by Merry Farmer
Venetian Sunshine
Merry Farmer
VENETIAN SUNSHINE
Copyright ©2020 by Merry Farmer
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B0872GVH3V
Paperback ISBN: 9798647159953
Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Venice, Italy – Summer, 1890
As far as Lord Trent McGovern had been able to determine in the week his family had been there so far, the ancient and lauded city of Venice was one, gigantic carnival. Laughter rang through the extensive palace that was currently serving as home to the entire, extended, McGovern clan. Dozens of candles and lanterns flickered around the ballroom that made up at least half of the ground floor. Doors and windows were open to the bustling, busy night, letting in what little fresh breeze there was to be had in the heat of summer. Along with that came the robust, and sometimes conflicting, songs of gondoliers floating past and hoping to lure customers for the night.
There was so much light and noise and excitement that when Trent leaned out one of the windows to catch his breath, he couldn’t quite see the stars when he looked up. Instead, he was treated to the sight of busty women of dubious morality waving to the partygoers as they took their conversations out to the terrace, small children who should have been in bed but were fascinated by the English revelers in their midst, and young lovers attempting to sneak off for wicked assignations. Trent himself would have loved a wicked assignation, but that was about as likely to happen for him as getting his cousin and the head of their family, Lord Asher McGovern, the Duke of Addlebury, to confess to the great mystery that currently roiled amongst them all.
Trent couldn’t shake the last conversation he’d had with Asher before they’d departed Villa Angelina in Tuscany to make their way to the scintillating city that was Venice. He turned away from the songs and sirens outside the palace, glancing across the crowded ballroom to where Asher stood, engaged in conversation with not one, but three beautiful ladies wearing half-masks.
“What are you hiding, dear cousin?” he muttered with a frown.
Asher was in some sort of trouble. According to Trent’s sister, Hattie, a dark lady had stolen an antique spyglass from Asher. That dark lady had attempted to steal more as well. No one had been able to find her after she was last spotted in an olive grove just outside of the villa, and Asher had been anything but forthcoming when Trent asked him who she could be or what she was truly after. Instead, Asher had merely said that they all needed to be in Venice as quickly as possible. He’d hinted that the family was in danger as well, but he’d given no indication as to what they were in danger of or how to prevent it.
And there Asher was now, laughing with the trio of ladies who clustered adoringly around him as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
Trent couldn’t help but frown. Ladies flocked to Asher like bees to honey, and for more reasons than the dukedom his cousin had just inherited. Yes, Asher needed a duchess, but ladies would have thrown themselves at him even if Asher were a pauper in some rustic village. Asher had everything that Trent didn’t. He was tall, fair-haired, and as handsome as the devil. Trent was of average height, with dark hair that never stayed where he put it, and of a build that polite people called stocky. When Asher opened his mouth to speak, the angels in heaven stopped to listen. He could command a crowd as skillfully as any actor. Trent never knew what to say in social situations and was convinced he sounded like an idiot whenever he did open his mouth. Unfortunately for him, he existed in a world where good looks and elocution counted for more than a good heart and sincerity.
“What are you doing standing over here all by yourself?”
Trent snapped out of his increasingly gloomy thoughts as his sister sailed up to his side, looping her arm through his and hugging it.
“Hattie.” He smiled at her, happier than he could say to find her so happy. After a whirlwind courtship in Tuscany, Hattie was now engaged to Lord Adrian Fairfax, Earl of Whitemarsh. Trent would have bet money that his sister would never marry, but now that she’d decided to take the leap, Trent had never seen her so pleased with herself and the world. “Shouldn’t you be out there, dancing with Whitemarsh?” he asked.
“I was dancing with him,” Hattie said, tugging Trent into motion so they could take a turn about the room together. “Adrian has gone to fetch refreshments for the both of us. The trouble with this interminable heat is that it makes one so thirsty.”
“Among other things,” Trent laughed. It appeared as though his sister had had a little too much wine already.
“The real question is why you are not dancing,” Hattie went on.
An old, familiar feeling of preemptive defeat lodged in Trent’s chest. “You know that ladies hate dancing with me,” he told her.
Hattie fixed him with a stern look. “Come now. I won’t accept that defeatist attitude from my dearly beloved brother.”
“It’s true, though,” Trent sighed. “When ladies see me coming, they suddenly develop the vapors or need to sew up the hem of their gown. None of them want to dance with the prize hog from the county fair.”
Hattie frowned playfully and slapped his arm. “You are not fat, Trent. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. You’re merely solidly built.”
Trent returned his sister’s playful frown with a shade too much bitterness. “No aristocratic lady wants to find herself on the arm of a man who looks like he should be hauling crates on a dock.”
Hattie clucked and shook her head. “You are too hard on yourself. And I swear, you are entertaining the wrong female company if you think that’s what women want.”
“I’m entertaining the only female company I’ve ever known,” he said. “The country house set isn’t exactly a broad pool to choose from.”
“Then find yourself a Venetian woman,” Hattie insisted. “That’s why we’re all on this grand tour, isn’t it? To find foreign spouses, since no one in England wants anything to do with our wicked and rebellious lot?”
Trent laughed, pretending to agree with her. The trouble was, the deeper they got into their tour and the more mysterious Asher became, the more Trent questioned the reason their entire clan had decamped, en masse, for the continent. Yes, ostensibly their reason for traveling was to find suitable mates amongst British ex-patriots and foreig
n nobility who wouldn’t mind the family’s liberal ways, especially where his female relatives were concerned. But after everything that had happened in Paris and in Tuscany, Trent’s suspicions were on the rise.
“Either way,” Hattie went on with a tired shrug, “I think you should spend more of your time chatting with the ladies and finding one who will appreciate you for how good and wonderful you truly are instead of moping about the flibbertigibbets of the past who have passed you over. They were all ninnies anyhow.”
Trent smiled at his sister, his heart swelling with affection for her. “You are the light of my life, Hattie. Promise me that when Whitemarsh whisks you away, you’ll still think of your poor, sad brother from time to time.”
Hattie laughed loud enough to draw the attention of some of the other party guests. “You are neither sad nor poor, Trent,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
She was half right. He wasn’t poor. In fact, the fortune their father would leave to him someday meant that he was exceptionally well-off. But nothing was worse than being pursued by a woman he knew could barely tolerate him simply because she was after the fortune and position marriage to him would give her. He’d rather remain single than marry a mercenary.
“Anyone who doesn’t adore you for you is a fool,” Hattie said, stealing a second kiss to his cheek. She squeaked a moment later, bursting into a smile, and said, “Adrian is back. I must fly.”
Trent laughed at her, glad beyond telling that she was his sister, as she broke away from him and hurried across the room to meet up with Whitemarsh. He sighed at the way she gazed adoringly at her intended. No woman would ever look at him like that.
Rather than dwelling on it, he cleared his throat, shook his shoulders, and focused on other business. His cousin Thomas, Asher’s younger brother, had just walked into the room. Trent launched into motion, hoping to catch Thomas before he, too, ended up surrounded by a pack of adoring ladies.
“Thomas,” he called out as he approached.
Lucky for him, Thomas smiled and chose to meet him rather than moving on to a particularly fetching lady dressed in scarlet and gold. “Trent. You’re looking well tonight.”
It was a pleasant lie that Trent ignored.
“I’ve been meaning to catch you to have a word about your brother,” he said, gesturing for Thomas to step out into the hallway with him.
Thomas must have known what was coming. By the time they found a relatively quiet spot in which to speak, he was already frowning. “I don’t know what Asher is up to any more than you do,” he said before Trent could ask his question.
Trent sighed in disappointment. He glanced across the hall and into a side parlor where a fortune teller had set up an elaborate table and was gazing into a crystal ball as some of the female party guests looked on in wonder. Trent would have gone straight back to his conversation with Thomas, but the fortune teller chose exactly that moment to glance out into the hall. Their eyes met, and Trent’s breath caught in his chest.
She was simply the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Her dark eyes shone with intelligence, and a bit of mischief. Her face was perfectly formed in an oval, and her sensual lips were curved into a smile.
Of course, he was certain that smile was for the ladies whose fortunes she was reading. No woman could or would ever smile at him that way. But it struck his heart and had his pulse pounding in no time.
Thomas cleared his throat, forcing Trent’s attention back to where it belonged. “You were saying?” Thomas asked with a teasing grin.
“Um….” Trent stole a last look at the fortune teller. She had gone back to her reading. The ladies around her table were cooing and humming, as though she’d said something fascinating. Trent shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I’m worried about Asher,” he said. Was that what he’d meant to say? Was Asher his primary concern? It was suddenly impossible to think.
“I’m worried about him as well,” Thomas went on, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. “He’s hiding something.”
Trent’s full attention was pulled back to his cousin. “If he hasn’t told you what’s going on, then it must be dire.”
“Agreed,” Thomas said. “You know what I think it is?”
“Dare I ask?” Trent’s gut filled with anxiety.
“I think someone has threatened the family,” Thomas went on. “Like what happened to us in Paris. Only this time, Asher is keeping it from the rest of us.”
Trent wasn’t so sure. In Paris, the family had been blackmailed, beginning with his cousin Dorothy and her new husband, Lord Marshall Stone, the Duke of Reith. Something about what was happening now felt far more sinister than that.
“How do we break into Asher’s confidence?” he asked, rubbing his chin in thought. “Surely, you must be able to get him to confide in you. He’s your brother.”
“And he’s a tightly-closed clam,” Thomas said with a pinched look that was half wince, half fond grin. “You’re kind to be so concerned, though,” Thomas went on.
“It’s my family too,” Trent said. “I want to get to the bottom of this, especially if it puts our family in danger.”
A flash of movement from the fortune teller’s table caught his eye. The ladies who had gathered for a reading had stood and were making their way out of the room as the fortune teller herself set her crystal ball aside and gathered up her cards. Trent found himself staring at the movements of her long fingers as she shuffled her oversized cards.
“Perhaps you should consult the fortune teller to find out what Asher is up to,” Thomas suggested, his grin growing.
Trent dragged his eyes away from the fortune teller and stared flatly at Thomas. “We’re not so desperate yet that we must look to the occult to solve our problems.”
Thomas laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. He leaned closer and said, “I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo either, but she certainly is pretty.”
A quiver of longing shot through Trent’s gut, threatening to travel lower. He was too much of a gentleman to admit that a beautiful woman had immediately inspired him with lust, but the truth was the truth.
“I doubt she wants to be bothered by the likes of me,” he replied quietly to Thomas.
“Give yourself more credit, man.” Thomas slapped him on the shoulder, then steered him toward the parlor door. “You’ll never know unless you try.”
Trent sent his cousin a wary look, but Thomas did have a point. And as long as Asher was being so close-lipped about his business, anything Trent could do to find out what was going on was worth a shot. Even if it was a silly party game.
He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. And who knew? Maybe the otherworldly spirits would have something to say that could help him.
Charlotte Salazar knew that something was about to happen from the moment she stepped into the canal-front palace that evening. She’d been hired to entertain the party of English guests because she herself was half English and spoke the language fluently. The fine ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy couldn’t get enough of her predictions and insights, though she was certain few of them actually believed a word she was saying. She knew what was expected of her, though, and she never disappointed.
But from the moment she saw the flash of movement and color in her crystal ball—mostly from seeing the unknown gentleman move into view in the hallway through the distorted lens of the ball and not from anything spiritual—she felt as though a storm were about to break.
“Um, hello,” the gentleman said as he moved cautiously into the room. “Are you telling fortunes?”
A smile filled Charlotte’s face before she was even aware of it. The gentleman radiated light. He was surrounded by it. She’d known plenty of people who radiated light and goodness in her time, but never before had that light reached out to her so quickly. Never before had it felt so resonant within her.
But there was something dark
and intense hovering around him too.
“I am,” she said, gesturing toward the seat across the table from her. “Please, sit down.”
She had never wanted to read for someone so badly in her life. It wasn’t a party trick designed to entertain and make the noble guests feel good about themselves. There was something true and real about the man across from her. Something she had to become a part of.
The gentleman grinned bashfully and shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” he said, his eyes radiating kindness. “I’m not sure I even believe in it.”
“You don’t have to believe in it for it to touch you,” Charlotte said, reaching for her tarot deck. She gave it a few shuffles, then handed it across to the gentleman. “You only have to be open.”
He continued to stare at her for a moment before catching on that she wanted him to take the deck. When he reached for it, their hands touched. It was like lightning shot through her veins. She had been waiting her whole life for this gentleman to come along.
“I have to know your name,” she blurted. Instantly, she felt silly. Her only hope was that he believed her sudden request was a part of her act instead of a desperate longing from her heart.
“It’s Trent,” he said, his smile growing. “Um, er, that is, Lord Trent McGovern.”
“Trent,” she smiled. “That’s a lovely name.”
He paused in shuffling her cards, gazed at her for a moment, then asked, “And you are?”
“Charlotte,” she answered. “Charlotte Salazar.” They could have been at a picnic outside of the city instead of seated across a garishly decorated table in the parlor of a palace. She gestured for him to return her cards, which he did. “And what would you like to know this evening, Trent.”
