The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger

by Victoria Alexander

  Dante had sent her a note requesting she meet him here before they left for the conte’s palazzo. Wise on his part. Partner or not, she was not going to be alone with him in her room or his. Not after that dance. She wasn’t sure if he was the one she didn’t trust or herself. Better to avoid the situation than find out. And while they were indeed alone, Rosalind was expected back at any moment.

  “Your note said you had heard back from your investigator.”

  “Information was remarkably easy to gather once he had a name. The conte is a well-known collector of Renaissance works and quite passionate about those that can be traced back to Venice, although rumor has it that his wife is more knowledgeable. Do you know how your husband met him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I recall.”

  His brow rose.

  “Parties, Mr. Montague, balls, soirees, musicales, hunts—one meets a great number of people and one often indulges in spirits far more than one should.”

  “According to my information, he’s considered quite a ladies’ man.”

  “Really?” She nodded. “That is good to know.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not the only one who can be exceptionally charming when circumstances demand. I too can be quite delightful.”

  “Exactly how delightful do you intend to be?” he said slowly.

  “As delightful as necessary.”

  “What if he tries to take advantage of you? Say perhaps to kiss you?”

  “I daresay that’s not going to happen. This is a meeting, not a rendezvous. Good Lord, Mr. Montague, perhaps you’ve forgotten the plan.” She rolled her gaze toward the ornate, painted ceiling. “We meet, I give him the bank draft, he gives me my painting. There is nothing in the plan about kissing.”

  “Plans change,” he said darkly.

  “You’re being absurd. Besides, don’t forget you’ll be there, as well. I can’t imagine any man attempting a seduction with another man present.”

  “You have a point.” He paused. “But you didn’t answer my question. What if he tries to kiss you?”

  “It was a stupid question.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it would depend.”

  “On what?”

  Good Lord, the man was serious. “On whether I have my painting back.” This could be fun. “And whether I find him attractive.”

  “Attractive?”

  “Yes, handsome. Dashing. Italian. I have met a few Italian noblemen before and they have all been most attractive. And very romantic. I think it has something to do with the climate here.” She studied him coolly. “I am willing to do very nearly anything to get my painting back.”

  His eyes widened in something akin to horror. “Anything?”

  She struggled to keep from laughing. “Within reason, of course. Although what I consider within reason and what you consider within reason might be entirely different.”

  “Willie,” he fairly growled her name and took a step toward her.

  “Lady Bascombe. And it’s really none of your concern.”

  “It most certainly is my concern.” He moved closer. “As is your definition of within reason. My God, Willie—Lady Bascombe—if you think I am going to idly stand by and allow you to—”

  She burst out laughing.

  He stared for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “Was that supposed to be amusing?”

  “It was supposed to be and it was.” She choked back a laugh. “Most amusing.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I, however, did not think it was at all funny.”

  “Well, it was.” Without thinking she reached out and straightened his necktie. He would hate it if he knew it wasn’t perfect.

  He caught her hand and stared down at her. “In spite of our disagreement—”

  “Disagreement?” She scoffed but didn’t pull away. Her heart thudded. “We haven’t had a disagreement—you deceived me.”

  “I made a mistake. Admittedly, a big mistake—”

  “An enormous mistake.”

  “That I am trying my best to make amends for.” He moved closer. Why, the man was close enough to kiss her if he wished. Not that she would permit such a thing. She could certainly step back and wasn’t at all sure why she hadn’t or why her hand was still trapped by his.

  “Neither my feelings nor my intentions have changed.”

  “Oh?” Her breath caught at the look in his eyes.

  “I love you and I still intend to marry you.”

  She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. She swallowed hard. “Intentions, Mr. Montague, like schedules, change.”

  “Not mine,” he said softly and bent his head to hers.

  A knock sounded at the door and it immediately opened slightly. They sprang apart as if one or the other was on fire. Blast it all, he was about to kiss her. And she was about to kiss him back. How could she do such a thing?

  Rosalind peered into the room. “As much as I hate to interrupt you, I find myself in a bit of a quandary.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t manage,” Dante said through gritted teeth.

  “It involves a confidence that I am unwilling to break.” She opened the door wider, stepped inside and waved at the corridor. A moment later Jane appeared in the doorway followed by Marian, Geneva and everyone else.

  “They know something is amiss. I, being the admirable sister and exceptional friend that I am, did not feel it was my place to tell them anything.”

  “We are not the type of friends who are unaware when something is afoot.” Jane paused. “We did hear quite a bit of your conversation in Verona, you know.”

  “We’ll disregard the more personal aspects of what you said,” Marian began. “Although we all agree you make a lovely couple.”

  Willie snorted. Dante smirked and everyone else murmured in agreement.

  “However, that is not the matter at hand.” Marian pinned Willie with a firm look. “As your friends and traveling companions and as clients of the Lady Travelers Society, we want to know exactly what is going on.”

  “Rosalind refused to tell us anything,” Jane added. “And Harry wouldn’t confide in the other girls. Which I suppose was admirable of her.”

  Harriet shrugged as if being admirable was nothing new to her.

  “If it’s something illegal, which we assume it’s not—” Jane glanced at Marian who nodded “—but we do think we should be prepared in order to come to your aid should you be arrested—”

  “Arrested?” Willie choked.

  “And we want to offer our assistance in whatever nefarious scheme you have planned.” Eagerness rang in Emma’s voice.

  “Whether it requires scaling palace walls in the dead of night—” Tillie’s eyes sparkled with excitement “—or swimming through canals lit only by moonlight with an army of archers behind you.”

  “You might possibly have the wrong century for that.” Dante smiled.

  “We’ve discussed this a great deal, Mr. Montague.” Geneva cast him a pointed look. “We are prepared for any eventuality.”

  “Such as leaping from rooftop to rooftop to escape the authorities,” Bertie said, apparently caught up in the group enthusiasm.

  At once all eyes were on him.

  “This is an adventure and I intend to be included in it,” he said staunchly. “I know I did not start out as a member of this group but I am now and I want to do my part. Whatever that entails.”

  “I am touched by your offers.” Willie shook her head. “But it’s not nearly as exciting as all that.”

  “Regardless.” Geneva’s determined gaze met Willie’s. “We are willing to
do whatever is necessary to help if you need us.”

  “All of us.” Harriet grinned.

  “That’s very kind but not necessary,” Dante said. “Lady Bascombe and I have a simple meeting of a business nature. I assure you, we are not engaged in anything the least bit illegal.”

  “Of course not.” Jane scoffed. “We never really thought you were.” Even so, Jane, along with everyone else, looked the tiniest bit disappointed.

  “Please, all of you, sit down.” He glanced at Willie and she nodded. “And we’ll explain everything.”

  A few moments later, everyone had settled in a chair or sofa with the exception of Bertie, who lounged in the doorway leading to the balcony and Rosalind who lingered by the door to the corridor.

  “My grandmother left me a valuable Renaissance painting by Galasso Portinari, a Venetian artist.” This was more difficult to admit than she had expected but then she hadn’t told anyone but Poppy the entire story. “Unfortunately, my husband used it to secure a loan and then failed to pay it back before he, well, died. The painting is held by a Venetian nobleman. I have the money to repay the loan and reclaim my painting. Mr. Montague, however, believes the painting belongs to him.”

  “To my family, actually,” Dante said. “My grandfather purchased it along with two others that were meant to be displayed together. It was replaced with a copy some time ago. The paintings hang at Montague House, which has been our family’s London residence for generations. My grandfather had extensive collections of art and antiquities and he arranged for Montague House to become a museum upon his death. I am currently the director. Return of the Portinari in question will establish the museum’s position thus ensuring its future.”

  “I don’t believe we went to Montague House. Did we?” Geneva said quietly to her mother.

  “I thought you had dragged me to every museum in London,” Marian said, “but it doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Which explains so much,” Rosalind said under her breath.

  “In a few hours we are to meet with the gentleman who has the painting. At which time I will repay the loan and receive the painting.” Willie glanced at Dante. “We have agreed not to discuss ownership until we have the Portinari in our possession.”

  “And we have returned to England,” he said.

  As Willie planned to return to England tomorrow, she could easily agree. She would have to tell Jane and Marian before she left but she had intended to do that. Admittedly, she had originally thought she’d leave a note along with their travel documents but that was before they had become friends. One didn’t forsake one’s friends in that manner. Besides, anyone willing to help with something that might not be entirely proper deserved more than a brief note. Now that they knew everything they would certainly understand.

  Dante pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “We should be on our way.”

  “We shall leave you to it, then,” Rosalind said and the group got to their feet. “I’m confident all will go well.” She cast Willie an encouraging smile.

  A determined gleam shone in Marian’s eyes. “I believe we noticed some extremely interesting shops yesterday.”

  They bid their farewells and a few moments later Willie and Dante were once again alone.

  “I’ve never had anyone willing to assist me in nefarious schemes before. That was really quite...” She shook her head, the oddest lump in her throat. “Quite touching. I have friends, Mr. Montague. True friends who would do anything for me.”

  “One can always use a true friend.”

  “I believe you’re right.” Willie had friends and was within hours of reclaiming her painting, the means to her financial stability.

  The sun was shining. The air shimmered with the magic of La Serenissima. And Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe had friends she could count on.

  It was indeed a very special day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  GOODNESS, ONE WOULD THINK Willie had never been in a grand palace before, given it was all she could do to keep from staring like a fool. Conte de Sarafini’s residence on the Grand Canal was the sort of place one read about in books of fairy tales with painted, gilded ceilings and ornate, carved moldings. Certainly they had painted, gilded ceilings in England, and she had been in any number of remarkable residences, but they weren’t lit by the most extraordinary chandeliers Willie had ever seen made of exquisite blown-glass flowers and leaves and fruits. The grand houses and castles in England seemed much more practical when compared to these fanciful edifices that rose from the sea as if by magic.

  As much as Willie was impressed by the grandeur of the building, more important, she was about to get her painting and with it her independence. And no man who was practically a stranger was going to take it from her.

  They arrived by gondola and entered the palazzo into a grand, ornate foyer with scenes of Venetian life painted on the walls, framed by gilded moldings. A wide marble stairway led to the first floor. A distinguished-looking gentleman of indeterminate age greeted them.

  “Welcome to the Palazzo Sarafini, Lady Bascombe,” he said in nearly perfect English, glancing curiously at Dante but too well mannered to question his presence. “I am Giuseppe Montalvado, secretary to the Conte de Sarafini. He is expecting you in the gallery. I’m afraid he has a tight schedule today so your meeting will be brief. If you will come with me.”

  “Thank you.” Willie smiled politely and followed the secretary, Dante a step behind.

  Instead of taking them up the stairs, Signore Montalvado turned to the right and led them through a short corridor.

  “The conte’s family has owned the palazzo next to this one for decades. While the upper floors remain for storage, a few years ago the conte decided to use the ground floor for the display of his father’s—and now his—collection. It is open for public viewing several days a week. This is not one of them.” He opened a set of tall carved doors, waving them ahead of him. When they had entered, he stepped back and closed the doors behind him.

  If she hadn’t been told it was a gallery, Willie would have thought she was in the grandest of ballrooms. Ceilings soared a good two stories above them, every inch painted in a classical style with scantily clad, frolicking figures apparently having a good time of it. Lavish plaster carvings bordered the ceilings and defined the doors and the windows, which were placed high on the wall, no doubt to catch the best light. Marble columns created a sort of arcade around the four sides of the room. A long walnut table with massive carved winged lions—the symbol of Venice—was positioned in the center of the room. Very nearly every inch of wall space was covered with framed paintings. Dante practically quivered with excitement beside her. The man was like a hungry dog who had just spotted a pile of bones.

  “Ah, Lady Bascombe.” A tall, handsome, dark-haired man perhaps a decade older than she appeared from who knew where, coming toward them with a broad welcoming smile. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Welcome to my city and my home. It is a very great pleasure to see you again.”

  Again? “My apologies, Conte.” She stared. “I am dreadfully sorry but have we met?”

  “Once only, in London and far too briefly. I do not expect you to remember.” His gaze remained locked with hers. She resisted the urge to yank her hand free. “But I would never forget beauty such as yours.” He released her hand and straightened. “My condolences on the loss of your husband. He was an engaging, I don’t know, spirit I think. He had—what is the phrase? Gioia di vivere? The French have a saying. Ah yes, joie de vivre. The enjoyment of life.”

  “He certainly had that.” To the exclusion of everything else. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here.

  The conte glanced at Dante and his eyes narrowed. “Please, do not tell me you have married again. It will devastate my heart.”

  “What a delightful thing to say.” She adopted a
teasing manner. “Although I don’t believe you for a moment.” Willie couldn’t recall meeting him before but the look in his eye was certainly familiar. The handsome Italian was one of those men who truly believed he was a gift to all women. And all women were fair game. “Allow me to introduce my—”

  “Her brother,” Dante said, extending his hand. “Allan Quatermain. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Brother? And really—Allan Quatermain?

  “Her brother?” The conte’s expression cleared. “And a thoughtful brother he is to escort you to Venice.”

  “I am nothing if not thoughtful.” Dante shrugged modestly. “And I certainly could not have her coming all this way by herself.”

  “No, indeed. Who knows what misadventures could befall a woman alone on such a journey.” The conte nodded. “Come, Lady Bascombe. The Portinari awaits you.” He escorted them toward a far wall. “My family has always had a great love of art. There are paintings here that were commissioned by some of my ancestors. It is in our blood, I think. Every generation has added to the works you see in this room. My father was an avid collector, scouring the world for works he wished to have. Alas, I was a great disappointment to him in that I did not share his passion. But perhaps some things come with age.” He cast Willie a knowing glance. “Do you not agree, Lady Bascombe?”

  “I suppose so.” She smiled wryly. “I am certainly far wiser now than I was in my youth. At least I hope I am.”

  “And candid, as well.” The conte grinned. “I do like a woman who says what she thinks.”

  “Then you’ll like my sister,” Dante said in an oddly jovial manner. “But then everyone does.”

  Good Lord. How much more absurd did Allan intend to be?

  “As I was saying,” the Italian continued, “it was not until after my father’s death that I began to feel the same desire to surround myself with the most remarkable examples of genius the world has known. I have followed in the path of my father and his father before him with one minor difference. Whereas my father and grandfather pursued art regardless of provenance, I prefer those works that were produced here in my own country, especially those painted during the glory of La Serenissima. Also, I believe, where they did not, that such brilliance should be shared and so we open the doors of the gallery to the people. Three days a week. No more, of course.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Three is enough.”