by Liz Carlyle
The Bride Wore Scarlet
Liz Carlyle
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
By Liz Carlyle
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
London, 1837
The lamps were turned low in the dark, old-fashioned house in Wellclose Square, the servants gliding like silent specters, eyes downcast as they moved through passageways musty with the scents of liniment and camphor—and of what might have been death drawing nigh.
Above, in the mistress’s grand suite, the fire that was laid from September to June had been banked for the evening, and the circle of plaguing visitors—teary-eyed relations, gloomy priests, and nattering medical men—had finally been sent away with a sharp, if somewhat diminished, tongue-lashing.
She lay now like a spun-glass ornament in a box of cotton wool, all but lost in the massive medieval bed that had seen seven generations of her family pass from this world to the next, its walnut finish gone as black with age as once the old woman’s hair had been. But age had not lessened the hook in her nose, the fire in her eyes—or the indomitability of her will, much to the consternation of her family.
Against the costly, hand-embroidered silk of her nightdress, she clutched a rosary of jet to her heart, and pondered the hope of her dynasty. She was old, had been old for thirty years—or perhaps had been born old, as so many of her kind were. But it would not do, the old woman knew, to go leaving things unsaid. Hard decisions unmade. Never had she shirked her duty.
And still, though she had known with the heart of a warrior and the head of a shopkeeper what must eventually be done, she had put off the choice for nearly a decade now.
Oh, this was not her time; she was almost certain—despite her eight-and-eighty years, and the despair of the doctors who paraded daily round what they believed to be her deathbed.
But they might be right. And she might—just might—be wrong.
To have admitted that possibility aloud, however—ah, now that was the thing most likely to choke the last breath of life from Sofia Josephina Castelli.
“Maria!” she said sharply, holding out her hand. “Take my rosary, and fetch me the child.”
“Sì, signora.” Her companion rose slowly on knees that creaked a little now. “Which child?”
“Which child?” the old woman echoed incredulously. “The child. The one. And bring me i tarocchi. Just one last time I . . . I wish to be sure of what I do.”
In years past, Maria would have chided her, and perhaps reminded her of the family’s censure. But Maria, too, was growing older now, and weary of fighting the old woman. More significantly, however, Maria was a Vittorio—a close cousin—and she knew what was expected. She, perhaps better than anyone, understood that plans must be made. Obligations met. And that the debt which was owed to one’s blood must be paid.
Maria went to the bellpull and sent a servant off to do the mistress’s bidding, then crossed to the massive wardrobe to extract the signora’s small, ebony wood casket, which was hinged and bound with hammered copper so old it was worn nearly smooth now.
She carried it to the bed, but the old woman waved her off again. “Purify the cards for me, Maria,” she ordered. “Just this once, sì?”
“But of course, signora.”
Dutifully, Maria went to the small bedside chest. Taking a pinch of dried herbs from each of four porcelain urns, she dropped them into a shallow brass bowl and set them aflame with a candle. Extracting a pack of cards from the casket, she passed them four times through the white smoke, calling down the elements of wind, water, earth, and fire to guide her hand.
“Buono, Maria, buono,” the old woman rasped when it was done. “Molte grazie.”
Maria laid the cards upon the counterpane beside her. But at that instant, the door flew open, and a leggy, raven-haired girl in a starched white smock rushed in.
“Nonna, Nonna!” she said, throwing herself against the bed. “They said I mightn’t come up!”
“But now you are here, Anaïs, no?” The old woman set a hand on the child’s head, but looked past her, to the woman in gray who still lingered on the threshold, her hands clasped uncertainly.
The governess dropped her gaze, and bobbed a faint curtsy. “Good evening, Signora Castelli. Signora Vittorio.”
“Buona sera, Miss Adams,” said the old woman. “I wish to be alone with my great-granddaughter. You will excuse us, I think?”
“Yes, of course, but I . . .” The governess was looking at the cards a little disapprovingly.
“You will excuse us,” the old woman repeated, this time with a steely hauteur that belied her frail form.
“Yes, madam.” The door shut swiftly.
Maria had returned to the side table, and was clearing the contents from the galleried silver tray on which the old woman’s uneaten dinner of beef tea and boiled custard had been carried up. Eyes solemn, the girl had set her elbows to the bed and leaned over it, her chin propped pensively in one hand.
“Come, cara mia, climb up.” The signora stroked her fingers down the child’s wild tangle of black curls. “As you did when you were a bambina, sì?”
The earnest little face twisted. “But Papa said I mustn’t bother you,” she said. “That you weren’t well.”
The old woman laughed, a raspy wheeze. “Come, cara, you will not hurt me,” she said. “Is that what they told you? Come, curl up beside me and let us study i tarocchi together. Maria has found us a tray, see?”
Soon they were settled against the pillows together, the old woman having dragged herself up in bed a few inches with Maria’s help. Only her left hand, fisted against the pain, betrayed what the movement cost her.
Perched on the edge of the mattress with her long, coltish legs curled beneath her, the child took the pack, cutting and shuffling over and over like a diminutive cardsharp.
The old woman wheezed with laughter again. “Basta, basta, Anaïs,” she finally said. “Do not wear them out, for you will have need of them someday. Now, a sinistra. Three stacks. Just as always.”
The girl cut the cards into threes across the silver, moving each time to the left. “There, Nonna Sofia,” she said. “Will you tell my future now?”
“Your future is blessed,” the old woman insisted, catching the child’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Sì, I will read for you, child. And the cards will say what always they say.”
“But you have never told me what they say,” the child protested, her full bottom lip edging out a tad further. “You just talk to yourself, Nonna. And I cannot make it out.”
“That, too, shall be rectified,” said the old woman. “Cousin Maria is going to begin work on your language as of tomorrow—only proper Tuscan, Maria, not that hash one hears round the docks.”
“If you wish it, signora.” Maria inclined her head.
“Of course.”
“But Miss Adams says a young lady needs only French,” said Anaïs, systematically restacking the cards without being told.
“Ah, and what would such a fainthearted creature know of the world, Anaïs?” the old woman murmured, watching her small hands work. “Nothing—nothing—of your world, I would wager. The life you will have, cara mia, is beyond her mortal comprehension.”
“What’s mortal comprehension?” The child furrowed her brow.
With a trembling hand, the old woman tucked a springy black curl behind the child’s ear. “Non importa,” she said. “Come, cara, lay out the cards for me. You know how ’tis done, sì?”
Solemnly, the girl nodded, and began to lay the cards out on the silver tray, forming first a large circle, then crossing it down the center with seven cards.
“Draw a chair near, Maria.” The old woman spoke in a warning tone. “You will bear witness to this.”
As the chair legs bumped over the floorboards, the old woman turned the first of the crossed cards.
Maria fell into her chair with a little groan, and shut her eyes. “It should be Armand,” she whispered, crossing herself. “They are twins, signora! This should be his destiny.”
The old woman squinted at her a little nastily. “Should be, sì,” she echoed, “but is not. Here, Maria, you see it as clearly as I. And you have seen it before. Time and again. It never changes. La Regina di Spade. Always in the cross of seven.”
“The Queen of Swords,” the child translated, reaching out to gingerly touch the card, which depicted a woman in red wearing a golden crown and bearing a gold-hilted sword in her right hand. “Am I the queen, then, Nonna?”
“Sì, cara mia.” The old woman managed a weak smile. “A queen of righteousness and honor.”
“But she is a girl.” Maria had begun to wring her lace handkerchief.
“The queen usually is,” said the old woman dryly. “For Armand’s part, he is destined for other things. To be beautiful. To make us rich.”
“We are already rich,” said Maria a little sourly.
“To make us richer,” the old woman corrected.
“Aren’t I beautiful, Nonna?” said the child a little wistfully.
The old woman shook her head, scrubbing her long white tresses on the pillow slip. “Non, cara, you are not. You are something altogether different.”
The girl’s lower lip came out a fraction. “Nonna, will anyone marry me?” she asked. “I heard Nellie whispering to Nate that you could tell.”
“Bah, Nellie is a foolish scullery maid.” Maria gave a dismissive toss of her hand.
“Sì, Nellie is un imbecille,” said the old woman evenly. “And Nathaniel needs to cease his flirting. But yes, child. You will marry. You will marry a good, strong Tuscan boy. This I have seen many times in my cards.”
“How? I don’t know any boys from Tuscany.”
“Ah, but you will,” said the old woman, flipping the adjacent card. “See, here he waits. For you, Anaïs, and only you. A prince of peace in a coat of scarlet, le Re di Dischi.”
“The King of Pentacles,” said Maria softly.
“Sì, a man of inner strength who holds the future in his hand.” The old woman turned her black gaze upon the child. “Here, do you see? Your prince has transcended the mystical and is serene and powerful. You are destined to be his partner. His helpmeet.”
The child screwed up her face. “I don’t understand, Nonna.”
“No, no,” the old woman murmured. “But have patience, child. You will.”
Without further explanation, the old woman slowly turned the next card, and began to speak in a voice more distant.
“Ah, Catulo.” Her voice was more distant than warm. “The card of victory hard won. You will choose your battles carefully, Anaïs, and bear your bleeding wounds proudly.”
Maria cut her gaze away. “Dio mio!” she whispered.
The old woman ignored her, and kept turning. “Dischi,” she said. “The six of Pentacles. You have much effort ahead, cara. Much to learn. Many transformations to make. You must be shaped before you may go through the white gates to your next life.”
“But that man is a blacksmith,” said the child. “See? He is hammering on an anvil.”
“Sì, beating his plowshare into a sword, belike,” said Maria bitterly. “Come, Sofia, think what you do! This is no life for a lady—an English lady.”
The old woman turned a beady eye on her cousin. “What choice have I, Maria?” she asked sharply. “Time and again you have seen the child’s cards. God has given her an important task. Something she is destined to do. Turn the next, Anaïs.”
The girl flicked over the next card to reveal the depiction of an angel loading golden discs into a large trunk.
“Dischi,” muttered the old woman. “And the next?”
Again the child turned. Maria had twisted the handkerchief into a knot now.
“The warrior Venturio,” said the old woman with a sense of finality. “Ah, Anaïs, you begin a long journey.”
“But Nonna, where do I go?” asked the girl, surveying the cards almost warily. “Will you go with me?”
For a long moment, the old woman said nothing, guilt plucking at her heartstrings. “No, Maria will go, child,” she said, falling back into her cloud of feather pillows. “For I cannot. May God forgive me.”
But Maria just glared at her from the bedside chair.
“Nonna,” the child whispered, “are you dying?”
“No, no, bella,” said the old woman. “Not for a few years yet, unless God changes His mind.” Then she exhaled a shuddering breath. “But I think we need not turn more cards just now.”
“No, we needn’t,” said Maria. “For your mind is made up.”
“No, my cousin. Fate has decided.” The old woman closed her eyes, and let her hands fall limp on the coverlet. “And tomorrow, Maria, you will write to Giovanni Vittorio. He owes me this as my blood kin. You will tell him what had been decided. Which child will be given. Promise me.”
An uneasy silence hung in the air. “Very well,” Maria finally said. “I write. But on your head be it.”
“Sì,” the old woman answered a little sorrowfully. “On my head be it.”
Chapter 1
It is only the enlightened ruler and the wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Night lay over Wapping, nearly silent, the sky wisped with a fog that twined like languid cats about the bare masts of the ships at anchor in the Pool of London. Despite the hour, the rhythmic slush-shush-slush of a receding tide was unmistakable as it washed over mud and gravel, the sliver of shore beneath as yet a mere speculation.
Atop the embankment, Lord Bessett ground the stub of a cheroot beneath his boot heel, then flicked up the collar of his greatcoat, a defense against the sharp, fetid breeze that sliced off the Thames. The gesture cut the wind, but did little to mitigate the stench of rot and raw effluent.
Thank God it was a chilly night.
The water slapped again, more violently, exposing for an instant the last step, slick with green algae. Just then Bessett’s well-trained ear caught a sound. He jerked his gaze up, scanning the Pool. There was nothing. Nothing save a few distant shipboard lanterns, misty yellow smears bobbing faintly with the tide, and the occasional spate of raucous laughter carried across on the wind.
Then, silent as the grave, a waterman slid from the gloom, cutting along the river’s edge until his hull rumbled slightly aground. A bony, tremulous finger pointed toward the stairs. His passenger—a great hulk of a man in a long, dark cloak—unfolded himself, tossed a few glittering coins into the air, then leapt with a heavy thud onto the last step.
The waterman slid back into the gloom, silent as he had come, looking rather as if he accounted himself fortunate to escape.
His every sense alert, Bessett leaned over the embankment and offered a hand as t
he visitor ascended into the pool of yellow lamplight. He took it, stepping up onto the paved surface with a grunt tinged with weariness.
Not a young man, then.
This assessment was proven accurate when the man turned his face toward the lamp that swung from the Prospect’s riverside balcony. His was a worn and weathered visage, with small, hard eyes, and a nose that hung from his face like a bulbous wad of sausage. To complete the disconcerting picture, a scar slashed from his chin up through his mouth, horribly twisting the bottom lip.
The waterman’s consternation was understandable.
“Fine weather tonight, is it not?” Bessett said.
“Oui, but I hear it is raining in Marseilles.” The voice was like gravel, the accent thick and decidedly French.
Bessett felt the tension inside him relax but an increment. The phrase was right, aye. But there could still be trouble—and he never entirely trusted the French.
“I’m Bessett,” he said simply. “Welcome to London.”
The man laid a heavy palm across Bessett’s right shoulder. “May your arm, brother, be as the right hand of God,” he said in flawless Latin. “And all your days given to the Fraternitas, and to His service.”
“And so may yours,” Bessett answered in the same.
Sensing no animosity, Bessett eased his left hand from his pocket, releasing the hilt of the dagger he’d instinctively clutched. “So you are DuPont,” he went on. “Your reputation, sir, precedes you.”
“My reputation was made long ago,” said the Frenchman. “In younger days.”
“I trust your journey was without incident?”
“Oui, a swift, easy crossing.” The visitor leaned into him. “So, I have heard much of this new safe house you keep here. Even we French cannot but admire your effort.”
“It is a good deal more than a safe house, DuPont.” Bessett motioned him down the narrow passageway that linked Pelican Stairs to Wapping High Street. “We are dedicated to rebuilding this sect. We live practically out in the open, in the guise of a sort of intellectual society.”
The visitor snorted with Gallic disdain. “Bonne chance, mon frère,” he said, stepping out into the gaslight. “As you know, we in France are not so bold—but then, we have good reason.”
