Larcenous Lady

by Joan Smith

  “No such thing,” Pronto said, but just as the conversation was beginning to get interesting, he spotted Elvira and drifted off on wings of love.

  “Miss Sutton,” he said, and bowed most ungracefully. “Here I am, at your service, ma’am. Like you said—fate.”

  Elvira smiled condescendingly. “Mr. Pilgrim, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s me!” he answered. Pretty cool, and him scrambling over mountains to meet her. But he noticed she was smiling and his heart softened. “You’re bamming me, you sly rascal. When can I call on you, Miss Sutton?”

  “You should really say good day to Mama and my sister first,” she pointed out, and led him forward. They showed him Elvira’s pearl. “I want Lucy to have one just like mine.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” Pronto said, much impressed at her kindness. “Didn’t realize your mama was a nabob.”

  “She isn’t,” Elvira teased. “Her uncle was a nabob and left her his fortune when he died.”

  Pronto frowned. He already knew winning Elvira would be difficult. If she was an heiress into the bargain, it’d be impossible. What he had to do was snap her up fast, before she went home where all the fortune hunters would be hounding her. As he looked at her tall, beautiful body, her full breasts, and noble face, he knew she was worth every effort.

  “Sorry to hear it,” he said.

  “He died a year ago. We’re not in mourning.”

  “Didn’t mean that. Hope you don’t take the notion I’m after your money. I cared for you before you told me.”

  Elvira’s throaty laugh echoed in his ear. “You are too ridiculous, Mr. Pilgrim. I never for one moment thought of you as a fortune hunter. Why you strike me as a gentleman who doesn’t have to worry about money.”

  “Matter of fact, I do own an abbey,” he remembered, and looked hopefully for approval. It certainly looked like approval, or interest at least, shining in Elvira’s eyes.

  “There you are then.” Elvira smiled. “You own an abbey; I own the pearl. And the rest of the world may whistle for envy.’’

  “So when may I call on you?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you come around to the Léon Bianco later?”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised. Inching his way behind Mrs. Sutton for privacy, he lifted Elvira’s hand and kissed her fingers. A fine, sturdy paw the girl had. Nearly as big as his own, only long and artistic, whereas his was short and pudgy.

  There were sounds of leave-taking across the shop. Pronto went reluctantly forward, feeling he ought to greet Charney. “Bonjouro, “ he said, and made a leg.

  “Mr. Pilgrim. Still tagging along with Belami, eh? How are you liking Europe?”

  “They’ve got dandy sewers in Paris,” he told her. He was right—her eyes were exactly like the sewer rats’.

  The duchess suspected this was a joke. She never connived at jokes and ignored it. She gathered up the Suttons and left.

  “The contessa has invited Deirdre and myself to dinner this evening,” she announced. “We shall be seeing a good deal of the contessa and her set. As you mentioned this morning, you will find your own friends. I fear these upstart Italian nobles take themselves very seriously. I hinted that you and the girls might accept an invitation as well, but the contessa didn’t take me up on it.”

  “We certainly don’t expect to glide into society on your coattails, Duchess,” Mrs. Sutton said, as friendly as ever. Really, the woman was better than a gift.

  They went on to a few other shops, but for Deirdre the day was destroyed. She had found Dick at last, only to find him involved with a woman so beautiful there was no hope of winning him back. He had been stiff and unfriendly and, worst of all, he looked palpably guilty. She dreaded the ordeal of dinner at the Palazzo Ginnasi worse than a trip to the tooth-drawer. And like a bad tooth, the pain refused to go away.

  Chapter Six

  While Deirdre fretted and got dressed in her best blue gown that showed off her shoulders, the duchess was chirping merrily. With careful flattery and encouragement, the contessa would be made to see the benefit of harboring an English duchess under her roof for an indefinite period. Connections would be made that greatly reduced the cost of further travel: carriages provided free, noble doors opened to her in Naples and Rome. She dashed a note off to Fernvale, urging her bailiff to find an occupant for the estate on a six-month lease, renewable. This done, she turned to her niece.

  “Bring along a shawl, Deirdre. It will be chilly in the gondola, and drafty as bedemmed at the palazzo.”

  Deirdre picked up her silver-spangled shawl that wouldn’t keep off the breath from a gnat, but it looked good. The Ginnasi gondola was waiting for them at the landing. In the starry dusk of twilight, they were whisked across the Grand Canal to the left bank and a little north to the palazzo, nestled in beside the Accademia. The Palazzo Ginnasi was a fairly ugly old stone building of great antiquity. Moss climbed a few feet up its walls. The duchess took one look and was struck with the notion that she would pay not to stay there, and that was saying a good deal. Her joints would seize up entirely in those moist drafts.

  But when the footman led her up the walk from the landing to an entrance on the north side, she observed that the breezes, while damp, were really not at all chilly. Once in the palazzo, she discovered a delightful surprise—fireplaces, which had been absent in Italian hotels. The heat from them mingling with the moisture created a balminess similar to a conservatory, an atmosphere in which not only plants but also octogenarians might thrive.

  The contessa awaited them in her saloon, a chamber of faded grandeur in which the duchess felt very much at home amongst the other antiquities. There were threadbare Oriental carpets, draperies sagging with age and dilapidation, ornate gilt-trimmed sofas covered in shredding satin—all of it topped by a fine chandelier with its lights turned as low as seeing would permit.

  But it was the hostess that was of more interest to Deirdre, and her youthful eyes could see well enough that the contessa was as beautiful as she remembered. This evening she wore a dramatic black gown that revealed a pair of alabaster shoulders and hinted at other attractions as well.

  “Duchess, Miss Gower, so kind of you to come,” the contessa said, striding forward to shake hands. “My husband will be here in a moment. Belami has gone to fetch him.”

  The ladies made polite greetings and were shown to one of the sagging sofas. Within a minute, Belami appeared at the door pushing a hooded bath chair. In it sat the conte, a shriveled little gentleman of some seventy-odd years, wearing a deep blue velvet jacket of ancient cut. At his throat a fall of white lace gleamed.

  He greeted them in a quavering voice. “Ah, Duchessa! Lei è molto gentile— “

  “Inglese, caro, “ the contessa reminded him.

  Even while he welcomed the duchess, his black eyes turned to ogle Deirdre. “Che bella!”

  “Mind your manners. Guy,” his wife scolded, and nodded for Belami to push him up to the fireplace. The duchess hastened to occupy the chair closest to him and Deirdre stood, struck dumb that the beautiful young contessa should have shackled herself to this wreck of humanity. The conte was obviously a skirt chaser, but why on earth had Carlotta married him?

  Deirdre became aware that both the contessa and Belami were staring at her, both in much the same way. They looked curious, alert, expectant, and it made her very nervous.

  “What a charming palazzo, Contessa,” she said.

  “Grazie. May I offer you a drink, or would you rather have Belami show you the gardens while it’s still daylight?” Before Deirdre could answer, the contessa continued. “Do show Miss Gower the garden, Belami, and I’ll tend to Guy. He’ll become snappish if I don’t get him his posset.”

  “Deirdre?” Belami offered his arm, and in some confusion Deirdre accepted it and was led out the door.

  “You are looking very beautiful this evening, Deirdre,” he said as they went along to the door.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “T
he contessa is lovely.”

  “She’s a diamond of the first water,” he replied unwisely.

  “It’s odd that she should have married such an old man.”

  They had reached the door. Belami opened it wide and smiled at her, one of his peculiarly intimate smiles that always disarmed her. She felt as if she were the only woman in the world when Dick looked at her like that. She felt suffocated, and always fell speechless.

  “Therein lies a tale,” he said, and led her outdoors.

  The place was less a garden than a tangle of weeds from which an occasional flower peeped out. At the four corners of the plot, classical statues reared up on pedestals, staring disdainfully at the mess below. The vestige of a curved path led into the small jungle. “Is it safe to take you down the garden path?” Belami asked, glancing at her skirts. Their eyes met briefly. “An ill-chosen phrase.” He smiled.

  “I’ve survived your garden paths till now,” she answered tartly, and followed as Dick pushed aside the weeds and bushes.

  When they were in the center, he stopped and turned to face her. The smile was transformed to a severe, questioning face. “Why did you do it?” he demanded.

  “It was my aunt’s idea to come!”

  “I mean why did you bolt on me in Paris? I waited for ages that night—and then to learn you had left without even sending me a message.”

  “But I did leave you a note!”

  “The hell you did!” he exclaimed angrily.

  “Dick, I did! At least Elvira did,” she added, and explained the nature of their departure.

  “There was no note,” he said simply.

  “It must have gone astray. Elvira doesn’t speak French—perhaps the clerk misunderstood.”

  Dick frowned uncertainly. “It was only your telling me you were coming to Venice that kept me from hating you,” he said. “If you hadn’t come here, I don’t know what I would have done. Elvira told Pronto your destination was Rome.”

  “But it was Elvira who insisted on coming to Venice.”

  “There’s something strange about that woman,” Belami said.

  Deirdre tossed her shoulders. “You’re just annoyed that she doesn’t care for you. The contessa is not so immune to your charms, I think?”

  “Carlotta’s a man-izer. It stands to reason, being married to old Guy.”

  “Why did she marry him?”

  “It’s called making a good match. Guy’s a conte, he owns this heap,” he said, looking around the derelict garden and to the house beyond. “Carlotta was an actress, and his mistress. When the old contessa died, they made it legal. Guy won’t last long, and once he’s gone, the contessa will be in a position to make a really stunning match.”

  “Did she tell you all that?” Deirdre asked.

  “The best stories are contained between the lines.”

  “That’s true,” Deirdre replied enigmatically, and looked away to where the sun was setting in an amethyst sky streaked with amber. Between the lines of Dick’s story, she read that he was carrying on with the man-izing contessa.

  Belami gazed at her profile, her pale face limned against the dark foliage, and felt a wrenching inside. He reached out and turned her to face him. His hands remained on her arms as he gazed at her, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “Don’t even think it,” he said softly. “You know you’re the only woman I ever loved, Deirdre.”

  He pulled her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers. It seemed an omen of good luck that in this country where songbirds were rare, a nightingale chose that moment to utter its plaintive warble. He crushed her against his chest and the kiss deepened. Deirdre raised her arms to his neck and clung as though her life depended on it. This wasn’t the time to be difficult, when she hoped to lure him away from the palazzo.

  After a lengthy embrace, she pulled away and looked shyly at him. “If you know what I’m thinking, Dick—”

  “I do, but the contessa is just a friend. The Ginnasis are in desperate financial trouble. I’m staying here as a paying guest. There’s nothing between Carlotta and me. Don’t ask me to leave. The contessa is helping me.”

  “You’re not on a case,” she objected.

  “I am, rather. I’ve been haphazardly following an English counterfeiter—Jalbert’s the name. I got one of his false coins at Dover. A couple turned up in Paris, and as I made the journey here, I came across a few more people who’d been duped. It’s difficult for me in a foreign country, but Carlotta has connections. One of the coins turned up at Mestre. It’s obvious the Jalbert gang were on their way to Venice. Carlotta knows bankers and merchants and some of the other sorts as well.”

  Deirdre frowned, not understanding. “People from the demimonde,” he said bluntly. “She’s acquainted with criminals from before her marriage—someone like that would be the first to know if a new colleague is in town, and where to find him.”

  “Why do you have to be the one to catch the gang?”

  “I have an inkling what one of them looks like,” he said, and told her about Captain Styger. “Counterfeiters prey on the innocent. The man’s English. If it isn’t for an Englishman to catch him, who should do it? Besides,” he added more realistically, “it’ll be great fan.”

  But it wouldn’t be much fun for her to know Dick was off on an investigation with the beautiful Carlotta. She pouted attractively.

  “You can help me, too,” he added. “You’ll be in all the shops. Keep an eye open at the hotel as well. Perhaps Jalbert will turn up there.”

  Before there was time for more persuasions on either side, a servant came and called them to dinner. The dining room was better lit than the saloon, and in better repair. An impressive array of fine china and silver gleamed on the white linen cloth. The conte had his bath chair wheeled up to the table. Seating arrangements were bound to be irregular with three ladies and only two gentlemen. They were farther thrown out of kilter when Carlotta sat beside her husband to feed him. She cut up his food as though he were a baby and fed him, beguiling him with baby talk all the while. In spite of this trying job, she also managed to entertain her guests.

  The duchess in particular pelted the hostess with questions. “How many rooms do you have here, Contessa?” she asked.

  “Forty or fifty. You must see the Tintoretto organ shutters in the music room. They are one of our show pieces. Dear Tintoretto—Michelangelo’s drawing and Titian’s colors was his motto. Unfortunately the colors have faded till they more closely resemble a London fog.”

  “I mean how many bedchambers,” her grace persisted.

  “Twenty-five, more or less,” the contessa said vaguely.

  “Such a shame, all that space going to waste. At Fernvale, I keep the place full of company.”

  Dick’s lips moved unsteadily as he smiled across the table at Deirdre. He well remembered the company of bats and mice, and beetles, during his brief visit.

  “I hope you and the dear conte will feel quite free to put up with me if you ever come to England,” the duchess said grandly. It seemed safe enough. The conte was scarcely able to get down to his own saloon. The contessa smiled, but she didn’t make any offer.

  Undeterred, the duchess forged on to clarify her meaning. “Such a pleasure to be in a home, after weeks of hotels. You are fortunate to have such good friends in Italy, Belami.”

  “I am very much aware of it,” Belami said.

  The contessa was mashing milk and butter into the conte’s vegetables and ignored these broad hints. “Here you go, my little Guy,” she said merrily, and lifted the fork.

  The duchess noticed a smear of green on the conte’s lace fichu. Lord, what an infliction the man was. She very firmly lifted her own forkful of meat and chewed it up on the few remaining steady teeth in her head. Perhaps the conte might be more amenable to her hints.

  She bared her teeth in a smile and said, “How very much at home you make me feel, Conte. I was used to feeding my husband just as your dear lady is doing. How I miss feeding him
, and wheeling his chair about the garden on fine days, reading to him by the fireside when the weather was inclement. You must let me come one day and take over your chores, Contessa.”

  The contessa lifted her head. Aha! She’d hit the magic chord here. The minx hated every moment of her loving act. “That is kind of you,” Carlotta said. After dinner she requested Belami’s help in getting the conte back to the saloon.

  She pushed the bath chair aside and whispered, “Do you want me to invite them here?”

  “I have nothing against it,” Dick said.

  “She won’t expect to pay, but I must say I would appreciate some help with Guy.”

  “She won’t lift a finger once she’s here.”

  “To hell with her then.”

  Dick frowned. Charney would be in a rare pelter if she were crossed. On the other hand, free board would put her in alt—and Deirdre would be here. “I’ll pay,” he said. The contessa gave him an encouraging smile.

  She held the door, Dick shoved the bath chair through it, and the contessa went to sit beside the duchess. “I have just had a marvelous idea,” she said, smiling. “Don’t refuse me. You and Miss Gower must stay here with us. We’d adore to have you.”

  “Eh?” the conte demanded, and was completely ignored.

  As the gondolier rowed the guests home afterward, the duchess was in high glee. She forgot temporarily that Belami, who came with them, was a villain. “A charming couple,” she told him. “Deirdre will do well to involve herself with the contessa’s set. And mind you don’t be exposing your chest like that trollop,” she added aside to her niece.

  In the darkness, Dick took Deirdre’s fingers and squeezed them. “I’ll bring the Ginnasis’ boat for you tomorrow morning, your grace. What hour will be convenient?”

  Breakfast was obviously too early to go, but lunch could be had free of cost. “Say, eleven,” the duchess decided.

  Belami accompanied them from the landing to their hotel and left them at the bottom of the stairs. The duchess was so happy that she allowed Deirdre to remain behind a moment.