In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  Breathlessly waiting for Butterfly’s first words, attentive, nameless opera devotees passed before his “scope,” as the binoculars slowly panned one side of the theatre, then the other. Ever aware of his surroundings, he observed the expectant expressions on each face until …

  One face changed his world, taking his breath away. Literally, he stopped breathing.

  What the hell?

  There in the magnification of the lenses, so close he could almost touch her, he spied the profile of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Her delicate left hand grasped the gallery edge before her, displaying her gold wedding band’s shine in the darkness. Her short locks gave highlight to the sparkling ruby earrings dangling against her elegant neck. Ah, that neck … surrounded by the gemstone snake. She looked stunning.

  It was her: His Lakmé.

  With a small measure of panic, he instinctively leaned back into his seat away from the edge of the box. If he could see her—she could see him. Damn!

  Torn between panic and delight, reason and logic commanded “Do not go to her!” But his heart prodded otherwise. Her captivating presence—and the pull it had on him—was dangerous for her, him, and this entire mission.

  One hand drew to her luscious lips where her fingers rested as she waited for Butterfly’s pronouncement.

  Cio-Cio-San finally sung: “He’ll come. He’ll come, you’ll see.”

  Yes, he will come to her but first he had business to complete and a face-to-face meeting with Diablo in Prague.

  ***

  A pair of mother of pearl opera glasses switched back and forth from the stunning Elizabeth Darcy … er, Margaret Thornton … to her jackass husband.

  At least you cleaned yourself up. Idiot. What are you going to do when she sees you?

  Concealed by the shadow in the third seat of a lateral theatre box Rick Fitzwilliam sighed. I love you but you messed up, cousin. Going all Rambo was foolish and dangerous, and your wife is going to beat the ever-loving crap out of you.

  ***

  In a fourth box sat another man, and he was damned pleased that he had been able to scalp a ticket on the water taxi on the way to the theatre. For the sixth time during the performance (not that he watched it much or always stayed in his seat) he tugged at the tie knotted at his neck. He hadn’t worn a suit since, well … his military years. And, as for opera, he’d grown accustomed to it over the last six months of employment.

  Italy. He never had any desire to visit Europe and sure as hell would have ever guessed that his security detail would take him here, let alone that his charge would go off half-cocked with her ditsy sister. Well, he needed to lose a few pounds and keeping up with her and out of sight was certainly doing that. Of course, given how much he cared about her, he didn’t feel bad lying. It was done with the best of conscience. Although she had been insistent that she didn’t need him as a bodyguard, he wasn’t about to argue with her and definitely not leave her unprotected. Not after he confronted that girl outside the dance school. What was a few white lies between friends when he said he was headed back up to New Hampshire when, in fact, he stayed on her tail to and from that hunter’s cabin in the mountains.

  He’d let Mrs. D down in July when Pemberley blew, and Mr. D had entrusted her care to him. Nope. He’d not let either of them down again.

  His small military monocular fixed on her. She sure did look pretty tonight. Good for her! She fit right in with all this hoity-toity international set and was maybe gonna start living again.

  Through his optic lens, he zoomed in on the boxes flanking the outlandish gold gilt Royal box and … and …

  Holy Fuck! Is that … is that Mr. D … watching Mrs. D? Holy … mother. You gotta be shittin’ me. I was right; he is alive!

  ***

  Watching his wife cry was heart-wrenching, and Darcy silently cursed himself for causing the grief that seized her heart. Liz’s tears weren’t shed for Cio-Cio-San; they were spent for him and the promised future that died with him four and half weeks ago. He’d make every minute lost up to her in their new home waiting for them. Her idyllic life will be restored and, above all, she will be safe. Oh, his brave, strong wife.

  He sat back in the shadow, ignored the opera, and fixed his gaze on her every move, every tear—and the empty seat beside her. Evident of ownership over the ticket, her program lay upon the red velvet. Who had she come to Venice with? He tightened the fist on his knee. That Wentworth snake? Probably not; the guy didn’t have a cultured bone in his body. And certainly her sister wouldn't attend with her. Perhaps her mother? If only he hadn’t broken comms with the necklace.

  Did you sleep with him? he silently asked her. His heart sank at the thought of it, then began beating a mile a minute as he vacillated between emotions.

  Why did she cut her hair? She never wore that lipstick color before. She’s so skinny. Is she not eating? Why are you here, babe? Of all operas to see, what were you thinking?

  “Signore,” Perini whispered and he lowered the opera glasses, hating to tear his gaze from his wife.

  “You stay and share a glass of Barbaresco with me after the curtain closes. We celebrate.”

  “And what shall we celebrate?” Admittedly he sounded too annoyed for a man such as the underboss, but dammit, the Italian was drawing his attention from Liz.

  “That our business is complete.”

  “Is it? We haven’t discussed anything.”

  “It is taken care of. All that remains is the payment of the two million in crypto and we are settled.”

  Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw Liz abruptly rise from her seat and leave her box … in tears. He gripped the arm rest, fighting the urge to cut and run after her. Just one more city—Just. One. More. City.

  “I beg your pardon, but what exactly have you taken care of?”

  “A friend of our friend has come to see me this morning. At his proposal, we have already taken control of La Muerta Mundial’s business in Italy. The local banks have transferred Morales’s holdings to us and we now control all shipments in and out of the port of Venice. It is done,” he explained waving it off. “You see, Cazzatto Compagnia’s relationship with Diablo is only one we inherited from the Lord of the Jungle, his father whom we had fostered a respected partnership with. And he is dead.”

  By my rifle shot. Darcy shook his head. “I don’t understand … did this friend have a name? Not El Negro?” Of that he was sure!

  “Not one I will share, but someone who made a very compelling case for you, Signore Thornton. I believe he called you a love-sick, foolish jackass for seeking revenge on your own.”

  Stunned, he sat back, feeling the blood drain from his face. Only Rick would say something like that. Dumbfounded, his hand dragged across his mouth in anxious thought. His cousin knew. Had Bennet talked? Oh, shit! Is that why Liz is here!?

  Perini chuckled as the red curtain closed on a dead Butterfly to thunderous applause.

  “So you’ve been toying with me all along?”

  “Si. You are a very lucky man, and he is a faithful friend. Do yourself a favor, mio Amico, do not be angry with him. Go, sleep easy tonight; dark rings shroud your face and your eyes show that you need help. There is no need for you to physically destroy Morales’s product in Venice; it is now ours! The last blow to your enemy requires a good night sleep. This is our gift to you … to Vito for the Padrone’s life service to the society.”

  He glanced back over at the empty box Liz had vacated. Did she know? “Thank you, Signore Perini. I think I need that drink now,” he said morosely.

  “I thought you would.” He snapped his fingers and his bodyguard poured two glasses. “Stay for a while and we will talk of Vito, and then you will meet my niece to congratulate her on her performance as Butterfly.”

  No urge had ever been stronger to run after Liz, but respect and appreciation to the society had to take precedence—otherwise all bets (favors) were off. Yes, he did need a good night sleep. He’d been
running back to Liz, balls to the wall for seven unholy days.

  24

  20/20 Eyesight

  September 7

  Venice

  Traveling in a gondola through narrow waterways, under romantic bridges, and arriving at the station via the Grand Canal felt like an electrified crescendo to their departure from Venice. The activity of the Santa Lucia Train Station bustled all around Liz as she and Jane walked side-by-side down the platform reading the carriage numbers on each car. It all seemed so mysterious, like the history of the train itself. Perhaps it was the fact that her sister had kept this next leg of the trip a tightly kept secret, springing it on her last night following the opera.

  Admittedly, her emotions were all over the place, but still, something stirred deep within her soul about this rail journey—or it just could have been post-breakfast morning sickness. Jane had insisted that she eat, unsure of when they’d get to eat again and insisting that she was too thin for her height. When questioned about the oddness of the statement of not having lunch provided—because, let’s face it, this was the Venice-Simplon Orient Express—not a thing would be spared or detail omitted, her sister blew her off her questions. Anyway ... she still hadn’t told Jane the reason for the vomiting, the tears, the huge boobs, and the loss of appetite or repulsion for coffee and chocolate. Two addictions Liz Bennet Darcy would never ever forsake, even upon pain of death. How does one explain not indulging in either when in Italy?

  Good Lord, declining wine—in Italy no less—was tough to explain especially when all her sister wanted to do was “party, party, party.”

  While the passengers boarded the legendary train, she felt the need to pinch herself. Boy, Charlie had outdone himself in planning to romance Jane. She gave her sister a long, sideways glance; she seriously doubted her sister’s story of his infidelity. Nope. Not buying it.

  “It’s hard to imagine … us … going on the train Agatha Christie immortalized,” she remarked. “We’re a long way from Longbourn.”

  “Was she the director of the movie?”

  “More like the first screenwriter.” Sigh. Maybe one day her sister would pick up a book.

  They made their way through would-be passengers toward the restored century-old famed train awaiting their boarding. Jane was nearly hyperventilating from the sexy-sounding international announcements overhead and the beefy Italian railway workers.

  “Damn, girl, even the blue train is a turn-on. Well, Ciao bellos! Would you get a hold of those hunky Venetian stewards and that hottie chef in the groovy hat,” Jane cooed as they neared. “I never did it on a train! Have you?”

  No, but I did blow Fitzwilliam’s—ahem—mind. “Would you have said that aloud if Charlie was beside you instead of me?” she joked.

  Jane stopped in her tracks, her jubilant expression growing serious. “Of course I would have! He knows that’s just me being me. I may love men, but I’m devoted to Charlie, Lizzy.”

  “Gee, that was quick. Not that you hold grudges, but on the plane over you said you’d like to make his testicles into a Manriki ball bola.”

  Jane giggled and shrugged both shoulders.

  “I think you’re hanging around Caroline too much.”

  “I didn’t mean that, not really. Look, you said it yourself. Love and family are the most important things in life. I know that now,” Jane admitted.

  “Then do you forgive Mom and Dad, too? Or do you still want to try out your new Ninja throwing spikes on them as you also stated on the plane?”

  “Ha. Ha.” She chuckled wryly. “One thing at a time, and I don’t see you forgiving her.”

  “I’m working on it. Right now I’m juggling more emotions than any one person can handle at once. And I’m still trying to forgive my husband for dying.” Or not. She gazed at the train, thinking the last one she had traveled on had cemented their romance. “Jane … There’s something you should know before we leave Venice. I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I keep getting sick because I’m … um, pregnant. I took a test when we arrived at the hotel.”

  “Holy shit! Preggers?” Jane yelled out, turning heads. She grabbed her, bouncing them both up and down. “That is so awesome! You a mom, me an aunt, a little handsome Iceman or Lizzy mini-me!”

  “Stop. Stop. Oh, my God, stop. You’re gonna make me throw up.”

  “Sorry. This is so great; I’m so excited! A baby, Lizzy. A real, friggin’ baby!”

  “Yeah. I know. I can’t believe it myself. We tried and tried and it finally happened.”

  Jane’s smile softened to something so tender, so … unusual for her. She’d only seen it once before when they were in the hotel in Marrakesh when they shared their hearts to each other about the men they’d fallen in love with.

  “I guess now would be a good time for me to come clean, too.”

  “Oh?” I knew it!

  “First, we’re not going to Geneva. The train ends in Prague.”

  “But we have to go to Geneva. I have an appointment at the bank, and I specifically asked you—”

  “And second, not we—you. I’m not going with you on the train.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going alone. Charlie and I didn’t really split up.”

  “I knew it!”

  “And, he didn’t cheat on me … and we didn’t plan this trip for us. We arranged it for you so you could get outta dodge—far away from the Mom bullcrap and Wentworth’s lasso—”

  “But nothing happened between him and me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We just figured this trip would do you good while you figure out your next move. Charlie said that Prague is magical; anything can happen there.” She snorted, pointing to the platform sign above their head that read: “Venezia. S. Lucia.” “You know, Catholics say that Saint Lucy is the Patron Saint of eyesight. I suppose it’s a coinky-dink or one of those irony things you talk about, but maybe you’ll see something that’ll take your breath away on this train trip.”

  “Jane! I can’t go by myself and I have to get to Geneva.”

  “Go to the bank after Prague. It’s not like you can’t afford it or have anything or any place to get back to.” Jane hugged her again. “And you don’t need me to hold your hand. You’re an independent woman, Lizzy. Damn, you’re going to be a mother.”

  A push to her back propelled her forward. Grrr. “As pissed as I am with you, I can easily forgive you given that you got tickets to the opera last night.” She paused, then added, “You’re a hot mess, Jane Bennet, but I love you.”

  “And I love you, sissy. Above all things in this crazy-ass world, I want you to be happy. You can do this. Just promise me one eensy-weensy, teeny-tiny thing.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Whatever decisions you make on this journey, I want you to promise me that you’ll listen to your heart over head and just go with the flow. Oh … and and don’t be mad at me.”

  She took a step away and glanced back over her shoulder at her sister’s wave. “That all depends on what happens. The only magic I’d hope to happen is far from reality. It would take a miracle.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I bet Saint Lucy is known for those, too, and if Charlie says that the road to Prague is magical, well then it is.”

  “At this point I’ll just wish that train travel doesn’t have me hugging the toilet during the whole trip. Where will you go?”

  “Home or maybe kick around here for a few days. I hear Venice has some awesome gay nightclubs.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey, hot gay Venetians who love to dance? It’s the safest place for me.”

  Laughing, she turned and headed toward the end of the length of the train where her designated carriage awaited. Her heart thundered, and she suddenly was gripped by apprehension. The electricity she’d felt before was replaced by fear. Was she turning chicken? What happened to “born to be wild?”—her proud motto acquired last year? Goodnes
s!—she had survived the Pemberley fire weeks ago, and conquered The Tail of the Dragon only three days ago. Surely she could take a luxury adventure without companionship. Four and a half weeks had passed since Fitzwilliam’s death; she had been challenged and pushed beyond limits she never knew she had. Yet she had proven to herself that she not only could, but also wanted to live beyond the limits, fly solo using her own wings—especially now that she had something to live for. The memory of his love and the hoped-for child they’d conceived was the wind on which she soared. From day one of falling under Iceman’s spell, he had encouraged her, instilling in her a confidence and worth she lacked. Each day they’d spent together had been preparation for this time without him. Had he known what he was doing? Had he always known there would come a time when he would leave her?

  With each step taken toward the marine-blue uniformed steward standing two cars up from the locomotive, she considered Fitzwilliam’s words on that dangerous night they had dined at Turandot Palace in Moscow.

  You’re Liz Darcy, but you are no more defined by that name than you are by referring to yourself as Lizzy of Longbourn.

  Her hand rested upon her tummy. But now, I will happily be defined as mother, and for that role I will need to call upon all those attributes he said he loved about me. This trip is just another step to survival in the future, another rite of passage to self-reliance, Liz.

  “Welcome, signora,” the man greeted.

  Softly smiling, she handed him her paperwork and straightened her shoulders. “Mrs. Margaret Thornton.”

  Checking the forged documents to the notepad he held, his face lit up. “Ah! You are staying in one of the finest cabins aboard: The Venice Grand Suite. Very good! I am your cabin steward.”

  Whoa, Jane!

  “You are traveling alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned slightly and made a notation on his notepad. Motioning for her to follow him he said with a refreshed smile. “Very well, follow me and I will take care of everything, Signora Thornton. One is never truly alone on the Orient Express. You will make many new friends on your way to the Czech Republic.”