She sat stiffly, her hands clasped together on the tabletop, willing the ladies to walk past. Chance was gazing fixedly into his coffee cup, obviously trying not to catch their eyes. A minute passed and Chance relaxed. ‘Gone, thank goodness.’
‘Really? And why are you so thankful for that?’ Alessa jammed her hat back square on her head and got to her feet, making the metal chair legs judder noisily back on the stone terrace. ‘Ashamed of being seen with a local woman? Afraid someone might jump to the wrong conclusion?’ A sudden, horrible thought struck her. If it is the wrong conclusion—can he possibly be that devious? ‘Afraid Lady Trevick would be shocked? You, my lord, are a hypocritical bastard.’
Alessa snatched up her basket and was down the steps into the roadway before Chance could stand. The other patrons stared without pretence at the interesting scene; Alessa swept them a haughty glare and whisked round the corner. Then she took to her heels, dodging through the crowd, down a side street, away.
Chance stood in the street, craning to see a glimpse of one wide-brimmed hat amongst so many. She had gone. Hell and damnation.
‘Signore?’ It was the waiter, black eyes sparkling with interest, obviously torn between his enjoyment of the little drama and worry that the customer might disappear without paying.
‘Here.’ Chance dug into his breeches pocket and dropped coins on the table, picked up his cane and hat and hobbled, with as much dignity as he could muster, back down the steps and into the street Alessa had vanished down.
He had acted to shield her face without thinking beyond the fact that Lady Trevick would surely notice the resemblance between his companion and her new house guests. Alessa’s reaction was completely understandable: one minute he had been assuring her that she could take her place amidst any company, that her working status was nothing to be ashamed of, and the next he had virtually bundled her under the table to hide her from his hostess.
He would have to find her and explain why—which would mean revealing his suspicions about her relationship to Lady Blackstone before he had properly thought through how he was going to manage the reconciliation. Or before he had done some very basic checking. What if Lady Blackstone’s younger brother proved to be alive and well and living in England and Alessa was a far more distant connection?
Chance flattened himself against a wall to make room for a minute donkey laden with what appeared to be a pair of doors, so large that only its head and hooves were visible. He was lost already, although he supposed he had not gone so far that he could not retrace his steps. The alleyway opened into a tiny square with a church on one side and a handsome Venetian wellhead in the centre. He leaned against it to take the weight off his leg and contemplated his options.
Getting back to the Residency seemed an obvious first step—and, if it was possible, to do so without having to walk back along the Liston under the interested gaze of the coffee-shop patrons. Coward, he told himself, and grinned in self-mockery.
Then he could write and apologise. No, that would be cowardice. He would have to get Roberts to guide him and go and make his peace in person, although he suspected that this time she really would lob the geraniums at him.
Chance raised his head and scanned the rooftops, finding the domed campanile of the church of Ayios Spyridhon. He could orientate himself on that and find his way back. He walked slowly through the maze of streets, pausing now and then to examine a fragment of glorious carving set into a shop front, or another Venetian wellhead with its inevitable lions of St Mark on guard. His instinct told him to hurry, but he controlled it. Straining his partly healed ankle would be foolish and Alessa would be in no mood to speak to him now.
He reached the south door into the church and glanced up to his right. As he thought, there was the end of the Spianadha, and beyond it the road that would take him close to the bay and the Residency. People were coming and going through the church. Part of his Anglican upbringing was slightly shocked by this casual use of the space, but, as he watched from the shadows of the porch, he realised that all of them stopped for a moment, bowing or turning towards the altar and the iconostasis, behind which lay the mummified remains of Bishop Spyridhon, as if seeking approval or comfort from their saint.
Spyridhon could summon storms, they said, had done just that to save the island from the Turkish fleet, and was an all-powerful protector of the Corfiots. Chance doffed his hat and went in into the semi-darkness, rich with incense fumes, lit by myriads of candles reflected in the silver and gold frames of the sad-eyed icons.
As a man, he knew he could approach the iconostasis and pass through it into the area behind the altar where the saint lay, into the area forbidden to women, but he hesitated to do so. As he stood there a young priest, black bearded and smiling, gestured him forward and ushered him through to the ornate tomb. It seemed one could look through a glass panel in the ornate coffin and see the saint. Chance saw a glimpse of a brown, wrinkled face and stepped back, surprised at how powerful the sight was. He waited, not wanting to offend the priest by hurrying away.
Another man in western clothes was standing by the casket, his head bowed, apparently in prayer. Two townsmen entered behind him and Chance realised he would have to wait until the praying man moved to avoid jostling him.
Eventually he raised his head, crossed himself with the elaborate gesture of the Eastern Orthodox rite, and turned to the doorway. Chance followed, but, as they walked down the steps into the body of the church, his ankle gave with a sickening pang. He put out a hand to steady himself and found his arm gripped by the stranger.
‘Thank you.’ Even as he spoke he wondered if he was using the right language—despite his fashionable clothes the other man had a distinctly exotic air about him.
‘Not at all, my dear fellow.’ The accent was almost perfect, but behind it there was a richness, an undertone that was foreign. ‘Have you turned your ankle? Allow me.’He crooked his elbow companionably and Chance took it, grateful to escape through the north door without falling flat on his face.
‘I sprained it badly the other day.’ Chance hobbled up the flight of steps to street level. ‘I appreciate your help, sir, but I believe I can manage now.’
‘Might I give you a lift?’ The stranger raised one hand and clicked his fingers. A small open carriage driven by a man in local dress pulled up alongside them. ‘I was going to the Residency, but I can drop you anywhere you choose.’
‘That is my destination also. Sir Thomas has taken pity on me in my present unhandy state.’ Chance climbed in and waited for his rescuer to join him before holding out his hand. ‘Benedict Chancellor, Lord Blakeney.’
‘Voltar Zagrede, Count—I think you would say—of Kurateni.’ The accent was obvious now, rich and unfamiliar. He waved his hand vaguely towards the bay, to where the mountains of Albania loomed, so close that the sea seemed merely a lake, and they the opposite shore. ‘My lands lie over there. I go to pay my respects to the Lord High Commissioner upon bringing my ship into harbour for a few days. Your navy is very suspicious.’ He chuckled. ‘They think all my people pirates.’
Chance settled back into the corner of the seat to look at his companion more easily. The Count was tall, lean, dark to the point of being saturnine, and exquisitely dressed in a combination of western fashion and eastern fabrics that Chance thought would cause a stir amongst the London ton. He was not sure he would want to adopt the wide silk cummerbund, but he coveted the Count’s soft leather boots with their embossed detailing. The hilt of a knife protruded from the top of the right one.
Altogether a style to make that poseur Byron green with envy, Chance mused as Zagrede tossed his luxuriant, oiled, curls back from his eyes and clapped his hat on his head. The ladies at the Residency would be swooning in delight. Just so long as he did not try his charms on Alessa.
Chapter Seven
Alessa waited until the men had vanished through the north door before standing up from the shadowy bench she had been resting on and slipping out of the southern one. The child of an Anglican father and a Roman Catholic mother, she had spent her adolescence being firmly escorted to the local Greek Orthodox church by old Agatha, their nearest neighbour. As a result she was not certain which creed held her allegiance, nor whether the labels mattered so very much in any case.
Certainly she had fallen into the habit of dropping into the church and having a mental conversation with St Spyridhon. Not that she expected this to be anything but one sided, but she found it soothing and a good way of sorting out her true feelings.
Her first instinct, when she realised that Chance was prepared to be downright ungentlemanly to avoid being seen with her, was to run away. That still seemed a sensible solution, and she had somewhere to run to, which was very much to the point.
It was almost three months since they had all visited Liapades on the other side of the island. She still owned a cottage there, and a small patch of land that old Agatha cultivated alongside her own. Sh