The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger

by Victoria Alexander

  “I know what she meant. God protects our eternal souls. In a strictly practical sense, we have to depend on others to protect our physical selves,” Geneva said thoughtfully. “Although I, for one, think women have been coddled for far too long. I don’t think we need protection or at least we shouldn’t. We deserve to be able to make our way in the world if we wish. To study medicine or the law, to have a say in how our governments are run.”

  “To vote,” Jane murmured.

  Marian winced. Geneva ignored her and continued. “I admire the independence of the sisters and of all women who do not depend on a man.” Geneva turned to the Reverend Mother. “And doesn’t God help those who help themselves?”

  “Frequently,” Reverend Mother said.

  Geneva nodded at Willie. “Lady Bascombe, as an example of the modern, independent woman, don’t you agree? Women should be able to depend on themselves if they so wish?”

  “Uh, well...” Willie had been far too busy trying to determine her next step in life to give any consideration to the place of women in the world. If she’d learned nothing else since George’s death, she had learned there was nothing easy about being dependent on one’s self. Still, everything Geneva said made a great deal of sense. “Yes, I suppose, of course.”

  “That is all well and good as long as our decisions are prudent and wise.” Rosalind shot a meaningful look at her daughter. “If we don’t do stupid things that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. I’m certain Lady Bascombe agrees with that, as well.”

  “Without question.” When on earth did she become the standard-bearer for independent women as well as the symbol of foolish decisions? She could acknowledge her past mistakes; however, independence was not chosen but rather thrust upon her. At once it struck her that in this, as in so many other things in her life, there was no going back.

  “As much as I would like to debate any number of things that have just been said, you are our guests and unfortunately we do not have all night. Still...” A wicked gleam showed in Reverend Mother’s eyes. “I should like to tell you another story about poor decisions and women putting their faith in men rather than in God.”

  Sister Celestine’s face bore a look of good-natured resignation. Willie dared not look at the rest of her party but did hope they wore polite and interested expressions, even if they weren’t.

  “Longer ago than anyone can remember, a thousand years or so, this area was threatened by Saracen invaders. There was another convent not far from here. The men of the area promised the abbess they would come to the convent’s aid in an attack if the convent bell was rung. As they were no doubt ancestors of Ferrand Chirac, the abbess had her doubts. So she rang the bell in the dead of night on three different occasions to test the men’s resolve.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked, eyes wide.

  “The men came every time they heard the bell and they were rather annoyed about it, as men tend to be when inconvenienced in the middle of the night. But the fourth time the bell rang—” Reverend Mother paused in the manner of an expert storyteller. Willie glanced around the table. Everyone, including the sisters who had no doubt heard the story before, was captivated. “No one came.”

  “And what happened to the nuns?” Tillie didn’t look as if she really wanted to hear the answer.

  “They were carried away by the Saracens.” Again she paused. “Although one version of the story says their noses were cut off, as well.”

  Harriet immediately touched her nose as if to make certain it was still where it should be. Willie was hard-pressed not to do the same.

  “Forgive me for saying so, Reverend Mother,” Dante said thoughtfully, “but I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the point of the story.”

  “The point, Mr. Montague, depends on what you wish it to be.” She smiled in a sage manner. “It is that kind of story. Don’t you think the very best stories are those that teach more than one lesson?”

  He smiled slowly. “I’ve really never thought about it but I daresay I wouldn’t want to debate the question with you.”

  “How very wise of you, Mr. Montague.” She studied him for a moment. “I think this particular story can be a lesson as to the consequences of making ill-considered decisions.”

  Rosalind directed another pointed glance toward Harriet.

  “Whether that decision was to trust the men in the first place or to test them over and over. We are all the end result of the decisions we have made, good and bad.” She cast Willie a knowing smile.

  Willie smiled back as innocently as she could manage. She had nothing of note on her conscience at the moment although perhaps it wasn’t entirely clear. There was the tiny matter of planning to abandon her charges in Venice. Still, she hadn’t done it yet, so it really shouldn’t count as any sort of misdeed.

  “Of course, the most obvious one is about the perils of crying wolf. Those who lie, Mr. Montague—” Reverend Mother met Dante’s gaze directly “—are rarely believed when they tell the truth.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, looking the tiniest bit uncomfortable. Willie suspected the Reverend Mother had that effect on everyone regardless of whether they were guilty of anything or not.

  “Although I prefer to think of the story as an admonishment to put your faith in God and not man.” Reverend Mother cast them a smile that was both saintly and final. This particular discussion was obviously at an end.

  A scant half an hour later, following a few more minutes of prayer, Reverend Mother, Sister Celestine and several of the other sisters gathered to see them off.

  Dante assisted the others into the waiting carriages and Willie turned to the Reverend Mother. “Thank you again, Mother Emmanuelle, for your hospitality. I’m not sure what we would have done without your help.”

  “And thank you for yours.” Reverend Mother leaned close and spoke softly for Willie’s ears alone. “Your Mr. Montague gave us a very generous donation.”

  “Oh, he’s not my Mr. Montague,” Willie said quickly.

  Reverend Mother’s brow arched upward.

  “Not that that is what you meant, of course.” She wrinkled her nose. “That he and I...well...we are not...”

  “The others are waiting, Lady Bascombe. We shall pray for your safe travels.” The older woman favored her with a serene smile. “My Irish grandmother had a blessing that does seem most appropriate at the moment.” Her gaze met Willie’s. “May you find what you are seeking wherever you may roam.”

  “I assure you, Reverend Mother, I know exactly what I am seeking and precisely where to find it.”

  “Perhaps.” Reverend Mother studied her for a long moment. “You know what is said about best laid plans going awry?”

  “Your Irish grandmother again?”

  “No, dear.” The older woman looked at her as if she were an idiot. “Robert Burns.” She sighed. “I shall say a prayer for you, as well.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

  She nodded and turned back to the house. Willie might have been mistaken but she could have sworn she heard the nun add, “I have no doubt you will need it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WILLIE COULD HONESTLY SAY she had no real idea of where they were.

  The convent was just past the outskirts of Monte Carlo—and probably in France as Monaco was so tiny—but it did seem the carriages took them back the way they had come although they could have been going in circles for all she knew. Even though the drive from the convent was brief, the sun had set by the time the group arrived at the villa. It was difficult to get a good look but it did seem most impressive, appearing as much castle as villa. Built of stone and plaster, it had a whimsical look to it yet was still elegant and quite grand. The building perched on the edge of a cliff and the sounds of the surf could be heard in the distance. Willie wouldn’t feel the least
bit guilty here.

  “Now, this,” Harriet said with a satisfied nod, “is indeed an adventure.”

  The other girls murmured their agreement.

  They were greeted by a butler, or rather a majordomo, who introduced himself as Monsieur Pennier, and were given rooms in what he called the guest wing. Willie’s was spacious and charming, decorated in shades of blue reminiscent of the sea with a high ceiling, glass doors leading to a balcony and a four-poster bed that fairly screamed decadence and comfort. She fully planned to take complete advantage of it.

  There was nothing on their schedule for the evening, although Willie suspected Miss Granville had understood that after more than sixteen hours on a train—no matter how luxurious the train or how tempting the lure of Monte Carlo—no one would be interested in much more than a light meal and an excellent night’s sleep. And indeed, Marian, Jane and Rosalind thought exactly that. The girls, however, protested that it would be a great shame to waste their first night in Monaco. Regardless, it was dark and as they did not have a carriage at their disposal perhaps it would be best to wait until tomorrow to discover the charms of the city. In spite of protests from the younger members of the group, they did indeed retire early.

  Willie doubted she would sleep a wink given her head was filled with debate over Dante’s comments about being on holiday as well as the memory of his kiss. Nonetheless, the sound of the surf in the distance coupled with fresh sea air lulled her to sleep in no time.

  Shocking what a good night’s sleep could do for a woman. It was late morning when Willie awoke refreshed and ready to face whatever the day might bring, including Dante Montague. She stepped onto her balcony, gazed at the sun sparkling on the blue Mediterranean and the most intriguing thought occurred to her. Two could play at his game. While she was not about to be his holiday fling, why couldn’t he be hers? She had been a loyal, faithful wife but she was now a widow and could certainly do precisely as she wished. And if she wanted a bit of discreet fun with a man who wanted her, why shouldn’t she have it? It was a remarkably freeing idea. This, as with everything else in her life, was now in her own hands. Perhaps she truly was an independent woman after all.

  A maid helped her dress and she soon wandered downstairs. Jane and Marian were on the terrace outside the dining room enjoying a breakfast of pastries, cheese, tea and coffee.

  “Are the others up yet?” Willie took the chair at the table between them facing the sea and filled a plate with some of the same delightful offerings she had so enjoyed in Paris.

  “My girls were just starting to stir when I came down. In spite of their protests last night, they were apparently just as tired as we were.” Jane gestured at the pots on the table. “Do you prefer coffee or tea? Monsieur Pennier said the coffee is the marquess’s special blend.”

  “Well then, coffee by all means.”

  “I never imagined I’d be staying in a house owned by royalty,” Marian said with a grin. “A marquess is one step down from a duke, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” Willie didn’t think it necessary to point out the difference between royalty and nobility. Besides, staying in a royal residence would be a much better story for Marian to tell when she returned home.

  “We were just discussing why Mrs. Vanderflute arranged for us to spend nearly as long in Monaco as in Paris.” Marian frowned. “There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of interest here, aside from the casino.” A gleam shone in her eyes. “Unless, of course, the casino was the appeal. I don’t know her very well but perhaps Mrs. Vanderflute has a fondness for the gaming tables.”

  “More likely,” Jane began, “as the casino attracts not only those poor souls Reverend Mother takes in but the cream of European society, as well, she hoped to find a potential husband for her daughter here. Or at least an introduction.”

  “What an interesting idea,” Marian said thoughtfully. “How clever of Mrs. Vanderflute.”

  “Although,” Jane continued, “after months in London and our hectic, somewhat frantic stay in Paris—” she and Marian both aimed accusing looks at Willie who simply smiled and sipped her coffee “—perhaps she thought we could all use a few relaxing days in a tranquil setting.” Her gaze strayed to the view of the sea beyond the terrace. “I have to admit, a few days of serenity has a great deal of appeal. And it is beautiful here.”

  “It’s entirely possible Mrs. Vanderflute understood how exhausting travel can be,” Willie said. “One does tend to forget that in the excitement of planning a tour.”

  And indeed, there was nothing actually scheduled for the length of their stay in the tiny principality. In her written instructions for Willie, Miss Granville had noted the few sights—the palace, gardens and cathedral—but they were certainly not enough to occupy their time. There was, of course, the casino, and while Willie expected they would visit the gambling palace, she doubted her group would wish to spend every minute there. Still, one never knew.

  “When Pennier said we had a houseful of female guests, I had no idea they would be so lovely,” a male voice sounded behind her.

  Jane and Marian glanced toward the stranger then stared in barely hidden admiration.

  “Oh my,” Marian murmured and sat a little straighter.

  “Oh my indeed.” Jane patted her hair to assure it was in place. Both women adopted their brightest smiles.

  Good Lord. Willie would have expected something like this from the girls or even Marian but Willie did think Jane was a more sensible sort. In that apparently she was wrong.

  “Welcome to the Riviera, ladies.”

  Admittedly, even his voice sounded fetching and vaguely familiar in that arrogant, confident tone used only by men who were dashing and handsome and well aware of their charms. Willie had no more than mild curiosity about the new arrival and resisted the temptation to twist around in her chair for a look.

  A moment later, he stepped into view. Willie glanced at him then she too stared.

  “Allow me to introduce myself.” The tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered newcomer took Marian’s hand and raised it to his lips, gazing into her eyes in the tried and true manner of every rogue Willie had ever met. “I am—”

  “Percival St. James,” Willie said with a grin. “Marian, Jane, allow me to introduce a very old friend. This is the Marquess of Brookings.”

  “A marquess? How delightful.” Marian sighed, her hand still in his. “Lovely to meet you, my lordship.”

  Val—as he preferred to be called by his friends—straightened, stared at Willie for a moment then grinned. “Good Lord, Lady Bascombe, you are the last person I expected to see. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I am on holiday with my dear American friends.” Certainly if one looked at it in an extremely narrow manner, one might consider this a matter of employment rather than a lark with friends but there was no need for him to know that. “I might ask you the same thing. Don’t tell me you’re the marquess who owns this villa?”

  “Very well, I won’t.”

  What sort of an answer was that? “Do you?”

  “I do not. However, my stepfather does.” He glanced at the other ladies. “The Marquess of Westvale.”

  “Another marquess,” Marian said under her breath. “Imagine that.”

  “My dear, Willie.” His lordship took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “You look wonderful.” He gazed into her eyes. “I was so sorry to hear of George’s passing.”

  “Yes, I received your note of condolence.”

  “I would have come in person but I was in Paris at the time.”

  “I believe you mentioned that in your note. You have a house there, don’t you?” If Willie recalled correctly, his mother was French and he did seem to spend a considerable amount of time in Paris.

  “I do.” He nodded.

  The marquess had been among he
r circle of friends, or rather former friends, but he had taken his responsibilities surprisingly seriously when he had inherited his title some six or seven years ago and had not been quite as prone to frivolity as he had been in the past. Duty will do that to a man. Odd, that she’d never before realized how admirable that was.

  Jane coughed pointedly.

  “But you haven’t met my friends.” Willie pulled her hands from his and gestured at Marian. “This is Mrs. Henderson of Chicago.”

  Marian beamed. “What a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”

  Val cast a questioning glance at Willie. She bit back a smile, made a mental note to explain proper address to Marian later and nodded toward Jane. “And Mrs. Corby. Jane is from New York.”

  Jane held out her hand and Val obediently took it and raised it to his lips. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

  “I assure you—” again he gazed into Jane’s eyes in that well-practiced manner he had. Still, it was most effective “—the pleasure is all mine.”

  “Jane,” Jane squeaked and cleared her throat. Apparently, even the most sensible among them was not immune to a handsome face and charming manner. “We are all friends here, so you must call me Jane.”

  “And I’m Marian,” Marian added.

  “Excellent, Jane, Marian.” He favored the Americans with a devilish smile and Willie wondered that the women didn’t fan their faces from the heat of it. Some things never changed. “I can always use more friends.”

  Willie retook her seat and Val settled into the vacant chair beside her. “I meant to call on you, to offer my sympathy in person.”

  “What a lovely thought,” Willie said pleasantly. “And yet you didn’t.”

  “By the time I returned to London, you had disappeared,” he said, his tone vaguely chastising. “No one seemed to know where you had gone.”

  “No one made the effort to find out.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  He frowned. “That’s rather thoughtless. Although I must say I’m not surprised.”