AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Don’t be childish, Magny had told her yesterday, when they’d argued about what to do. Stop thinking with your emotions and your pride and use your reason.
She was not a child. She’d borne worse betrayals: her father’s abandonment precisely when she most needed him, her husband’s cruelty, unchecked by anybody, unsoftened by any friend’s intervention.
She could easily bear this small emotional setback—and carry her head high.
She held her head high and acted the gracious hostess, the role she’d always played so well and enjoyed so much at home and in the course of her travels. She poured the tea, urged the gentlemen to sample the delicate pastries Magny’s cook had prepared, and all the while she kept up her share of entertaining if inconsequential talk: of books and poetry and plays and operas, all interspersed with that most interesting subject, gossip about one’s acquaintances.
Then at last, when all the usual topics had been covered, Magny said, “Monsieur Cordier, you know my purpose in inviting you today was not purely social.”
“I am sure that if Mrs. Bonnard has a purpose,” said Cordier, “it is to cut out my heart—perhaps with that alarming-looking cake knife near her hand—and feed it to the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco.”
Francesca smiled sweetly. “Now there’s an idea.”
“Later, perhaps,” Magny said, “but at this moment Francesca agrees that you are more useful alive than dead. It took a great deal of persuading, I promise you, to bring her to this amiable state of mind. But she and I are now in accord, are we not, ma cherie?”
“Mais oui, monsieur,” she said demurely.
Cordier’s black brows knit and his eyes glittered dangerously.
“It has become clear,” Magny went on, “that so long as Francesca has the articles in question, she is not safe. To be safe is more important than revenge for old injuries. She has no affection for her countrymen, none of whom defended her in her time of trouble. She cares not what becomes of her ci-devant husband. Who tells the truth and who lies? What does it matter? But since you have not openly tried to kill her, I have advised her to give the articles to you. Then you may give them to the good people or the bad people, as you please. All we require in return is that you take these tiresome articles and get out of Venice and out of our lives.”
After all the difficulties, complications, trials, and tribulations, how simple it was, James thought.
They would give him the letters and all he had to do was exactly what he’d wanted to do all along: go back to England.
He had a job to do and it would be done and he would be done with her.
“I quite understand,” he said. “I’m relieved that you’ve been able to persuade Mrs. Bonnard to…”
He paused and looked at her, at those mad ruffles that made him think of petticoats and tumbled bedclothes. In his mind’s eye he saw her tumbling over the balcony rail and into the canal. He saw her clinging to the mooring post…creating a diversion.
She was a diversion, from everything he’d planned, from his duty, from his reason.
“The terms,” he began, and paused.
Don’t be an idiot, Jemmy.
“The terms,” he said. “I cannot agree to the terms.”
“What terms?” said Magny. “How much simpler can we make it? We do not ask for money, even knowing there is nothing to stop you from selling these letters to this Fazi woman—or to Elphick directly.”
“I’m not going out of your lives,” James said. “I’ll do what I must because it’s my duty. But after that’s done, I’m coming back, Francesca.”
She went utterly still. If it were not for the ruffles fluttering at her bosom, one would not know she was breathing.
James looked at Magny. “All’s fair, you know, in love and war, but I’ll give you fair warning, monsieur. I will not let this woman use and abandon me. You might have her now, but I’ll get her back, whatever it—”
“Please.” Magny held up his hand. “No more. I shall be sick.”
“I don’t care,” James said. “I’m not French and practical. I’m English and Italian and—”
“And you must be blind,” said monsieur. “I shall always have her, can’t you see?”
“Not always,” James said.
“Always,” said Magny. “Toujours.”
“Always,” said Francesca and she smiled the slow, wicked smile.
“She’s my daughter,” said Magny.
Chapter 15
Perfect she was, but as perfection is
Insipid in this naughty world of ours,
Where our first parents never learn’d to kiss
Till they were exiled from their
earlier bowers,
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss
(I wonder how they got through the
twelve hours).
Lord Byron
Don Juan, Canto the First
James was sure the look on his face was priceless.
Hers was, certainly. She was as shocked as he was. But while he was gaping like an idiot, his head swiveling from her to Magny while he tried to discern the resemblance, her face turned a deep pink. She jumped up from her chair.
Still looking from one to the other, James rose as well, naturally. Whatever else he was, he was born and bred a gentleman.
The green eyes flashed at Magny. “Have you taken leave of your senses? I told you when you came here—”
“You do not set conditions for me,” said monsieur—or Sir Michael—or whoever he was.
She threw her hands up. “I can’t believe this! It will be all over Venice—and then—and then—”
“Aspetti.” James held up his hand. “Wait. Please. You did say, ‘daughter’?”
“He is impossible!” she raged. “He’s gone when I need him, and then, when I don’t need him, he turns up and tries to arrange my life.”
“Your life is merde,” said Magny.
James winced, recalling that he’d said the same to her, but using the Italian noun.
“No, it isn’t!” The green eyes flashed from one man to the other. “Why don’t you understand, either of you? I chose this life. I have had lovers, yes, and with one exception”—she scowled at James—“they’ve paid handsomely for the privilege. But always—always—I choose. I!” She pressed her fist to her bosom. “I have never, once, done anything for any man against my wishes—except when I was married. I have done no more—no, a great deal less—in the way of carnality than either of you.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Magny said. “After all—”
“But because I’ve chosen not to live like a nun,” she cut in, “you say my life is excrement? It isn’t. I’ve been happy. And free. And the only flies in the ointment are you—the pair of you. And you can go to hell, the pair of you.”
She swept to the door.
“Un momento,” James said. “A moment, if you please.”
She swung round, and shot him a volcanic look. “What?”
“Um…the letters?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That was a magnificent exit,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I am so sorry to spoil it.”
She stomped away from the door but not to the tea table. She crossed the room and flung herself onto the sofa near the fire.
“Her mother was a little temperamental, too,” Magny said apologetically. No, not Magny but Saunders. Yet James could not stop thinking of the man as French, and a count. Perhaps this was because he continued to speak English with the correct French accent.
“My mother, indeed,” she said. “You are always throwing temper fits about every little thing.”
“My daughter is a courtesan,” said Saunders-Magny. “That is not precisely a little thing.”
