Arthur might be opportunistic, but he certainly wasn’t someone who would abandon his countrymen in the hopes of increasing his personal revenue.
That was true now, and she expected it would also have been true before he became a marquess.
If Arthur was asking questions about Venetian jewels two days after she’d stolen one from the French ambassador’s townhome… Well, perhaps there was a connection.
And if he was going to the Côte d’Azur… She smiled.
Perhaps the owner of the fifth piece, an elaborate sapphire and diamond bracelet, was worried it might also be stolen. She hadn’t known where to find it, but she suspected Arthur might just have unintentionally saved her hours of careful investigation.
She’d always been partial to the Mediterranean and she rang a bell. “Grove? Will you please tell Abby to prepare my things? I am going to the Côte d’Azur.”
“When?”
“Once Gabriella returns this afternoon. I have a craving for sunshine.”
“Very well, my lady.”
She beamed. The Costantini family would be so happy when she arrived with all the jewels. Gabriella and she could go to Venice right after she stole the last piece.
Chapter Five
The ship had thankfully stopped its frightful habit of tipping and careening at every wave. Le Havre stood before them, crowned in golden light that made the aging port seem almost beautiful, despite the abundance of crates and rusting boats.
Madeline inhaled the sea air. The salty smell might not rank highly on her list of preferred aromas, falling distinctly behind its floral rivals, but after spending the night in a cabin, it seemed the loveliest scent in the world.
“One wonders how such a beautiful country could seek to destroy that of so many of its neighbors,” Gabriella murmured.
“We won’t be here for long,” Madeline promised.
Her veil fluttered in the wind, and she pulled the lace over the brim of her hat to better admire the view.
She’d worn her hair up and put on an old veil and black dress. Few people took notice of widows, and she’d blended in with the other veil wearing women on board. The guards had only given her a cursory investigation, assuming her inclination to be draped in unflattering black fabric to be an indication of a superior moral character.
“Lady Mulbourne?” Arthur’s voice sounded behind her.
It couldn’t be Arthur’s voice, she reminded herself.
That would be too dreadful.
Besides, he’d told her that he was going via Calais. Not Le Havre.
She turned around slowly, as if the process might counteract the full speed her heart seemed to be careening on.
But it was him.
No other man managed to look quite so handsome. Who else had such perfectly tousled dark locks?
It was impossible for his eyes to burn into her soul. The fact was ludicrous. But when she turned, she needed to steel herself from the temptation to quiver.
She drew her gaze away from the manner in which his cravat rippled under his neck. She refused to linger on the manner in which his height seemed to soar over everyone else’s, and she certainly would not give in to imagining tracing her finger over the chiseled features of his face.
Heavens.
Madeline smiled and hoped she appeared less guilty than she felt.
“You didn’t mention you were visiting the continent as well,” Arthur said.
“Didn’t I?” Madeline tilted her head and strove to sound innocent. “I—I didn’t realize you would be on this ship.”
“I had a last-minute change of plans.” Arthur assessed her, sweeping his gaze from her face to her decidedly unbecoming attire. “I thought I must be seeing things. I didn’t realize you were still so distraught about your husband’s death.”
Wearing full mourning clothes had seemed like a good idea. She must appear ridiculous in her ebony gown and black veil.
It would be different if she were in fact still in mourning, but he’d seen her in a coquelicot afternoon gown the day before. Other widows moved about the ship. Most of those women had likely lost their husbands to the brutality of battles and not the diseases of brothels.
She coughed. “Lord Bancroft, please let me introduce my companion to you. Gabriella—er—Costa.”
Gabriella curtsied, and Arthur bowed.
Splendid. Gabriella knew better than to correct her.
Thank heavens for that.
“Will this be your first time in France, Miss Costa?” Arthur asked.
“We’ll just be traveling through,” Madeline said hastily.
“My family lives in Italy,” Gabriella added.
Madeline gave her an approving smile. That tidbit should be obvious from her rather Italian name.
“I did not realize you had a companion,” Arthur said to her. “I always associated people with companions to have rather more gray hair.”
“I have no gray hair,” she said.
“Then your veil is not to cover them up?” Arthur smirked, and she flushed.
“You’ve always been beautiful,” he said more softly.
She averted her eyes.
The knowledge was as true as the fact that flowers and swans were beautiful, and bushes and insects were not. Madeline had had a long time contemplating this reality.
Her beauty had become famed when she was a little girl, and her parents had displayed her to the guests before dinner. They’d marveled at the symmetrical shape of her face, the pleasing composition of her features, and her silky blonde hair which lay effortlessly in waves.
Perhaps if her features had been less striking, Arthur would not have recognized her.
No matter.
He’d shown no signs of suspecting she was the thief. He was unlikely to suspect she’d taken on the habit of sneaking into balls and ridding people of their jewels.
After all, she was independently wealthy. It was almost odd to remember that money had ever been a concern.
“The Duke and Duchess of Alfriston are holidaying near Venice,” she said.
“You’re going to see them?”
She smiled and hoped he would take that as confirmation.
She hadn’t planned on seeing her cousin Fiona in Italy, and Fiona certainly did not expect to see her, but Madeline would likely take the opportunity once she’d returned the jewels to Gabriella’s family.
“Lady Mulbourne and I traveled to Rome once,” Gabriella said. “We are eager to visit the Italian peninsula again.”
“How did you meet?” Arthur asked politely.
“I advertised for a companion with Italian language skills,” Madeline said. “Hers are tolerable.”
“Excellent,” Gabriella insisted, and they giggled.
“Ah,” Arthur said. “I seem to remember that the Duchess of Alfriston had planned to visit Rome with you.”
“And then your brother persuaded her to remain,” Madeline said.
“Then I apologize on his behalf,” Arthur said gravely.
Madeline had refused to give up her dreams. Italy had always fascinated her. The entire continent had been forbidden during the Napoleonic Wars, but now that the battles were over and Napoleon was firmly on St. Helena, Madeline was determined to visit the birthplace of her most cherished artworks.
“No need. They are happy. It is…nice to see.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said.
They were silent. It was perhaps odd to contemplate that they’d become relatives. Once she would have thought they might—
She shook her head. It was in the past. She’d been naive then, she wasn’t anymore.
Perhaps Arthur sensed the awkwardness, for he soon made his apologies and left.
“Enjoy Venice,” he called out to them and then disappeared into the thickening throng of passengers preparing to disembark.
“The man is so handsome,” Gabriella murmured. “Bellissimo.”
Madeline tried to smile. Normally Gabriella’s enthusiasms were
amusing. Now her inundation of compliments, emphasized by her Italian, seemed to only highlight Madeline’s earlier naivety.
“And he called you beautiful,” Gabriella exclaimed, moving her hand to her heart. “Most romantic.”
“He was only assuring me that he doubted I had gray hairs,” Madeline explained. “Simple politeness.”
“Nonsense,” Gabriella said. “A man needn’t give such compliments to ensure a woman does not feel insulted. You are very lucky.”
Madeline nodded. Gabriella was not the first person to tell her this. Indeed, Madeline knew she was lucky. She’d been lucky to marry a baron, and she was lucky to get her father out of debt, brought on by his pursuit and respect for women’s beauty, in his case a willingness to pay exorbitant fees to gaze at and even touch the most splendid women of a certain brothel.
The horn sounded a few times, and they moved toward the gangway.
The sun soared upward, and pink splattered across the sky. The dark shadows lightened, revealing workers darting through the harbor. The ships docked at Le Havre seemed less foreboding, and there seemed little indication that tens of thousands of men had lost their lives fighting a war waged against the government here.
“Let’s go,” Madeline said. “We’ll see if we can avoid the marquess.”
It would be awkward if he also discovered they’d rented a cottage on the French Riviera and didn’t tell him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Gabriella murmured. “You’ve been so helpful already.”
“Nonsense,” she told her companion. “I know where the bracelet that completes the set is. Of course I’m going to get it.”
She felt a sense of relief as she exited the ship.
No one had caught her.
It would be fine.
Arthur wouldn’t expect her to appear in the Côte d’Azur, and she would do her utmost to avoid him.
Travelers ascended a stagecoach bound for Nice. Madeline almost wished she could join the boisterous holiday goers. Privacy could be tiresome, but she settled into a carriage with Gabriella and directed the only slightly surprised driver to take her to Antibes. Evidently she was not the first English person to crave the French Riviera, and the coach soon jostled to a start.
The carriage moved from the harbor into the countryside. The lane wound through vineyards. Grapes grew in neat rows, undeterred even by the steepness of some of the fields. On occasion some farmer had decided to grow a fruit orchard, and apples and cherries dangled between the verdant leaves that adorned each tree.
The homes were quaint, perched on the edge of the steep inclines in an effortless manner, as if their very beauty could mitigate the realities of their position.
A stone church looked over the buildings, and Madeline wondered who had carried each slab of granite over the hilltop.
Mountains jutted into the sky beyond. Grey clouds eased through the mountain gaps, invading the idyllic surrounding. She smiled.
It was absurd.
She’d never had an actual friend before.
She might adore company, might love the sound of laughter in her home and of seeing disparate people connecting over raspberry shrub as they remarked on the Italian paintings hanging in Madeline’s drawing room, but people tended to be wary of her.
After she succeeded in her mission, she would remember this time fondly. Helping the Costantinis was the first time in her life she’d felt useful. She’d been able to help Gabriella’s parents in a way that their solicitors and appeals to decency could not.
She was grateful for her time with Gabriella. It had been easy to suggest to aid her.
People tended to dismiss Madeline when they saw her blonde hair and the symmetry of her features, supposing her knowledge of taking care of herself to denote a lack of any intelligence. They might ask her about her preferred shades of haberdashery, they might even listen to her with interest on her opinions of the merits of satin versus velvet, but they would never inquire about her opinions on parliament.
Plainer women seemed happier without her sitting with them. Perhaps they feared Madeline might distract any potential suitors. Their suspicion of her had only heightened after Madeline’s husband’s death. Once Madeline’s stiff ebony had changed to lilac and gray, people had seemed to imagine her to have become wanton. Widows possessed independence, and people supposed her to desire to bed every man in her acquaintance, now that she would not be hindered by some possessive musket wielding, sword brandishing husband.
As if Maxwell had ever been a man prone to jealous rages.
She sighed.
The only people not afraid of speaking with her were men.
Not all of them, of course. A startlingly significant proportion seemed prone to stammer in her presence, as their gaze jumped to the more private areas of her body and their cheeks flushed.
Still there were confident men who did place themselves closer to her on purpose. Those men were apt to gaze deeply in her eyes and remark on their sudden desire to stroll in the garden with her, even though they’d never taken an interest in botany before that and the rosebushes were hardly at their most brilliant when shrouded in darkness.
She’d never been tempted.
No, it was far better to rebuke men when they started reciting Byron and started regaling her with stories that centered on their supposed athletic abilities or the difficulty their cobbler experienced of creating boots large enough for their generously sized feet.
Awkwardness was not a state she was eager to experience. And even if any encounter with a Casonova-inspired Corinthian managed to avoid awkwardness, she’d seen the tearstained faces of her cousin Fiona when she’d supposed the Duke of Alfriston to have abandoned any interest in her.
She was certain that even her cousin Fiona, who was closest to Madeline in age and had lived on the neighboring estate until she’d married a dashing duke, had viewed her with suspicion.
Fiona had certainly never confided her passion in archeology to her.
Gabriella was different.
For the first time she’d spent time with a woman who didn’t see her as a competitor. Gabriella was her companion, and they spent long stretches of the day together. Madeline had been reluctant to get a companion, but she needed to maintain some sense of propriety on her travels to Europe.
Gabriella had been the first person she could share things with. Gabriella belonged to the Venetian aristocracy, and even though her family’s wealth was greatly diminished, so much so that her parents had been happy to send Gabriella to England, Gabriella did not consider herself in a competition with Madeline. She did not see Madeline’s stylish gowns as a reminder that she needed to acquire gowns with more innovative cuts: Madeline was wealthier than her, and naturally her gowns would be nicer. It helped perhaps that Madeline was a few years older than Gabriella, and Gabriella was pretty in her own right.
It pained Madeline that Gabriella’s family heirlooms had been stolen and gifted to French ministers. The people who possessed them now did not need the money, had not even spent any money on them.
The carriage stopped at regular intervals, but they drove through the night.
Eventually the darkness lifted, replaced by pink and tangerine rays that bathed the grand villas in their light. The turquoise sea sparkled to her right, and boats sailed in the clear waters.
Chapter Six
If only he hadn’t been assigned to the French Riviera.
The last time Arthur had visited, elderly English invalids swathed in unseasonal furs and sun-worshipping Corinthians had outnumbered French in the grand hotels. They seemed to think it a more exclusive version of Cornwall, purely for its propensity toward sunshine.
Venice, for instance, would be far more intriguing.
He would see canals and palazzos and…Madeline.
He shook his head, as if the action might dissolve the image of long blonde locks and a knowing smile.
It was ridiculous. He didn’t tend to spend long periods of time c
ontemplating Venetian architecture, but ever since Madeline told him she was going there, he’d had visions of the sun setting over the Basilica di San Marco and of the pastel colored palazzos that lined the Canal Grande.
Madeline’s presence was certainly not something he welcomed. And Madeline certainly viewed him with skepticism.
She’d convinced her uncle to tell him he was ruining her prospects for a good match, because she could no longer abide Arthur’s company.
He sighed. The conversation with Sir Seymour had been distinctly unpleasant.
He’d halted his search after his conversation with the baronet. He’d accepted an offer from Admiral Fitzroy the next day to work for him on special projects for the Alien Agency.
The agency liked his ability to speak in an American accent, and they’d sent him off to the West Indies soon after, where he’d posed as an American merchant.
He’d experienced the delights of other women, naturally. Even the West Indies had scores of bored women, nervous about the spread of the Napoleonic Wars, and eager to embrace life, even if that meant being unfaithful to their husbands.
Arthur had never again sought to court anyone.
Bonaparte had offered an easy respite. The man’s habit of waging war had kept Arthur safely away from London’s ballrooms and house parties.
He’d sometimes wondered if Madeline had regretted her youthful action, but she’d been cold to him when he visited her townhouse, and yesterday she’d still been in full mourning for her late husband. Evidently she had not married Lord Mulbourne merely for his title and fortune.
He’d always supposed the man to have been an unlikely match. The baron had been older than Madeline, and Arthur had allowed himself to imagine that she’d chosen him simply for his wealth and his estate’s proximity toward her family in Yorkshire.
He sighed.
Evidently he’d been mistaken.
She seemed to have found even conversing with Arthur to be despicable.
Finely attired gentlemen with speckled hair spoke English as they inched along the promenade, clomping their canes onto the pavement in a manner that was not strictly fashionable.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 4