Lessons of Desire

by Madeline Hunter

  He doubly regretted escaping into his work. He did not like to think of her in this chamber alone, scrutinizing the little she knew and coming to her sad conclusions.

  She looked at him as if she expected an argument. As if she hoped for one.

  “Phaedra, even if it was as you say, it is unbelievable that any of this had to do with your mother’s death.”

  “It was the cause of her decline, surely, but perhaps—there were some signs she consumed something. The physician decided there were not enough indications to pursue it, but…”

  “Is it not more likely that she passed naturally? She does not sound to me like a woman to despair over a love affair.”

  She rose up on her knees, trembling with emotion. Her eyes blazed and her teeth clenched. “You do not understand. That man seduced her into relinquishing everything. Not only my father but herself. And me. That is why she put me out of her house. So I would not see how weak he made her.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “I know. She forsook her own beliefs with this man and she did not want me to see it. None of her friends know his name either. I asked those in her closest circle and not one person could point me to this lover even though most everyone had guessed a lover existed. Even Matthias. Even Mrs. Whitmarsh.”

  Her hand closed on the cameo and made a tight fist. She all but shook it in his face. “She knew she had ceded too much to him. She did not want the world to see that Artemis Blair had allowed some man to make her his serf. To then learn it had all been a fraud so that he could use her to enrich himself—of course that would lead to despair.”

  Fury poured out of her. It was not directed at the unknown lover, he realized. Phaedra’s anger was aimed at the mother who had preached a religion and converted a child, but who had then fallen from grace herself.

  Did her mother’s failure make those beliefs nothing better than utopian speculations that could not survive reality? If a night of reflection had led her to the brink of thinking so, it might only take—

  His hard calculation caught him up short. Who was this man who so quickly assessed his advantage? It was as if someone or something had breathed life into a dormant part of him since he met Phaedra.

  He had been so sure there was none of the old man in him. Unlike his brothers, he had been spared both of his parents’ worst legacies. Only now he suspected that he might have gotten the worst of his father’s blood. In the past he had never wanted anything badly enough to cause that blood to flow, that was all.

  She betrayed nothing, darling. She merely met a man who reminded her that she was a woman. There is no sin in that and no betrayal of self. It is the most normal thing in the world.

  He almost said it. If he could convince Phaedra that her mother’s compromise was normal and inevitable it would be easier to convince Phaedra to compromise as well. And there were many compromises he wanted from her.

  Too many.

  He took the cameo out of her hand. He placed it on a table next to the bed, then pulled her down to him. They had spent the night apart in their separate worlds. Soon most of their lives would probably be spent the same way. For now he wanted to hold on to her in the place they had created together.

  He embraced her, offering whatever comfort he could. She slowly calmed. Her anger flowed away, leaving an emotion-laden peace.

  “Do not be hard on her, Phaedra. She chose a difficult path in life. You know that in ways no one else does. Maybe you are right and she stumbled toward the end. If she could not forgive herself that is a tragedy, but her daughter can be more generous.”

  She stilled so thoroughly that he could not feel her breathe. Then she pressed a kiss to his chest. She laid her face against his shoulder and molded her body alongside his.

  “You can be very wise sometimes, Elliot. Perhaps you are right. If my mother was tempted to forsake all for a man, I should be more understanding. It is not as if I have been immune myself.”

  Gentile Sansoni called that afternoon. He sent up his card as if this were a social visit.

  They received him in the salon. Phaedra thought he appeared less dangerous than the last time she had seen him.

  Perhaps it was the setting that made the difference. This light and airy space bore no resemblance to that dark, cavernous room where he had interrogated her. His dark garments and hair and eyes formed a very small stain on the pales hues and gold of this chamber.

  Elliot donned all of his English reserve for the meeting. He stood next to her chair tall and proud. He exuded aristocratic assumptions. Of the three of them, only Elliot did not look out of place.

  To her surprise, Sansoni bowed in greeting. Then he shocked her further. He smiled.

  “Felicitations on your marriage, signora. I learned that you were back in Naples with Lord Elliot, and I wanted to pay my respects before you left our kingdom.”

  “Elliot,” she said. “He is speaking English surprisingly well for a man ignorant of our language.”

  “So he is.”

  Sansoni shrugged. “Ignorance can be convenient in many situations.”

  “I expect so,” Elliot said. “Your good wishes are welcome, and your timing fortuitous. We embark for home tomorrow. But then you know that.”

  Sansoni angled his head in half-acknowledgment. “One hears things. I was not sure, however.”

  “Now you are.”

  “Si. Grazie.” He fished in his black frock coat and retrieved some parchment. “An army officer with whom I am friendly happened to be in Positano recently. A friend had called him there regarding an incident. Something to do with a tower and a riot and a heretic.”

  “How colorful,” Elliot said.

  “Yes, we are a most colorful people. My friend returned with these documents. The priest in Positano was very concerned that you did not have them.”

  Phaedra eyed the parchments that she had assumed she could forget. She scrutinized Sansoni’s face to determine if he intended to get odious again.

  Elliot held out his hand for the parchments. “Thank you. We will set all in order once we arrive in England. To do so here would require us to remain in Naples. For months, I expect.”

  Sansoni looked from the documents to Elliot then back again. “Months? You need only sign—”

  “It will be more complicated. If we hope to be on that ship tomorrow, we would do better to let English churchmen take their time.”

  Sansoni was not a man to hand over an advantage, and he did so now with reluctance. Once Elliot had relieved him of the parchments the odious little man began to take his leave.

  “Signore Sansoni, I wonder if I might have some private words with you,” Phaedra said. “I expected Lord Elliot to have to translate for us as best he could, but since you have miraculously learned English that will not be necessary. I promise the conversation will be a brief one.”

  Sansoni’s eyebrows rose in disapproval at her boldness, but he looked to Elliot for his agreement. Elliot did not display any displeasure. She guessed he would save that for later.

  Elliot nodded and walked to the salon door. She accompanied him. “You may stay, of course,” she whispered. “However, I do not think he is a danger.”

  “You have requested private words with him, Phaedra. I will leave you to have them.”

  She faced Sansoni after Elliot was gone. The man clasped his hands behind his back and subjected her to his most critical stare.

  “I assume that your husband has instructed you to apologize for all the trouble that you caused both here and in Positano.”

  “Lord Elliot does not instruct me in that way. Aside from Marsilio’s wound, I have nothing to apologize for either. I want to ask you about something else entirely.” She removed the cameo from her pocket and set it on a table near the windows.

  Sansoni’s eyebrows merged. He paced to the table and peered down at the cameo. “Ah, I understand your desire for privacy now. You do not want your husband to know you were duped into buying this forgery. I r
egret that I cannot help you on this matter. Nor have you given me any reason to spare you from Lord Elliot’s wrath when he learns of your carelessness.”

  “You knew at once it was a forgery? How?”

  “I have seen it before. Or rather, others like it. I know where they are made and how they are sold. I know the dealers who sell them as ancient to foreign dealers and to ignorant visitors like yourself. It has been going on for years.”

  “If you know so much, why don’t you stop it?”

  “The artisan who is at the heart of it has interesting information to offer me in trade for his freedom. It is worth my while to leave him and his network alone. Compared to protecting our monarch, what do I care if some foreigners buy false goods?”

  “What is this man’s name?”

  He laughed. “Signora, I said he was useful to me. If it is known he traffics in such things he will have to leave the kingdom and he will no longer be useful.”

  She picked up the cameo and looked at it. “Are there many of them?”

  “You will not see the same cameo on the gowns of half of London’s ladies. If there are too many, it would be suspicious, no? That is the normal downfall of such men. This one and his friends are smarter. A few cameos, a few pots—” He shrugged. “It is enough, but not too much. You understand?”

  She understood. It would not do for forgers to let dozens of fakes into the art market too quickly. “Are they being made here in Naples?”

  “I could not permit that. Our king is a lover of such things and would not like to know such activities occur under his nose.”

  In other words, the king did not know such activities occurred at all. Sansoni allowed the crimes to continue because it gave him a valuable informant. Or because he was being bribed.

  “If they are not here, where are they?”

  He sighed deeply. “Signora, you are too curious. Pretend it is real. No one in England will know.”

  “I am most curious because I am most vexed. I could confess my error to Lord Elliot, I suppose. He could ask his friends at the British legation to look into it. They could ask their friends at court about it. They could ask your superior—”

  “Basta. Capisco,” he snarled. “The artisans are scattered in remote hill towns to the south. I do not seek them for my reasons, as I said. Give me the dealer’s name and I will tell him to return your money.”

  “No. I think that I will keep it. I have actually grown very fond of it.”

  He rolled his eyes in exasperation. His hand flicked in a gesture that she guessed was very rude. “You are a madwoman. I will be at the ship to make sure you leave on it, and I will say a prayer of thanks when you do.” He jerked a bow, and strode from the chamber.

  Elliot strolled back in. “I see that you made him regret his visit. He was mumbling darkly the whole way out to the Chiaia.”

  “It appears that the interrogator does not care for being interrogated.”

  Elliot noticed the cameo in her hand. “You counted on him coming so you could ask him about that, didn’t you? That was why you wrote to Marsilio.”

  “I expected Sansoni might know a thing or two about these forgeries. He seems to know everything else.”

  “Did you learn what you wanted?”

  “He did not hand me the answers on a plate. He did not name names, either. I have learned all that I can here in Italy, and it is not enough.” She tucked the cameo into her pocket. “And you, Elliot. Did you learn what you wanted yesterday when you met with Mr. Merriweather?”

  His pause before responding acknowledged that they both had avoided speaking about that meeting. She hoped it was because he did not want to ruin their last days in Italy with any references to memoirs.

  “I learned things I did not know about. I learned that you had tried to see him before the unfortunate incident with Marsilio.”

  He had deflected her real question. She feared that meant he had not learned what he wanted at all.

  She had counted on him bringing Merriweather back to the villa so they could be done with that. Since he had not, and since he now avoided the topic, it appeared Merriweather had supported her father’s description of that long-ago dinner.

  Her disappointment immobilized her. She had suspected as much yesterday but she had still hoped. Last night, in the depths of her anger and dark honesty, she had known how it would be, however. Maybe Elliot’s total retreat into his work was a way of avoiding the entire subject and its implications.

  “Why did you want to see Merriweather, Phaedra?”

  “For the same reason you did, Elliot.”

  “So I was right. You did intend to annotate and add names.”

  “No. I hoped to learn that passage was false. I sought an excuse to remove it, to spare Alexia. She is one of my dearest friends and more loyal than any other that I have known. If I could obtain the proof that my father was in error, then Alexia would not have to live with the gossip and the scandal.”

  He did not move. She wished he would. She wished he would embrace her in all the sweetness she had felt this morning. And if he asked her this one favor, she would—what?

  She wished she had never seen those memoirs. She wished at least that her father had not extracted promises from her. She even half-wished, God help her, that she had not received the summons to his deathbed.

  Every word is true. There is no slander or libel in it. Promise you will change nothing. She had hoped he had been wrong and that one part might not be true. Then it could be excised from her promise and from the text itself.

  It appeared not.

  She could not bear the silence while Elliot stood there, gazing at nothing in particular, so close but also oddly distant. He looked so right here today. His demeanor and presence were more appropriate to this grand salon than the luxurious furnishings were.

  “You are not going to ask it of me, are you?”

  Her question did not surprise him at all. He knew what she meant. It was in the air, after all.

  “If I do you will think that every kiss I gave you, and every touch, was a calculated step toward this moment.”

  His image blurred. Her eyes stung. “I might not. I might be glad to have an excuse not to hurt Alexia. I might weigh it all and decide it is not so significant. I might—”

  He pulled her into his arms and silenced her with a gentle kiss. “You might do all those things, but you will never believe any of it. Hush now. Leave all this for another day. The voyage home is a long one and our duties do not claim us yet.”

  She let his kisses seduce her away from her sadness. She rested her head on his shoulder much as she had in the morning. Being supported like this, enclosed by his warmth and strength, was the best part of this affair. She felt no danger or worry in such moments, but only the most soothing peace.

  Even this morning his embrace had salved the pain and calmed the confusion. The night had left her torn apart, feeling a fool for becoming her mother’s acolyte, for sacrificing so much for empty beliefs. He could have pressed his advantage then in so many ways. Instead he had helped collect the pieces and put them back together.

  He nuzzled her hair and placed a kiss on her crown. “What was the other reason you called on Merriweather? You said there was another besides the memoirs.”

  “I had hoped he could introduce me to some people in the English community here.”

  “He should have received you. He should not have left you to fend for yourself.”

  “As it turned out the inconvenience was a small one.”

  She kissed his cheek to encourage him to leave all this for another day too. She was too happy now to talk about any of it. He would be reminded soon enough why the daughter of Artemis Blair was not received and always fended for herself.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  London in September was as empty as Naples in July. It was not a month when polite society crowded the shops on Oxford Street or filled the parks during the fashionable hour.

&nb
sp; Easterbrook’s house had not been closed, however. Elliot found it fully staffed when he arrived from Southampton. The servants explained that his aunt Henrietta and cousin Caroline had retreated to Easterbrook’s country estate of Aylesbury, but that the marquess remained here in the city.

  Elliot assumed that his brother was reveling in his isolation after having rid himself of the females. It might be days before he even saw Christian.

  He reaccustomed himself to the house and to the services of a valet who anticipated every need. He had been gone long enough for his old life to feel unreal and foreign. He tried to find contentment within the spaces and routines known since childhood.

  Instead his thoughts dwelled on Phaedra. There had been joy at the beginning of their voyage, but a mood akin to desperation at the end. The last week his desire had been hard and drenched with a fury. He could not get enough of her and he had thrown discretion to the winds as a result.

  Despite their fevered pleasure, nothing had been settled. They never again spoke of Richard Drury’s memoirs after that afternoon in Naples. Nor had he received any promises from her about the passion itself. No declarations of fidelity. No agreement to continue as lovers. Not even suggestions that they be friends.

  He had left her alone in her solitary independence in her small, odd house near Aldgate. He had ridden off in the carriage not even certain that she wanted him to return.

  He poured some brandy and carried it up to his apartment. He unpacked his papers and sat down at his desk in his sitting room.

  He had begun closing the door of his mind to life’s vagaries when a servant arrived, pushing it open again.

  “The marquess requests that you join him for dinner this evening, sir.”

  He was tempted to decline. The conversation that his brother sought could not be avoided forever, but he had counted on Christian’s own distractions, whatever they may be, to delay it.

  “Tell him that I will be there.”

  “You said that you were coming down to dinner.”