t wealthy—I saw no watch chains dangling from his waistcoat pocket, and no rings or studs at all. A poet, Joseph had said, but there were no ink stains on his fingers either.

  I was so busy studying him it was a moment before I realized they were all waiting for me to say something. I struggled to remember what the question had been—my scare. “Oh. Oh, well, yes it was bad, I’m afraid. Terribly so.”

  “She stumbled upon a body today,” Joseph said.

  “A body?” Giles Martin asked, clearly shocked. “A corpse, you mean?”

  I nodded. “Yes, though the police assure me it was a suicide and not a murder, which is what I thought at first.”

  Nicholas Dane raised a sandy brow. “A suicide?”

  “He was a poet, like yourself, Mr. Dane. His name was Nelson Stafford.”

  He took a hard breath. “Dear God.”

  “However did you manage to stumble upon him?” Mr. Martin asked.

  “It was not nearly so difficult as it might seem,” I said wryly. “I was looking at lodgings. He was in the courtyard of one.”

  “I hope you didn’t lease it!” Giles Martin said.

  “I nearly had. But then . . . well . . . of course I couldn’t.”

  The coffees were brought. Mr. Dane played with the handle of his tiny cup, saying thoughtfully, “I had not heard. It’s strange. Venice lives for gossip. And a suicide. How tragic.”

  “We only found him a few hours ago,” I said softly. “I don’t think there’s been time for word to get around. Did you know him?”

  Giles Martin shuddered. “No, though we’d seen him about once or twice.”

  Mr. Dane brought his cup to his well-shaped mouth. His eyes met mine over the rim. “A horrible thing for a gently bred young lady to see,” he said when he’d taken a sip. “I cannot imagine you’re recovered, Miss Hannigan.”

  I reached reflexively for my brother’s hand, which dangled near my shoulder. He gripped my fingers tightly, reassuringly.

  “Why d’you suppose he did it?” Mr. Martin asked meditatively. “God, I hate suicides. They always make me think there must have been something I could have done.”

  “But you said you didn’t know him,” Joseph said.

  “Well yes, but still . . . I
hope he doesn’t take it into his head to haunt you, Miss Hannigan.”

  “You’re as superstitious as any Venetian,” Mr. Dane said dismissively.

  Joseph laughed lightly. “Well, it’s easy to be so here, isn’t it? Last night, coming to our hotel . . . it felt as if time stood still. All that history . . . Venetian spies, murders around every corner. The place feels full of ghosts.”

  “Oh, I’m certain it is,” said Mr. Dane. “And I imagine those with a sensitive disposition feel it most keenly.”

  “Spirits in the water and in the wind,” murmured my brother, staring off into the soft glow of the arcades.

  “Is that what brought you here?” Mr. Dane asked. “Searching for those elusive spirits?”

  I saw the familiar haunted look come into Joseph’s eyes—a brief moment, but enough for me to despair at what he was remembering. I tightened my hand on his, and the motion seemed to call him back to himself. He gave me a faint, wistful smile and said, “I’ve no wish to go looking for spirits. But I feel them just the same. Don’t you?”

  Nicholas Dane said, “One would have to be numb not to. And Venice loves a mystery, doesn’t she? The place seems made for it. It’s what brings artists here in droves. It’s what brought Giles. Something in the air calling, an unstoppable force—”

  “You make it sound like idiocy,” Mr. Martin protested.

  “Well, half of genius begins with an idiotic whim,” Mr. Dane said affectionately. “Yours not the least of it. Is it what you felt as well, Hannigan?”

  “I wouldn’t call it idiocy,” my brother said reflectively. “But it was a dream that brought me here.”

  “A dream . . . like a wish, you mean? You’d always wanted to see Venice?” asked Mr. Martin.

  “A dream like a dream.” Joseph’s smile was sleepy and fine, the smile I loved best. “I was dreaming of Venice and thought I should come to see why.”

  It was a lie, of course. It was the kind of whimsy people expected of artists, and my brother was clever enough to be what was expected. But Joseph had never dreamed of Venice. He’d only listened to the talk of its salons held by expatriates and the sublimity of its light, and he and I had seen the opportunity we needed. Venice was the perfect place to escape to, a place to lick our wounds and hopefully find the fame and fortune Joseph felt we were destined for.

  But leave it to my brother to make our flight sound romantic and artistic.

  “Well,” Mr. Dane said. “I hope Venice lives up to the dream, my friend, and doesn’t turn into a nightmare instead.”

  “You think it could?” my brother asked.

  Mr. Dane shrugged. “I’ve seen it happen. There are those who will warn you not to stay very long here. They’ll tell you foreigners often discover that Venice’s legacy is despair.”

  “Look at poor Stafford,” Mr. Martin agreed.

  “That would never happen to Joseph,” I said ardently. “We’ve come here to escape despair, not to find it.”

  I felt my brother’s warning in the tightening of his grip, nearly painful, on my fingers.

  I tried to smile. “What I mean is . . . Joseph has a great deal of talent. No one with talent like that should ever despair.”

  “Nor should any lady so beautiful as yourself,” put in Mr. Martin a bit too earnestly. “Have you seen Venice’s Public Gardens, Miss Hannigan?”

  The change in subject, as well as his too-obvious compliment, disconcerted me. “Oh . . . oh no. We’ve been here too short a time.”

  “Nick and I promised your brother the best views in Venice, and the Gardens have several. It’s truly the only bit of green in the city. We’ve agreed to go tomorrow. I, for one, would be delighted if you would join us.”

  I’d meant to spend the day looking for a place to live. But Joseph squeezed my hand, and I knew what he wanted me to do. I looked at Mr. Dane. “You’ll be going as well?”

  “I’d thought to,” he said.

  Giles Martin said, “Perhaps there you’ll find the inspiration you’ve been searching for, Nick.”

  I said to Mr. Dane, “How is it that inspiration has eluded you in a place like Venice?”

  He gave me a languid look. “Who knows? Words are my trade, Miss Hannigan, but Venice sweeps them all away.”

  “I keep telling him he simply hasn’t found the right muse,” Mr. Martin said.

  Mr. Dane laughed shortly. “Oh, I’ve had enough of muses, I think.”

  He said it with a bitterness that told me he’d been unlucky in love, and no doubt recently. It was a bit dismaying, but not fatal. There was too much at stake to let it matter. We needed Nicholas Dane to like us. To like me.

  “Oh, but perhaps you’ll find one more to your taste in the Gardens,” I said.

  Nicholas Dane bowed his head slightly in acquiescence. “Perhaps so,” he said, but when he looked at me, I saw only politeness, and I thought of the bitterness I’d heard in his voice, my sense that he was a man who’d been thwarted by love. But love was not what I required from him.

  Don’t forget that. I could almost hear Joseph’s voice in my head. Any man can be led by desire, Soph. But desire isn’t love. Don’t make the mistake of thinking it is.

  I knew that better than most, didn’t I?

  NICHOLAS

  She was as stunning in person as his portrait had made her out to be. She was not quite beautiful, but there was something in her more interesting than beauty, than blue eyes and dark hair and pale skin. It was what her brother had captured in his sketch, a deep, almost primal carnality, some occult attraction. . . . He had not invented that eroticism, as I’d thought. It was there. It was real.

  I’d known only one other woman who possessed that quality, and while Sophie Hannigan could not possibly be so dangerous—in fact, I would have said she was completely unaware of just how bewitching she was—I knew enough to be wary.

  There were a hundred reasons to stay away from Sophie Hannigan—not the least of which was her relationship with her brother. What he’d seen in her, well . . . it was strange that a brother had noted it, though I told myself it was obvious enough that he no doubt saw other men’s reactions to her. But even beyond that, there was another strangeness about them. While Joseph Hannigan was compelling on his own, the two of them together were curiously irresistible, as if each enhanced the other. It made it impossible to stop looking at them. I was not the only one so captivated—Giles was as well. Perhaps it was only that they were twins and so shared that womb-deep connection I’d heard about but never before witnessed. Whatever it was, I didn’t quite understand it, though it was perversely fascinating, and it only served to feed the desire I’d felt for her since I’d seen that sketch. Such desire was reason enough to keep my distance; it was a complication I couldn’t afford. To keep Sophie Hannigan’s brother in my sights while I worked toward destroying Odilé would take concentration. I could not be distracted by another woman, no matter how tempting the package.

  I resolved to be friendly to Miss Hannigan, but to hold her at arm’s length. Later, perhaps, when her brother was safe and Odilé was gone, I could reassess.

  The Gardens were a swath of green at the very end of the Riva, a sudden crowding of leafy trees and winding walks dotted with statuary. One came out of Venice’s crowded, close calli and canals, a city of water and stone, and stepped into a different world, onto paths lined with hedges and roses and vines. The day was warm, the sky cloudless, the Euganean Hills blue and the Alps dappled with snow in the distance. There were several people walking the paths, reclining in the shade of the trees, lingering at tables by the balustraded wall overlooking the lagoon, San Giorgio Maggiore and the Lido.

  After an hour or so of wandering about, we sat at one of those tables. The Hannigans had brought lunch: wine and sausage, bread and melon. Hannigan cut big chunks of the orange flesh with a knife, and I did my utmost not to notice the sensuous way Sophie Hannigan ate it. She had peeled off her gloves, and the juice dripped over her slender fingers, trailing dow
n her wrists to disappear in the somewhat yellowed lace edge of her sleeve.

  Giles was obviously equally enraptured with her. “To inspiration,” he said, raising a glass to her, his gaze fixed upon her plump lips.

  “As elusive as it may be,” I added.

  Joseph Hannigan bent to pick a bright pink rose from a bush twining near our table. He snapped off a thorn and then tucked it behind his sister’s ear, smiling broadly. “The pink becomes you. Don’t you think so, Dane?”

  It did, of course. That shocking pink against her hair, bringing out the pink of her cheeks touched by the sun. I kept my voice as blandly polite as I could. “Indeed. It’s quite your color, Miss Hannigan.”

  “You should be covered in pink,” Giles said fervently. “From head to toe in roses!”

  “I should think the thorns would make such a thing quite uncomfortable,” I said wryly.

  Hannigan tore off a chunk of bread and leaned back in his chair, studying his sister the way I’d seen a hundred artists study their subjects, a critical, assessing eye that depersonalized her completely. “Hmmm. Maybe not head to toe. But a few here and there, I think. Maybe against white, to highlight your skin. Perhaps we’ll try it. What do you think, Soph?”

  She gave a little shrug, taking up another piece of melon. “Whatever you like. You’ve the eye, not me.”

  “My God, it sounds beautiful,” Giles said. I thought I detected annoyance in her expression, but it could have been only that I was annoyed myself, despite the fact that by now I was used to Giles’s ardent attachments. He was never more foolish than when he was infatuated with some woman or another.

  But I understood it too. The spell of her closed the space between us, touching and then drawing back. Her smile, along with that small overbite, was so sensual one was led immediately to thoughts of lovemaking. It didn’t help that her brother found myriad ways to bring her to our attention—the rose had been only one of a dozen or more little gestures, as if he himself was so taken with her he couldn’t help himself.