The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger

by Victoria Alexander

  “With a guidebook in one hand and a sturdy parasol in the other?” he said wryly. “Although I would like to see that.”

  She ignored him. “Why, I shall lead them into battle myself.”

  “We are not going to storm the palazzo with swords and daggers, you know.”

  “I find that a very great pity. And I do realize I am not leading them into an actual battle. More a figurative one.”

  “Ah well, as long as you realize that.”

  “I am invoking the appropriate spirit.” She straightened her shoulders. “And I have tried to do my very best whether it is in navigating the treacherous waters of French customs agents or an act of larceny.”

  He smiled. “I am aware of that.”

  “You may, however, have Bertie to lead.”

  “I am a lucky man.”

  “Yes, Mr. Montague.” She met his gaze firmly. “You are.”

  He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant and preferred to consider it in a positive light. But now was probably not the best time to discuss their future. Not until he had her painting. And her trust.

  “As are you, Lady Bascombe.” He pulled her into his arms and grinned down at her. “The intrepid hero Allan Quatermain is at your service.”

  “You are not Allan Quatermain.” She huffed. “You are not the hero of a novel of adventure.”

  “I am something much better.”

  “Are you indeed?”

  “I am the man who would do anything for you.” He nodded and released her. “And regardless of what it takes, no matter the risk or the danger, I intend to prove it.”

  And how could she not trust him then?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “ARE YOU READY?” Dante stood near the top of the marble stairway and gazed over the mass of celebrants in the conte’s grand ballroom, grateful for the first time this evening that his mask was annoyingly tight against his skin. It had bothered him since he’d first put it on and he wanted nothing more than to rip it off his face but at least it did not obscure his vision.

  If Dante did not know it was 1889, he certainly would have thought he was in another time when Venice ruled the seas and was the center of wealth and elegance, excess and decadence. He had no idea how many people were here but the crowd flowed from the entry up the grand stairway and into an immense ballroom. This ballroom put the gallery they had visited yesterday to shame with soaring ceilings painted with celestial beings—by Tiepolo if he was correct—carved marble columns and ornate gilded plasterwork. All illuminated by huge glass chandeliers. A bit overdone to his taste. It was all Dante could do not to shield his eyes against the splendor and the sparkle. The crowd itself was no less impressive. Not a face was uncovered by a mask—some made simply of fabric covering only the wearer’s eyes, others extravagant with jewels and beads and feathers. Rich silks and brocades had been fashioned into the styles of the last century. It was a setting straight from a stage play or an opera or an enchantment. Or the oddest dream he’d ever had.

  “I’ve been ready since we arrived,” Willie said on his left.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Jane added on his right.

  All in all, it was a relatively simple plan. They’d worked out the details last night. It had taken several hours simply to gather the group in Rosalind’s suite as nearly everyone had been out enjoying the sights—or the shops—of Venice.

  Dante had long known women were odd and unexpected creatures. Even so, the devious plotting and planning of these lady travelers was a revelation. It was impossible to determine which proposal excited the group more—the prospect of a masked costume ball at a genuine Venetian palazzo or the idea of stealing a Renaissance work of art. Poor Bertie seemed the slightest bit taken aback by it all. Apparently, the young man thought ladies were above such diabolical machinations. Best to shatter that illusion—and the pedestal it sat on—once and for all.

  While Willie and Dante began their quest for masks and apparel, Roz and the others had started their day with a discreet stop at the conte’s gallery to confirm that the Portinari was indeed back where the copy had hung yesterday. Dante refused to consider what would happen to their plan if the painting was not in the gallery.

  It was agreed among the older members of their party that the girls and Bertie would not play a role in the actual retrieval of the painting—a no doubt futile effort to keep them at a distance should tonight not go well. The Portinari’s reclamation would be left to Dante and Willie and to Jane to a certain extent. Who would have imagined the seemingly sensible American would have the skills necessary to pick a lock? Jane had taken the opportunity during their visit to the gallery to take a good look at the door separating the public area from the conte’s residence and had declared the lock to be insignificant, meant primarily for interiors and easy to force. Jane did not disclose how she had come by this knowledge and had waved off inquiries by saying she had brothers and sons and she read a great deal. The other ladies accepted her explanation without question.

  If Dante had ever imagined himself in the midst of a plot to steal a painting from a Venetian palazzo—and he had not—he certainly wouldn’t have thought it would be in the company of eight stunning women in the costumes of another era. Casanova would feel right at home but then Venice had been the infamous scoundrel’s home. The ladies had all managed to find powdered wigs, exquisite masks, flowing cloaks and perhaps the most voluminous gowns he had ever seen. Indeed, it had taken four separate gondolas to transport the party to the ball. He had never given much thought to the whims of fashion and certainly had never before considered the dress of another century and yet whether or not they were successful tonight was entirely at the mercy of fashion. Willie had secured the carefully rolled up copy beneath the paniers of her gown and had also hidden a few candle stubs somewhere within the yards of fabric, which would be necessary to provide light as it would be dark in the gallery. The plan called for Dante to remove the Portinari from its wooden supports and replace it with the copy.

  Once Jane opened the door, she would remain on guard while Willie and Dante traded the copy for the Portinari. The others were to keep an eye on the conte to make certain he didn’t follow Willie. In the hour or so they’d been here, she had already danced with him more than once. The man did seem determined to seduce her, although—even if she’d been interested—Dante suspected his efforts would be futile. The conte was well on his way to complete inebriation and was as taken by Marian, Roz and the girls as he was by Willie. Not that any of them were identifiable. There was much to be said for a crowded ballroom and the anonymity of the disguises of another era.

  “Jane,” Willie said quietly, “as much as I appreciate your willingness to assist us, this will make you complicit in a questionable—”

  “Illegal,” Dante murmured.

  “—endeavor in a foreign country. It is not too late to change your mind.”

  “Goodness, Willie, I never in my wildest dreams even imagined an adventure like this. Why, it’s exactly the type of thing the Wilhelmina Bascombe Miss Granville told us about would do, and I do not intend to miss it. Furthermore, the painting belongs to you. Our retrieval effort may be unorthodox but I do not consider it wrong either morally or legally,” Jane said firmly. “It’s the sort of thing one does for friends and I would expect my friends to do no less for me.”

  “You must have very good friends,” Dante said under his breath.

  “I do.” Jane nodded at Willie. “And so does she.”

  “If you’re certain,” Willie said. “I would not blame you if you reconsidered and it will not affect our friendship in the least.”

  “I am certain. Besides—” Jane chuckled “—the literary society will be beside themselves. Imagine, quiet Jane Corby assisting a viscountess to steal a painting from an Italian conte at his palace on the canals of Venice. It’s
better than most of the books we read.”

  “Then after you, ladies.” Dante turned and gestured toward the stairway.

  Jane started down the stairs.

  “Lady Bascombe.” Dante leaned close and spoke quietly into her ear. “You look exquisite tonight.”

  “Yes, Mr. Montague, I know.” Her eyes twinkled behind her mask.

  Willie’s gown was a cream-colored satin embroidered with crystals and touched with lace dripping from her sleeves. Every move she made caught the light and cast a glow of magic around her. He had already noticed how that same lace framed the gown’s shockingly low bodice in a most enticing manner. It was apparently the nature of this antiquated style of dress that flattened the torso and pushed the bosom upward in a tantalizing display of feminine charms. Dante had warned Bertie that he might try not to stare quite so obviously at the girls in their costumes, although to give the boy his due—they did all look tempting. And each and every one of them knew it. The thought struck him that someday he might be the father of daughters. And while he would hope they were as lovely as their mother, the idea was as terrifying as it was delightful. Stealing Willie’s painting was one step closer to winning her heart.

  “But I must say, I never suspected a man in a powdered wig, short satin pants and stockings would be quite so...seductive. And romantic.”

  He grinned. “You think I’m seductive and romantic?”

  “I think the costume is seductive and romantic, Mr. Montague, as is the setting we find ourselves in. But one can certainly see how such an ensemble would enhance the charms of a man like Casanova.”

  “And a man like myself?”

  “Your charms are still in question,” she said in a lofty manner and started after Jane.

  He chuckled and followed a scant step behind. The crush of guests on the steps impeded their descent and they made their way down at a frustratingly slow pace. Dante was surprised to note his own impatience. On one hand, he wanted this over with. On the other, it was indeed the most exciting thing he had ever done.

  In spite of his annoyance at their sedate progress, he couldn’t help but appreciate the view.

  The broad width of Willie’s skirt swayed with her hips at every step she took in a way that could only be called inviting and he tried to force his thoughts back to the task before them. It wasn’t easy. His gaze kept drifting to the nape of her neck and he couldn’t dismiss the memory of how she had melted in his arms when he had kissed her there. And how much he enjoyed kissing her there.

  She paused at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at him, a vision straight from a Venetian artist’s canvas. For a long moment he could do nothing but stare.

  “Dante,” she said quietly although she needn’t have bothered. There seemed to be just as many people on this floor as there had been on the floor above. He could barely hear her over the din of riotous chatter, unrestrained laughter and explicit flirtation, not to mention the music that drifted down the stairway. “What on earth is the matter?”

  He shook his head to clear the fog of a past Venice that would never be again and perhaps a ghost or two. “Nothing.” He nodded toward the passageway. “Shall we?”

  They shouldered their way through the crowd to the corridor leading to the gallery, smiling and laughing as if they had nothing more on their minds than a jolly good time. The ladies stepped into the hall, Dante lingering behind to see if anyone noticed them. No one did, although Dante would have wagered almost anything outrageous could happen here and these partygoers would barely pause for breath.

  A conveniently lit sconce glowed softly on the wall, illuminating the door to the gallery. Dante remained positioned where he could keep watch on the entry to the passageway. Jane removed her mask and sank down in front of the door. She studied the lock for a moment then pulled a long, thin tool from her powdered wig.

  “What is that?” Dante stared. Good Lord—did the American really have lock-picking tools? Who was she anyway?

  Jane and Willie traded amused glances.

  “You must forgive him,” Willie said. “He’s never done anything improper before.”

  “Neither have I. But I do know a buttonhook when I see one.” Jane turned her attention to the door. “Although I am flattered that he thinks I have nefarious tendencies.” Jane inserted the buttonhook and bent to the task at hand.

  “The literary society will be most impressed.” A grin sounded in Willie’s voice.

  Why weren’t these women taking this in the serious manner it deserved? They were breaking into a building owned by a Venetian nobleman while said nobleman and hundreds of his closest friends frolicked well within reach. They acted as if this were some kind of a lark. A picnic in Hyde Park. A stroll along—

  “There it is.” Satisfaction sounded in Jane’s voice and Willie helped her to her feet. “That was far easier than I expected.”

  Jane stepped back and Willie carefully opened the door. The gallery was dark as expected. She and Dante removed their masks and handed them to Jane.

  “A candle if you please, Lady Bascombe.” He held out his hand.

  She started to reach in her bodice then paused. “Turn around.”

  “I really don’t think it’s nec—”

  “Turn around!”

  “Very well.” He turned his back to her. “I daresay this is not the time for needless modesty.”

  “I would have thought a man of your nature would never think modesty needless.”

  “As I have told you—” his jaw tightened “—I have changed.”

  “You may turn around, Mr. Montague,” Jane said. “I assume you remembered to bring matches.”

  “Of course I did.” He pulled a match from his waistcoat pocket, struck it and lit the candle Willie held. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Goodness, Mr. Montague, let’s just get on with it.” Impatience rang in Willie’s voice.

  “I am as eager to get this over with as you are,” he said sharply, even as he realized her tone—and his—was as much a product of apprehension as anything else. In spite of her bravado up to now, she knew as well as he that this was still a potentially hazardous endeavor.

  Willie stepped into the darkness and he started after her.

  “Mr. Montague.” Jane leaned toward him as he passed.

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “To alleviate your concern that you have fallen into a den of American miscreants—” her eyes sparkled “—you should know my grandfather was a locksmith.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Corby, I never suspected...” He sighed. “Well, there might have been a moment.”

  She grinned and stepped aside. He followed Willie, and Jane closed the door quietly behind them.

  Aside from the faint starlight from the high windows, the pool of candlelight around Willie was the only illumination. She was a good ten feet in front of him and moving quickly toward the far wall where the Bellini and Titians and—hopefully—the Portinari hung. In spite of the riotous revelry in the other palazzo, the gallery was unnervingly silent. Outside of Willie’s circle of light, shadowy fingers reached out for them. If Dante had a more fanciful imagination it would have been most unsettling. Even so, it was disconcerting and he picked up his pace.

  “Don’t forget there’s a table in the middle of the room.”

  “I know there’s a table.”

  Something unidentified skittered across the floor. Willie squeaked and stopped short, so quickly Dante collided into her. She stumbled forward. The candle flew out of her hands, hit the floor and plunged them into darkness.

  “Blast it all, Dante! Look what you’ve done.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said sharply. “You’re the one who stopped without warning.”

  “A bloody rat ran over my foot.” She shuddered. “I d
on’t like rats.”

  “No one does. And I doubt it was a rat.” Although it probably was. It had sounded rather large. “Where are you?”

  She huffed. “On the floor. I tripped over these damnable skirts. I’m trying to find the candle.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Then perhaps you could get down here and help me.”

  “I was just waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. Or the lack of light.” He dropped to his knees and swept his hand along the floor. “Did you see where it fell?”

  “If I did, I would have it by now.”

  He was now able to make out a few dim shapes. Judging from the sound of her voice, the large shadow in front of him to his left was Willie. Something near her glinted in the faint light.

  “I think I see it. Don’t move.” He moved closer, braced his hand by her side and reached over her.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was closer to his ear than he thought it should be but then the dark was disorienting. “Goodness, Dante, this is not the time.”

  “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to reach the candle.”

  “Oh. Couldn’t you have gone around me?”

  “I didn’t want to lose sight of it.” He stretched farther but still couldn’t reach. “Do you see it?”

  “No.” She shifted beneath him. Under other circumstances this would indeed be quite exciting. But not here. In the dark. On the floor. In an ancient palace filled with eerie shadows and creaking timbers. At least he thought it was timbers.

  She froze. “What is that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  The creaking sounded again although it did sound more like footsteps—

  “Rats!” Willie frantically pushed at him in an effort to get to her feet. He caught hold of her but his feet tangled in her skirts and they both went down, Willie landing on top of him.

  The distinct sound of a match being struck rang in the dark and a moment later a gas lamp glowed on the other side of the room.