She turned on her heel and glared at him. “That painting is mine. It was left to me by my grandmother.”
“Regardless, the fact remains that the Portinari was originally purchased, along with the companion works, by my grandfather.” He could well understand her anger at his not telling her about the painting before now. That was justified and there was no getting around it. But the ownership of the work was another matter altogether. “I have no idea how your grandmother came by the painting but—”
She gasped. “Are you implying she stole it?”
“I did not say that.” Although the moment she said it had come to her from her grandmother, the suspicion certainly came to mind. “I have no wish to cast—”
“I beg your pardon.”
Dante’s and Willie’s attention jerked to the newcomer. Roz smiled pleasantly. He hadn’t heard her approach but then he had other things to contend with.
“First,” his sister began, “the two of you should know that voices here carry in a remarkable manner. We did not hear every word that passed between you but far more than perhaps we should have.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward them. “I do appreciate that your conversation did not include revelations of a more personal nature but I do fear, if you do not remove this discussion to somewhere more private, one or both of you might reveal, oh, details you would prefer to keep to yourselves.”
A blush washed up Willie’s face. “Yes, of course.”
“Excellent idea.” He nodded.
“Then we shall retire to the hotel.” Roz gestured at the others to join them. “The two of you can discuss the situation in a calm and rational manner.” Her gaze shifted between her brother and Willie. “I am willing to act as an arbitrator unless you wish to be alone.”
“I would choose to be thrown to the lions in this very arena before I would ever agree to be alone with him again.” Willie fairly spat the words.
“I pity the lions,” Dante muttered.
“As well you should!” she snapped.
The rest of the group joined them and they made their way back to the hotel. The walk was no more than twenty minutes although it did seem endless. No doubt Roman prisoners doomed to meet their fate in the arena were a jollier band than this company of travelers. Dante had noticed on the first day that the level of noisy chatter of eight women was rarely less than a dull roar. Now they were silent, which was far worse. The Americans walked on either side of Willie, as if protecting or supporting her, the girls—including Harriet—directly behind them. Bertie followed and Roz walked beside her brother, although he was fairly certain she would have preferred to be anywhere else. Apparently, family loyalty counted for something but not much. At least she didn’t point out that if he had taken her advice in Paris to tell Willie about the painting none of this would have happened.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked at last.
“Oh, I shall leave that up to Willie,” Roz said. “Although I do hate to be ostracized simply because I am connected by blood to an idiot.”
“I appreciate your loyalty,” he said wryly.
“You shouldn’t. I am firmly on Willie’s side in this.”
“And I also appreciate you not throwing in my face the fact that you warned me.”
“I see no need to. You’re well aware of your mistakes.” The corners of her mouth quirked as if she were holding back a smile. “But ‘any number of willing females’? Really, Dante?”
“I was making a point.”
“And you do it so well,” she said under her breath.
The moment they reached the hotel, the Americans took their leave with Jane and Marian insisting Harry and Bertie join them for tea or whatever passed for tea late in the afternoon in Verona. Willie agreed to join Dante and Roz in his sister’s suite after she had freshened up. Although he suspected she wished to get her thoughts in order before they continued their discussion. He knew he certainly did.
A half an hour later, he paced the floor in Roz’s parlor, a glass of Campari in one hand, the dossier in the other. “What if she doesn’t come?”
“She’ll come.” Roz sat in a chair near the window and paged through a guidebook.
“How can you be so certain?” He wasn’t at all sure Willie wasn’t even now throwing her things in a bag and preparing to bolt for Venice without him. Nor could he blame her.
“For one thing—” Roz closed the book “—she has nowhere to go. For another, she is the aggrieved party here. She deserves to tell you what a beast you’ve been. She did not lie to you.”
“I didn’t lie. I simply failed to mention anything about the Portinari.”
“Or why you and I and Harriet are on her tour in the first place.” Roz’s brow furrowed. “I do hope she doesn’t hold me responsible for any of this.”
“Oh, I’m sure she places the blame on my shoulders.” Where it belonged.
A knock sounded at the door. Roz glanced at her brother. “Are you ready?”
“No.” He had come up with an idea but there was no guarantee Willie would agree to it. Still, it would keep them together and give him the chance to work his way back into her heart. If it succeeded. He tossed back his drink and set the glass aside.
Roz opened the door and Willie swept inside in an air of indignation, her blond hair slightly disheveled as if she had ripped her hat off without thinking and the tiniest glint of sadness in her eyes. He didn’t dare to hope that meant he might have a chance.
She looked around and sighed. “Nice room. Before anything else,” she said to Roz, “I want to know what your part was in this.”
“I assure you, my part was strictly limited,” Roz said and shook her head. “I thought it was stupid from the beginning but I did agree to go on this tour so that he could come along. And that is the extent of my involvement. In fact, I told him on more than one occasion he needed to tell you everything.” She shot an exasperated look at her brother. “I do wish you would take him off my hands.”
Willie’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Well, perhaps not.” Roz returned to her chair, sat down and picked up her book. “You said you didn’t want to be alone, so I’m, oh, chaperoning you. Just pretend I’m not here.” She opened the book and pretended to read, as the volume was upside down.
“Very well.” Willie turned toward him and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you have to say?”
“I have a proposal for you.”
“Haven’t you done this once before?”
“This is more a matter of business.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”
“I propose we work together to reclaim the Portinari. A partnership if you will. Once we have the painting, we can then decide its ownership.”
“There is nothing to decide,” she snapped then paused for a moment to breathe deeply. “The painting is mine. And I see no reason why I need a partner.”
“Have you ever met the holder of the painting? This count...” He shook his head. “What was his name?”
“You don’t have it in that dossier of yours?”
“Apparently not.” He flipped through the folder.
“I find that shockingly incompetent of your detective. I would refuse to pay him if I were you.”
“The name, Willie.”
“Don’t take that efficient business tone with me. I don’t believe it for a moment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I never would have allowed myself to fall in love with someone so stiff and stodgy.”
“Willie—”
“Lady Bascombe! Only my friends call me Willie.”
“Very well.” He could successfully negotiate all day with a shipping company or an import firm but he couldn’t seem to make a single point with Lady Bascombe. “M
ay I have the name of the count?”
“No.” She smirked.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because as soon as I tell you, you can slink off and approach him before I do, offer him a fortune and steal my painting!”
He stared at her. “How could you think I would do such a thing?”
“How could I think otherwise? I have lain in bed at night pondering how to make certain you don’t get my painting. And considering all the ways you might try.”
He lowered his voice. “That’s not what I’ve been thinking about as I’ve lain in bed at night.”
“Don’t, Mr. Montague.” Her words rang hard and unrelenting. “As you said, this is a matter of business. I don’t intend to warn you again.”
“Point noted,” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended. But she wasn’t the only one who had been hurt. He loved her and she thought he was a cad. It was most distressing. “When are you supposed to meet with this unidentified count?”
“I wrote to him when arrangements for the tour were made, telling him I was traveling with friends to Venice, the dates we anticipated being there and saying I would contact him when I arrived in Venice to arrange a meeting. The day before we left I received his response as well as an invitation to a masked ball given by the conte.”
“What fun,” Roz murmured from behind her book.
Dante ignored her. “Very well.” He thought for a moment. “We arrive in Venice tomorrow. If you arrange to meet him on our second full day in the city—”
“That’s the day before the ball,” she said.
“All that matters is that I will have enough time to telegraph London and see if I can uncover any pertinent information about the man. It’s been my experience that the more one knows of one’s opponents in any negotiation, the better off one is.”
“I don’t know why you think that’s necessary. I have the loan agreement between the conte and my late husband. All I have to do is present the document along with the amount borrowed with interest and I receive my painting.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”
“You’re probably right but what if you aren’t? What if he refuses to give you the painting? What if he claims your husband’s death is tantamount to defaulting on the loan and the painting remains his?”
“I can’t imagine such a thing,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “I’m confident he will abide by the terms of the loan.”
“His terms or yours?”
“I would think—”
“In addition, he could turn over the wrong painting. Do you remember what the painting looks like?”
“Of course I do.” She scoffed. “It’s very dark and old. It has people in it I believe. Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it but I will surely recognize it when I do see it.”
“Would you?”
“Without question,” she said with a confidence he didn’t quite believe. Nor, he suspected, did she. “Probably.”
“The painting in question was the middle of a series of three, referred to as a triptych, that together depict a single story or event, something of that nature.”
“Go on.”
“Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian’s who was perhaps the most important painter in Venetian history. Portinari was a member of his workshop and showed great talent. Unfortunately, he died young, apparently a victim of plague.” He glanced at her. “Are you still listening?”
“I am still awake.”
A groan came from Roz’s corner.
“The three paintings told the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Are you familiar with it?”
“I am not entirely uneducated,” she said in a dry manner. “Orpheus was the son of Apollo, a demigod if you will, who lost the love of his life, Eurydice, on their wedding day. She succumbed to snakebite. He went into hell itself to rescue her and made a bargain with the god of the underworld and his wife. Orpheus wasn’t to look at Eurydice until they were out of hell but he looked too soon and she was pulled back.”
“Oh.” He stared in surprise. “That’s quite good, Lady Bascombe.”
“It’s an excellent story. Quite like Romeo and Juliet in that neither ends well. Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here about the perils of love and why one should avoid it.”
“There isn’t,” he said firmly. “It was a common enough theme, as were most myths. Even Titian painted the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. But Portinari’s are unusual in that he uses three paintings to tell the story. The first—the death of Eurydice surrounding by wedding guests. The third—Orpheus watching his wife be wrenched away from him. And the middle—the missing Portinari—”
“My Portinari.”
“—depicts Orpheus pleading for Eurydice in front of the god of the underworld and his wife with Eurydice standing off the one side.”
“That does sound familiar.”
“Are you confident enough that you could recognize it? I have that knowledge and I am not unskilled in the art of negotiation.” He chose his words with care. “Let us join forces.”
“You and me? Why should I?”
“I have just pointed out that you need me.”
“I have never needed anyone less,” she said in a sharp tone then paused. “However, in a strictly business sense, I could use a man of your skills. Which puts me in a bit of a difficult position.” She met his gaze. Any hint of sorrow he had thought he’d seen earlier had vanished. “There is no time to find another man with your particular skills. But unfortunately, I will not associate in any way with a man I cannot trust.”
He tried not to wince. He had brought it on himself. “I assure you, Lady Bascombe, I will never again do anything that would cause you to distrust me. And once more, you have my most sincere apology.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Shall I believe him, Rosalind?”
“Oh, I would. He’s unfailingly honest.” She turned a page in her book. “At least he was.”
“Very well.” Willie nodded. “I shall consider it.” She turned and headed to the door.
“I need to know as soon as possible.” He stepped toward her. “If I am to send a telegram today.”
“I said I would consider it.”
He stepped around her and opened the door.
“I miss you,” he said quietly.
“Good.” She nodded and took her leave.
He closed the door and sighed.
“That went well,” Roz said brightly.
“Your definition of well and mine are at odds.” He shook his head. “She detests me.”
“Only for the moment.”
“She doesn’t trust me.” He tossed the file on a table and looked for the Campari decanter.
“And why should she? At least right now. You will have to earn back her trust.” She shook her head in a pitying manner. “It’s been quite easy for you up to now. You and she have simply fallen in love with hardly any effort at all on your part. Now, dear brother, you’re going to have to work for it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Itinerary.
Venice.
After bidding farewell to the charms of Verona, we head toward the canals and palaces of Venice. La Serenissima was once considered the jewel of the Adriatic and has retained its allure and elegance to this day. Venice’s fabled history is part of life in this enchanting city.
Here we shall discover the secrets of the Palace of the Doges and the Bridge of Sighs and walk the streets once trod by Mozart and Balzac and Goethe. We shall relish the magnificence of St. Mark’s Cathedral, marvel at the architecture of the grand palazzos and explore the mysterious passageways and narrow canals.
It i
s not uncommon for visitors to Venice to end their day in the extraordinary Piazza San Marco. Here we may reflect on our journey of adventure and relish the endless pageant of life that is Venice.
“I ASSUME THE NOTE that had been slipped under my door when I returned to my room yesterday means you have agreed to my proposal,” Dante said casually.
“Excellent assumption.” Willie directed her words to him but her attention fixed on whatever she was writing in her ever-present notebook.
They had two reserved compartments on the train to Venice, more than enough to suit ten people. But while Willie was busy seeing their luggage was properly loaded, Dante had convinced the rest of their party that they could all make do in one compartment, leaving Willie to share the second compartment with him alone. Although convinced probably wasn’t the right word. In spite of the blatant curiosity of everyone—with the possible exception of Bertie—no one had any particular desire to be trapped for the next few hours in a small space with the two of them. Jane, Marian and Roz had pointed out that Willie would not be especially pleased by the arrangement. They were of course right. Willie was not happy to find the only available seat was across from his. The journey from Verona to Venice was no more than three hours but they were alone together in a confined space and he intended to make good use of it. Willie had never let him explain the circumstances of his alleged deceit and this was his opportunity. He might not make things better but surely he couldn’t make them worse. Hopefully.
“I could certainly have been mistaken as you didn’t write anything beyond the name of the gentleman who has the Portinari.”
“I believe that was all you needed,” she said coolly.
“I have already sent a telegram to my investigator. With any luck, we should have some information on this Conte de Sarafini by tomorrow.”
She made a notation in her notebook.
“It’s always a good idea to know your adversary before confronting him,” he said.
“I don’t know that the conte is an adversary.”
“But you don’t know for certain that he isn’t.”
“Neither do you.”
This was going nowhere. He tried again. “Then we are to be partners in this endeavor?”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger Page 26
