To Kiss a Count

by Amanda McCabe

  On the landing, she caught a glimpse just up ahead of Lady Riverton’s plumed turban, the tall feathers nodding above everyone’s heads. They were moving towards the foyer.

  Without thinking, Thalia followed those feathers as quickly as she could, dodging elbows and hem-treading shoes. At last she emerged into a quieter space, just in time to see Lady Riverton pause next to a tall, burly man clad in footman’s livery. In a flash, she handed him a folded slip of paper and continued on her way. The note disappeared up the man’s sleeve.

  It happened so very fast that Thalia wondered if she was imagining things. But she knew she was not. After all, she herself had recent experience with surreptitious message-delivering!

  The man glanced back over his shoulder, and Thalia saw that he had a square, dark face, and a thick ridge of a scar down one cheek and over his jaw.

  Then he vanished out of the theatre doors, and Thalia plunged on after Lady Riverton. That woman joined Domenico de Lucca, who handed her a glass of punch, and the two of them laughed as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Thalia spun around, determined to find Marco, to tell him what she had just seen. To ask him what it meant. But she was brought up short by her brother-in-law.

  ‘There you are, Thalia,’ he said, smiling. ‘Calliope was getting worried about you.’

  ‘I just needed some air,’ Thalia answered, forcing herself to breathe slowly, normally. To calm down, and smile. ‘I didn’t mean to worry Cal.’

  ‘Not to worry, I left her chatting with Lady Billingsfield,’ Cameron said. ‘Shall we fetch some lemonade for her?’

  Thalia nodded, taking his offered arm. She would just have to tell Marco about Lady Riverton and the scarred footman later.

  But was it not strange, she mused, how quickly she moved from suspecting Marco, to seeing him as an ally? And how long could that possibly last before the tables turned yet again?

  Marco stayed in the dark niche for several long moments after Thalia departed, taking deep breaths as he fought to bring his rebellious body under control. It would never do to cause a Bath scandal by displaying an iron erection in those damnably fashionable tight breeches!

  Whenever he was near her, whenever he looked into her eyes or so much as touched her hand, all his hard-won control crumbled. Even now, surrounded by the scent of her perfume in the darkness, he could think only of her. Only of the taste of her, the feel of her skin. Of having more of her, ever more.

  Blast it all! He did not need such a distraction now. He was set to meet with one of his contacts in the hills outside the city later that night. Things were moving forwards at last, and he needed all his wits about him to bring everything to a satisfactory conclusion. Then he would be done with England, and on his way back to Florence and his work.

  But he was distracted, and Thalia made matters so much more complicated. He should have known she would work things out, with or without Clio’s help. Thalia was too intelligent, too willing to throw herself into any scheme, with no thought of her own safety.

  He loved that about her, loved her shining spirit, her passion. She would be an asset to any plan, undoubtedly.

  But Marco’s soul would die if anything happened to her, as it had to poor Maria. He would just have to put Thalia off—if that was even humanly possible! But first, he had to meet his contact.

  He peered cautiously into the corridor, now filled with people chattering during the interval. Soon they would all find their way back to their boxes. Hopefully, Thalia was already ensconced in hers, under the watchful eye of her sister, the cautious Lady Westwood.

  If only she could stay there until he left Bath. But he knew that Thalia would never stand for such confinement. His best hope was to finish his work here fast—and leave her to her safe, secure life.

  Yet he knew very well that when he did go, he would leave a part of himself behind, held in Thalia’s soft, white hands.

  He resolutely pushed away such foolishly romantic thoughts, concentrating only on that upcoming meeting. He made his way into the crowd, smiling and bowing at acquaintances as if he had only pleasurable diversion in his mind.

  As he turned the corner, he saw Lady Riverton just ahead—holding on to the arm of Domenico de Lucca.

  Cazzarola! he thought. His two greatest obstacles, together. Had they joined forces, then? Or perhaps Domenico played his own game with the Viscountess. Well, there was only one way to find out.

  ‘Ah, Lady Riverton, bella!’ Marco said happily, striding forwards to catch up her hand and press a gallant kiss to her wrist. ‘How I have missed you. But I see my friend has supplanted me already, alas.’

  Lady Riverton laughed, tapping his arm with her closed fan. ‘You were very naughty, Count di Fabrizzi, to go running off without a word to your friends! I needed an escort, of course, and Signor de Lucca has been so charming.’

  Marco peered at Domenico over the lady’s plumed turban. Domenico gave an innocent shrug, but Marco was not fooled.

  ‘I cannot bear to see such a lovely lady lonely, even for a moment,’ Domenico said.

  ‘I hope you two shall not fight a duel!’ Lady Riverton trilled. ‘I assure you there is no need. There is room for both of you to sit in my box.’

  ‘Alas, my lady, I must decline for this evening,’ Marco said, pressing his hand to his heart. ‘But I hope to see you again very soon. Both of you.’

  ‘Come to tea tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘I am having a sort of salon, with visitors I’m sure you would enjoy.’

  Marco bowed once more over her hand, and she turned away with Domenico. Buono, Marco thought with a soupçon of satisfaction. Lady Riverton would surely keep him distracted for the rest of the evening.

  And Marco could take care of his own business, unseen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thalia raised her mask to her eyes, peering at herself in the mirror. Through the narrow perspective of the gilded leather eyeholes, the world appeared quite different. Rather than the vast myriad of colours and sensations she had always thrived on, the dizzying surfeit of possibilities, there was only one.

  Help Marco find out where Lady Riverton had hidden the silver altar set. Who the scarred man in the livery was.

  She lowered the mask, studying her costume. She didn’t look like a Fate or a Fury at all tonight, not like someone to be wary of in the least. Her shepherdess costume was of pale pink brocade and silver tissue, the puffed sleeves tied with silver satin ribbons. More ribbon caught up the hem in bunches, revealing glimpses of her silver shoes and pink stockings.

  Her hair was concealed under a powdered wig and a large straw hat, trimmed with yet more ribbon. With the mask, and a quantity of rouge and pearl powder, she was hardly recognisable.

  Yes—she looked like a completely unthreatening bonbon. All the better to trail Lady Riverton and find out if she had a secret rendezvous with the alleged footman.

  ‘Thalia, dear, are you ready?’ Calliope called from the corridor. ‘The carriage is waiting.’

  ‘Just a moment!’ Thalia answered, tying the satin strings of her mask. She reached for her crook with its fluttering ribbons, and the little sheep toy on wheels borrowed from Psyche’s nursery. She was armed and ready.

  Under Calliope’s direction, the ballroom at the Queen’s Head Inn had been transformed from a large, rectangular, rather bare space into an evening in Venice. Hangings of gold and midnight blue draped from the beamed ceiling, shimmering like twilight. Musicians played on a dais at one end of the room, a long swath of parquet floor cleared before them for dancing. On either side were small card tables draped in more blue and gold, and chairs set in groups for a quiet coze.

  At the other end of the room was a large painting of the Rialto Bridge at night, making the whole space feel removed from the rest of Bath. Lifted out of England altogether, and set down whole in the magic of Italy.

  ‘Oh, Cal,’ Thalia whispered, staring around her. ‘It is perfect.’

  Calliope, dressed as Athena in whi
te silk draperies and a gilded helmet and shield, shook her head. ‘I do wish I could have procured some orange and lemon trees! Or perhaps an olive or two.’

  ‘I told you, my love, we are meant to be in the city,’ Cameron said, taking her hand. He, too, wore a white chiton and gold sandals, a wreath of gold wheat sheaves on his dark head. Together, they looked perfectly godlike, as if they had just descended from Olympus to grace the world with their beauty and wisdom. ‘No one expects an orchard in St Mark’s Square. Your decorations are perfect.’

  Calliope didn’t seem convinced. Her gaze lingered critically on the draperies. ‘Perhaps not. But I must make sure the refreshments are correct. Oh, if only we had the room in our own house for this party!’

  The two of them hurried away, leaving Thalia near the door. It was very early in the evening; no guests had yet arrived, and the musicians were just tuning up for the dancing. A few servants scurried about, setting up glasses of wine and trays of those refreshments Calliope was worried about.

  Thalia always liked this part of any evening. There was so very much to look forward to—so many possibilities.

  Pulling her little sheep behind her, she strolled around the edge of the room, adjusting the draperies, arranging some glasses, examining the painting of the Rialto at night. The deep violet sky shimmered above the white stone, casting a Venetian spell of mystery and decadence over the evening. She remembered Italy, the vast beauty of it, the way the ancient buildings seemed to call out to her, tempting her to be a part of it all. To lose herself in its beauty for ever.

  Much like an Italian person she knew.

  ‘Thalia!’ she heard Calliope call. ‘Come, my dear, the guests are arriving.’ And there was no more time for musing on the mysteries of Italy.

  After nearly an hour of greeting people, directing them to the refreshments and to likely dance partners and of calming Calliope, Thalia was at last able to excuse herself from receiving the trailing end of the guests and to make her way into the crowd. It hardly seemed possible this was the same quiet, empty space as when they had arrived! A lively set wove its way around the dance floor, a strange mix of Greek gods, medieval queens, robed sorcerers, and bright-coloured gypsies joining hands and skipping along the line.

  The card tables, too, were crowded, several Henry VIIIs and Catherine de Medicis placing their wagers. And Calliope surely had no need to worry about the refreshments, for everyone seemed to be snabbling them up with alacrity!

  But she saw no Cleopatra. And no one who could possibly be Marco, either. Surely no matter what disguise he chose, she would know him.

  She tucked her sheep under her arm, smiling at greetings and compliments, waving at the dancers. She glimpsed Calliope at the other end of the room, consulting with two of the footmen. Cal would surely be distracted for the rest of the evening—she loved nothing more than to co-ordinate events! Be the general of her own social army.

  It was a pity Cameron showed no inclination for politics, Thalia mused, for Cal would see him Prime Minister in no time. But, like all of them, Cameron and Calliope were only interested in history.

  ‘Speaking of ancient history…’ Thalia murmured, watching the doors as Cleopatra made her entrance. Lady Riverton wore a turquoise-and-gold gauze gown, held in place by a wide jewelled collar and a gold sash, gold snake bracelets around her bare arms and turquoise sandals on her feet. It was a good thing Thalia had got the inside story from the modiste, for the Viscountess was quite concealed by a black wig and gold mask.

  She held on to the arm of a tall, muscular pharaoh, his impressive chest and arms barely concealed by folds of white gauze. He, too, wore a black wig, along with an elaborate gold headdress and mask. But Thalia saw the edge of a thick scar on his unsmiling face.

  All that was missing was a barge.

  She made her way toward the door, cursing her decision to wear such a puffy costume as her ribbons got caught on a knight’s pasteboard sword. What had she been thinking? A shepherdess could not be surreptitious! She saw Cleopatra and her pharaoh take glasses of wine from a footman’s tray, but they did not seem to be conversing. Indeed, they were each staring off in different directions, as if completely distracted.

  So occupied was Thalia in studying Lady Riverton’s curious behaviour that she didn’t notice a hand reaching out to clasp her wrist. Before she could even cry out, she was reeled behind a midnight-blue drapery and into a pair of strong, velvet-clad arms.

  ‘Wh…?’ she gasped, her words broken off by lips pressed enticingly to hers.

  Lips she knew well now. Their taste, their feel—the way they fit together so very, very well.

  ‘Marco,’ she whispered, tilting back her head to smile up at him. He was a Renaissance prince, her own Romeo in a black-and-white velvet doublet, his face half-concealed by a black leather mask. His hair fell over his brow in inky waves. His smile in the shadows was very white. ‘You’re here!’

  ‘Of course I am here. Along with everyone else in Bath.’

  Thalia laughed. ‘Calliope does enjoy playing hostess. But how did you come in without me seeing you?’

  ‘Ah, so you were watching for me?’ he teased. ‘You could not wait to see me, yes?’

  ‘I was merely helping my sister by observing all the guests.’

  ‘I slipped up the back staircase,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Thalia whispered. ‘You have secret observations of your own to make.’

  ‘I wanted to observe one thing in particular.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘A beautiful pink shepherdess.’ And he kissed her again, pulling her even closer to the arc of his body.

  Her sheep and crook fell to the floor, and she twined her arms around his neck. As always, when she was near him, when she was in his arms, she didn’t hear the rest of the world. Didn’t want to hear the world. Despite everything, despite all the puzzles swirling around them, around him, she felt safe in his embrace.

  She felt entirely like herself, in a way she couldn’t be anywhere else.

  But a burst of raucous laughter on the other side of the curtain reminded her that, for good or ill, they were always in the world.

  Thalia drew away, pressing her finger to his lips as he moved to follow. ‘I should go and see if my sister needs my help,’ she murmured.

  ‘I need help, cara,’ he whispered roughly. He pressed a kiss to her earlobe. ‘Stay with me, just for a moment.’

  Thalia laughed. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Then dance with me. Remember Santa Lucia? The masked ball in the piazza? How we danced all night.’

  ‘Of course I remember. I think about it all the time,’ she said. ‘I wish…’

  ‘Wish what, Thalia?’

  ‘I wish I could go back there,’ she said, all in a rush. ‘Back to Italy. I miss the sun, I miss…’ She kissed him quickly. ‘Yes, I will dance the next set with you.’

  Before he could reach for her again, tempt her into staying, she ducked out from behind the curtain. She scooped up her crook and hurried away, in her dazed state completely forgetting to tell him about the scarred footman.

  After pausing before a mirror to straighten her wig and mask, she found Calliope. Her sister seemed content for the moment, playing a hand of cards with Cameron and the Grimsbys, and the ball was well underway.

  As Thalia left Calliope’s table, she caught a glimpse of turquoise gauze at the back of the room. Lady Riverton—it had to be, no one else wore such a colour tonight. Thalia hurried after her, finding herself in a dimly lit stairwell.

  She heard footsteps clicking away just below, and she rushed to follow, holding her skirts close to muffle their rustle. At the foot of the stairs, a doorway opened to a dark courtyard, piled high with coal and barrels of kitchen supplies. The odour of fish and rotting produce was strong through the half-closed door, but Thalia ignored it, hiding behind one of the barrels just inside the entrance.

  She heard the fierce exchange of voices outside. One of them
was assuredly Lady Riverton; Thalia had heard her use such a tone in Santa Lucia, when she was unhappy with poor Mr Frobisher. The other voice was low and gravelly, masculine, with a heavy Northern accent.

  Thalia could only hear words here and there, and she cautiously edged closer.

  ‘…meet your friends yet?’ Lady Riverton said. ‘We haven’t much time!’

  ‘Patience will…’ the man said, his tone full of mocking laughter. ‘Folk like this can’t be rushed.’

  ‘They were quick enough to take my money! When will it be delivered?’

  ‘I told you…’

  ‘No, I told you! I have waited long enough. The cave is in readiness for the transfer. I will wait another week and that is all. If you and your so-called friends want the rest of your coin, you will do as I say.’

  ‘Here, now.’ The mockery fell away, replaced by the unmistakable tang of threat. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of cheating us, eh? Because that wouldn’t be very clever.’

  ‘Only if you cheat me first. This shipment is very important, and I will do anything to protect it.’ Lady Riverton’s voice lowered, and Thalia leaned forwards to hear. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Aye, you’ve proved that well enough, I’d say.’

  There was a rustle of gauzy cloth, and the unmistakable sound of breathy kisses. Thalia wrinkled her nose, drawing back into her hiding place. She definitely did not need to see such details of Cleopatra and her burly pharaoh!

  But the shipment and the caves—now that was the sort of information she needed. The ‘shipment’ was surely the silver, or some equally rare piece of ancient art that was soon destined to be lost for ever. The cave—well, that could be anywhere, of course. Bath was ringed with hills filled with such hidey-holes.

  She had to tell Marco. He would know what to do next.

  A cry of pleasure from outside the door made Thalia look up sharply. Yes, she had to tell Marco, but not here. Not at a public ball. Every time she tried to speak to him quietly at a party, they always seemed to end up much like Lady Riverton and the pharaoh. It was only a matter of time until they were caught.