Behind the Mask

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “I took nothing.”

  “My brother and I could argue that point, dear aunt.”

  Marriage to this man? Not under any circumstances. “No,” she said calmly.

  “I’m not bluffing.”

  Her knees were still weak, and everything around her went gray. But she would not give in. She would not bargain for herself as her father had. “I know.”

  He smiled at her once before walking away. “You have until the end of Carnival to change your mind. Tomorrow. Midnight.”

  On the ride back to the palazzo, Audrey prepared herself for what was to come. Norton would reveal the painting tomorrow night, in front of Venetian nobility and English lords and ladies. It was a wonderful painting, a work of art, but Norton would make it dirty. He would take the beauty and twist it into something ugly. He would fabricate a tale to go along with the portrait, a sordid tale to add to the stories of the Black Widow.

  She was sick of always being whispered about behind her back. Tired of the gossip and the lies. How could she ever have a life of her own?

  Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps she was meant to be the Black Widow forever, an outcast, alone with her fortune until the end of her days. A surge of anger rose within her. And why not? What else could she expect? Not love, certainly.

  As soon as she arrived at the Palazzo Celesti, she sent for Sophia and climbed the stairs to her room. She paced until the maid arrived.

  “I should like to borrow the black dress Miss Penrose wore to one of the earlier masquerades,” she snapped at the surprised Sophia.

  “It was torn,” Sophia said softly, her eyes wide.

  “Fix it,” Audrey said, giving the maid one of the stares she usually reserved for Norton and his like. “I will also need shoes, hose, a mask, and gloves. All black. And a black shawl, preferably lace, as well as a lace covering for my hair. The finer the lace the better. I’m looking for something akin to a spiderweb.”

  “Yes, Lady Graystone,” Sophia said demurely as she left.

  Audrey went to the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, and looked down on a passing gondola. It moved smoothly, unhurried, through the water.

  She was sick to death of trying to convince people that she was not who they thought her to be. If her efforts were a waste of time, she might as well throw herself into the role she’d been assigned. If they were going to dub her the Black Widow, she might as well become the Black Widow.

  Sophia was back moments later, knocking softly before opening the door. “Lady Graystone, Miss Penrose is here and she seems quite excited. She’s asking for you.”

  “In case you hadn’t already noticed,” Audrey said calmly, “Miss Penrose is often quite excited.”

  “No, she is very excited,” Sophia said.

  No doubt this excitement had something to do with Isabel’s recent liaisons. A new surge of anger rose up in Audrey. If this man hurt Isabel he would be sorry; he would rue the day he was born. If he destroyed Isabel’s faith in love, there wouldn’t be a place in this world he could hide.

  Audrey and Sir Harry Graystone’s fortune would make sure of that.

  Audrey took a moment to calm herself before leaving her sanctuary. With a false, halfhearted smile on her face, she descended the stairs to see what had Isabel so agitated.

  11

  The final masquerade ball of Carnival was held at the Palazzo Bottini, the home of Count Bottini, his lovely wife, and several of their nine sons. Count Dante, the man Audrey had come to Venice hoping to meet, always made an appearance, and a conquest, at this ball. It was even rumored that perhaps one of the Bottini sons was Count Dante.

  Audrey didn’t care about the count anymore, and she knew she shouldn’t listen to rumors. Gossip had ruined her life, and there was not a grain of truth in the stories that circulated about her.

  No one would know it to look at her tonight. Sophia had done a wonderful job, repairing Isabel’s glittering black gown. Audrey had left her hair down, again, and this time her wavy gold tresses were covered, in part, by a large, lacy scarf she wore like a mantilla. Sophia had taken Audrey at her word. The shawl and the mantilla were both of fine lace, and when she moved they floated about her like a spider’s web.

  The crush of people and the music that had been joyous when she’d danced with Giovanni annoyed her tonight, grating on her nerves. Laughter and music worked its way inside her head and turned into a horrid headache, and the crowd jostled her until she wanted to scream.

  She made sure no one saw her discomfort. The Black Widow wouldn’t be bothered by such trivialities. Audrey’s face was smooth, indifferent. She did not smile and she did not frown. When she was asked to dance she said no with the same cold indifference, and no man asked twice.

  Occasionally she saw a man staring at her, a masked man who never came near. He wore the traditional black cloak and a bright yellow full-face mask. She gave him, when she caught him staring in her direction, her haughtiest, coldest glare in return.

  Isabel was here tonight, happier than Audrey had ever seen her. The man she danced with, the man she had married, was truly a sight to behold. The sight of the newlyweds caused a pang of regret in Audrey’s heart, regret for what she’d never have, but she didn’t begrudge her friend this happiness. The fact that Isabel had found what she wanted so dearly, true love, was all that kept Audrey from falling apart. Sometimes, there really was a happily ever after.

  Pamela and Zeika were here, somewhere. Audrey had not glimpsed the two proper young ladies, her old school chums and guests here in Venice. She could only guess that they’d been swept away by the fun and abandon of Carnival. On occasion she looked for them, to see if she might spy them dancing or deep in conversation with another costumed reveler. She would not seek them out, though; she was poor company this evening.

  “Dance with me.” The nasal voice was too familiar, and Audrey closed her eyes for a second before turning to give Norton her iciest rejection.

  She never had a chance. He grabbed her arms and pulled her into the midst of the crowd for a lively dance.

  “I adore your costume,” he said with a wide smile. “It suits you.”

  She glanced at his own costume, that of a harlequin, as he spun her clumsily about. “As does yours,” she said calmly. “A clown, a fool, a buffoon. How appropriate.”

  His smile, beneath a brightly colored checkered mask, faded. “Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

  She managed a smile. “Not for a moment. How foolish of you to ask, Norton. Aren’t you afraid you’ll end up like my first husband? In the ground days after the wedding, dead—if you listen to gossip—by my hand.”

  “I never believed those rumors.”

  Audrey laughed, surprising him. “Of course not, since they were completely false and you started them yourself.”

  He didn’t deny it. “There are just a few hours until midnight, dear Audrey. I’ve already spread the word that I’ll be unveiling a shockingly obscene portrait, a study in lewdness and immorality. I do hope your painter chum doesn’t make his living painting portraits of the well-to-do, because I doubt any of them will want him to depict their likeness after I’m finished with him. Once I tell them all about your sordid love affair, I’m quite sure they won’t want him painting their wives and daughters.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. He couldn’t... could he? Could Norton somehow make Giovanni as notorious as he’d made her?

  Audrey caught a flash of familiar red hair out of the corner of her eye as Norton spun her around, and she stopped abruptly.

  “Pamela,” she said, relief in her voice. She was shocked by her first sight of Pamela’s costume, which was anything but proper. There was no time to comment. “You remember Norton, don’t you?”

  The unpleasant and surprised look on Pamela’s face said that she did, indeed, recall him.

  “I’m feeling a bit dizzy from all this activity,” Audrey said with a smile. “You two finish this dance.” She practically sho
ved Pamela into Norton’s arms and then turned to flee, to escape the crush and the noise. She headed for the stairs and climbed. The long stairway was crowded, couples arm in arm, running ladies with their skirts lifted to expose ankles and even calves, the occasional guest who had drunk too much wine and decided to sit on a step and lean against the wall. Audrey swept past them all.

  She had to find that painting. It was in this palazzo, somewhere. Hidden. Waiting for midnight.

  Palazzo Bottini was enormous, probably three times as large as the Palazzo Celesti. She began to search the second floor, room by room. Audrey soon lost count of the lavish chambers she searched, and she had no idea how much time had passed. With every passing minute her panic grew. She could stand scandal. She’d lived with it for years and she could survive anything Norton served up.

  But it wasn’t fair to Giovanni. He had such a talent for faces that surely he supported himself by painting the families that were here tonight, the Venetian nobility that filled this city. She could not allow Norton to sully Giovanni’s reputation.

  She finally made her way to the third floor. This part of the palazzo was only dimly lit, so she carried a candlestick with a single burning candle as she inspected every corner, every possible hiding place. With each room she searched she had less hope of finding the painting before midnight.

  As she emerged from the third room she’d searched on this floor, she saw a figure of a man standing in the passageway—as if he waited for her. He wore a tabarro, and his face was in shadow. This was likely one of the Bottinis, wondering why she was rummaging through his home.

  She took a single step closer, trying to come up with a proper explanation. Nothing came to mind, but it didn’t matter. The candlelight caught a flash of red beneath the hood, a hint of crimson. She held the candle higher to see swirling red glass, which she knew to be the distinctive mask of Count Dante.

  “It’s you,” she said, lowering her candle. A surge of disgust rolled through her. “Well, you’re wasting your time here,” she said coldly. “Go find yourself another woman to seduce. I’m busy.” She turned her back to him and went to the next room. It was another bedchamber. At least this one was unoccupied. She’d opened more than one door tonight only to surprise an amorous couple.

  She looked behind the dresser, beneath the bed, behind the drapes that covered the closed windows. Nothing. She spun around, intent on searching the next room, and the next, only to find that Count Dante stood in the doorway, blocking her exit.

  There had been a time when such boldness would have frightened her. Tonight, she didn’t have time to be afraid. “Get out of my way,” she said coldly, and when he didn’t immediately comply she gave him a little shove with her black-gloved hand. Without protest, he backed into the passageway and allowed her to exit the chamber.

  “Go away,” she said as she walked briskly to the next room. “There are many women here tonight who are panting to meet you in a darkened hallway. I’m not one of them.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see that he followed her, still.

  “Do you know,” she said, her hand on the door to the next room, “I came to Venice to meet you.” Her words were distant, her face blank.

  The count cocked his head and raised one hand in a simple gesture that said “Oh, really?” as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” After all, who was he going to share it with?

  He nodded once.

  “I came to Venice a virgin widow. I’ve been terrified that someone would find out, and that somehow they would take away everything I have. I earned my fortune,” she whispered. “I will not give it up and go running back to my father so he can sell me again. I won’t be sold to the highest bidder to pay his gambling debts, not again. You seemed, for a while, the perfect solution to my problem. A quick tryst, and my virginity wouldn’t be a problem any longer. No one would ever know that my marriage wasn’t consummated.” She sighed, disgusted with the man before her and with her own naiveté. “How stupid of me to think it might be that simple.”

  She pushed into the next room, another bedchamber. “Well, we would make a pair, wouldn’t we?” she whispered. “The notorious Count Dante and the deadly Black Widow.” She looked over her shoulder to see that he remained behind her. “Haven’t you heard of me? You should be frightened, you should fear for your very life.”

  She searched the room as she had a dozen others, and turned to find Dante lounging in the doorway. “Don’t take advice well, do you?” she muttered. “Well, all right. As long as you insist on accompanying me, you might as well look for the painting I seek. It’s a large canvas, I am the subject, and I have to have it in my hands before midnight.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and made no move to assist her.

  “It’s not for my own sake that I need the painting, so you don’t have to worry about lowering yourself to assist an Englishwoman. My nephew plans to use it to damage the career of a Venetian artist, a very fine Venetian artist, I might add.” Her smile faded. “Norton has this way of twisting the facts until they are ugly and sordid and all wrong, and I won’t let him do that to...” She stopped herself before she said Giovanni’s name. “To this artist,” she finished in a calmer tone of voice. “He never would’ve sold the portrait to Norton if he’d known that my obnoxious nephew planned to blackmail me with it. He’s an artist, and he has to make a living, but if he’d known...”

  She took a deep breath she shouldn’t need. “All right, I’ll admit that in part I need to find this for myself. The last thing I need is another scandal.” A nauseating certainty almost overwhelmed her. If she couldn’t find the painting she’d have no choice but to marry Norton. If that was the only way to save Giovanni...

  She went to the door to push Count Dante away again so she could continue her search. Time was slipping quickly by. “Go away,” she said coldly as she shoved, to no avail, against his chest. She didn’t look up at the masked face in the shadows of the hood, but stared at his chest.

  “Don’t you know you’re supposed to be afraid of me? I kill the men who love me.” Her voice shook, as her facade cracked. “Poison or passion, pick your weapon,” she whispered, and behind her mask tears welled.

  “Your costume’s all wrong,” she said shakily. “You should come dressed as a fool, like my nephew Norton, because you are a fool. I imagine you think yourself a great lover, but what you do has nothing to do with love. You don’t seduce woman after woman, leaving them when you’re finished and call that ‘love.’” A wave of unexpected hysteria welled up within her. Hysteria was a luxury she couldn’t afford at the moment, so she forced the surge down. “I know what love is now, and it has nothing to do with... with men like you. You are a pathetic man, Count Dante.”

  The pathetic man reached out and wiped away a tear that had slipped from beneath her mask, his gloved hand gentle against her face. She was so weary... and there was something achingly familiar about the way he raised his hand, the way his gloved fingers touched her.

  “I told you,” she said. “Go away. There are hundreds of willing women here tonight, many of them dreaming of an encounter with the notorious Count Dante. I’m not one of them.” He tried to place a hand on her shoulder, and she backed away. “I said no,” she whispered.

  “Tesoro mio,” he whispered, and the softly accented voice she knew so well sent sparks through her blood.

  “Giovanni.”

  He pushed back his hood as he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. Without the shadows of the hood, she could see the familiar cut of his chin, the lips she had kissed so many times beneath the red glass mask of Count Dante. He removed the mask carefully and set it aside while she watched, speechless.

  “You’re not...” she began, glancing at the mask on a marble table. “Count Dante?” It was a ludicrous notion, she knew as the words left her mouth.

  “No,” he said, unsmiling. “I borrowed the mask from a friend.” />
  “Isabel’s glassmaker,” she whispered. She knew the story behind that mask.

  Giovanni nodded once.

  She nodded her head slowly. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you know?” he whispered. He came to her and took the candle from her hand, placing it on a marble table by the tall bed. “I wanted to see you one last time, to touch you once more. I needed a taste, a touch, and I was too much the coward to come to you as myself. I decided to hide behind another man’s mask.”

  “It was you in the yellow mask downstairs,” she whispered.. “You watched me all night.”

  “Yes. I thought one glance would be enough, I thought I could look at you and make myself hate you... but it was impossible.”

  She shook her head as Giovanni reached out and removed her mask. When he laid his lips on hers she melted, felt as if she were cracking apart inside. “What are you doing?” she whispered shakily, pulling her mouth from his, making herself remember the accusations he’d thrown at her when they’d last parted, the words with which he’d hurt her. She needed to be cold and distant, unaffected by his touch. “Tell me, Valentino, what body part are you thinking with tonight, your head or something lower? What made you follow me?”

  “Perhaps tonight I listen to my heart,” he whispered.

  She wanted to believe him. More than anything on this earth she wanted to believe that Giovanni Valentino’s heart led him to her. She couldn’t.

  “Do you think I would sell that painting to anyone?” Giovanni hovered above her, all around her, stealing her breath and her reason.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said quickly. “You couldn’t possibly know what Norton’s like.”

  Anger and sorrow shadowed his face, his expressive blue-green eyes. “I had only to look at him to know that he had made your life a misery. He did come to my studio. I was adding a few finishing touches to the painting, and when he saw it, he asked my price. I told him that particular painting was not for sale.”