All of them were approaching thirty, that most important age for men of their birth, when they were expected to marry and settle down. This trip might very well be their last time together as bachelors unencumbered by the responsibility of wives and children. Haviland would marry—it had already been arranged. Archer would follow. A man who loved breeding horses would surely love to breed his own children. As for Brennan? It would depend on who would have him on a more permanent basis. He was probably with a woman right now.
The captain of the vessel approached and urged them to board, making it clear he would not wait for the rest of their party. Haviland blew out a breath after the captain left, blaming himself for Brennan’s tardiness. ‘I should have stayed with him.’
Nolan murmured something encouraging. Brennan would be here. He had to be. Brennan was always late, always on the verge of trouble. Not too unlike himself. He was just better prepared for it. Brennan never saw it coming until it was too late. Perhaps that was why he liked Brennan, they were kindred spirits of a sort. They both had messy, imperfect lives. They both lived in the moment. Brennan wasn’t a planner and that was certainly working against him this morning. Nolan could imagine him oversleeping in some woman’s bed only to wake too late and realise he’d missed the boat.
Waiting was a luxury they couldn’t afford. It wasn’t an issue of just catching another boat. Channel crossings didn’t run on schedules, they ran on the weather. Nolan knew they were lucky their own crossing today was proceeding like clockwork. He opted to keep spirits up. He clapped a hand on Archer’s back as the three of them moved towards the boat. ‘I’ll wager Brennan misses the boat,’ he announced with forced joviality. ‘Archer, are you in? If I’m wrong, you can win back your losses.’ Please let me be wrong. He had every hope Brennan would come dashing up at the last minute.
They took up positions at the rail facing the dock. Nolan knew they were all hoping for a glimpse of their errant companion, but time was slipping away. He started at the sound of chains in motion. ‘They’re pulling the anchor. He’s not going to make it,’ Nolan said quietly, leaning on his arms. ‘Dammit! I didn’t want to win that bet.’ He exchanged glances with Haviland and Archer as the boat slowly nudged away from the dock. The trip was off to an ominous start.
Then he saw it—commotion on the pier, a figure racing towards them, shirttails flapping. Suddenly, Haviland was shouting, ‘It’s him, it’s Brennan!’ And he wasn’t alone. Nolan could make out two men behind him, one of them armed as they gave very hearty chase. Whoever they were, they meant business.
Haviland moved first, sprinting towards the back of the boat. Nolan stayed rooted where he was, his eyes focused on something else moving behind the men, something dark and swift. Next to him, Archer made it out first. ‘My horse!’
Nolan and Archer thundered down the length of the boat behind Haviland who was waving his arms and shouting commands to Brennan. Impossible commands, really, such as ‘jump’ and ‘don’t jump here, it’s too wide, jump at the back of the boat where it hasn’t left the dock yet. Hurry!’
It was insanity, by the time they reached the stern, even that part of the boat had left a gap between the dock and the deck. Brennan would never make the jump. If Brennan missed... There was no time to contemplate the consequences. ‘The horse, Archer, look!’ Nolan shouted. The bay had come up alongside Brennan, matching his stride to the running man.
Archer took the idea from there, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Get on the horse, Bren! Jump him!’
Nolan felt the moment suspend itself in time. He watched Brennan grab the mane and swing himself up bareback. It would be a mad jump even with stirrups and a saddle. But Brennan was an excellent rider, as good as Archer and far more reckless.
The horse leapt.
And landed. On its knees, on the deck.
Time sped up again. He and Archer grappled for the reins, trying to keep the horse calm. Haviland wrestled Brennan off the downed horse. Nolan glanced back at the shore. The two men in pursuit were forced to give up their efforts, having reached the edge of the pier. One of them raised his gun. Nolan hit the deck with Archer and the horse just as Brennan shoved Haviland to the ground. The bullet whined harmlessly overhead, but, dear lord, it had been a near thing. A second or two would have made a tragic difference. If Brennan hadn’t pushed Haviland down...
Nolan’s eyes narrowed in speculation. Deuce take it! Brennan had suspected they would fire. What kind of trouble had he got himself into this time? Haviland was already asking those questions as the group picked themselves up from the deck and brushed off their clothes. Archer marched the horse off to temporary stabling and Brennan was all smiles as he tucked in his shirttails despite Haviland’s scolding. Definitely a woman, then. It was usually a woman with Brennan.
Clothing settled and greetings exchanged, Nolan drawled his question. ‘So the real issue isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’
Brennan’s blue eyes were merry, his face splitting into a wide, satisfied grin as the wind ruffled his auburn hair. He laughed up at the sky and Nolan knew the answer before he even said it. ‘Always, Nol, always.’
Nolan grinned, too. The crisis was past. The future lay spread out before them. It would be a while before he saw England again and that was fine with him. Deep down, he wondered if he’d ever see it again and was not surprised to discover he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Grand Tours took years and all he had was time.
Chapter Two
Venice, Italy—winter 1836
All gamblers are alike in luck. They know the exhilaration of dice rattling in boxes, the adrenaline fuelled by hot tables, the decadent thrill of hinging everything on the turn of a card and when that card favours them, they know a surge of elation so great they become immortal gods in the moment of victory. But no two gamblers are alike in their fall. From the moment the cards desert them, to the moment they should have walked away and didn’t, gamblers are always unlucky alone.
Nolan Gray knew when a man was broke and Count Agostino Minotti was very close. Surrounded by the opulence of Palazzo Calergi where every whim was anticipated by the serving staff, where no one should have any worries, Count Agostino had worries aplenty. The signs were there in the desperate sweat on his brow, in the sharpness of his eyes as his brain rapidly inventoried his assets, searching for anything left worth bartering to cover the latest hand—the one in which he was sure his luck would turn.
Nolan knew it wouldn’t. His own hand was too good, and if there was such a thing as luck, it favoured the intelligent. Surely, the count had to know the odds of drawing the queen of spades were nearly non-existent. The count would never complete his straight. He’d been rather obviously collecting high-end spades this hand and everyone at the table knew it. Nolan didn’t suffer fools who couldn’t count cards nor did he have much sympathy for men who overplayed their funds. The count should have walked away an hour ago. Nolan only hoped the man would be able to cover tonight’s commitments. He had plans for that money.
The count pushed the rest of his money to the centre of the table, not nearly enough to cover the bet. What else would the count offer? The count’s next words took Nolan alternately by surprise and then disgust. ‘Two hundred lire and my daughter’s maidenhead.’
That was certainly different than the items wagered at English tables. But it made the man no less of a bastard to offer it. The principle of the matter dug sharp claws into Nolan’s sense of fair play. A gambler could risk anything he or she liked as long as it was theirs. But to risk what belonged singularly to another, to someone who was not directly involved in the play at the table and who had no say in the decision was beyond the pale of acceptability.
A quick glance around the table indicated he was the only one who apparently held any such scruples. There was a certain irony in that considering how jaded his palate had become over the yea
rs. He’d wagered and won numerous non-traditional items of interest in his career. But never a woman who hadn’t first offered herself as barter. Even then, that particular woman had wanted to lose. To him. On purpose. This was entirely different, and Nolan wasn’t sure he liked it.
The man to his left was greedily reassessing his hand. The man to his right made a crass comment about the girl in question and his own prowess that was better reserved for a cheap whorehouse than Palazzo Calergi’s elegant interiors. The others at the table laughed and threw out their own crudities, each one worse than its predecessor. Nolan felt his temper rise on behalf of the unseen girl. He counselled himself with quiet caution. He did not need to get sucked into this. Logic reminded him there was much he didn’t know about the situation. Logic also reminded him he was still the richest man at the table tonight and the one with the best hand. They were all playing against him. He was in charge. He would be the one to decide the girl’s fate; take her away from this with him or leave her to one of the others unless he could head this disaster off.
His first line of attack was to dissuade the count, perhaps even to rouse some dissent on behalf of the girl once these men saw sense. ‘Five thousand lire? That seems a bit expensive.’ The table didn’t seem to think so. These were born Venetians and this was Venice at Carnevale where virginity was a most elusive commodity. A city didn’t acquire a reputation for having the most accommodating courtesans in Europe by hoarding virgins. The economics of supply and demand made the price believable. So did the count’s desperation. Almost. This was a man who had been desperate before.
‘What insurance do we have that she’s actually a virgin? How do we know you haven’t offered her before?’ Nolan jested lightly, pushing his case as he watched the table, his body tensed for action should his comment meet with offence. The count was a desperate man and a reckless one if he was willing to sell his daughter to cover a bet. Assuming the woman in question was his daughter. The count didn’t particularly impress Nolan as a fatherly figure for obvious reasons. Still, he wouldn’t be the first man alive to be poorly suited for the occupation. Nolan’s own father would rival him there.
Minotti’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Are you saying my daughter is a whore?’
‘Is she?’ Nolan leaned back in his chair, the nonchalance belying the tension coiled within him. If Minotti came at him, he would be ready. He could feel the comforting press of his new blade inside the sleeve of his coat. It could be in his hand in under a second.
Minotti’s eyes slid to the left, towards the long windows overlooking the Grand Canal, his voice smug with triumph. ‘Judge for yourself. She’s the one in pale blue, my Gianna.’
Nolan would have known her without the description. She was the one who looked out of place despite the blatant wealth exhibited in the expensive pearl-encrusted blue-damask gown. Good lord, the gown must weigh fifteen pounds on its own, adorning the palazzo as if it were an art piece designed for the room. Still, the richness of her costume couldn’t disguise the fact that she didn’t belong here. Palazzo Calergi might be a regal setting and this might be a private party for a few hundred of its owners’ personal friends and their guests, but it was still a party in the middle of Carnevale, hardly the sort of venue one took a daughter to. Her head turned towards the table as if she sensed she’d become the topic of conversation, her eyes landing on Nolan. On second thought, five thousand might be a generous bargain indeed, virgin or not.
The girl was stunning in her own right once one got past the dress. Certainly not in the way the other women in the room were stunning with their cosmetics, low-cut silks, and elaborate coiffures, the products of hours and artifice. Her beauty was natural, clean, somehow apart from the cosmopolitan elegance surrounding her and yet her beauty was not the lesser for what could only be described as its plainness. It was her skin that did it; a smooth, pink-tinged alabaster and as translucent, framed by hair so dark it appeared black at this distance.
Her eyes might have helped the cause, too. He could not tell the colour from this distance, but it hardly mattered. Her eyes were shrewd and sharp as they held his; challenging, thinking. Nolan had the uncomfortable sensation he was being assessed. Did she feel the same with the eyes of the table riveted on her? Did she know her father had put her up for auction to the winning hand? If she didn’t know, her fate would come as shock. If she did, however...
Cynicism flashed. Had father and daughter done this before? Was this some sort of scam they ran whenever the count was down on his luck? The whole offer smelled of trouble. Nolan’s eyes dropped back to the cards in his hand. The tiny voice of caution that usually kept quiet in his head was barking loudly now, joined by a strong sense of self-preservation. He should throw the hand and win the money elsewhere.
This money came with strings—more precisely, it came with a virgin. That was the very last thing he needed. What would he ever do with a virgin? He certainly wasn’t going to bed a woman against her will. Nolan’s eyes went to the pile in the centre of the table. But the money was a temptation nonpareil. Only noblemen wagered sums like these. This would take several nights to acquire at lesser venues. It would be a shame to waste this rather golden opportunity. Tonight would put him at his goal. His hopes were within reach. One virgin wasn’t going to stand in his way. Across the table, the count raised his hand and beckoned for the girl.
* * *
Gianna saw the summons, aware that the count and his table had been watching her. Worry pooled in her anxious pit of a stomach. What hell had he concocted for her now? Hadn’t the hell he’d presented her with this afternoon been enough to satisfy his jaded palate? Dante’s Inferno had nothing on Count Minotti when it came to exacting revenge or getting what he wanted.
She smoothed her hands over her elaborate skirts in a calming repetition of strokes and repeated her silent mantra: the count would not stand in her way. She would not allow him to. Whatever he did, she would be equal to the task. She would outthink him, outmanoeuvre him as she always had. She’d done it for five years. She could do it for four more weeks. He cannot hurt you. He would not dare. The money will protect you. But the usual comfort the words gave her was absent tonight. Her freedom was within reach, just a month away after years living under his so-called protection.
At the table, the count took her arm and she pulled away, not tolerating his touch. ‘Still upset by this afternoon, my pet?’ The count’s tone was wry as if this afternoon had been a minor concern, a mere game. But it hadn’t been, not to her and not to him. But she would not suffer him to touch her again.
‘What have you done?’ She kept her tones low, her eyes fixed on the count. The men at the table were eyeing her with something nearing avarice. Gianna’s anxiety was rising steadily, although she dare not show it. The count would like to see her fear, like to know he had power over her.
The count gave a shrug of his shoulders as if to indicate it was nothing of significance. ‘I am having a bit of bad luck tonight, I’m afraid. But that’s about to change. I have a good hand. I am sure to win.’
Gianna knew where the conversation was going. It was a distasteful one, but one she could handle. She reached up to pull off the pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother. The count had ordered her to wear them tonight. He’d probably planned on forcing her to surrender them. He knew how she treasured them. She had resisted giving them to him once. It had been a mistake. It had shown the count they had emotional value to her. She’d quickly learned not to make that mistake twice.
The count gave a slight shake of his dark head. Gianna’s jaw tightened and her hands went to the clasp of her pearl choker. They were just things, she told herself. Placate him, give him what he wants. These are nothing in the scope of the greater picture. After their quarrel this afternoon, his demand could have been worse. She would be thankful for this small mercy. She only wanted to be done with him. She would do whatever it took
to make it through the next four weeks. She would be twenty-two, old enough to claim her inheritance without him. Whatever her mother had seen in the man during her lifetime, Gianna could only guess.
The count shook his head again and Gianna froze. ‘You are very generous, but I’m afraid your pearls won’t be enough.’ His mouth turned up in a cruel smile. ‘Not those pearls anyway. There is one pearl these gentlemen seem to value, however.’ He paused. ‘I have wagered you, Gianna. More specifically, the pearl between your legs.’
Panic swamped her. He repeated himself, no doubt enjoying the perverse pleasure of saying the crude words out loud. On the surface, it was an appalling wager. Beneath that surface it was truly horrific in a way only the count would recognise. ‘Does my mother mean so little to you that you would make her daughter a whore?’
‘Your mother is dead. She holds no sway here,’ he countered, his words bloodless. ‘I offered you better this afternoon and you refused. You did this to yourself.’
Stay calm. Under no circumstances show him any emotion. She understood the men’s stares now. They were undressing her, imagining what they would do with her, to her, all except one whose gaze was on the count. Her stomach turned. The grip on her ‘calm’ was slipping. It was a Herculean task to maintain her reserve. She wanted to grab up the carefully blown glass goblets on the table and smash them against the silk-clad walls, to rage out loud against the count’s latest barbarism. She would show these men nothing, certainly not the count who thought he could pass her about, wager her as if she was nothing more than a bauble of mediocre value; as if he could wreck her plans with the turn of a card, as if she had no say in the matter. That last was a sticking point. Legally, she had no say, not until she turned twenty-two.
‘This is revenge,’ she accused, anger coursing through her, volcanic and explosive. If she was a man, she’d kill him. But if she were a man this would not have happened. She would have left the count years ago. ‘You are blackmailing me.’
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