It was an absurd notion, and she pushed it aside. Once they had fulfilled the terms of her late husband’s will, there would be no they. She was an obligation to him. A debt as yet unpaid. Nothing more than that. Nor did she wish to be more.
She summoned her brightest smile. “I am indeed.”
A few minutes later they met Josiah in the lounge. Once they had taken their seats, he pulled an envelope from his ever-present valise and offered it to Olivia.
She hesitated for a moment, then accepted it.
“Before you open that, there are a few things I feel you should know,” Josiah said. “When I received this assignment from Mr. Hollis, I was given only two of Lord Rathbourne’s envelopes. As I was not given that third envelope, I can only assume that means the final item is to be located in London. I furthermore suspect—”
“That the last item will be almost impossible to acquire,” Sterling finished the sentence. He and Josiah exchanged glances. “As no doubt was Lord Rathbourne’s intent.”
“No doubt,” she said under her breath.
Saving the most difficult quest for the last was exactly the sort of thing her late husband would do. He would have relished the idea that just when she thought victory was in sight, it would be yanked from her hands. She knew his nature far better than he had known, or had cared to know, hers. It had been one of the tiny triumphs of her marriage to keep her emotions and concerns and character to herself. Along with her list of desires.
“Gentlemen, it’s far too early to concern ourselves with item number three, as number two has not yet been acquired,” she said firmly. “Furthermore, neither Mr. Hollis nor my late husband, I imagine, expected me actually to undertake this challenge in the first place. As I have done so, and we have thus far been successful, I see no need to worry about the end of this odyssey at this point since we are scarcely in the middle.”
Josiah nodded.
Sterling flashed her an admiring look. “Well said, Olivia.”
She smiled, braced herself for the sight of her late husband’s handwriting, and tore open the envelope. She studied the words for a moment. “I’m not sure I understand this. It says the next item is a copy of one of Bellini’s works depicting the history of the Venetian Wars with the Holy Roman Emperor, painted by Titian.”
“Giovanni Bellini produced a series of six or seven paintings depicting the Venetian war with the emperor. They hung in the Doge’s Palace in Venice. Little is known about them except that they were reputed to be the artist’s greatest works. Unfortunately . . .” Sterling grimaced. “They were destroyed by fire in the late 1500s, I believe.”
She stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“I know a great many things you would not suspect,” he said in a lofty manner. “I have had an excellent education, and I have always been fond of art.”
“Then do you understand what this refers to?”
“I know Titian was a student of Giovanni Bellini—not to be confused with Gentile Bellini, his brother, or Jacopo, his father. Also artists.” Sterling grinned. “As for what we are looking for now”—he shrugged—“I have no idea.”
“I believe I can explain,” Josiah said. “In preparation for this trip, I examined Lord Rathbourne’s correspondence regarding this painting and his attempts to purchase it.” He pulled out several papers from his valise and shuffled through them. “According to letters written between Lord Rathbourne and an Italian nobleman”—he glanced down at the paper in his hand—“the Conte de Sarafini, copies were made of Bellini’s”—he nodded at Sterling—“Giovanni Bellini that is, of his most impressive work up to that time by several of his students including Tiziano Vecellio.”
“Titian,” Sterling said to her in a superior manner.
She ignored him. “Go on.”
“According to these letters, while there could be as many copies by Titian’s hand as there were original works, only two have ever come to light. One of which was owned by the viscount, now Lady Rathbourne, and the other by the Conte de Sarafini.”
“If I understand what you’re saying correctly . . .” She drew her brows together. “Then the collection I am to complete consists of only two paintings?”
Josiah nodded. “That would be my assessment, yes.”
“Do the letters explain why the conte refused to sell the painting?” Sterling asked.
“Yes and no.” Josiah shrugged. “It appears the viscount and the conte went back and forth for years, each man trying to acquire the painting the other had. Neither willing to sell.”
Sterling frowned in confusion. “Was this a cordial correspondence?”
“It does appear to have become quite heated now and then.” Josiah paged through the letters. “On one occasion Lord Rathbourne referred to the conte as an ignorant jackal who could not appreciate the nuances of a master work because his sense of taste did not extend beyond his mouth. Whereupon the Italian gentleman responded by suggesting the viscount was an uncultured barbarian whose ancestors were mucking about in the mud while his were building structures to last through eternity and further questioned his lordship’s parentage.”
Sterling nodded. “Cordial then.”
“As cordial as my late husband ever was,” Olivia said under her breath.
“In spite of instances of obvious dislike, overall the tone of the correspondence is polite and well mannered,” Josiah said. “I suspect each man wanted the other’s painting far too much to sever all communication between them even if one was an ignorant jackal and the other an uncultured barbarian. Regardless, all correspondence appears to have ceased a little over two years ago unless there are letters Lord Rathbourne did not bring to the firm’s attention.”
“Do you think that’s important?” She looked at Sterling.
“It could mean any number of things. One of them could have abandoned his desire for the other’s painting and simply stopped writing.” He paused. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I don’t recall seeing any paintings at all in the treasure room.”
“The paintings are in a room similar to the treasure room on the floor directly above it.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been in that room either.”
“I see. We can assume the viscount’s painting is still there, but the jackal could have given his to a museum or as a gift to a friend.”
“A very good friend, I would think,” Josiah murmured.
“Or, the painting itself could have been destroyed as Bellini’s original works were,” Sterling said.
“If the painting no longer exists . . .” A heavy weight settled in the pit of Olivia’s stomach. If the second item was impossible to get, her quest would end in Venice. And her hopes.
“I would suggest we not borrow trouble by speculating.” Sterling shook his head. “Rather wait until we find this Conte de Sarafini and speak to him for ourselves.”
“Very well.” Olivia drew a deep breath. Sterling was right. There was no need to fret over why correspondence between the men had ceased. Her time would be better spent trying to come up with a plan to convince the conte to part with his rare painting than by dwelling on what would happen to her if she failed. That alone should be enough to keep her mind occupied through the remainder of the voyage to Venice. That and renewing her attempts to seduce Sterling.
“In the meantime, I suggest we spend our time making a list of the sights we wish to see in Venice.” Sterling’s smug smile returned. “My steward was good enough to leave a guidebook in my cabin, which I have been reading since we boarded.”
She raised a brow.
“And you thought I was simply brooding.” Amusement shown in his eyes.
“Something like that.”
“I should like to ride in a gondola,” Josiah said. “Beyond what everyone knows about Venice, that it is an ancient city built on islands with canals instead of streets, I know nothing about the place. I never dreamed I would see it, and I find the prospect most exciting.” Eagerness sounded in the young man’s voice
. “But then I never imagined I would travel to Egypt either.” He put his papers back in his valise, then grinned at Olivia. “And I have you to thank.”
She shook her head. “None of this was my idea.”
“If you hadn’t had the courage to pick up the gauntlet your late husband cast down, I should at this very minute be trapped in my dreary offices, trying to come up with a solution to a client’s no doubt dull problem. Instead . . .” He grinned. “I am on my way to sunny Italy to bargain for a centuries-old masterpiece. Life is certainly filled with unexpected turns.”
“Indeed it is.” Sterling chuckled. “Carpe Diem, my boy. ‘Rejoice while you are alive, enjoy the day, live life to the fullest, make the most of what you have. It is later than you think.’ ” He nodded at Olivia. “Horace.”
She stared.
“In addition to ancient classic writing, I am also familiar with more contemporary literary references appropriate to our travels such as Ruskin’s Stones of Venice.” Sterling grinned. “I am exceptionally well-read.”
“You are full of surprises,” she said under her breath.
“And I have just begun. Now then.” He thought for a moment. “According to Baedeker’s Guide to Northern Italy there are guides who may be hired to show us the sights who can be found in the Piazza of St. Mark. However, the guide also recommends with the book in hand one can dispense with a hired guide altogether and strike out on one’s own. Which I suggest we do. We shall explore and wander and perhaps lose our way. It will make our visit much more of an”—his grin widened—“adventure.”
Josiah’s grin matched the earl’s.
“Much of Venice is unchanged from the glory days of the doges and seafaring supremacy and”—he flashed her a wicked glance—“the adventures of Casanova.”
“Giacomo, I assume,” she said wryly. “As opposed to another member of the Casanova family.”
“None of whom are worth mentioning in contrast to Bellini’s brother and father, both of whom are of note in their own right.” He heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Giacomo was the only member of the Casanova family to have truly made his mark on the world.”
“Or rather the women of the world,” Olivia pointed out.
“He was most successful in that respect, at least according to his account of his life. Although admittedly, a biography a man writes about himself may not be as accurate as one written by an unbiased observer. Regardless, I suggest we follow his advice in seeing the city of his birth as well as that of Baedeker.”
Josiah’s eyes widened. “My lord, I scarcely think—”
“Casanova said his system of living was to glide away unconcernedly on the stream of life, trusting to the wind wherever it led.” Sterling swept an exaggerated bow. “What say you, Olivia? While in Venice, shall we follow the advice of one of its best-known, if not its most infamous, sons and trust to the wind?”
She stared. “This is not at all like you.”
“It is now,” he said firmly. “Now then, there are a number of hotels Baedeker suggests. Josiah, I suggest you see if we can get accommodations at the Grand Hotel Royal Danieli. It is situated on the Grand Canal and comes highly recommended. Once we are settled . . .”
Olivia nodded her approval when her companions looked her way, but her mind was too distracted by Sterling’s manner to pay close attention to his words. He appeared to be a changed man although she suspected anyone who considered himself at fault for another’s death would indeed be changed in some manner. But carpe diem? Even the man she had loved so long ago would never have suggested trusting to the wind. He was a mystery, albeit not an unpleasant one, and became more so with every step of their journey. Who would he be at the end?
The thought stuck her that this Sterling was a dangerous man. Oh, not because of the death he had inadvertently caused, but because of how he now seemed to be seizing life as it were. No, this Sterling was a man to guard against. This Sterling was a man who could again claim her heart.
Sixteen
Remarkable. It was the only word Sterling could think of to describe the scene spread out before him.
He stood on the balcony off his rooms in the Grand Hotel Royal Danieli. Behind him, a hotel valet was seeing to his baggage and unpacking his things. In front of him lay the Venetian lagoon, filled with boats of various and assorted sizes, most looking more like craft from a fairy story than anything seaworthy. Across the lagoon, the church of San Giorgio Maggiore gleamed in the midday sun, its campanile rising toward the heavens.
Josiah had been dispatched to the home of the Conte de Sarafini and had already been gone for several hours. While they had an address and the hotel had provided directions, Sterling wasn’t entirely confident the young man would be successful in finding the right house. Still, he had been eager to explore the twisting, turning passageways of Venice on his own. Although Sterling suspected that if Livy had volunteered her assistance, the young solicitor would have been only too glad of her company. Sterling grinned. The boy had already lost their wager even if neither he nor Livy yet realized it.
He could thank that poor devil in Cairo for his newfound attitude. Not that he would ever forget the man’s lifeless eyes staring toward eternity. Nor could he ever put from his mind the devastating knowledge that he, no matter how accidentally, had caused a death. But in the days following the incident, he had come to grips with what had happened. He had also realized, with an odd sort of sudden clarity, that life was uncertain and fragile. Regardless of what plans one might make for the future, despite one’s expectations that life would continue in the manner it always had, nothing was assured. Nothing in this life could be depended upon save, perhaps, love.
Livy had loved him once, and she would again. Not because he had come to her rescue in Egypt or because he was helping her achieve what was rightfully hers or because he loved her and always had. But because they belonged together, and life was entirely too short to let mistakes, no matter how devastating the consequences, ruin any chance for true happiness. One way or another, he would make her realize that as well.
“It’s glorious, isn’t it?” Livy joined him on the balcony.
“It’s quite remarkable.” He smiled.
“The valet let me in,” she said apologetically. “Although are you aware there is a door connecting your room to mine? Locked on my side, of course.”
“I was indeed aware of both the door and the lock. Apparently, as we are traveling together, there were certain assumptions made.” He shrugged. “We can change rooms if you like.”
“No need.” She paused. “I do hope I am not intruding.”
“You are never an intrusion.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It’s said Venice is the most romantic city in the world, you know.”
She laughed but didn’t pull away. “Said by Casanova no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
“I thought perhaps we could stroll for a bit. I know we told Josiah we would wait for him before seeing Venice, but I find I am too restless to delay much longer.”
He nodded. “My sentiments exactly. Perhaps we could have an ice at the Caffé Florian?”
She raised a brow. “You have been studying your guidebook.”
“Indeed I have.”
“An ice would be lovely.” She studied him curiously. “This has been good for you, I think. Not all of it,” she added quickly. “But for the most part, you are not the same man who called on me at my father’s request.”
“And is that good?”
She smiled the very smile that had lived for years in his dreams. “Very good.”
“And how have I changed?” He smiled into her eyes. She still did not pull her hand away, and he did not release it.
“When we first set out, you were somber and quite serious and carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“I see.” He nodded in a sober manner. “The very definition of stiff, stodgy, and dull. Or rather, the very definition of the Earl of Wyldewood
.”
“And arrogant. You shouldn’t forget arrogant.”
He winced. “I could never forget arrogant.”
“Although”—she grinned—“I suspect that has not changed.”
He laughed. “Probably not.”
“Then on the ship to Cairo, you . . .” She drew her brows together. “I’m not sure how to describe it.”
“Really?” He brought her hand back to his lips. “I tried very hard to be the perfect traveling companion.”
“And you succeeded admirably. Very nearly every woman on the ship thought so.”
“And you?” He gazed into her green eyes. “Did you think so as well?”
“I enjoyed your company. You were quite charming.” The vaguest hint of uncertainty showed in her eyes. Still, she had not pulled away. Would she protest if he drew her into his arms? “You were very much like the Sterling I once knew.”
“I see.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “Was he charming as well?”
“The Sterling I once knew?”
He nodded and stepped into his room, noting with satisfaction that the valet had left, and pulled her slowly into his arms.
She caught her breath. “Very charming. He was . . . quite wonderful.”
“I see.” He stared down at her. Would she stop him now if he kissed her?
“And then in Egypt . . .” She swallowed hard.
“Yes?” He bent his head and brushed his lips against the side of her neck. “In Egypt?”
“Egypt . . .” She leaned slightly toward him. “In Egypt, you were . . .”
He kissed a spot right blow the lobe of her ear. “I was what?”
“Preoccupied . . .” She made the tiniest moaning sound, so faint he wouldn’t have heard it if his lips hadn’t been trailing over her lovely throat. “It was Sir Lawrence and your mother and . . . oh my . . . the snakes, I think.”
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