“As they would love a handsome, disreputable Italian. Although they do all seem to be fond of you for some odd reason.” She considered him thoughtfully. “I’ll not pay you.”
He gasped. “I would never accept pay.”
“We do have a schedule.”
“There are no schedules in Venice.” She would rely on him. And he could regain her trust.
“Very well.”
“You won’t regret this.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Montague, I already do.”
He grinned. This was going well. Oh, certainly she’d said she never wanted to speak to him again. Or be in the same room alone with him again but she’d never said she didn’t wish to ever see him again although that was possibly an oversight on her part. But above all else, she didn’t say she didn’t love him. All he had to do was make her admit it. Or accept it.
“Now then...” She sighed. “Tell me more about Venice.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“THIS IS A very special day, Mr. Montague.” Willie raised her chin and gazed out over the Grand Canal. “This is the day I reclaim my painting and with it my financial independence.”
“My painting.” Dante stepped up beside her and braced his hands on the balustrade. “And you make every day special.”
“What utter nonsense.” She sniffed.
“Which makes it no less true.”
Did he really think complimenting her every five minutes or so would turn her head? Would make her forget his deception? She was not nearly that shallow. Although it was rather nice and he’d been doing it since their arrival in Venice the day before yesterday. The man certainly could be damnably charming when he wanted to be. And clever. He didn’t just direct all that charm at her. Oh no. So much smarter to spread it among all the ladies, regardless of age. Lure them to his side perhaps. He was very good. Young Bertie apparently thought so. Willie had noticed him studying Dante for lessons in how to appeal to the fairer sex.
She glanced at him and narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to charm me again?”
“Is it working?”
“No.” She returned her gaze to the busy waterway filled with steamers and gondolas floating like black swans on the water and fishing boats with their brightly colored sails. “Perhaps.”
“Then indeed I am trying. With all of my heart.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that. What we have at the moment is a truce. Nothing more.”
“My apologies.” A sincere note rang in his voice. She didn’t believe it for a moment. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
“Then try harder.”
Although, to his credit, the man was already trying very hard to make amends. The moment they’d stepped off the train, he took command of their group, arranging for their luggage to be transported to the Grand Hotel via a small steamboat provided by the hotel. Willie vowed to question Miss Granville upon their return as to why nearly every hotel she had arranged for them was called the Grand Hotel. Even though Willie had managed their transportation and luggage quite nicely before now, Venice was an entirely different matter as people and baggage had to be transported by boat. Dante’s Italian was more proficient than anyone else’s, and it was hard not to be grateful for his assistance. Obviously part of his diabolical plan to work his way back into her good graces.
They proceeded to the hotel in two separate gondolas, black in color as decreed by law some four hundred years ago, and Dante pointed out various sights along the way. Here was the palace where Lord Byron had lived with his monkeys, his dogs, a fox and his Italian lover. There was the palace owned by Robert Browning’s son and the famed poet was said to reside there at this very moment. While their gondola did appear quite steady, it rocked in a most alarming manner when Geneva attempted to get a better look. They passed by the Palazzo Vendramin where the famed composer Richard Wagner had died. Dante drew their attention to the Byzantine, Moorish and Gothic influences on the architecture of the city that had flourished for more than a thousand years. And while every fact and figure Dante delivered was surprisingly interesting, and Willie suspected the others agreed with her, Venice needed no explanation. The city was quite simply magical.
Guidebooks did not really prepare one for the reality of La Serenissima. Venice was every bit as remarkable as Dante had claimed. Willie had seen pictures, of course, but nothing could do justice to the manner in which the vibrantly colored, whimsical buildings with their marble steps and ornate carvings seemed to emerge directly from the sea itself. Dante said the posts rising from the waters provided a place to moor the gondolas that served as the main form of transportation and the posts were painted with the colors of the owners of the palaces. He explained how the city was built on a series of islands with wood pilings driven deep into the ground beneath the water to support the structures above.
And was there any better way to travel than to glide silently through the water as a dashing man named for an Italian poet explained everything you might possibly ever want to know? Willie doubted it. For a fleeting moment she tried to summon a measure of guilt for allowing Dante to commandeer the tour but failed. It was scant penance for his crimes. Besides, it was entirely too delightful to leave her hosting duties and the myriad of details that required constant juggling to someone else.
Dante allowed them all time to settle into their rooms—not nearly enough but probably more than Willie would have allocated—before escorting them to the Piazza San Marco and their introduction to Venice. He was clever enough to lead them through narrow winding streets to reach the plaza and they emerged at the far end, opposite the great cathedral. It nearly took one’s breath away. The square that Napoleon had called the drawing room of Europe was far larger than she had expected, bounded on the far end by the extraordinary St. Mark’s Basilica with its domes and arches and spires that glittered in the late-afternoon sun. The other three sides were palaces with arcades stretching the length of each building. Occupied, Dante had reluctantly admitted, by cafés and shops. To the right, one could see part of the doge’s palace. Slightly in front, was the Campanile, the square brick bell tower for the cathedral. It rose more than three hundred feet into the heavens and had been built nearly a thousand years ago then rebuilt again and again through the ages. Geneva pointed out that Galileo had studied the stars here. There was modest interest in climbing to the top sometime during their stay.
Venetians and visitors filled the massive piazza, although it did not strike Willie as overly crowded. People were very nearly outnumbered by pigeons, much to the delight of the younger members of their party. It was apparently the duty of visitors to feed them and indeed the birds did seem to expect it. Odd that creatures one found rather repulsive in London were charming and delightful here but then they were Italian.
Dante held out his arm and a pigeon settled on it. He said these birds were descendants of pigeons who had saved Venice six centuries ago during a dispute with Crete. When it was discovered they were carrying messages for the enemy, the Venetians used that information to their advantage. They captured Crete and brought the carrier pigeons they found there back to Venice. The birds have been welcomed and venerated ever since. Although there did seem to be a great many of them.
They were quite done in by the time they had returned to the hotel and Willie questioned the wisdom of allowing Dante free rein in showing them the city. Still, she was entirely too tired to protest, although in hindsight it might have been wise.
Dante set a punishing pace yesterday, the day going by so quickly, the memories in Willie’s mind jumbled together in bits and pieces, a series of moments. Willie wasn’t sure if it was the haste with which they sped through the city or the barrage of information Dante imparted—good Lord, the man did seem to know a great deal about everything—or simply that there was so very much in Venice to fill the eyes and the senses.
They began yesterday entirely too early but Dante insisted there wasn’t a moment to spare. So much for there are no schedules in Venice. The man was unrelenting. There were things to see and he was going to make bloody well sure they saw them all. He was worse than she was.
They fairly raced through the doge’s palace, which looked very much like a grand wedding cake made of variegated marble and decorated with pinnacles and arches and twisted columns. Dante declared there was no greater symbol of the past glory of Venice than this stone monument to excess and elegance. The structure was massive and they did not do it justice but then one could have spent days within its corridors and council rooms in admiration of architecture and works by grand masters—Veronese and Tintoretto and Titian. They admired the splendor of the interior of St. Mark’s, decorated with mosaics and gold and bronze and climbed to the upper gallery to see the amazing bronze Roman horses that looked out over the city. They did indeed ascend to the top of the Campanile and even the least fit among them agreed the view was well worth the climb. But while one could see the lagoon and the city, oddly enough the canals that wound through Venice were not noticeable.
They wandered through narrow streets and over tiny canals. Even in a city of bridges one could not help but be moved by the Bridge of Sighs, the loveliness of the ornate stone conduit at odds with its history of being the passageway and the last glimpse of freedom for those doomed prisoners of Venice.
Like her brother, Rosalind had been to Venice before but for everyone else this was new and unique. No one was more impressed than the Americans. After all, their country was little more than a hundred years old and the enthusiasm and tirelessness of the Americans—mothers and daughters—was impressive. Rosalind took it as an unspoken challenge. And what was Willie to do if not to come to the aid of an another Englishwoman? They summoned their strength, squared their shoulders and refused to fall behind the other ladies.
They were approaching the Rialto Bridge, for centuries the marble structure was the only bridge spanning the Grand Canal, when Harriet drew Willie aside for a private moment. As the others were eager to see not just the bridge itself but the many shops it now housed, Willie waved them on and gratefully sank onto a convenient stone bench.
“Might I ask you a question?” Harriet asked.
“As long as I can sit down for a moment.” Willie blew a long breath. “Your uncle is tireless.”
“And given his age too.” Harriet shook her head in disbelief.
“I think he has a few active years left,” Willie said, trying not to laugh.
“I do hope so.”
Harriet reminded Willie a great deal of herself at Harriet’s age, although Dante’s niece was rather spoiled and far more headstrong than Willie had been. Of course, Willie had married George in defiance of her father so her memory might be flawed on that point. “What is it?”
“Have I made a dreadful mistake?” Harriet’s gaze strayed to Bertie. He and the twins were listening to Dante expound on some historic note about the bridge’s history or original construction or something probably at once interesting and endless.
“Not yet.” Willie paused. “You haven’t, have you? At least not any kind of irreversible mistake?”
Harriet’s cheeks reddened. “Of course not. I would never.” She sighed. “Am I an idiot? I thought Bertie was so...so perfect in London. But he’s really not at all, well, dependable, is he? He’s quite delightful and I do so enjoy his company but he’s not the type of man one can count on. He is a dreadful flirt.”
“Is he?”
“Oh my, yes.” She paused. “And then there is the question of money.”
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t have any at the moment.” She grimaced. “It’s rather distressing. Oh, he does have an allowance and he did mention something about a trust.”
“Bertie doesn’t have a care in the world but then he is barely twenty-one. It’s very nearly too early to know what kind of man he will become.” Willie chose her words carefully. “However, it has been my experience that men who do not display any sense of responsibility when they’re young may not manage it when they are older. When it’s important.”
Harriet’s brow furrowed. “Do you think Bertie will?”
“I don’t know. He does seem a decent sort.” Willie studied Harriet for a moment. “If you are asking for my advice, I would suggest waiting to see what kind of man Mr. Goodwin becomes in a year or so from now.”
Harriet nodded thoughtfully. “I was thinking much the same thing.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Actually, I’m fairly certain that Bertie is entirely too young for me. I’m most mature for my age, you know.”
“I had noticed that.” Willie wasn’t sure if she should feel sorry for Bertie or congratulate him.
By the time the day had ended, Willie had no idea how many churches they had visited—although it did seem most were built either in an effort to beg some saint to protect the city from plague or in gratitude to another saint for ending the plague—or how many museums or galleries. Willie wasn’t sure if Dante was trying to exhaust the rest of them or himself.
The group returned to the Piazza San Marco after a tasty dinner at a restaurant Dante had patronized on a previous visit. They settled in chairs under the stars and ordered scandalously overpriced coffees and ices. A band played in the piazza and couples danced. One of her guidebooks had mentioned how Venice was fascinating by day but by night became something conjured of fairy dust and magic. The book was right.
Dante and Bertie had made it a point to dance with every female and refusing would have been awkward when Dante asked her to dance. It was a terrible mistake. The feel of his body moving next to hers. The faintest scent of spice on his coat. The magic of the stars overhead. They were in the midst of a sizable group of people and yet it seemed they were all alone. He didn’t attempt conversation and she was grateful that he wasn’t trying to press his case. And perhaps a bit disappointed. There was nothing quite as rousing as trading barbs with him.
But that was last night and she had other matters to concern herself with today. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if Dante’s determination not to pause for breath since their arrival in Venice was intended to keep her mind off their meeting with the conte. The Italian had responded to her note by inviting them to join him late in the morning today at his palazzo. His missive had been quite cordial and she wasn’t the least bit nervous. Or at least she hadn’t been until she recalled all the possible problems Dante had pointed out in his effort to convince her to join forces. How on earth was she going to do this? She would never admit it to him but she was quite glad that he was coming along.
“I think our truce is working nicely.” Dante’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were commenting on something no more important than the weather.
“I have not forgotten that you lied to me. You would do well to remember it, as well.”
“I did not lie,” he said smoothly. “I simply failed to mention a few unimportant details.”
“Unimportant?” She turned toward him and ticked the points off on her fingers. “One—you joined my tour, and forced your sister and niece to join it, as well, only so that you could lay claim to my painting when I finally retrieved it. And two—you believe my painting—my salvation—belongs to your family.”
He shrugged. “Relatively insignificant really.”
“You deceived me.”
“Only in the narrowest definition of the term.”
“And then you seduced me.”
“Yes, I did.” He grinned.
“You needn’t look so proud of it.”
“I feel many things about that night but pride is not one of them. It was not some sort of accomplishment. Indeed, it took very litt
le effort on my part. If I recall correctly—”
“Which I’m sure you don’t,” she said in a lofty manner. Admittedly, she had practically fallen into his arms but then—at that particular moment—she had thought she was in love with him. And had thought he was in love with her. But could one truly be in love with someone who had deceived you from the first moment you met? Someone you could no longer trust? A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered yes. She ignored it.
“I will continue to apologize and grovel if you wish about everything else but—” he shook his head “—I will not apologize for taking you in my arms and—”
“That’s enough.”
“—kissing that delectable spot—”
“Stop it right now!”
“You’re quite lovely when you’re angry,” he said. “When your eyes shoot fire and your cheeks are flushed. It’s terrifying but extremely exciting.”
“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Montague. And that sort of amiable banter will not work with me.”
He smiled in a knowing manner and she wanted to smack him.
“And would you stop being so blasted nice.”
“I’m afraid not.” He grinned. “I am, if you recall, extraordinarily nice. Why shouldn’t I be nice now?”
“Because I am starting to trust you again!” She huffed and turned her attention back to the view of the canal, dominated by the baroque Santa Maria della Salute. According to Willie’s guidebook, this church too had been built in dedication to the Virgin Mary in hopes she would protect the city from plague. “And I fear, Mr. Montague, trusting you again would be a grave mistake.”
“Or brilliant. Forgiving being divine and all.”
She ignored him and moved off the balcony and back into Rosalind’s suite. No doubt Dante’s was at least as big. They had told the others there was nothing on the schedule for the day and they would be free to do as they wished. As Jane, Marian and Rosalind had all taken note of the location of shops they had passed yesterday, Willie had no doubt they would find something to pass the time.
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger Page 28
