Your Scandalous Ways

by Loretta Chase

  The maid went out.

  “Maybe someone believed you’d started writing your memoirs,” he said.

  “That makes no sense,” she said. She swung away from the doorway and moved to the mangled bed. “I’ve been at this for less than five years. My affairs are not secret. Far from it. I am not only a magnificent whore but a flamboyant one. No back doors or back stairs for me. Anyone who wants to know about my lovers might read about them in the newspapers. In fifteen or twenty years the participants might find the revelations embarrassing. At present, however, they are more likely to consider a liaison with Francesca Bonnard a badge of honor. You see, though you do not appreciate me properly, others do.”

  “I appreciate you,” he said. “I thought I proved that a very short time ago. In the Campanile. Or have you forgotten already?”

  The green eyes flashed up at him. “Cordier, you are an utter blockhead.”

  “I know,” he said. “I should not have let you run away.”

  A shadow came into her eyes, then, and he thought he saw the girl again, the girl who could believe, who could trust. But she vanished in the next instant. “I did not run away,” she said. “I was done with you. I left.”

  “I’m not done,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  How do I make you care? he wanted to ask.

  “I do,” he said. “I’m worried about you. A few days ago, someone tried to kill you.”

  “To rob me,” she said.

  “A few days ago you were assaulted,” he said patiently. “Last night, your house was ransacked.”

  “Searched,” she said. “So far, all that seems to be missing is some correspondence.” She smiled thinly. “And very amusing reading it will prove to be, to whomever has it.”

  “Love letters?” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “They’re from my husband.”

  The bedroom door flew open and Magny stalked in, followed closely by a protesting Thérèse.

  “Madame, I have told him you are engaged,” Thérèse said.

  “Allez-vous en,” Magny told the maid.

  She did not so much as look at him.

  “Do proceed, Thérèse,” said madame. “I know you wish to put everything in order.”

  Nose aloft, Thérèse walked past monsieur into the dressing room.

  “Your servants are abominably insolent,” Magny said.

  “My servants are loyal,” Bonnard said.

  “If you did not want to see me, why the devil did you send for me?” he said, throwing a glare in James’s direction.

  “I did want to see you,” she said. “I do not want you ordering my servants about. That is the trouble. That is always the trouble. I should have remembered. What the devil was I thinking of, to seek your advice?”

  “What were you thinking, indeed? Here is Monsieur Cordier to—” Magny made a dismissive gesture. “To do whatever it is he’s here to do.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do,” James said. “For some mad reason, a lot of nuns made off with her husband’s not-love letters.”

  “Letters?” Magny said. “But that—” He broke off, walked to the door of the dressing room, and glared at the maid. She turned her back to him and went on folding garments.

  He came away from the door. “I have seen enough, Francesca. You’re moving out of this place and coming to live with me.”

  “We tried that,” she said. “Twice. It was disastrous both times.”

  “What else could it be?” said James.

  Magny glowered at him.

  James ignored it. “Come live with me, then.”

  Magny stared at him. So did she.

  And it seemed for an instant, as though they wore exactly the same expression. Then the ghost came into her eyes. “Why?” she said.

  “Because I’m worried about you,” James said. “And because it’s a much shorter way to go—merely across the canal. And because…” He paused. “Because I’m infatuated.”

  “I am going to be sick,” Magny said. He threw up his hands and left the room.

  Bonnard watched him go. “He isn’t romantic,” she said.

  “Neither am I,” James said. “If I could devise a less sickening reason, you may be sure I’d use it. But the fact is, I want to knock him down.”

  “A great many people feel that way,” she said. “Including me.”

  “In my case, it seems to be jealousy,” he said.

  She turned away and moved to the dressing table. She righted a toppled jar. “You do understand that jealousy is absurd in my case? I don’t belong to any man. That’s the trouble with living with a man. When a woman takes up residence under his roof, he assumes she’s one of his possessions. I’m nobody’s possession.”

  “Very well,” he said. “We can discuss terms, if you wish.”

  “There are no terms,” she said. “I am not coming to live with you.”

  “Then I’m moving in here,” he said.

  She paused in her fussing over the bottles and jars—the fussing that rightly was Thérèse’s province—and turned. She set her hands on the dressing table and braced herself on her arms. She smiled. “No, you’re not.”

  “Madame.”

  Thérèse emerged from the dressing room, a velvet box in her hand. “The emeralds are gone,” she said.

  Chapter 11

  A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,

  And beauty, all concentrating like rays

  Into one focus, kindled from above;

  Such kisses as belong to early days,

  Where heart, and soul, and sense,

  in concert move,

  And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze,

  Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss’s strength,

  I think, it must be reckon’d by its length.

  Lord Byron

  Don Juan, Canto the First

  James was putting puzzle pieces together. He didn’t like the looks of any of them.

  Letters had been stolen.

  And emeralds.

  The robbers had taken the wrong letters, apparently. Bonnard would not be so amused—and he was sure she hadn’t feigned that—if they’d taken the right ones. But what was in the wrong ones, to amuse her so?

  Or was she simply amused at the error?

  He wasn’t.

  Someone who did not read very well in the first place and who understood very little English in the second, might easily make the mistake.

  That someone needn’t be Marta Fazi. Who else, though, besides Marta, was demented enough to take emeralds and leave diamonds, rubies, pearls, and sapphires behind?

  The logical conclusion was, someone had sent Marta to retrieve the letters. The someone had overestimated her intelligence and underestimated Bonnard’s.

  Her former husband?

  They play a game, Giulietta had said of Bonnard and her former spouse, and to kill her is to admit he loses.

  The trouble was, bringing crazy Marta Fazi into the business indicated a willingness to kill. James tried to remember if he’d heard of any connection between Fazi and Elphick. Nothing came to mind.

  Was he completely wrong? Was there something he ought to see that he couldn’t? If so, it was not surprising. He was stumbling in the dark because he didn’t understand the game Bonnard played with Elphick. And he’d keep on stumbling until he put an end to the game she played with James Cordier.

  He turned to Thérèse and gave orders in the French he’d perfected decades ago, the impeccable accents that had spared him decapitation on more than one occasion.

  “Madame requires a bath,” he said. “While that is in preparation, have servants repair her bed. While they do this, you will restore order to the dressing room and carry out the inventory madame ordered. She will expect you to list every missing item, no matter how unimportant. After madame has bathed and rested and is properly supplied with correct information, she will decide how to proceed.”

&nb
sp; Thérèse bowed her head. “Oui, monsieur,” she said. She hurried from the room.

  Bonnard stared after her. Then she stared at James. “Who are you?” she said. “A long-lost Bourbon? She won’t heed even Magny, yet she heeds you.”

  “It’s my charm,” James said. “Irresistible.”

  Her beautiful eyes narrowed.

  “I told her to do precisely what she wanted to do,” he said. “She’s too worried about you to pay proper attention to your belongings. Once you’ve bathed and rested, she’ll be able to concentrate on her work. Likewise, you can’t be expected to think clearly until you’ve had time to recover.”

  “From staying out all night?” she said. “I’m used to that.”

  “From the shock.”

  “It’s true I’m still reeling at the idea of nuns as burglars.”

  “Those weren’t real nuns,” he said. “And it wasn’t a simple robbery. What is this about, Bonnard?”

  She shrugged, and picked up a bottle from the floor.

  He moved to her. “How stupid do you think I am?” he said. “I know something is going on here. What are you hiding? How can I help you if you won’t tell me anything?”

  “Where did you get the idea I needed help?”

  “A pair of nasty brutes assaulted you last week, supposedly for your jewelry—”

  “Supposedly? Aren’t you sure? You told me that the one who was captured said it was an attempted robbery.”

  “A few days after that attack, your house is searched,” he said. “How much more evidence do you need that something is wrong? Why should someone make off with your husband’s letters?”

  “And my emeralds,” she said. “Maybe something alarmed the naughty nuns when they were ransacking my dressing room, and they simply snatched up what was at hand. They might have mistaken the letters for bank notes.” Maybe they thought they were passionate love letters and they could sell them to the scandal sheets. If so, they’re in for a disappointment. They’ve stolen a lot of boring boasting and name-dropping—”

  “Francesca.”

  “It’s none of your affair!” she snapped. “I don’t want your help!”

  “You’re behaving like an idiot,” he said. “Are you pregnant?”

  The bottle shot toward his head. He ducked. It struck the back of a chair, and toppled to the floor, unbroken. It must be a heavy little bottle. If he hadn’t ducked, it might have cracked his skull open.

  “Pregnant?” she cried. “Pregnant? Why not ask if it’s coming to that time of the month?”

  “Well, is it?” he said.

  “You stupid, stupid man! I’m not pregnant. It’s not coming to that time of month. I’m tired and dirty and I want a bath. And some sleep. And I want you out of my house. Va via!” She flung up her hand in that provoking backhanded gesture of dismissal.

  He shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and its cavorting mythological beings. Hadn’t he told her, a moment ago, that she needed a bath and rest?

  He strode to her, and scooped her up in his arms.

  “Put me down,” she said.

  “I’m going to give you a bath,” he said. “I’m going to throw you into the canal.”

  Francesca did struggle but it was pointless. The brute who’d tried to strangle her was three times her size, and he’d struggled with this man to no avail.

  She remembered how easily Cordier had subdued him, how effortlessly he’d tossed him into the canal.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, only strode out of the bedroom and down the portego toward the canal-facing windows. With their balconies. Directly over the canal.

  “Can you swim?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?”

  “Cordier,” she said.

  “The water is cool and refreshing at this time of year,” he said. “Exactly the sort of thing you need to clear your addled little head.”

  She was addled, she knew, and she’d been an utter bitch as well.

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m…emotional, I know.”

  “No, you’re insane,” he said.

  “I don’t want to care for you,” she said.

  He kept on walking. “Honeyed words will not work,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Oh, very well, then,” she said. “Drown me. It’ll be a relief.”

  “No, it won’t. You know how to swim, you said. Besides, you’re beautiful. A romantic Venetian is sure to fish you out before the tide carries you out to sea.”

  She tightened her arms about his neck. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Don’t be angry with me.” She felt the tears trickling from her eyes. Again. This was horrible, worse than she’d supposed—and she’d thought she’d supposed the worst.

  She was afraid of losing him. She must be mad. She hoped she was. The alternative was too ghastly to contemplate. Five days! She’d met him only five days ago!

  “I’m immune to tears,” he said. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

  “I’m g-going to s-scream for help,” she said. “The s-servants will c-come to my r-rescue.”

  “They’ll have to be deuced qu-quick,” he said mockingly.

  They’d reached the portego windows.

  “Cordier.”

  The arm under her knees shifted slightly, and he put his hand on the window handle.

  “You won’t do it,” she said.

  “Watch me,” he said.

  She was aware of heads popping out of doorways. “The servants won’t let you,” she said.

  “Yes, they will,” he said. “They’re Italian. They’ll understand perfectly.”

  He opened the tall window and carried her through it. The balcony was narrow. It wanted only a step to carry her to the edge. He set her down on the wide stone railing.

  She locked her hands behind his neck. “If I go down, you’re going with me,” she said.

  He reached for her hands.

  He’d have no trouble getting free of her.

  And that was the trouble.

  She let go of him and quickly, before she could think twice, turned.

  And jumped.

  “Merda,” she heard him say.

  It did not take very long. Merely a lifetime while James’s heart stopped and he blinked in disbelief, while he uttered the one word and pulled off his shoes. Merely a lifetime passed while he plunged in after her.

  He caught hold of her before she could swim away—or attempt it: a considerable challenge, given the impediments of skirts and petticoats and stays. He dragged her the few feet to the water gates, wrenched them open, dragged her inside, rose, hauled her upright, and shook her.

  “Don’t ever.” Shake. “Do that.” Shake. “Again.”

  She stood, dripping, looking up at him, her green eyes so soft, filled with the ghost.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” he said.

  “I’m not,” she said.

  He pulled her into his arms. He kissed her wet forehead, her nose, her cheeks. He dragged his hands through her sopping hair while he waited for his heart rate to return to normal. It wouldn’t, just kept thudding unevenly, with panic and anger and he didn’t know what else. He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to feel in control again.

  Then his mouth came at last to hers and he kissed her, like the drowning man he was. It was deep and hot and ungentle, and she kissed him back in the same ferocious way.

  She was bold and unafraid and shameless—the exact opposite of what he wanted. Nonetheless he wanted her, and the fierce kiss left him weak in the knees.

  Yet all the while he was still himself, still aware of where they were. He knew he couldn’t let his brain go weak as well. Not now. For her sake he must keep his wits about him.

  Oh, yes, and for king and country, too.

  The last thought was as bracing as a slap in the face.


  He drew away. “I should have stayed where I was and waved good-bye,” he said. “‘Ciao,’ I should have said. I should have waved and thought, good riddance. That’s what I should have done. You are nothing but trouble.”

  She flung her arms around his waist and held him tightly.

  Then he was done for, king or not, country or not.

  “You smell like canal,” he said. “You really need a bath.”

  “So do you,” came her muffled voice from his waterlogged coat.

  “How big is your bathtub?” he said.

  “I’m a great whore,” she said. “What do you think?”

  It was only a short distance to the bathing room, which Francesca had created from one of the cozy rooms on the mezzanine, between the andron and the piano nobile. The tub was very large, as befitted a courtesan, but she had not yet entertained a man here while bathing.

  A small window let in light from the courtyard. Even when the sun was at the best angle this room was one of the darker ones in the house. A servant was lighting candles as they entered. He’d already lit the fire in the fireplace.

  The light flickered over what she thought of as a most luxurious cave.

  The tub stood to one side of the fireplace. A Roman-style couch stood on the other. Soft towels, neatly folded, stood in heaps on tables nearby.

  She’d furnished the room in the style she’d seen on mosaics from Roman times, to go with the frescoes. Instead of the putti and saints and martyrs prevalent elsewhere, the flickering candlelight here revealed gods and goddesses, nymphs and satyrs, food and wine, dancing and lovemaking. Incense burned in the braziers, as it had done in the old days of the Republic.

  This room was private, a refuge. She never brought company here.

  The servants had already prepared it for her, though. In the circumstances, it was irrational as well as inconsiderate to make them labor again, this time hauling water all the way up to the piano nobile. She was cold and wet. Cordier was cold and wet…and what did it matter if she let him into her sanctuary? What was the point of trying to keep him out of any corner of her life?

  “You’re full of surprises,” he said, looking about him. “I’d expected to see a tub wheeled into your boudoir or bedroom.”