Love and Lucia Read online

  He paused to say more slowly,

  “Whether or not I give you the necklace before I leave Venice will depend on your behaviour. Any more scenes or attempts at assassination such as that which has just taken place and the necklace will not be bought.”

  Francesca knew she was beaten, and with a flounce she walked away from him towards the window, saying vehemently,

  “I hate you!”

  The Marquis smiled cynically but did not reply.

  Instead he sat down at the desk and wrote a cheque which he knew was large enough to pacify the greediest demands of the singer.

  He walked across the room to hand it to her, and watching the expression in her eyes knew that she was surprised that it was such a large sum.

  “I do not suppose you wish me to thank you?” she asked.

  He knew she was still wondering in her crafty mind whether there was any chance of enticing him once again to become her lover.

  He had heard of her outbursts of uncontrollable bad temper in the Theatre, and he realised she had acted spontaneously and without considering the consequences, and was now deeply regretting losing such a rich Protector.

  He looked at her, thinking it was a pity that her undoubted beauty should be spoiled by a temperament over which she had no control.

  “You must learn to act, Francesca,” he said, “off the stage, as well as on, and you should be grateful that anything so prosaic as a cup of tea has saved you from being taken at this moment to the prison in Venice, which is reputedly not a very comfortable place.”

  Francesca shrugged her shoulders, but there was no doubt that she was now regretting what she had done.

  There was a droop at the corners of her red mouth, her eyes were dark, and there was an expression of dismay in them, when only a short time ago they had been fiery with anger and passion.

  The Marquis lifted her hand to his lips.

  “Goodbye, Francesca,” he said. “Thank you for the happy time we have had together, and remember in the future to keep that temper of yours under control as if it were a savage beast.”

  Francesca gave what was quite a realistic little sob.

  “I do not wish to lose you,” she said, “and what am I to say when I am laughed at for having done so?”

  “You can tell them the truth,” the Marquis answered, “that I am returning to England, because that is exactly what I am doing.”

  “You are really going?”

  “Immediately!” he said. “There is nothing to keep me here any longer.”

  He let go of her hand, and although she tried to hold on to him, he turned away.

  “The gondola will be waiting for you, Francesca,” he said, and walked from the library, leaving her alone.

  Francesca made a movement as if she would follow him, then, realising it was hopeless, she stamped her foot.

  “How can I have been so foolish?” she asked. “Fool! Fool! Fool! That is me!”

  Then, knowing she must accept the inevitable, she picked up her bonnet from where she had placed it on a chair and put it on her dark head.

  There was a gold-framed mirror hanging on one wall and she stood in front of it, arranging her curls on either side of her pretty painted face.

  Then, as she looked at her reflection, she smiled, and her eyes seemed to sparkle at the same time.

  “If he is leaving I shall have the emerald necklace tomorrow,” she told herself.

  Then, with her head held high, and walking with the acquired grace with which she moved about the stage, she went from the Library to be escorted down the stairs by one of the servants to where the gondola was waiting for her.

  *

  By the time she reached her bedroom Lucia was trembling. She had never in her life believed any woman could behave in the way that Francesca had done, or could threaten a man with a weapon which Lucia knew only too well would have injured the Marquis dangerously, if not actually killed him.

  Her father had often talked to her about the stilettos which the Italians used in their feuds and fights with one another, despite the danger involved in using them.

  “We think duelling is dangerous,” he had said, “but I assure you stilettos are the invention of the devil! I once saw a big man die after being stabbed with a stiletto by an opponent who was far smaller and frailer than he was.”

  He added disparagingly,

  “He would not have lasted one round had they been boxing with each other.”

  The way her father talked about stilettos had made Lucia hope that she would never see one being used.

  And yet she knew now that it had not only been because of what he had told her, but because her instinct had warned her that the Venetian woman was in a murderous rage, that she had been able to save the Marquis.

  Even to think of the long, thin evil knife embedded in his heart made her feel sick and frightened her to the point where her hands were cold and she was shivering.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and put her face in her hands.

  She could not bear to think of the Marquis dying in such a horrible way.

  Then she remembered that if she had lost him on top of her father’s death, she would now be completely alone in the world, and perhaps unable to obtain the money he had promised to pay for the pictures.

  It was wrong, she knew, to think of herself when the Marquis had been in danger, but she was shaken besides being appalled by what had just occurred.

  She had not lived in Venice for two years without knowing that at the slightest excuse the Venetians became intensely dramatic.

  They dramatised everything until, with their eyes flashing and their hands gesticulating, they seemed to be eternally in a passion about something, and Lucia had in fact become quite used to their outbursts.

  But she had never believed it possible that any woman would attempt to kill a man, especially one whom she professed to love.

  She had of course heard of Francesca Rosso, but although she had been to the Opera with her father and mother in the past, they had not been able to afford it recently, so she had not heard her sing.

  It was to be expected, because she was so beautiful and so young to be a Prima Donna, that there would be men to admire her and, Lucia thought, undoubtedly to love her for herself.

  The Marquis had not told her that Francesca was staying at the Palazzo, and because he had said there would be no other guests and she had not seen anybody, it had not occurred to Lucia that they were anything but alone.

  Now for the first time she thought it strange that he had not explained Francesca’s presence, and she was also suddenly aware that because he was the prima donna’s lover, he was a – man.

  The Marquis had been right when he had thought that to Lucia he was not a man, and an attractive one, as other women had found him, but a supernatural being who had appeared from the sky or from Olympus at exactly the right moment to save her and her father.

  Now as Lucia sat on her bed with her hands over her face she was seeing the Marquis in a new and very different light.

  Because of it she suddenly felt embarrassed that she had cried in his arms when her father had died, and had allowed him to bring her here unchaperoned.

  She was sure her mother would have expected her to be accompanied by another woman if she was to stay in his house.

  She could hardly visualise that he intended Francesca to be a chaperon.

  Yet if she demanded one now perhaps he would turn her away, as he had rid himself of the singer, and would not take her to England with him.

  “What is the right thing for me to do, Mama?” Lucia asked.

  Then she told herself she was being ridiculous.

  How could she, penniless and orphaned, expect the Marquis to treat her as if she was a Society girl?

  She was just a stray beggar he had picked up in the street and to whom he had extended his kindness.

  Of course she need not be chaperoned, because as far as he was concerned she was nothing in his life.


  Why should she be anything else, considering he had someone as attractive and exciting as Francesca Rosso as his mistress?

  It had been impossible for Lucia to live in Venice without realising that the Venetians paid little attention to their wives, and that most of the aristocrats spent their time with their mistresses.

  Everywhere she went with her father and mother she had seen them travelling in the gondolas, moving about the Piazza, coming out of the Restaurants, or sitting in the Opera boxes rouged and bejewelled, and looking resplendent, alluring and inviting, but certainly not respectable.

  She supposed she should not have been surprised that the Marquis should have taken the most talked of Prima Donna in Venice for his mistress, and having seen Francesca Rosso, she could understand only too well her attractions.

  Never had she imagined any woman could be so beautiful and at the same time look so unconventional.

  It was one thing to be painted and rouged on the stage, but Francesca’s whole appearance when she came into the library had been so sensational and so theatrical that Lucia had found herself mesmerised.

  Then, when she started to quarrel with the Marquis and had become more and more dramatic and hysterical, Lucia had felt it impossible to move or even to breathe.

  She felt that somehow, by some mischance, she had stepped on to the stage and had become part of a play which was being performed.

  “She would have killed him!” she told herself now.

  Just as Francesca had done, she wanted to scream at the very idea.

  There was a knock on the door, and thinking it was a servant Lucia took her hands from her face, and rising to her feet tried to appear composed before she said,

  “Come – in!”

  As the door opened she saw it was the Marquis.

  For a moment she could only look at him, her eyes seeming to fill her whole face, and he knew from her expression and the movement of her hands what she was feeling.

  There was a silence between them before he said quietly,

  “I have come to tell you, Lucia, that we are leaving for England immediately. I have ordered the gondolas to take us to the yacht, and we will stay there tonight. I will arrange for our belongings to be packed up and brought aboard before daylight so that we can leave at dawn.”

  He spoke impersonally as if he was giving orders to one of his staff.

  Then, as she did not answer, he said,

  “I will wait for you in the salon and we will have a glass of champagne before we leave. Do not keep me waiting!”

  He shut the door and Lucia stood still after he had gone, just staring at it.

  Then she knew that she had no decisions to make. The Marquis had made them for her.

  All she had to do was to obey – but that would not stop her from thinking.

  Chapter Five

  The Marquis was waiting in the salon when Lucia came somewhat nervously from her bedroom.

  She appreciated that he had not asked her to return to the library from which she had fled in consternation.

  She saw as she entered the very beautiful room, with its high-backed chairs covered in needle-point and tapestries covering most of the walls, that he had changed his coat which had been damaged by the stiletto.

  Otherwise he was still wearing the clothes he had worn to her father’s funeral.

  She glanced at him, then glanced away, and as if he realised how shy and embarrassed she was, he said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice,

  “I am looking forward to showing you my yacht.”

  As he spoke he handed her a glass of champagne and picking up his own, lifted it high in his hand.

  “Let us drink to a calm voyage home!”

  Obediently Lucia raised her glass, then took a little sip from it.

  “You told me,” the Marquis went on, “that you can ride an obstreperous horse, and I am hoping that the Sea Horse will not be too obstreperous for you.”

  “I – was not – seasick on the – way here,” Lucia said in a faltering little voice.

  “I was going to ask you if you came by sea or land,” the Marquis answered. “Personally, I prefer the sea.”

  Lucia felt that was what she would have expected him to say.

  She knew that everybody who did the ‘Grand Tour’ spoke of the long hours of boredom when the horses were slowly climbing the mountain-passes, and the wheels of their carriages became embedded in mud and had to be dug out.

  The Marquis finished his champagne and put down the glass.

  “I know it will please you to learn that I have given strict instructions to my secretary,” he said, “that your father’s pictures should be packed with the greatest care and are to be the first thing taken on board.”

  Lucia had already realised that because the Marquis had suddenly announced that he was returning home it had put a tremendous strain on the staff.

  She had been aware, since she had been staying at the Palazzo, how much he had brought with him from England.

  The sheets on the bed, the towels, tablecloths and napkins, all bore his monogram surmounted by a coronet, and the gold ornaments on the table at dinner were engraved with his crest. The champagne too, and other French wines had been brought from England.

  A number of the servants in the Palazzo were English and Lucia knew they were his Lordship’s personal staff. She imagined she could hear everybody already bustling in and out of the great rooms, knowing that if their Master had said they were leaving at dawn, he would be extremely incensed if they were unable to do so.

  He was waiting for her and she took another sip of her champagne.

  “Shall we go?” he asked.

  “Yes – of course,” she answered rising to her feet.

  She had the feeling he was not only anxious to return to England, but even more to escape from Venice, and she could understand he had no wish to see the tempestuous Prima Donna again.

  Then, as if she remembered how he had been injured, she asked quickly,

  “Is your arm – all right?”

  “A mere scratch,” the Marquis replied loftily.

  “But have you had it washed and dressed?’ Lucia asked. “Even a scratch can be dangerous unless you are very careful.”

  “I will see to it when I get to the yacht.”

  He walked towards the door and there was nothing Lucia could do but follow him.

  Then, as they went down the stairs, he said,

  “I have a feeling you are worrying about me, but there is no need.”

  “There is every need,” Lucia argued. “Supposing that anything should – happen to you?”

  The Marquis smiled.

  “Are you thinking of me or of yourself?”

  For a moment she was embarrassed by his question, then she replied,

  “If I am truthful – both!”

  The Marquis laughed.

  “That was not the answer I expected, and I therefore commend you, Lucia, on being that most unusual phenomenon, a woman who actually tells the truth.”

  Lucia did not reply, and the Marquis found that once again he could read her thoughts. He knew she was thinking that he must have known some very strange women.

  Then he told himself that, having lived in the quiet of the country with her father and mother, she had no idea of the prevarications, evasions, intrigues and downright lies which were employed by Ladies of Society.

  Where those of the other world were concerned, deception was part of their profession and their stock in trade.

  Only as the gondola was moving quickly down the Grand Canal did he wonder how Lucia’s presence would affect his journey home.

  He had the idea it might be very different from the time he had spent alone on his voyage to Venice.

  Then he looked at her and thought that, in the plain white gown she had worn all day, with a shawl round her shoulders, she looked so lovely that he found it hard to believe her beauty was real.

  “Perhaps she is just part of Venice,” he
told himself, “and like an exotic flower will not transplant into another environment.”

  Then he remembered that she was English, at least, so she had said, but there was something about her which told him that was not the whole truth.

  As if she was aware he was thinking of her, Lucia turned to look at him with a question in her eyes and he asked,

  “Are you saying good-bye to Venice?”

  “I am trying to – remember what Papa – said about it. If he were here he would say we must – look at – the light.”

  There was no doubt that as it was late in the afternoon the strange apricot tinge that the Marquis had noticed before seemed to colour the last of the two hundred palaces on the Grand Canal and tint the waters of the Lagoon.

  He remembered somebody had once said that one of the peculiarities of the light in Venice was that its intensity derived as much from the horizon as from the sun.

  Now, as he looked towards the horizon, he wondered if Alastair would think he had reached new horizons in his mind and perhaps, to put it poetically, opened new windows to his soul.

  Then he laughed mockingly at himself and thought that nothing was changed.

  Only Francesca had behaved a little more outrageously than some of the other women he had taken under his protection, and all he had acquired from Venice was six pictures by an unknown artist.

  Then as Lucia made a little movement with one of her hands he told himself cynically that he could add her to the list.

  At the quayside there were a number of ships from different lands, and as they neared his yacht the Marquis thought that it stood out like a well-bred stallion, amongst a lot of very, inferior horses.

  He had designed it for speed, having taken as a model the American pirate ships which had preyed during their war with the British on the cargo vessels and proved themselves superior to any other ship at sea.

  The Admiralty had captured one and made the shipbuilders study it with care.

  The Marquis, realising how revolutionary it was as a sea-going vessel, had, immediately the war with Napoleon ended, ordered a private yacht to be built on the American lines.

  The Sea Horse evoked the admiration and envy of every ship-owner wherever he took it, and he was not surprised to find now there was quite a crowd on the quay as he and Lucia went aboard.