“That’s very kind of you.”
“I can be very kind. I only regret that I do not have time to personally show you everything in my collection today. Perhaps you can return when we are open tomorrow, although I will not be able to join you. My time, alas, is not my own.”
“Unfortunately, my time too is limited. And as much as I hate to admit it, particularly here, surrounded by all these magnificent works, I am not the connoisseur of art that you are.”
“What a very great shame, Lady Bascombe. And what a pity we are both so busy.” An oddly satisfied gleam showed in the conte’s eyes. “I would like nothing better than to educate you in the joy to be found in the appreciation of artistic achievement.”
“Are these Titians?” Dante interrupted, nodding at two paintings on the wall behind the conte.
“Excellent eye, Mr. Quatermain.” The Italian studied the works with a smile. “They are copies of one of Giovanni Bellini’s most famous works. Did you know Titian was a student of Bellini’s?”
“I had no idea,” Dante lied. Willie tried not to stare. What was he up to?
“Several of Bellini’s students made copies of his paintings, fortunately for us. Bellini’s originals were lost to fire centuries ago. These are Titian’s copies of works Bellini painted of the Venetian wars with Rome. The one on the left has been in my family for generations and I was fortunate enough to acquire the second a few years ago.”
“Magnificent.” Dante stared with obvious appreciation.
“And to the left of the Titians—” the conte gestured at the paintings “—is the work of Bellini, his teacher. You are a lover of great art, Mr. Quatermain?”
“Who would not be a lover of works like this?” Dante said smoothly. “I recognize a Titian when I see it but I am not well versed in the works of the Renaissance.”
“Ah well. Perhaps your stay in Venice will be an enlightening one for you, then.”
“No doubt.” Dante smiled in a noncommittal manner.
The conte nodded his approval. “And now that you have seen the work of the master Bellini and his student, who became Venice’s greatest artist, we shall turn to the work of yet another student.” He gestured at the painting to the right of the Titians. “Titian studied with Bellini, Portinari studied with Titian and so the legacy of great art continues through the ages.”
There was no need for him to point out the Portinari. Her memory might have been somewhat vague when it came to describing it to Dante but Willie recognized the painting immediately. And why wouldn’t she? It had hung on the wall in her grandmother’s bedroom for as long as Willie could remember.
There was Orpheus pleading for the life of his beloved before Hades and his wife, with the beautiful Eurydice looking on, her eyes filled with sorrow as if she knew this would not end well. Willie had never before noticed the striking detail of the faces, the emotions conveyed on canvas nor the power of the scene itself. But then, why would she? As a child, she’d paid little attention to the work nor had she been especially interested when she had received it after her grandmother’s death nine years ago. She loved it because her grandmother had loved it. It was a keepsake, a memory made precious because it had belonged to someone she loved. Willie had hung it in an unused parlor and really hadn’t given it a second thought until she’d assessed her assets and discovered it was missing. The work was brighter than she remembered, the colors more vibrant but then it had been a very long time since she last saw it.
“Well,” the conte said lightly, “is it as you remember?”
“No.” Willie shook her head.
“No?” His brow furrowed.
“I don’t remember it being this...wonderful.” She sniffed back an unexpected tear. “Thank you for taking such good care of it. It belonged to my grandmother and I am delighted to be able to reclaim it and return it home.”
The conte smiled with satisfaction and turned his attention back to the painting. “It is indeed a great work and one of three depicting the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice. You are familiar with the story?”
Willie nodded.
“Orpheus went to the underworld to try to save his wife, if I recall correctly,” Dante said. “And even though success was within reach, he ultimately failed because of an error in judgment. A simple mistake if you will.”
“A mistake, Mr. Quatermain?” The conte’s brow rose. “A mistake is the wrong wine served with dinner. Orpheus struck a bargain with the gods then failed to do his part. And paid dearly for it.”
“But surely it was understandable,” Dante continued. “Orpheus never meant to break his word after all. He was distracted by the love of his life and eager to have her in his arms once again. One would think he could be forgiven for that.”
“Some things are simply not forgivable, Allan.” Willie gave him a pointed look.
“The gods do not look kindly upon those who fail,” the conte said. “This work is the middle of the story, intended to be displayed between the other two. It is a great pity that the whereabouts of the others are unknown. They could be in a private collection somewhere in the world. Possibly even here in Venice. Or they may no longer exist, lost to us forever. I imagine all three together would be most extraordinary.”
“Probably,” Dante said. He was very good at acting as if he had no idea what the conte was talking about. The man had all kinds of skills one would never suspect. He met her gaze and nodded slightly.
“Well then,” she said in her brightest tone, “to the business at hand.” She pulled the bank draft from her bag and handed it to the conte. “You’ll see the amount is for the loan plus the accrued interest for these past five years.”
The conte studied it for a moment then nodded. “It appears very much in order. However...” He paused. “I would like nothing more in life than to keep the work here in Venice where Portinari created it. Where the painting has taken the place it belongs here beside the artist’s great master. While your late husband did not wish to sell the painting, he did indicate it was possible that he would be willing to part with it in the future. Should you wish to do so now—” his gaze met hers directly “—I would give you double the amount of the loan. And the interest,” he added.
“What an interesting proposition, my lord,” Dante said quickly, “although I suspect my sister—”
“Thank you, Allan, but I am quite capable of managing my own affairs, particularly in this respect. Your offer is exceedingly generous, my lord.” Although not even a third of what Mr. Hawkings had mentioned. She cast him a brilliant smile. “But I’m afraid I must turn it down. The painting is of great sentimental value to me and I cannot bear to part with it.” Not for that price.
“Of course, but you cannot blame me for the trying. I would offer more but...” He shrugged. “The fortunes of my family are not what they once were.” He cast a longing look at the painting then sighed and gestured to someone unseen. “I shall have the painting securely wrapped for you, to protect and keep it safe on your return travel to England.”
“That would be most appreciated.” Willie beamed. Very soon now, her painting would once again be hers.
Signore Montalvado appeared as if by magic followed by two footmen. The conte handed him the bank draft and spoke to him in Italian. The secretary nodded, took the painting off the wall and carried it to the table. Dante casually wandered over to observe. Goodness, why on earth was the man so suspicious? Everything had gone exactly as Willie had expected. One of the footmen spread out a large piece of oilcloth, removed the canvas from the frame and quickly wrapped the painting. The other footman tied it thoroughly, all under the watchful eye of Montalvado. And Dante.
“And that is that,” the conte said with a resigned smile. “As you are taking the beloved Portinari away from its native land, dare I hope that you will at least do me the great honor of attending ou
r ball tomorrow night?”
“As much as I would be delighted, there is still quite a lot we wish to see in your legendary city and, as I said, our time is limited so I am afraid—”
“No, no, my Lady Bascombe, do not say no. How could you be so cruel? You are taking my painting and yet you refuse my hospitality.” He shook his head in a mournful manner.
“I do apologize. I don’t mean to offend you. But—”
“Let me tell you about the ball. For many, many centuries in Venice there was held a great carnival in the months leading to the Lenten fasting. There were grand balls and great festivities and exquisite costumes and masks—always the mask. Works of art to be worn to enhance or disguise. It was a time of celebration and making merry and passion. But alas, nearly a century ago, that bastardo, the French despot Napoleon conquered our city and proclaimed no more carnevale. No more costumes. No more masks.” His shoulders sagged in resignation.
“But you are having a masked ball?”
“Ah, there was no prohibition against parties of a private nature. Still...” He heaved a sorrowful sigh. “It is a great loss for the spirit of our city.” He fell silent for a moment then brightened. “But we are nothing if not dedicated to the joy of celebration. So we accepted the tyrant’s decree and my family has hosted a grand ball with costumes and masks, halfway between one Easter and the next, ever since. So, my lovely Lady Bascombe—” he again took her hand and lifted it to his lips “—how can you possibly say no?”
“You’re not making it easy.”
“I do not intend to.”
Willie had always planned to return to England when the others headed for Rome in three days. Now that she had the painting, she would much rather leave immediately. Still, it was only one more day.
She pulled her hand free. “For one thing, we have no costumes or masks.”
He scoffed. “We are a city of many shops.”
“And my brother and I are not traveling alone. We have a number of friends with us. Female friends for the most part and half of them are American.”
“Indeed.” His eyes widened. “I very much like Americans. They are so friendly in nature. Much like my own countrymen. They are all most welcome.” He gestured in a grand manner. “You shall give Giuseppe their names and we shall have invitations delivered by this evening.”
She smiled and surrendered. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure everyone will be delighted.”
“And you will save a special dance just for me.” That look was back in his eyes again. “Promise me, cara mia.”
“Of course.” A thought occurred to her and she smiled. “You have already been most kind but could I beg a small favor?”
“You have but to ask.”
“As I do not remember our meeting, I cannot recall if I have met your wife. I would hate to embarrass myself yet again.”
“My wife is no longer with me.” He shrugged.
“Oh my. I thought...” Hadn’t Dante’s investigator said the contessa was more knowledgeable about art than her husband? Good Lord. Dante really did need to find someone who would do a better job as it appeared the woman was dead. “My condolences, my lord. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“She is not dead.” He scoffed. “We had, how you say, words. She is residing elsewhere for a time.” He scowled. “To make me suffer but I will fool her.” He grinned. “I am not suffering the tiniest bit. She will see. She will be back tomorrow.”
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“And I look forward to our dance.” Given the wicked look in his eyes, he intended that dance to lead to something far more intimate than a mere turn on a dance floor.
“What dance?” Dante said in a pleasant tone that struck her as not quite right. The painting was wrapped and under his arm.
“The conte has graciously invited us to a masked ball tomorrow night. All of us.”
“That is very kind of him,” Dante said slowly.
“It is nothing.” The conte spoke to his secretary who pulled a small notebook from a hidden pocket.
“Lady Bascombe?” Montalvado waited, a stub of a pencil poised over the now open notebook. “If you would be so kind as to give me the names of your friends.”
“Of course.” Willie rattled off the names of the others.
“To that I will add your name and—” He glanced at Dante.
“My brother,” Willie offered, “Mr. Quatermain.”
“Mr. Quatermain. Excellent.” Montalvado noted the name. “I shall send, as well, a list of the finer mask and costume shops. Most choose to dress in the manner of the last century when La Serenissima was still in her glory. While costumes and masks are usually made at the request of specific patrons, there are always some available for immediate purchase.”
“Now, Lady Bascombe,” the conte said, “I shall have one of our boatmen take you to your hotel. And I shall count the hours until you return.”
A few minutes later Willie and Dante were once again in a gondola.
“Allan Quatermain?” She scoffed. “Really?”
“It was the first name that came to mind,” he said absently, his thoughts obviously on something else.
“I don’t understand why—”
“I’ll explain later.”
“I think you’re being silly. It all went quite well.” She considered him cautiously. “But then I knew it would.”
“And you were right,” he said through a tight smile.
“It did go well, didn’t it?”
“So it would appear.”
She frowned. “Whatever is the matter?”
He looked over his shoulder at the gondolier then leaned close and spoke softly into her ear. “I don’t think it’s wise to discuss this until we are back at the hotel.”
“Very well,” she said slowly.
The moment they entered her room, he strode toward the bed in a determined manner.
“I beg your pardon.” Willie stalked after him. Why, the man was practically racing toward the bed. Certainly she was grateful for his assistance but she hadn’t forgiven him and she was not about to fling herself into bed with him. She knew coming to her room was probably a mistake as she didn’t have a separate parlor, simply a sitting area, but it was far better than going to his. At least the Portinari was now in her possession. “What do you think you’re doing? Just because we have agreed to be partners and because I might not possibly be as furious with you as I was and you’ve really been quite wonderful since we’ve been in Venice doesn’t mean...”
He stared at her then grinned. “Quite wonderful?”
“I misspoke. I meant to say adequately wonderful.”
“That will do.” His smile faded and he was at once completely serious. He put the package on the bed and started to work at the knots. “This is obviously not meant to be untied until we return to London.”
“Then why are you opening it now?” Unease trickled through her. She took off her hat and placed it on the dresser.
“Because I want to see the painting.” He huffed. “Do you have a knife?”
“No.” She pulled off her gloves. “Why would I have a knife?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped and continued to try to work the knots free.
“Why didn’t you use your own name?”
“Because a serious collector might well be aware of my grandfather’s collection and I am not unknown in the world of collecting.” He managed to loosen one knot. “I simply thought it wise not to reveal my connection to Montague House as well as my knowledge of art.”
“Not necessary as it turned out but admittedly rather clever.”
“It seemed like a good idea. Blast it all.” He yanked at the string in a futile effort to break it. “I saw these knots being tied. They did not s
eem this tight.”
She watched him struggle for a moment. “I do have a pair of scissors. Would that help?”
He glared at her. “Yes, that would indeed help.”
She retrieved her scissors from a dresser drawer and handed them to him. “One of the Lady Traveler Society pamphlets included scissors in a list of items one should never travel without.”
“What a shame they didn’t say the scissors should be sharp,” he muttered. Even so, within a minute he was able to discard the string and unwrap the oilcloth.
The painting lay on the bed on top of the oilcloth looking exactly as it had on the wall.
“My grandmother loved that painting. It meant a great deal to her. I never really appreciated it before.” She smiled. “But now I have heard several lectures on art and I may well have learned something.”
“You like it, do you?”
“I do—it’s really quite remarkable. The figures and the underworld setting, the expressions on the faces, the colors—”
“That’s right, you said it was dark.”
“Obviously I was mistaken. I simply wasn’t remembering it correctly. Why, look at it.” She waved at the work. “The colors are quite vivid.” She drew her brows together. “Do you think perhaps it’s been cleaned?”
“No.”
“Do you think there’s something wrong with it?”
“Not really.”
“Then as I said, I was mistaken.”
“I don’t think so,” he said slowly.
“Then what do you think?” She huffed. “You’ve been acting strangely since we left the conte’s and I insist on knowing why.”
“Do you?”
She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Yes, I do. You obviously think there’s some problem with my painting and I want to know what it is.”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger Page 30
