by Stella Riley
Slowly, very slowly, comprehension filtered into the numb disorder of Thomas Ferrars brain.
‘You – you bought my bond because of this? And the shops … it was you who – who made them stop my credit. It was you. All the time, it was you … because of this!’ He stopped, trying to suck some air back into his lungs. And then, with a kind of compulsive horror, ‘Who are you?’
‘I think you know.’ For the first time, Luciano came out of the shadows into the light and gave Ferrars time to look at him. ‘I am Alessandro Falcieri’s son.’
Ferrars stared at him, incapable of speech, movement or even of coherent thought. He looked at the well-cut black clothes, the long, fine-boned hands and the slight irregularity of the left shoulder; and then, with petrified reluctance into the sculpted face with its hard mouth and fathomless eyes. His heart gave a single, heavy thud and seemed to plummet into his stomach.
‘And now,’ continued Luciano inexorably, ‘we will proceed. You robbed me of my father, my home, my childhood and caused the death of my mother. And I have brought you to this point so that you may attempt to justify yourself. What, for example, had Alessandro Falcieri done to you?’
‘N-nothing.’ The word arrived on a choking gasp. ‘It … it wasn’t like that.’
‘No? Then how was it?’
‘It wasn’t my idea – you’ve got to believe that! I was in d-debt to your father and I couldn’t pay because I’d have lost Alice even before the betrothal contracts were signed. But I never meant to harm anybody. I – I just did as I was told.’
‘By whom?’
Ferrars’ eyes slid away and his knuckles glowed white on the arms of his chair.
‘Giles Langley.’
Luciano took his time about replying. Then, silkily, ‘How very convenient. He’s dead.’
‘I can’t help that. He’d lost a fortune on the Cadiz expedition and if Falcieri had foreclosed on him, he’d have found himself in the Fleet. So he – he – oh God. It was his idea, I tell you!’
There was another eviscerating silence.
‘Mr Ferrars … I don’t believe you. Look at me.’ Luciano waited till he’d collected the frightened gaze and then said crisply, ‘Rid yourself of the notion that there is any easy way out. There isn’t. I want the truth. Now start again.’
‘All right – all right!’ His nerves at breaking point, the only thing Thomas Ferrars wanted was to be allowed to leave. ‘I – I had a letter. It w-wasn’t signed so it may have come from Langley or – or one of the others. Or perhaps they all had one too. I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I d-don’t know. We never – we never spoke of it. And when it was over, we w-went our separate ways. I don’t even know wh-where they are any more – and I’ll swear that on anything you l-like!’
This, decided Luciano clinically, had both a certain logic and, at last, a ring of truth. He said, ‘And the letter?’
‘It told me what to do. I was to go to his Grace of Buckingham’s secretary and say I’d overhead Falcieri and some others plotting to assassinate the Duke. I was also to say that I’d got the impression the Italian was passing information to Richelieu about the Duke’s plans to take La Rochelle. I was to give them the dates and places supplied in the letter and say …’ He stopped, the sheer hopelessness of it overcoming him. ‘But you’ve got the record. You know what I said.’
‘Yes.’ Luciano turned unhurriedly to the requisite page and read aloud from it. “I heard the accused say that a clear shot might be taken from the upper window of one of the buildings overlooking King Street and that he had found an expert marksman who was willing to undertake the commission in return for two thousand in gold.” He stopped and looked up. ‘Since this conversation is supposed to have taken place with a Florentine, it’s odd that it appears to have been held in English. Forse si capisce l’Italiano?’ He paused again, head tilted in gentle enquiry. ‘I asked if you perhaps understand Italian, Mr Ferrars. Obviously, you don’t.’ He threw the document back on the table. ‘And Buckingham believed this farrago?’
‘Yes – no. I don’t know. I don’t suppose he could take the risk,’ came the weary, miserable reply. ‘You wouldn’t … I don’t suppose you’d remember how it was at that time. Rumours of plots were everywhere and people were denouncing each other at the t-top of their voices. So with conspiracies in every corner, what was one more?’
‘Fabricated, malicious and one too many,’ responded Luciano damningly. ‘So … you were told what to do and you did it. But not, I suspect, purely to escape your debt.’
The hunted look came back with a vengeance.
‘Why n-not? What other reason could I have?’
‘That is what I’m trying to discover.’ The dark eyes surveyed him with chill implacability. ‘I am finding it quite difficult to believe this tale of anonymous letters. Convince me.’
‘How?’
‘By telling me what else it said. I am not entirely stupid, Mr Ferrars. The letter – if it existed at all – suggested a way to solve your financial problems and save your betrothal. I can see how that would have appealed to you. But you’d have been foolish in the extreme if you’d involved yourself in such a matter for that alone – for, if the plot had failed, you’d have found yourself in very deep water indeed.’ Luciano smiled coldly. ‘It therefore follows that either the letter contained some further inducement – or you are lying. Which?’
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ cried Ferrars wildly. ‘I tell you I had to do it. I didn’t have any choice.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the letter … that bloody letter threatened to tell Alice’s father – to tell the whole world - that I’d got a girl killed rather than d-defend myself like a man.’
‘And had you?’
‘Yes – damn you, yes! But it was an accident. It happened years ago in Gloucester. We were in a tavern and there was a quarrel and before I knew what was happening, this fellow was challenging me to fight him. And then he was coming at me … I’ll swear he meant to kill me … and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think. I – I grabbed a serving-girl and pulled her in front of me thinking the other fellow would stop. But he didn’t. He didn’t and she – she ended up on his blade. But I never meant it to happen. It was an accident. It was just – just …’ Control had gone and suddenly the man was sobbing. ‘You don’t know what it’s like – always being afraid. But I can’t help it. I can’t help it!’
For a long, timeless moment, Luciano remained quite still. And then, very slowly, he expelled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He said distantly, ‘You must excuse me for observing that there seem to be a great many things you can’t help. However. If this had become known, you would have lost your bride-to-be?’
‘Yes. Alice knows I’m not brave – but not --’
‘But not precisely how craven you really are?’ finished Luciano helpfully. ‘So. To prevent her finding out, you did as you were told and helped destroy my father. Quite frankly, despicable as it is, I am surprised you had the guts even for that – and please don’t tell me again that you had no choice. There is always a choice – and you made yours.’
Feeling as though his bones had been laid bare, Thomas Ferrars huddled deeper into his chair and said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Ah. The two-thousand-eight-hundred-and-forty pound question. What am I going to do?’ Almost idly, Luciano up-ended the bag Mr Ferrars had left on the table and watched as a tangle of pearls, sapphire and rubies came winking into the light. Then, gazing maliciously down into the other man’s eyes, he said, ‘I’m going to keep these in payment of your debts – the current one to myself and the previous one to my late father. I am not, obviously, going to advance you so much as a groat and I’m going to continue to ensure that no one in Oxford will allow you any credit. Then, Mr Ferrars, I’m going to do the worst thing I can think of. I’m going to send you home to your wife .’ Again that slow, brittle smile. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll stay out of my sight. And if
you attempt to warn your comrades in legalised murder of my interest in the matter, I’ll take pleasure in personally informing dear Alice of your less than glorious past. I trust that takes care of everything?’
He strolled to the door and opened it. ‘Goodbye, Mr Ferrars. You may now go to the devil your own way.’
* * *
He was never to know precisely what happened that night in the house on Holywell Street – and neither, to be truthful, did he care; but within forty-eight hours the aftermath was revealed to him as it went reverberating pleasurably through the taverns, shops and boudoirs of Oxford.
It appeared that Alice Ferrars had eluded her husband’s creditors and fled starvation and disgrace by slipping quietly away with a rich Bedfordshire cloth-merchant. And Thomas, in response to the final irony, had put a pistol to his head after all.
~ * * ~ * * ~
SEVEN
At Thorne Ash, everyone plunged into the usual preparations for Yule but with less than the usual enthusiasm. Then, four days before Christmas, Giacomo arrived with Toby; and that was when Kate realised something catastrophic.
Although, since that day in October, her feelings for Luciano del Santi had become so complex as to defy definition, there was one point on which she was very clear indeed. His interference in the matter of her betrothal had arisen directly from what she herself had said to him; but in his usual fashion, he had chosen to do it in a way which not only demonstrated his own indifference to her but also lured her to make a complete fool of herself. And she did not think she would ever forgive him for it. Only then, on December 21st, Giacomo brought Toby home … and disappointment had risen in Kate’s throat like bile, causing her to realise that, somewhere deep down inside, she had been hoping Luciano would come himself. She tried convincing herself that this was purely because their first meeting was bound to be embarrassing, so the sooner it was over, the better – but finally had to face the fact that it wasn’t true. The truth was that she was hungry for the mere sight of him. And that wasn’t just embarrassing. It was downright humiliating.
Hiding behind her brightest smile, she hugged Toby and greeted Giacomo with every sign of pleasure. As always, he kissed her rapturously on both cheeks and then, slowly and in simple Italian, said, ‘Signorina. Before I leave, can we be private?’
Kate achieved a mental translation and her smile altered as a different hope was born. She nodded and, answering in the same language, said, ‘This evening. I’ll find you.’
And spent the rest of the day wondering how best to manage it.
In the end, she simply waited until after supper when everyone else was still talking forty to the dozen in the parlour and, having caught Giacomo’s eye, slipped out into the hall. Seconds later, he was at her side wearing a grin which threatened to split his face. Kate grinned back and said, ‘The book-room. No one will go there this evening.’
With the door closed behind them, Giacomo reached inside his coat and produced a small package. He said, ‘The signor, ’e say to give this to you when no one see.’
‘Oh.’ This was unexpected. At best, Kate had been hoping for a note. She said, ‘What is it?’
‘Open and find out. I ’ave not seen – nor Gino nor Toby. None of us ’ave seen. The signor, ’e work alone for many hours.’
Taking the package with a reluctance she didn’t understand, Kate said slowly, ‘You’re saying that Signor del Santi made whatever this is himself?’
‘Naturalmente.’ Giacomo looked at her with beatific satisfaction. ‘’E make special for you, signorina. Open – open!’
Slowly, with fingers that were no longer quite steady, she removed the paper and sealing wax to reveal a flat leather box. Giacomo, who plainly wanted to see its contents, was fairly bouncing with excitement. Kate lifted the lid and, seeing the gleam of gold against black velvet, immediately snapped it shut again and waited for her heart to settle.
Giacomo huffed reproachfully.
‘I know – I know.’ She pushed the box back at him. ‘You want to see it – so look. But I can’t just yet. I – I don’t understand why he …’ She stopped, drew in a lungful of air. ‘Didn’t he say anything except that you were to give it to me privately?’
‘No.’ A few steps away, Giacomo was examining the contents of the box through some sort of lens and murmuring to himself. ‘Ah si – squisito. Che qualità di lavorazione!’ Then, smiling across at Kate, ‘Is perfect, signorina. The signor, ’e is true artist.’
‘I know that. What I don’t know is why he sent it.’
‘No?’ Giacomo gently closed the box and folded it back into her hand. ‘But maybe is not so important. I will go now and you will look. Yes?’
‘Yes.’ She turned and said woodenly, ‘Please thank Signor del Santi. I’m sure it’s very beautiful – whatever it is.’
‘Is exquisite,’ said Giacomo simply. And left her alone.
Kate sat down on the edge of a chair and stared at the box. Finally, because there was nothing else for it, she lifted the lid.
It was a bracelet. A narrow oval of rose-gold, embellished with raised-work so fine it resembled embroidery. Frowning a little, Kate lifted it from the box. It was a bracelet – but not of a kind she had ever seen before. Turning it in her fingers, she eventually discovered that there was an almost invisible hinge at one side and a tiny hidden clasp at the other. It was designed to open which was why it was barely wider than her wrist. And all around the flat band, the decoration flowed with seamless precision. It was, as Giacomo had said, exquisite. Resisting the temptation to open it and try it on, Kate put it to one side and stripped the box of its padding, looking for a note – a card - some kind of explanation. And found nothing.
Why? she thought. Why would he do this?
And later, in the privacy of her bedchamber, holding the pretty thing in her hand again, What am I supposed to make of it? It isn’t – it can’t be – just a gift. That makes no sense. So what does it mean?
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to put it on. Instead, she turned it over and over, studying the pattern in the ornately delicate decoration as if she expected it to yield a clue. And finally, just when she was about to admit defeat, the puzzle revealed itself. Cunningly concealed amongst the dainty twists and coils and leaves on what she took to be the upper part of the bracelet were letters. Letters you would never notice in a million years unless you were looking for them … but which, once you knew they were there, simply leapt to your eye. As a composition, it really was incredibly clever. As a gift – or whatever its creator intended it to be – it was something else. The letters spelled C a t e r i n a.
Kate ran her fingers over them for a moment until something else occurred to her. If he could weave her name on the outside so skilfully that it had taken her an hour to find it, he might also have put something on the inside. Fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar clasp, she opened the bracelet and held it closer to the candles in order to read the three words she could see engraved there in tiny, sloping script. And then, though the reason for them was different now, her eyes filled with the tears that had been threatening ever since she’d seen Giacomo ride through the gates with Toby.
Mea culpa. Luciano
He had sent her an apology.
* * *
Having arrived in Cheapside uninvited but in time for dinner, Richard Maxwell cradled a glass of wine between his hands and listened, without comment, to the tale of Thomas Ferrars. Then, when it was over, he said somewhat coolly, ‘So … one dead, two to go. Are you pleased with yourself?’
‘Pleased – no. Satisfied – yes. Why not?’ shrugged Luciano. ‘I didn’t kill him – and neither was it my fault that he killed himself. The credit for that belongs to his wife.’
‘A convenient thought – and one which presumably stops you losing any sleep over the matter.’
‘You want me to don sackcloth and ashes?’
‘No. But I wouldn’t object to a small show of feeling. However … what about Ahira
m Webb? I assume he’s next.’
‘If I can find him, yes.’ Luciano leaned back in his chair. ‘Richard – it’s Christmas Eve and I’d as soon not quarrel with you. I did what needed to be done and I’ve no intention of rending myself with self-recrimination now. As for Webb and Brandon … it seems likely that one of them planned the whole charade and blackmailed the others, so I’m obviously not about to leave them unscathed. And if you really want to pick a fight, I can offer you a better reason.’
‘Ah.’ Richard set down his glass and folded his arms. ‘I wondered if we’d come to that. It’s Kate, of course.’
‘She’s written to you?’
‘No – but Dorothy has. From which I know that Kate’s betrothal is at an end and that, from the look on her face whenever your name is mentioned, Dorothy suspects that you may have had a hand in the matter. Did you?’
‘Yes. Clumsily, as it turned out. I may even have done as much harm as good. But Kate can tell you that better than I.’
‘Could – but won’t. And I think I’d as soon hear it from you.’ He waited and then, when the Italian merely shifted a little but did not speak, he said firmly, ‘Luciano. What did you do?’
‘I kissed her. And I made sure Clifford saw me do it. That did the trick fairly effectively.’
‘Yes. I imagine it would.’ Richard eyed him thoughtfully, noting the hint of unaccustomed colour along the high cheekbones and the fact that, for the first time ever, the younger man looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘And how did Kate take it?’
Luciano sought courage in his glass. ‘That part didn’t go quite so well.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ A pause; and then, ‘She slapped my face.’
Richard hid what was clearly misplaced amusement.
‘Because you kissed her – or because you ended her relationship with Mr Clifford?’