The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 17
‘Bloody hell. You’re inventing this, aren’t you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Does this place still exist?’
‘Someone set fire to God’s House a year after we escaped. Five women died there. After that the local magistrate could no longer turn a blind eye to what was happening and the Flock was encouraged to seek other pastures. Most of them, including my parents, planned to start afresh in Virginia, but luckily their ship went down in a storm with everyone on board. Milly calls it divine retribution.’
He sat down beside her, tucking his hand into her clasped ones. Her hands were cold against his warmth and he frowned down at them, unlocking them and rubbing them between his.
‘What do you call it, Phoebe?’
‘A relief. I would have hated the thought of them beginning again elsewhere. Of the girls and the women they would have harmed in the name of God. I rather like the idea of them being swallowed up in a storm and digested by the elements. Very biblical. I’m a very unnatural person, I’m afraid.’
He raised the back of her hand to his cheek and the warmth of his skin and the roughness of his stubble chased along her nerves. Fear struck her hard. Every one of his gestures was pressing a wedge between her and some part of herself that kept her safe. He was like a forbidden book, like a glance through a prison window at rolling hills and a gleaming sea beyond. One could not unsee, unread, unfeel such things. He was now part of her.
‘I’d say unusual rather than unnatural,’ he murmured, brushing his mouth over her knuckles. ‘Clever and brave. Your story trumps mine by several leagues.’
‘It isn’t a contest.’
‘No. Life rarely is, but we do tend to make it one. I thought your aunt was nothing more than a doll stuffed with self-indulgent fluff. Clearly I owe her a profuse apology.’
‘Don’t you dare say a word to her or to anyone. I told you this in confidence.’ Panic made her voice too fierce and the tension returned to his face, and with it the mocking smile that had irked her from the beginning.
‘Thank you for making that clear, Rosie,’ he drawled as he retreated to the window. ‘I shall try to watch my tongue when next I’m drunk. The same applies to you. I won’t appreciate any additions to the already rampant gossip about me.’
‘Yet you seem to delight in it. You certainly do nothing to discourage it.’
‘Ah. Here comes the sermon. Sharing my bed doesn’t give you any rights to lecture, sweetheart.’
‘I would never presume to stand between a man and his folly.’
‘Of course not. You think you’re above all that nonsense. Well, you may have escaped one prison, but you’ve confined yourself to another. How long are you going to continue to hang on to your aunt’s coat-tails, hiding from life in your books and convincing yourself that men are being pleasant to you because they’re kind and nice? You think I’m indulging in folly? Well, have a look at yourself, Phoebe.’
‘My sharing your bed doesn’t give you any rights to lecture me either, Lord Wrexham,’ she threw back at him. ‘And you’re worse than a fool, you’re a...a damned monument to wasted intelligence. Now, if you don’t mind, I really must return to the palazzo. Thank you for a most entertaining afternoon.’
‘You’re very welcome. I dare say that was why you came to San Polo in the first place. Some light entertainment before you return primly to your chosen cage, yes?’
The words stung, but they were true enough. She had not only chosen her cage, she had put a great deal of effort into building it. She would not abandon it for a man whose way of life both tantalised and angered her. To contradict him would be to open a door she was not ready to pass through.
She took a step towards the door. ‘I should go.’
‘Yes. Once you dress I shall see you back.’
‘Only to the bridge. I think it wise we are not seen together.’
She hadn’t meant it to sound quite so cold. Or perhaps she had. This escape into sensual madness might feed her fantasies for years to come, but now it was over. She was not built for love and pain.
For the next few days she needed her mind clear and concentrated only on her duties. And once her duty here was done, she and Milly would be off again.
Dominic shrugged as well, a mocking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Definitely wise, Miss Prim. Our paths will part at the bridge. And—as you just said—thank you for a most entertaining afternoon.’
* * *
Dominic watched the slim, prim figure cross the bridge.
He wanted to go after her, let slip some of the fury bubbling inside him.
He felt used. Like the whore people thought he was. Except it was worse, because he’d shown her more of himself than he had to anyone in years and years. He’d even told her about Dommy and Marcus and...
And in the end, as he’d suspected, it made no odds. In the end, for all her insight and compassion, she’d treated him like all the others. As a body to be used and discarded. He’d served his purpose and now she could return to her safe little shell until the itch caught her again. Well, he was damned if she’d scratch it with him next time. Hopefully once she left Venice his body would return to its hibernation. Even if it didn’t—he would be a damn sight more careful in future. He might be a tad dense, but he learned his lessons eventually.
He ought to be grateful she expected nothing of him beyond his services in bed. She’d understood the limits of these encounters better than he did. Sensible Phoebe. It was absurd that a lady’s companion was acting far more sensibly than he.
His conscience pricked through the fog of anger and resentment. Phoebe had been many things before she was merely a lady’s companion, and she had every reason to be sensible. Neither of them had had the best start in life and hers had been hellish. She had every right to wish for the security that her aunt provided. He certainly had nothing better to offer her but an empty title and even emptier coffers.
He had every reason to be sensible, too. He was not in Venice to explore his late-blooming sexuality. He was here at the service of the Foreign Office and his brief was currently to discover whether their own consul was selling political secrets to the Austrians. His attempt to search the Consul’s office had been interrupted by his concern about Phoebe being drawn away by Clapton’s little trick, but he still had a chance to discover the truth. To do that he must be completely focused for the next few days.
After that...
After that he would put his mind to whatever task Marcus set him. That was the nature of his occupation. It was his nature. He enjoyed what he did. It had given him a twisted sort of dignity in his aimless life after the end of the war left him adrift, unwelcome in his home and cut off even from the meagre funds his future title promised. And there were others involved, too. He had no right to let the reins slacken because his body had decided to come of age twenty years late.
He turned his back on her and headed towards his next destination. The rain had stopped long ago and the paving was beginning to dry, which was a good thing. If he was forced to make his escape along a ledge tonight, he preferred it not be wet.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Phoebe Brimford!’ Milly’s voice was sharp and Phoebe started, the brush slipping from her hand and hitting the floor with an angry clack. She picked it up and set it carefully on the dressing table, avoiding her image in the mirror.
‘I’m ready. Shall we begin?’
Milly stood with her hands on her hips. She was dressed in a gown of deep red satin, her dark curls piled high and threaded through with golden ribbons. She looked like a Greek goddess. And like most of the Greek gods she looked displeased.
‘You were not listening to a word I said.’
‘Yes, I was, Milly. You said Mrs Banister is downstairs and it is time to go.’
‘Well, perhaps you were listening, but this isn’t the first time you’ve been miles away recently. You are only like this when something is wrong. Since I am about to risk my neck I would appreciate your sharing your concerns with me.’
Phoebe shook her head and pressed the lid down firmly on the bubbling stew of hurt and guilt and loss.
Two days had passed since the most wondrous afternoon of her existence. Two long, empty days. She wasn’t in the least surprised that Dominic was avoiding her; she’d behaved atrociously towards him. She’d brought down her drawbridge on his foot when he’d been kind and gentle with her. It wasn’t his fault she was a coward, yet she’d punished him for it. She’d made him believe she regarded him as everyone else did, which was unforgivably cruel.
Yet side by side with her pain and guilt was the knowledge he’d not been any more honest than she had. Believing something firm and solid and trustworthy lay beyond his lies and games might be nothing more than a wishful fantasy. After all, Dominic was also a survivor; he knew how to attune his lies to his listener’s ears. She’d known men who could lie without guile or compunction and tell you they were innocent while holding the knife still embedded in their victim’s heart.
Her heart and even part of her mind cried out that Dominic was not like that, but precisely because she didn’t want to be wrong about him, she had to consider she might be. For all she knew his show of vulnerability was a brilliantly orchestrated act.
No. She didn’t believe it. He’d been honest with her and she’d kicked him because she was a coward. She owed it to both of them to apologise and that was precisely what she would do once this night’s work was behind her.
Not that he would forgive her. Not that he should forgive her. He’d bared his deepest vulnerabilities and she’d made him believe she’d used him like everyone else...
‘Well?’ Milly prodded, and Phoebe dragged herself into the moment and forced a smile.
‘I’m sorry, Milly. It is nothing. I promise you I am fully present now.’
Milly hesitated. ‘Do you wish to tell me what is wrong, love?’
‘Perhaps it is merely that I am not comfortable with us switching roles tonight,’ Phoebe replied, hoping a half-truth would do for now. Eventually she would tell Milly all, but not yet.
‘We’ve already had this discussion,’ Milly said, adjusting her gloves. ‘I shall depart with Razumov for a night at the club and you shall attend the ball with the Banisters and keep an eye on von Haas. This way we are both accounted for, yes?’
‘Yes, but you shall have all the burden of breaking into the Procuratie and ensuring Razumov is out of the way for the night, while I shall be nothing more than another wallflower at the ball.’
‘I am beginning to think you don’t trust me, Phoebe. I assure you I am still young enough to manage a night’s activities on my own.’
‘You know I trust you. You’re the only person on this fair earth I do trust, Milly.’
‘Likewise. Now, let us go to it before Mrs Banister departs for the ball without you. It’s time to tie the knot on our Venetian affair.’
* * *
Phoebe had fully expected her share of the evening’s work to be a big dose of boredom.
After two hours in von Haas’s beautiful ballroom with its white and gilt walls and massive crystal chandeliers she decided boredom was not sufficiently appreciated. She would have far preferred boredom to the feelings that beset her as she watched the spectacle being played out by the windows overlooking the canal.
It had been hard enough witnessing Dominic’s flirtations at Sir Henry Clapton’s ball. Tonight it was excruciating.
To be fair, he’d warned her. Told her not to believe men could be kind or nice. He’d called her a bloody idiot.
He’d been right on all counts.
Watching him as his dark blue eyes devoured the two beautiful women beside him, she found both her intellect and pride were torn—she’d truly believed him when he said his attraction to her was unique. But what had she expected? The inebriated flirt was a side of Dominic she had seen too often to dismiss simply because she’d discovered other aspects of him. He might say what he wished about being attracted to plain Phoebe. It might even be true, but it was only part of him. The other part that fed on being adored by women and men and depending upon them for his survival was back on full display.
As Phoebe watched surreptitiously from her wallflower’s corner, a footman with a tray of wine moved past and was recalled by Dominic, who took a glass rather too abruptly, spilling some of the wine. The taller of the two women, an Austrian noblewoman with flaxen hair, touched his arm and said something, possibly the exhortation Phoebe had made herself—please stop.
He laughed and leaned in to whisper something in her ear, an intimacy which caused the other woman’s luscious mouth to settle into a jealous pout. She caught his arm, trying to pull him towards the dance floor, but her action destabilised him and the rest of the wine spilled onto her dress. She shook her skirts with an annoyed moue, but Dominic just wandered off, no doubt in search of the wine-bearing footman.
‘Disgraceful,’ Mrs Banister scoffed. ‘It is a wonder that wastrel is invited, though I dare say that is due to his father. Shocking, quite shocking, don’t you agree?’
Luckily Mrs Banister’s attention was claimed just then by another Englishwoman and Phoebe was saved the need to respond. Against her better judgement she kept track of Dominic’s laughing progress through the room, and when he slipped through the thick curtains that masked the servants’ entrance her bitter hurt gave way to surprise. If he wished for wine, there was plenty to be had right here. If he wished to find a servant to help him tidy up, the men’s retiring rooms were in the opposite direction. Ditto if he was feeling ill...
Phoebe called herself to attention. Dominic was not her concern. Her only concern was her mission. By now Milly had probably completed her clandestine visit to von Haas’s office, which meant Phoebe need no longer keep an eye on von Haas. Soon Mrs Banister would tire and they would return to the Gioconda and that would be that.
Phoebe stared hard at the servants’ entrance, waiting for Dominic to reappear.
Damn the man.
With the practice of many years, Phoebe melted into the oblivious crowd and slipped through the curtains as well.
The grand ballroom on the piano nobile had been full to the gills with nobility and royalty, glittering like the chandeliers and chattering like a flock of jewelled parrots. But beyond that bubble of power and privilege, the corridors lay still and dark, only a few of the candles in the ornate sconces lit.
Phoebe had a clear map of the buildings in her mind and she knew where this landing gave access to. The stairs to her left led to the kitchens, but the door opposite her led to von Haas’s personal living quarters. She listened for a moment and then gently turned the knob. It should have been locked, and yet it wasn’t. She glanced at the keyhole, trying to make out any tell-tale scratches. But if the lock had been sprung, it had been done neatly. It was none of her business, and yet...
She slipped into the darkened corridor beyond, trying to convince herself that Dominic had descended to the kitchens for some reason. But just as she was about to return she saw a shiver of dark on dark under one of the blank doors at the end of the corridor and her heartbeat shot ahead in a mixture of dismay and fear and anger.
She knew precisely where von Haas’s personal study was. And she knew who was now in it.
Chapter Twenty
Dominic held the candle above the fireplace and smiled.
Well, well, well.
‘Thank you, my dear von Haas, for being so arrogantly predictable,’ he murmured. He snuffed out the candle and was just setting it back in its place on the mantelpiece beside a vulgarly jewelled ceremonial sword when he heard it. Just a whisper of fabric against wood. Whoever it was was right outside the locked door.
Even as surprise struck him that he had heard nothing before that, he was already across the room, raising the latch on the window. He’d oiled it the moment he’d entered the study, but before he could even raise it the door opened. His shock grew. He’d locked the door as soon as he’d entered; he was certain of it.
Or had he? Had his anger at Phoebe looking through him with cold disdain thoroughly clouded his judgement? Whatever the case, this was bad news.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, closing around the knife. Then he armed himself with his fool’s smile as well, but the words he’d prepared fell away and for a moment all he could do was stare.
Phoebe shut the door behind her, her gaze moving from him around the room and back.
‘What did you take?’
‘What?’
‘What did you steal?’
‘Steal?’
‘Don’t play me for a fool, Lord Wrexham. You are in von Haas’s personal study. In the dark. What did you steal?’
She looked quite different from the woman who’d been plaguing his thoughts over the past few days...weeks. Her eyes looked black, as if night had robbed them of their fire. They still glistened, but there was no softness there, not a smidgen of the passion or vulnerability she’d shown so openly only two days ago. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
He cleared his throat and did his best to slur the words. ‘Why would you think I was stealing?’
She raised her hand and began ticking off items on her finger. ‘You’ve been exiled and cut off by your family. You have expensive habits and yet you also seem to be able to honour your gambling debts. And then there are the rumours that the carnival thief escapes over the rooftops, which I have seen you do.’
