The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger

by Victoria Alexander

  “Not at all.” Jane waved off the comment. “We really didn’t want outrageous as much as we wanted someone who wasn’t, oh, stuffy. You’ve suited us well and we’ve become friends, which is so much better than we could have imagined.”

  “And because we have come to know you, it’s easy to see that today you are not your usual lighthearted self,” Marian added.

  “Nonsense. I am exactly as I always am.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Jane stood and picked up Willie’s guide from the table. She flipped it open and cleared her throat. “On our right,” she said in a poor imitation of an English accent as she gestured to the right-hand windows, “we have the Ligurian Sea, lovely on the surface but deceitful and treacherous beneath the waves.”

  Willie snorted back a laugh. “I do not sound like that.”

  “And on our left—” Marian rose to her feet and waved at the left-hand windows “—we are passing the charming village of Andora, where one can just make out the ruins of a castle said to be haunted by a papal nuncio who was murdered here some centuries ago. The victim of lies and betrayal.”

  “Your accent is no better than Jane’s.”

  Jane ignored her. “On the right side, our view of the beautiful Ligurian continues, the sea crashing against the rocky coast with a vengeance known only by those who have been cruelly mistreated and deceived.”

  “While here on our left, the small village of Alassio, named for the daughter of an emperor who fled here with her lover, who no doubt treated her quite badly in a devious and vile manner as men are prone to do.” Marian raised a brow. “Do you see a recurring theme here?”

  Willie wrinkled her nose. “Possibly.”

  Jane sat back and tossed the guidebook onto the table. “You haven’t said two words to Mr. Montague all day and those few you have have been nothing more than polite and rather cold.”

  Marian plopped back into her seat. “There’s been none of that flirtatious banter we all so enjoy watching. No sidelong glances, no longing looks.”

  Willie scoffed. “I have never looked longingly at him.”

  “Perhaps not but he has looked longingly at you.” Jane paused. “He still does.”

  “It scarcely matters what he does or doesn’t do,” Willie said staunchly. “I want nothing more to do with him.”

  “Really?” Jane studied her closely then chose her words with care. “This has nothing to do with his jealousy of Lord Brookings, does it? One doesn’t use words like treachery or betrayal or lies when it comes to that sort of behavior. No, Mr. Montague has done something else, hasn’t he?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  “Come now, Willie,” Marian said, “you can tell us.”

  “No, Marian.” Jane laid her hand on Marian’s arm but her gaze stayed on Willie. “It appears this is far more serious than we had thought. If Willie doesn’t want to talk about it, we shouldn’t persist. But, Willie.” Her gaze met Willie’s directly. “If you change your mind, we are always willing to listen.” She smiled. “And offer sage advice if needed.”

  “It’s what friends do and we are your friends.” Marian nodded. “No matter what, we will always be on your side.”

  “That is good to know.” Her spirits lifted. A man had deceived her and toyed with her affections and, yes, broken her heart, but she had friends. Real friends. Women who were concerned about her, who would stand by her regardless of what might happen. Affection for these women washed through her.

  “Now then.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “What charming, picturesque village fraught with treachery and deceit perpetrated by wicked, heartless men will we be passing next?”

  * * *

  COULD ONE ASK for better friends than Jane and Marian? The ladies took it upon themselves to keep Willie from any and all inadvertent, private encounters with Dante, closing ranks around her with the precision of a military exercise. From the moment they arrived in Genoa, the Americans were by her side. And that, together with her schedule, would maintain Willie at least for now.

  Willie wasn’t at all sure what she had expected, she had studied her guidebooks after all, but Genoa was a bustling seaport with more than a hundred thousand residents. Not as sizable as London by any means but far larger than the rustic village she had expected. Immediately after checking in to the Hotel Continental, the group agreed to a stroll before dinner. Jane had especially wanted to see the monument to Columbus with its marble statue of the explorer together with a female figure representing America and seated figures portraying Geography, Discretion, Steadfastness and Religion on the four corners of the huge square pediment. It was most impressive even if Geneva had felt compelled to point out it was likely Columbus was not actually born in Genoa and, furthermore, the city had turned down his request to fund his voyages; therefore the shrine was the height of irony. Still, it was an imposing monument.

  Rosalind decided Bertie would be fully Dante’s responsibility. Which meant Dante was also saddled with the girls, all of whom seemed to find the handsome Mr. Goodwin quite dashing, much to Harriet’s annoyance. Young Bertie, with his brown hair and blue eyes, was indeed charming even if a bit inexperienced. One could almost see the young man’s head swell with every passing moment and every adoring glance from the girls. Apparently, the admiration of not one but four lovely young women stoked the boy’s confidence, as well. He was not nearly as intimidated by Dante as he had been last night—at least according to Harriet’s account of the story. If Willie had been inclined to give Dante credit for anything, and she wasn’t, she might have admired his cleverness at including Bertie in their group. After all, she doubted Harriet had spent any significant time in the young man’s company and now that he was part of their tour, they would be around each other constantly. There was nothing that bred contempt quite as quickly as proximity unless, of course, it was deception, betrayal and treachery.

  After a pleasant evening and a fine dinner, everyone retired to their respective rooms. Willie noted a moment of gratitude to young Mr. Goodwin. If not for his presence in Dante’s rooms, the beast would no doubt have knocked on her door late in the night. She had no desire to have it out with him in the corridor of a hotel in the ancestral home of the discoverer of America. Tomorrow perhaps she would be calm enough to confront him. It was obvious today the man was completely confused by her refusal to so much as meet his gaze. Good. The very least he deserved was confusion.

  Their full day in Genoa was bright and sunny, with balmy ocean breezes. The city was a fascinating mix of old and new. Ancient winding streets, so narrow one could almost touch the immensely high, brightly colored buildings on either side, climbed upward from the sea to the mountains in the oldest parts of the city. While few of the palaces from the days when Genoa ruled the sea were open for public viewing, one could easily see into the courtyards with their ornate columns and arches, marble arcades and grand stairways. They spent far more time than Willie would have liked in the Palazzo Rosso, a glorious Renaissance palace that now housed the most extensive collection of paintings in the city. Dante enjoyed it and lectured the others on the importance of one artist or another. The man should have been a professor.

  The extent to which the past pervaded was all encompassing. And really quite fascinating. Who would have thought she would grow to like history? But one could almost hear the footsteps of those who had come before. The crusaders and explorers, admirals and princes.

  A shrine to a saint or the virgin was on every corner. One wondered if that meant there were too many sinners or not enough. There were nearly as many churches or cathedrals—each and every one of them with something of historic or artistic merit. The earliest cathedral was said to occupy the site of a temple of Diana and included columns from the temple itself. It was a wonder some irate divinity didn’t smite them all.

  And towering in the southern sk
ies over the harbor the great lighthouse rose nearly four hundred feet into the sky. A suggestion that they climb to the top was met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, a massive structure that had been built and rebuilt and altered for the past six hundred years. The facade was constructed of black-and-white marble so as to give the building a striped effect. Had it not been so imposing, Willie would have considered it rather whimsical in appearance. Still, in spite of the works of art and relics to be found within its walls, she reminded the others—as she had done every time they entered a church—that this was a place of worship and they should be restrained and respectful. Suitably subdued, they filed into the cathedral and immediately scattered. Willie noted Dante following Harriet and Bertie, who were probably just excited to see one of the many frescoes by Renaissance masters and not merely eager to escape the ever-watchful eyes of Harriet’s family. They would keep his attention for a while.

  It was indeed a remarkable building. Dante would surely appreciate the cathedral’s frescoes and sculptures. Art here was part of the very character of the structure. Willie craned her neck to study the fresco in the vaulted ceiling of the choir. As much as she was not particularly interested in anything of an artistic nature, the paintings depicting the martyrdom of San Lorenzo were mesmerizing. Even from this distance, the life-size figures were finely detailed and quite extraordinary. She could see how, possibly, someone might be fascinated by works like this as well as by the men who created them.

  “Might we talk for a moment?” Dante asked in a hushed voice beside her.

  Blast it all. She’d been so busy staring at the fresco, she hadn’t heard him approach. “We’re in a church, Mr. Montague, a place of worship. This is neither the time nor the place.”

  “Yes, of course but—”

  “And I am deep in the appreciation of art, Mr. Montague. Art!” Her voice was louder than she had intended, and she drew a calming breath, then directed her attention to him. “Surely you understand art? How one can be taken with a painting?”

  “Yes, I do. I didn’t expect that you...”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That I what?”

  “Well, you did say you were not especially fond of art.”

  “I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Now I am.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” he said slowly.

  “Believe what you want. But we are in Italy, the heart of the Renaissance. Some of the most magnificent works of civilized man were created during that period.” Thank God she continued to study her guidebooks. She sounded shockingly well-versed. “The painting above is the work of Lazzaro Tavarone, considered late Renaissance. He was a native of Genoa, although he also painted in Spain.”

  Dante stared.

  “Close your mouth, Mr. Montague. That look is not at all becoming.” She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Why?” Her jaw tightened. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing.” His voice rang with confused innocence. It would have been most effective had she not known the truth. “If this is about the other night—”

  “It’s not.” She cast a pointed look at his hand on her arm and he released her.

  “Because I thought it was remarkable. I thought—” his gaze searched hers “—it was a beginning.”

  “You were wrong,” she said sharply, ignoring the awful hurt that stabbed through her as she said the words.

  “If this is about Bertie—”

  “It’s not.” Panic warred with anger within her. Another few moments and she would lose all control and tell him what she thought of him. Tell him how much he had devastated her. And she would do so at the top of her lungs right here surrounded by sacred relics and the ghosts of saints and martyrs. And would no doubt immediately be struck by a thunderbolt from the heavens and eventual eternal damnation. “If you will excuse me.”

  “At least tell me what I have done.” The plaintive note in his voice nearly pulled her up short but she didn’t so much as hesitate in her march down the aisle to the front of the church. The significance was not lost on her.

  “Willie.” He was right behind her.

  She whirled to face him. “I can’t believe a man of your intelligence cannot ascertain that for himself!”

  “Lady Bascombe.” Geneva appeared beside them, righteous indignation in her eyes and apparently oblivious to what she’d interrupted. Willie could have kissed her.

  She summoned a measure of calm. “What is it, Geneva?”

  “Did you know they have the ashes of Saint John the Baptist here?”

  Willie nodded. It was in one of her guidebooks.

  “They have a special chapel and that’s where the ashes are. But—” Geneva paused for dramatic effect “—women are not allowed inside. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “It’s probably some sort of superstition,” Dante offered.

  “No, it’s retribution.” The girl fairly quivered with outrage. “Because a woman—Salome—demanded John the Baptist’s head.”

  “I suppose that’s the price to be paid—” Willie’s narrowed gaze shifted to Dante “—for betrayal and treachery.”

  “But it’s not fair that we all have to pay.” Geneva huffed. “I have certainly never demanded some man’s head on a platter.”

  “And let us hope you never need to, although one can certainly understand the temptation.” Willie shot a chilling look at Dante then took Geneva’s elbow and steered her toward the front of the church.

  Geneva leaned close and spoke softly. “You’re still angry at him, aren’t you?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Willie said lightly. “Did your mother say something?”

  “Mother didn’t have to. It’s obvious you’re angry. The other girls have been talking about it. And it’s just as obvious that he has no idea why.”

  Willie glanced at her. “You really aren’t upset about not being able to go into the chapel, are you?”

  “Oh, I think it’s unconscionable. It is nearly the twentieth century after all.” Geneva shrugged. “But as it looked to me that you were about to smack Mr. Montague at any minute, I thought it best to provide a distraction and initiate a rescue.”

  Willie choked back a laugh. “You are a clever girl.”

  Geneva grinned.

  “You don’t think he knows what he’s done?”

  “Lady Bascombe, I have two older brothers. I have seen that look on the face of a man before.” She hesitated. “I really don’t think it’s fair, you know.”

  “Not being allowed into the chapel?” Willie asked in an effort to steer Geneva in another direction. “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do about it.”

  “Not that, although it isn’t fair, but Mr. Montague not knowing why you’re mad at him.”

  “Probably not.” Willie’s jaw tightened. “But he prides himself on his intelligence. Let him figure it out.” The question was—when would he manage to do so? Regardless, she intended to be prepared when he finally confessed all. Forewarned was certainly forearmed in this case. Indeed, at the moment, it did seem she had all the cards.

  Now she had to determine exactly how she wished to play them.

  * * *

  THIS TRICK OF getting nine—now ten—people from place to place was proving easier and easier. Perhaps Willie would indeed continue escorting travelers for the Lady Travelers Society. There were worse ways to spend one’s life than traveling the world. Certainly Willie’s Italian was little better than her French—she would have to work on that—but Geneva and the twins spoke it rather well. The train trip to Verona was uneventful and surprisingly calm, although there were undercurrents ebbing throughout the entire party.

  Harri
et was not happy with Bertie, who did seem most apologetic even if he did not desist flirting with the other girls entirely. At some point Willie might want to warn Harriet that men who were overly flirtatious in their youth rarely abandoned that tendency in later life. Although one probably couldn’t blame the boy. The twins showered him with endless attention and Geneva was an excellent conversationalist and extremely engaging when the discussion was a matter of intellectual interest. Bertie was far smarter than he had first appeared, and it was hard not to see that he and Geneva seemed to have more in common than he and Harriet did. Which might or might not have been noticed by Harriet but was certainly noted by both Marian and Rosalind—to one’s dismay and the other’s delight. As much as Marian longed for a prestigious match for her daughter, the youngest son of an earl with no prospect of a title was not what she had in mind, although Willie would wager she would have overlooked that discrepancy if the boy was heir to a tidy fortune.

  Rosalind was not the least bit pleased with Dante for inviting the young man to join their party and did not waver in her surveillance of her daughter. Dante acted as if nothing whatsoever had happened between him and Willie, which suited Willie, although whenever her gaze accidently strayed in his direction, he was inevitably studying her. She refused to acknowledge him. He could simmer in his own confusion—and hopefully guilt—for all she cared.

  Willie and the others continued to marvel at the lack of rhyme or reason for the curious itinerary planned by the absent Mrs. Vanderflute. But there was no disputing Verona was all Willie had ever imagined an ageless Italian town to be with its brick and stucco, red-roofed buildings and cobblestone streets. Like Genoa, Verona was a mix of the ages but here the influence of ancient Rome was still apparent and blended with the glory days of the Renaissance when Verona was under control of Venice. There were certainly charming villages and evidence of ancient Rome’s reach in her own country but Willie had never paid much attention. It was simply part of the fabric of Britain. But the Americans were captivated and their enthusiasm was contagious. Willie did wish she had paid more attention to her studies in school but history in a book had been dry and deadly. Here it was alive.