The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 4
He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes, yet it wasn’t his disarray that caught their attention, but the wink of blood-red fire from a new ruby earring he sported. Mrs Banister gave a loud sniff and turned her back on him.
Phoebe placed her finger in her book. ‘I found Mr von Haas to be a very intelligent and cultured man.’
The three men turned to her in surprise, as if they had forgotten her presence. Which was possible.
‘Are you in the habit of consorting with the local uniforms, then, Miss...uh... Miss Grimforth?’ Lord Wrexham enquired, turning his head towards her with a grin.
Rupert Banister cleared his throat and even Mr Clapton looked rather red at Lord Wrexham’s mix of vulgarity and rudeness in mangling her name. Phoebe raised a brow.
‘I had the felicity of conversing with him after the performance of Don Giovanni at La Fenice,’ Phoebe said calmly. ‘And, to answer your question, I am in the habit of consorting with anyone who can hold a decent conversation, Lord Wrexit.’
He blinked, a fugitive smile flashing in his blue eyes at her retaliatory name-mangling. ‘Well, that rules me out. I don’t think I’ve had a decent conversation in years. It sounds...uninspiring.’
Phoebe wanted to whack the fool on the head with her book. After yesterday she found his smug mannerisms even more annoying. ‘Well, perhaps you ought to make a study of Herr von Haas. He is not only clever and handsome, but is also well versed in Venetian history and a most amiable conversationalist.’
‘Amiable? Von Haas? Last time our paths crossed he was so amiable he almost made me a guest of Venice’s dungeons. Damn damp things, those. I’d rather make a study of you, Miss Primworth.’
‘Miss Brimford,’ Rupert Banister hissed.
‘No.’ Lord Wrexham shook his head. ‘Doesn’t suit her. Miss Prim is much better. Except for the eyes. Bold as brass. Audentes Deus Ipse Iuvat.’
‘Boldness might have helped Hippomenes win Atalanta’s hand in marriage,’ Phoebe responded, primly, ‘but as a rule I don’t think God rewards boldness as much as he does calm calculation.’
‘Oh, boring. Well, I never liked Ovid anyway. He wrote far too much.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Oh. Was that a quote from Ovid?’
His own eyes narrowed at her blatant assumption of false ignorance, but he could hardly call her out on it when he himself enjoyed playing the dunce so much.
‘Bold as brass,’ he repeated, his voice velvet rubbing against polished wood as he extracted himself from the sofa. He was a tall man, with a body that reminded her of a painting she’d seen on the wall of the small church near La Fenice. It was of David preening after slaying Goliath, his sandalled foot resting upon the giant, his body long and lithe, the muscles clearly defined but far more elegant than the bulky protuberances on the fallen form of the giant he’d slain.
‘The eyes never lie, do they, Miss Fire and Brimstone?’ Lord Wrexham prompted, his voice sinking into those husky registers that thrilled his admirers so.
‘Anything and anyone can lie, Lord Wrex-sham. It is the truth that requires effort.’
‘My, my, we have a philosopher amongst us,’ he murmured, plopping himself back down, but this time on the sofa beside her. Rupert Banister made a strange sound, rather like a chair taking the weight of a particularly well-endowed matron.
‘By my tally she’s ahead, Wrexham!’ Clapton exclaimed with a quick, sharp laugh, watching the exchange with the same avid attention as he might a cock fight. ‘I say give up before she tears more strips off you.’
Lord Wrexham gave him a sweet, almost innocent smile, but his voice was anything but innocent when he replied. ‘Miss Prim can tear anything off me she likes, Clapton.’
He turned back to Phoebe, his long lashes casting shadows over eyes so deeply blue they seemed almost violet, his sharply sculpted mouth softening into a blatant invitation. Phoebe’s mouth watered. Her skin felt as thin as a cobweb, bared to the elements. He might be a drunkard on his way to perdition, but he was still an expert seducer.
She repeated those words in her mind. This is how this man survives. This is the only way this man survives. It has nothing to do with you. You are nothing more than a witness to his skill and his impending tragedy. That is all.
It didn’t feel like that was all. It wasn’t smart, but for the first time in many, many years she ignored caution and patted the space on the sofa between them. ‘Let he who dares, approach, Lord Wrexham.’
His lips parted. Surprise, unease. Good.
Rupert Banister made the same sound as before—between a muffled squeak and a squawk. George Clapton sniggered, but his breathing accelerated.
Lord Wrexham did approach, sliding closer on the sofa, though not as close as she had expected. She leaned forward and tugged off his clasp earring and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Rubies don’t suit your complexion, Lord Wrexham. A simple gold loop would do.’
* * *
Dominic’s ear tingled, and not just because of Clapton’s delighted guffaw. He had to resist the urge to reach up and rub his now bare earlobe. It hadn’t hurt—the clasp had come off easily—but her touch had surprised him, her fingers warm against the sensitive skin there.
He’d not expected her move. In fact, he’d not expected anything. That was part of the pleasure he was coming to expect in crossing swords with Miss Rosie Prim. It was a foolish occupation he’d fallen into recently. Taunting her and sparring with her definitely enlivened the time he was forced to spend at the Gioconda as he went about his business. The temptation to succumb to this new pastime once more had assailed him the moment he’d entered the salon and seen her seated stiff as a governess, her gold-rimmed spectacles glistening around her tiger’s eyes as she read one of her probably improper books. He was a glutton for punishment apparently, because Clapton was right—she’d won all the rounds so far.
He ought to be annoyed. Instead he was...strangely hot. And bothered.
Very peculiar. He found himself wishing she would tear some more strips off him, preferably in private this time.
No, Dominic, he admonished himself. This is neither the time, nor the place, and most certainly not the right kind of woman even if he was inclined to indulge, which he wasn’t. It was merely the novelty. The surprise. A pleasant surprise for once.
He sighed and patted the pocket now holding the ruby earring.
‘Perhaps I shall follow your suggestion. After all, “Gold gives to the ugliest thing a certain charming air, for that without it were else a miserable affair.”’
She frowned. He could almost see that quick, clever mind leap from shelf to shelf in search of the origin of his quotation. Finally, a hit. He smiled down at her.
‘And now this “miserable affair” must depart in search of something far more valuable than gold.’
‘Is there anything more valuable than gold?’ Clapton asked with his usual urbane sneer. He must practise that every morning in his shaving mirror.
‘Of course there is,’ Dominic replied. ‘The blessed oblivion to be found at the bottom of a wine bottle. I bid you all adieu.’
Chapter Five
A frisson of warning tingled up Phoebe’s nape a moment before the squeak of the bookshop door. She didn’t turn, but something in the shadow that obscured the sunshine or the scent of warm wood and cinnamon warned her of the new entrant’s identity even before Signor Martelli smiled and called out a greeting.
‘Signor Domenico!’
‘Morning, Martelli. What banned books are you peddling to respectable young ladies this fine morning?’
Signor Martelli grinned. ‘No, no, not today.’ He held up the copy of a volume of Dante’s Inferno she had purchased.
‘For me?’ Lord Wrexham asked with delight, leaning his elbow on the counter.
Phoebe tried very hard to quell her smile. It took quite some effort. ‘No, Lord Wrexham. Though you might wish to purchase a copy of your own. It shall provide a good travel guide for your future destinations.’
He laughed. ‘You think I’m going to hell?’
She sighed. ‘I don’t believe in hell.’
‘Goodness. An optimist. We are all to crowd into heaven, then?’
‘I don’t believe in heaven either, or purgatory, or in any form of afterlife. When we die, we feed the worms and that is that.’
Signor Martelli looked far more scandalised by her words than by her previous purchase, and she wished she hadn’t been goaded into answering. When she stepped outside into the Venetian sunshine she was no longer surprised her new nemesis fell into step beside her. Resentful, but not surprised.
‘Apparently we have the same meandering schedule, Miss Brimstone,’ Lord Wrexham said, chirpily oblivious to her thoughts. ‘And the same route. I was just on my way back to the palazzo.’
Phoebe wondered whether he’d spent the night at a casino or in someone’s bed. Despite his stubbly chin and rumpled evening clothes, he didn’t look as worn as he ought to be by a night of dissipation. Perhaps he’d been lucky enough to fall asleep at the tables before he did too much damage to his purse and health.
‘From where?’ she asked, curiosity overcoming prudence. After all, he asked her all manner of intrusive questions. Why not turn the tables?
His mouth picked up at the corners, transforming the sharp lines that bracketed his mouth into smiles.
‘From a friend’s house.’ He paused and added, ‘A male friend.’
She shrugged. ‘The ladies shall be very disappointed to hear that.’
He laughed out loud. ‘He’s only a friend. We were in the army together.’
‘Is he also a gambler?’
‘Of course. The worst kind. He wins. It’s very annoying.’
‘So I dare say your pockets are empty if you spent the night playing cards with him.’
He shoved his hands into said pockets, but he was still smiling. ‘I’m not that dense. He runs a gaming hell here and he knows all the best tricks. We play for peas.’
‘Peas?’
‘Peas. He grew tired of having to lend me money only to win it back from me. So now we play for peas. I shell them, though.’
It was too absurd and she laughed. At least he had a sense of humour about his weaknesses. If he was going to the devil, he’d have a good laugh with Charon as he sailed across the River Styx.
‘Where are you heading? The basilica again?’ he asked as he fell into step beside her. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s one of the local saints’ birthdays today. It will be full to bursting.’
‘Oh, I had no idea.’ She looked around the narrow streets, disappointed. She’s been looking forward to her little reading corner. As if to commiserate, her stomach grumbled loudly. ‘I’d best return to the palazzo,’ she said, embarrassed.
‘You’d best have something to eat first. It’s almost noon and I’d wager you haven’t eaten anything today. Do you ever eat before you escape in the morning?’
‘I always carry some walnuts with me.’
‘Walnuts! You’re not a squirrel. And that’s an insult to Venice. We’ll stop along the way so you can refresh yourself with something a little more substantial. I know just the place.’
‘Lord Wrexham...’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But it is on the way back and I dare you to say no once you see what’s on offer.’
* * *
What was on offer was a little trattoria overseen by a couple that looked as if they’d stepped straight out of a painting by Breughel. Giulia and Matteo Schiavanti were both large and round and greeted Lord Wrexham with cries of pleasure and an explosion of Italian mixed with a Venetian dialect so idiomatic Phoebe’s hungry mind struggled to untangle it.
She did notice, however, that, like Signor Martelli, they also called him Domenico, which was rather sweet. Clearly he’d charmed this nice couple as well as quite a few others in his adopted town. He seemed to have the knack of having people take him under their wing.
And then he probably took full advantage of them.
She concentrated on the restaurant. It was a simple affair, with solid wooden tables and chairs and an open door leading out into a small, trellised garden with more tables. The most distinctive thing about the place was the smell flowing in from the kitchen. Here was garlic and bay leaves and butter and the lemony scent of the pickled artichoke hearts that stood in an enormous jar on a wooden counter.
Before she could even realise what was happening, a cool glass was pressed into her hand by Signora Schiavanti, her rough palm closing around Phoebe’s with an exhortation to, ‘Drink! Drink!’
The wine was from her son’s vineyard near Garda, she added, her bright brown eyes both expectant and confident.
Phoebe drank a careful sip and a new world filled her like smoke—a world of sunsets turning mountains orange and purple, the soft earth letting go of the last heat of day...
‘Oh...’ She let her breath out and smiled at the woman. ‘È meraviglioso. Sunset in a glass,’ she said in Italian and the woman clasped her hands to her bosom.
‘È vero! È vero! That is exactly true. Did you hear, Matteo? Sunset in a glass. That is what Giacomo should call it. Come, come. You are too thin. You shall eat. Today is Tuesday. Risotto al nero di seppia. No one can resist it!’
Phoebe hadn’t intended to stay or eat anything, but somehow she was seated at one of several empty tables, a bottle of ambrosia between her and Lord Wrexham and two large plates of the strangest thing she’d ever seen.
‘It’s black.’
‘It’s delicious. Try it.’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?’ she said crossly.
‘Close enough. Just a little taste. Giulia will be devastated if you don’t.’
‘Oh, damn you to hell.’
‘Yes, undoubtedly, but try it anyway.’
She picked up some of the dish on the tip of her fork. Food should really not be black. It reminded her of the peat bogs near her childhood home. It smelled of the sea and garlic.
‘What is it made of?’
‘Just one bite. It’s not poisonous, I promise.’
‘You promise all manner of things, Lord Wrexham.’
‘I haven’t broken any of those promises yet, have I?’
‘The day is young.’ She closed her eyes and took a bite, her knees pressing hard together, her shoulders tense.
Damn the man for being right again.
It was divine. Sea and garlic and butter and the earthiness of the rice all moulded into something as comfortingly warm as a hearth on a winter’s day and yet as exotic as this whole floating city.
She opened her eyes. He had his fork halfway to his mouth, but he was watching her with that intent yet warm curiosity that was so unsettling.
‘So you were right. Don’t gloat,’ she said tartly, and he laughed.
‘I won’t. I’m happy you like it. It is one of Giulia’s specialities. Once they open in an hour this place will be utterly overrun and it will all be gone by mid-afternoon.’
She took another bite; it was even better than the first. She sighed with pleasure. ‘How do you know all these people?’
‘I get around. When I’m not drunk, I enjoy exploring.’
There was a tinge of bitterness there and she felt a surge of pity and regret again. ‘Can you not stop?’
His smile had gone. ‘It’s harder than it looks. Stopping something like that.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘I watched my uncle drink himself to death. It took him ten years, but he finally succeeded. He kept saying he would stop. He did try, really, but each time... He was a brilliant man. He said sometimes his mind was so...noisy, he needed to quiet it and the only way was brandy.’
‘Let’s talk of something else,’ Lord Wrexham said, his gaze on his plate as he traced lines in his Stygian rice.
She nodded. ‘Yes, let’s. Now that I have admitted this is delicious, could you tell me why it is black?’
‘Are you certain you wish to know?’ He looked up, his grin curving up the corner of his mouth. He had an amazing capacity to push bad things away, for a while at least. She smiled against her will and took a sip of her sunset wine.
‘Yes.’
‘Ink.’
Her jaw sagged. ‘Ink? As in...ink?’
‘No, as in squid ink. They squirt a dark ink in the water when they are being chased by predators. Very clever tactic.’
Phoebe stared down at her plate. Squid ink. She giggled and shoved her fork back into the delicious slitheriness.
‘And these little pieces...’
‘Squid.’
‘Squid and squid ink.’
‘And garlic.’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you require smelling salts, Miss Brimford?’
‘I require the recipe. Or the address. I shall have to return here once more before we leave Venice. Can women come alone?’
‘Probably not advisable. I’ll accompany you.’
She shook her head. It was an empty wish anyway. ‘This was enough of a gift. You are very annoying, but you are also very nice. Thank you for being kind. Especially after I have been so...’
His eyes were more hooded now, more like he’d been when he’d followed her that day after the bookshop. The shields rising.
‘Disapproving? Tetchy? Ill-humoured?’
‘Impolite. Ungracious.’
‘No, no. You were gracious even when impolite. It’s quite a gift.’
Phoebe smiled. ‘Thank you, Lord Wrexham.’
‘You’re welcome. And enough with the Lord Wrexham nonsense. My name is Dominic.’
