by Joan Smith
“I have no plans for the evening, me,” Réal insisted. “Mais si you are positive you are finished with duties, I drive over and see Notre Dame by moonlight,” he said piously. “Ma mère in Canada will have a letter full of these descriptions.”
“Good lord, do you have a mother? Run along then. The redhead will love Notre Dame by moonlight. Bon soir.”
Réal was gone in a flash. Belami went at a slower pace to his room. Paris, city of romance. Réal had found a woman. Pronto was in love. And here was he, jilted, abandoned. He might as well have spent the day in the sewers with Pronto for all the enjoyment he’d had. If Réal were correct—and Réal was always correct—the party had gone on to Venice. At least Deirdre had told him the truth. Why had Elvira told Pronto Rome was their destination? Trying to get rid of him, no doubt.
He thought of the Jalbert gang, of the various groups who had checked out of the Licorne this morning, and found he had indeed built bricks without straw. It was perfectly normal that a few of the Jalbert coins had turned up in Paris. Most English came to Paris via Dover. The three coins at Montmartre were mere accidents. If Styger had been in on it, there would have been some of the counterfeit money at the Licorne, and none was reported. Why waste time when every day was taking Deirdre farther from him?
He stretched out on his bed with his eyes closed, picturing himself and Deirdre floating down the canal in a gondola. Yes, they’d set out for Venice tomorrow.
Chapter Five
Deirdre found Venice as beautiful as Dick had told her it would be. What charmed her more than the rest—more than the canals and the islands joined by bridges, more than the beautiful old buildings and the gondolas—was its greenery after the sere fields of northern France and the snow of Switzerland.
When they got into the gondola at Mestre for the last short lap of their journey, a sense of peace entered her heart. The gentle swaying of the boat after the jostling of the carriage, the fresh breeze from the water, and the spiring cypress trees all conspired to enchant her. Then they passed a small island and before her lay a fairyland of azure water on which gondolas moved effortlessly, like water beetles on a pond. From the sea soared the towers and domes of Venice, gold-plated by the lowering sun.
Even the duchess, who had come with the intention of being disappointed, admitted it was “a pleasant change.” The hotel chosen was the Léon Bianco, on the banks of the Grand Canal. It too was a pleasant change, being less decrepit than other hostelries patronized. It was late by the time they were settled in and had ordered dinner. Deirdre was too realistic to expect any evening activity other than reading her guidebook while the duchess slept.
When her eyes became tired, she closed the book and went to the window, high above the Grand Canal, to gaze down on the evening activities of Venice. Gondolas glided like humpbacked whales over the black water. When she opened her window, she could hear the haunting echo of Italian melodies gently wafting on the air. There would be lovers in those romantic boats, going to rendezvous. Would she ever be joining them?
It was beginning to look very much as though she would not. Dick should have overtaken them before now. Tomorrow her aunt meant to register with the British consul, Mr. Richard Hoppner. They would learn then whether Lord Belami had already arrived, and if so, where he was staying. If this failed, she had one more clue to follow. On their honeymoon, they were to have stayed with the Conte and Contessa Ginnasi. The conte, a friend of the late Lord Belami, had made the offer through Dick’s mother. Their palazzo was on the Grand Canal—one of those old gray stone buildings she was looking at now, with water lapping around its mossy foundations. And if Dick wasn’t with them, she would have to assume he hadn’t followed her after all.
Why would he not? Elvira had left him a note explaining their hasty departure. He would understand why she couldn’t return belowstairs at the Licorne. Of course he’d come. Out in the black velvet shadows beyond the window a doleful bell chimed. Deirdre closed the window, lest the noise disturb her aunt’s sleep.
The next morning there was too much novelty in the scenery to be actually depressed, even when Mr. Hoppner had no word on Lord Belami. There was the fascination of going everywhere by boat, sailing under the omnipresent arched bridges, and of looking at the foreigners, always with an eye alert for Dick. The Suttons had decided against going to the British consul with the duchess. Mrs. Sutton said, very properly in the duchess’s opinion, that those formalities were only for the nobility. She and the girls would go shopping. They were famous shoppers. In every new town, they had to con the shops.
When Deirdre and her aunt returned to the hotel, Mrs. Sutton was glowing with pleasure. “You must let me take you to the Merceria this afternoon, your grace. The Pantheon Bazaar in London is nothing to it, I promise you. It’s the shopping district here, just under that clock tower in Saint Mark’s Square. Such bargains in silks and cottons! And gloves—the finest kid, going for an old song.”
“I’ve put my finger through my evening gloves,” the duchess admitted. Both finger and thumb had been peeking out for a whole season, till the leather was worn away with trying to patch it. “Deirdre would like some new ribbons, I daresay. Yes, we’ll go with you,” the duchess allowed graciously.
Over lunch, Mrs. Sutton seemed excited. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m extravagant.” She blushed. “A beautiful pearl in a jewelry shop window caught my attention. It’s a teardrop pearl, very unusual, and very large. About the size of an acorn—a little smaller in width. I mean to buy it for Elvira’s twenty-first birthday. I promised her something special, but the occasion passed and so I owe her a treat.”
“What are they asking for it?” the duchess demanded.
“A thousand pounds,” Mrs. Sutton said.
The duchess choked on her coffee and turned quite livid. “Are you insane?” she demanded. “What on earth would someone like you want with such a thing? A clergyman’s widow, spending a fortune on jewelry.”
Mrs. Sutton was accustomed to these slurs on her social standing. “My uncle from India left me a considerable sum of money,” she said.
“Hmph.” So that explained how the silly woman could afford to jaunt all over Europe in a private post chaise. Odd she hadn’t mentioned it before now. “You ought to put it in consuls or real estate,” the duchess advised.
“I’ve already done that. Uncle McMaster left me a veritable fortune.”
No further objections came to mind, so the duchess decided she’d go along and have a look at this pearl as big as an acorn. If it were a real bargain, she’d buy it herself.
In the gondola, Deirdre scanned the waters for a sight of Dick. “Still looking for him?” Elvira asked.
“Yes. I wonder if he got the note in Paris?”
“I told the desk clerk twice that if Lord Belami didn’t pick it up, he should send it on to the Hotel d’Orleans. He’ll come,” Elvira said, and patted her arm.
Lucy, as usual, was in the sulks. Deirdre thought her sister’s getting such a valuable jewel might account for it this time and decided to drop her a hint. “Will Lucy be getting a present, too?” she asked in a low voice.
“Yes, when she’s twenty-one.”
“She’s a little put out. As your mama has plenty of money, would it not be thoughtful to buy some trinket for Lucy, too?”
“Indeed it would! You have the heart of an angel to think of it.” Elvira smiled.
“What are you two whispering about?” Lucy demanded.
“Goose!” Elvira chided. “Why must you always think we’re talking about you? I swear the child’s as jealous as though I were her beau.”
But Deirdre could understand the younger girl’s feelings. Since she and the duchess had joined up with the Suttons, Elvira had developed a close friendship with herself. Elvira occasionally suggested they “sneak off” on Lucy. They had long discussions on men and love and marriage—discussions that Elvira felt were a trifle warm for her little sister.
“I heard Deirdre
say ‘Lucy,’“ Lucy announced.
“If you must know then,” Elvira told her, “we were discussing a present for you. I mean to ask Mama to buy you a pearl, too. Now are you satisfied? You’ve spoiled my surprise.”
“Oh, Elvira!” Lucy exclaimed, and threw her arms around her sister. “Do you really mean it? Am I to get a teardrop pearl, too?” Her blue eyes sparkled with joy.
“I doubt they’ll have two. Your mama said it was quite unusual,” Deirdre pointed out. Lucy’s smile faded.
“No, I insist Lucy have one just like mine. If they don’t have two, I shan’t take it,” Elvira said firmly.
They disembarked at Saint Mark’s Square, and Mrs. Sutton hastened them all along to the Merceria, with hardly a glance at the magnificent architecture all around. Cathedrals and towers soared into the blue sky above, and in the square, pigeons strutted about as though it belonged solely to them.
“There is the shop, Casa Cerboni,” Mrs. Sutton said, pointing to a small storefront. “It’s right in the window.”
They all hurried forward to admire the piece. Deirdre stared at the most beautiful pearl she had ever seen. It was as Mrs. Sutton had described it, an inch long, about half an inch at the widest part. The pearl had a rosy glow against its black velvet setting. The top of the teardrop was encased in a gold cap, with a hook attached for hanging on a chain.
“It’s beautiful!” she gasped. It struck her at once how well the piece would suit statuesque Elvira and how gaudy it would look on little Lucy.
They went inside, where the jeweler recognized the Suttons from their morning call. Signor Cerboni did a brisk business with tourists and spoke English fairly fluently. He got the pearl from the window and set it on the counter. It was the duchess’s bony fingers that reached out to take it up.
“This is mighty handsome,” she declared, and stuck the pearl between her teeth to test its authenticity. It grated as a pearl should, but one compliment was more than she had meant to utter. “Very smooth on the teeth,” she said doubtfully.
“There is no doubt of its authenticity,” Signor Cerboni declared. “I got it directly from the Rusconi estate. The pearl’s history is well known. It was given to Lucrezia Borgia by her bridegroom, who bought it from her father, the pope, in 1493. It is a great bargain, ladies. The only reason it is going at such a price is that pearls are not in the highest fashion in Italy.”
The duchess pried at the setting. “Odd they would set such a valuable pearl in tin,” she said.
“It is eighteen-carat gold, signora!” the jeweler exclaimed. These English eccentrics!
“You may call me Duchessa.”
Signor Cerboni looked at her tattered gloves on the counter and smiled blandly.
“It’s a pretty enough trinket, for five hundred pounds.” The duchess shrugged.
“The price is one thousand,” Mrs. Sutton reminded her.
“Surely you jest! A thousand pounds for this spurious thing, mounted in tin. You must be mad, Meggie.”
“The price is not open to bargaining,” the jeweler said, and snatched the pearl from the duchess, before she got it pried loose from its moorings entirely.
“I’ll take it,” Mrs. Sutton said. “Could you deliver it to the Léon Bianco for me? I don’t like to carry a thousand pounds in the streets. You will accept English gold coins, I presume?”
“But certainly, signora. I shall have it delivered tomorrow morning, if that suits you?”
Deirdre nudged Elvira’s elbow. “Lucy’s present,” she whispered, and Elvira spoke to her mother.
The duchess stepped back and spoke to Deirdre in accents of disgust. “I could have got a couple of hundred pounds knocked off the price if Mrs. Sutton had her wits about her. These new nabobs spoil shopping for the rest of us.”
At the end of this speech, the door opened and a very elegant lady entered the shop. Deirdre had never seen anyone so lovely in her life. The woman looked like a Dresden doll, small in stature but perfect in every proportion. Beneath her fashionable bonnet, a wave of jet black hair sat on a high forehead. Her skin was pale and translucent, every feature finely drawn. The eyes in particular were magnificent. Great, dark eyes, wide-set, fringed with long lashes.
Signor Cerboni looked up and exclaimed, “Ah, Contessa!” There was some rapid Italian conversation in which Deirdre understood only the word “diamante.’’ The contessa had a lovely musical voice, soft as a dove’s.
Charney saw no reason why a duchess should wait on the pleasure of a mere countess and elbowed the lady aside. “You have the address, sir? Léon Bianco, on the Grand Canal.”
The beautiful contessa turned and smiled at her grace. “Then we are neighbors!” she exclaimed in a prettily accented voice, and offered a small hand gloved in blue kid to match her gown. “I live just across the canal.”
“You speak English!” her grace said, allowing a small smile to reveal her yellowing teeth. “The Duchess of Charney, and this is my niece, Miss Gower. These are the Suttons,” she added, with a nod to the rest of the party.
It seemed impossible the contessa’s eyes could grow any larger, but they widened in astonishment. “It is impossible!” she exclaimed delightedly. “Not Deirdre Gower and her aunt! But I have been hearing about you ladies for two days now!”
“I daresay word of our coming has preceded us,” the duchess allowed. She was finding the contessa a respectable person, possibly one who threw lavish dinner parties and balls. “I don’t believe I caught the name—”
“Forgive me! Surprise has robbed me of my manners. I am Contessa Ginnasi.”
Deirdre stared in dismay. This couldn’t possibly be the wife of the late Lord Belami’s friend. Contessa Ginnasi should be a lady in her sixties. She had a dreadful premonition where the contessa had heard of them. Dick! And he was staying with this sinfully beautiful lady. A young, beautiful lady, married to some old relic. She knew now where Dick was, and why he hadn’t bothered trying to find her.
“So nice to meet you, Contessa,” Deirdre said, with a cool jerk of a curtsy. “We really ought to be going now, Auntie.”
The contessa placed her hand on the duchess’s sleeve, a thing not normally tolerated, but permitted on this occasion. “Do wait, just a moment. I have such a surprise for you!” she smiled, revealing teeth like a set of matched pearls.
“We can allow you a moment,” the duchess decided, while she scurried around in her mind for what the surprise could be. “I say, are you some relation to old Conte Ginnasi, who was politicking in England eons ago? Don’t tell me he’s still alive! Is he coming to meet you?”
“My dear Guy seldom goes out,” the contessa said.
“You are the conte’s daughter-in-law, are you?” the duchess asked, trying to figure out a reasonable relationship.
“Ah, no, I am Guy’s wife. We married five years ago when the old contessa passed away.” The contessa flashed a glance to the door. Her face lit up like the sun. “Here we are! Not the conte, you see, but the baron!” With a dramatic gesture of her arm, she welcomed Belami into the shop.
Any hope or doubt that Dick had planned this meeting vanished when Deirdre looked at his shocked face. He looked as guilty as a poacher caught with his bag jiggling. His eyes darted first to Deirdre, then to the contessa, to the duchess. He wished the floor could open up and swallow him.
“Mio Belami,” the contessa said, and went forward to take his hand. “See who I have found for you!”
“Good day, Lord Belami,” Deirdre said, and turned purposefully to her aunt. She fully expected to see Charney on her high horse, but it was no such a thing.
That sly old dame was ransacking her mind to figure out what was afoot here. Ginnasi—-of course, that was where Dick had planned to batten himself and Deirdre in Venice! Obviously he was staying at the Palazzo Ginnasi—free. These palazzi were enormous buildings. Two more guests, herself and Deirdre, would never be noticed. The Suttons were well enough for traveling companions, but it was time to dispense w
ith them. That Belami was obviously the contessa’s lover was no impediment. It would open up Deirdre’s eyes once and for all to what kind of a rake he was.
“Nice to see you again, Belami,” the duchess said, and offered her hand.
Dick reached out and shook it as one in a trance. What was going on here? No abuse? No insults? No stalking out of the shop? “Sorry I missed you in Paris, your grace,” he said.
“We didn’t stay a minute. So chilly—we much prefer Italy. One does get tired of the racket of hotels though.”
“Have you been here long?” Dick asked, darting a quick glance to Deirdre.
As half a day seemed rather short to have tired of their hotel the duchess said, “We have been on the road forever. Hotels are all alike. Where are you putting up, Belami?”
“The contessa was kind enough to offer me rack and manger,” Dick said. He was beginning to understand his function now. He was to ease the skint’s path into Carlotta’s home.
Deirdre stiffened like a frozen reed at this news. “Let us go now, Auntie,” she said.
“We must get together soon,” the duchess said to Contessa Ginnasi. “Do come to our hotel for dinner. I should so like to see the dear conte again. Ah, but he doesn’t go out, you said.”
“You must come to us,” the contessa answered. “Come tonight!”
Deirdre felt such a rage she could no longer stand still. She strode toward the door and met Pronto Pilgrim coming in.
Pronto looked from Deirdre to the rest of the group. “Oh, oh! Fat’s in the fire now,” he muttered into his collar.
“Mr. Pilgrim,” Deirdre said stiffly.
“G’day, Deirdre. No point cutting up stiff at me. I ain’t the one arranged this business. See you’ve met Carlotta. Quite the dasher, ain’t she?”
“Is that her name?”
“Must be. It’s what everybody calls her. How’s Charney taking to Dick’s following you here?”
“Following me?” she asked with an angry glare. “I’m not the one brought him here. It’s that—Carlotta.”