“They are the first jewels you almost gave me,” she said. “I shall treasure them for sentimental reasons.”
“Very well, you may have them back. Will you have me, then, tesoro mio?” He kissed her neck, in the special place, then lower.
Her mind was turning into warm honey. How could she not have him? she thought dizzily. She’d already risked her life, more than once, for him. Could she not risk her future?
She remembered what Giulietta had said last night, before they fell asleep.
But this is the gamble I take. And I take it with my eyes open.
It was always a gamble, love was.
“I’m thinking it over,” she said.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He pulled her onto his lap. He bent his head and made a slow, hot trail of kisses over the skin along the edge of her neckline.
“Are you sure you won’t be sorry later, that you didn’t wed one of those maidens in white dresses?” she whispered.
He pushed down the neckline, and she gasped as his mouth slid over her breast.
“The maidens,” she said weakly. “The clubs. The dining room and the men telling dirty jokes. Hyde Park.”
“The hell with them,” he growled. His tongue grazed the taut peak of her breast. She felt the tug down low, the same she’d felt the first time she saw him, when she didn’t know who he was.
Mere lust, perhaps, for an attractive man.
Or perhaps it was the powerful pull to one’s soulmate.
She didn’t want to resist. Yet she was…afraid.
“And your family?” she said desperately. “Italian mothers. No woman is ever good enough for—”
“Trust me,” he murmured. His hands moved down to her skirt. “She’ll like you. She’ll say I got the better bargain. How can you talk of mothers at a time like this?”
She didn’t want to talk about such things. But she needed to, before she melted away completely. Her mother had died shortly after she was wed. She’d missed her very much. “I like…to be friends with women.”
His hands had slid under her dress, under her petticoat. A part of her was lost, enslaved by his hands, by desire. How long had it been since they’d made love? Yet a part of her thought of friends, so many she’d lost during that ghastly time in her life.
“Giulietta,” she murmured.
“I know,” he said. He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Trust me. We’ll be happy. Close the shutters.”
She closed them, squirming as his hands slid up over her garters. She cupped his face and brought it close to hers. “You are too hasty,” she said. “Baciami.”
He laughed and kissed her and she tasted the laughter. He was a sinner, too, like her, and unrepentant, like her. He would never be quite respectable. He would never be stuffy. He didn’t care if she was a harlot and he wouldn’t care if her best friend was one, too. With this man she could be happy.
With this man she could be drunk in an instant on one hot, laughing kiss.
She reached down and unfastened his trouser front. She grasped him and he gasped at her touch. “Who’s hasty now?” he said thickly.
“We’re nearly at the theater,” she said. She let her hand stroke over the hot length of his cock but she hadn’t the patience to toy with him now. He pulled up her skirts and she moved to draw her legs up against his waist. His big, wicked hand stroked over her and “Yes,” she said. “Yes, now.” She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him, fiercely, as he pushed into her.
Warmth exploded through her, the warmth of pleasure and happiness and possession. She let go, gave up thinking, gave up her precious control, and let feeling take her where it would.
This one—this man—was to keep, and so she held on, as their bodies pulsed together, as their hearts beat harder and harder, together. She held on, kissing him and laughing through the mad rush to joy. She came to the peak, and then another, and one last time, as he surrendered, too. Together they crested the last wave, and together they gently floated into the quiet of pure happiness.
Outside, meanwhile, Uliva and Dumini had taken note of the fact that the shutters were closed though it was an unseasonably warm night and the few clouds passing overhead did not threaten rain.
The two Venetians merely glanced at each other, and patiently took the gondola on an extended detour.
Epilogue
All tragedies are finish’d by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage.
Lord Byron
Don Juan, Canto the Third
The scandal surrounding Lord Elphick’s trial proved even more spectacular than the one that had attended his divorce. Newspapers devoted column after column to details of the trial. Mr. Cruikshank and his fellow artists created a feast of images for the print-buying public: Lord Elphick kissing Napoleon’s bum, Lord Elphick in a drunken orgy with a group of poxy damsels, Lord Elphick’s head as a toadstool growing on a dunghill, Lord Elphick defecating on a fallen Brittania, Lord Elphick stealing food from starving soldiers. These were some of the milder ones.
Each day, when his lordship was taken to Westminster for his trial, the mob pelted the carriage with dead animals and excrement, rotten fruits and vegetables being deemed insufficient to express loyal Britons’ feelings.
The trial was very long—longer than that of Queen Caroline and a good deal more sordid. In the end, to nobody’s surprise, he was found guilty.
Still he contrived to cheat justice. On the night before the execution, he was found writhing on the floor of his cell. He’d not been allowed a razor, knife, rope, or even braces, as a precaution against his doing away with himself. Excellent precautions but insufficient. He contrived somehow to get hold of poison. They found him still alive but it was too late. Nothing could be done. He died some hours later, in great agony.
Given the symptoms described in a newspaper clipping one of James’s sisters had sent, he decided it must have been arsenic. He also decided it was not suicide. “If he could contrive to get poison,” he told Francesca, “he could contrive to get a pistol or a razor. And of all poisons, to choose arsenic. So hard to get the dose right. I’ll wager anything it was a woman. It isn’t that hard to poison a prisoner.”
“Even one under vigilant guard?” said his wife. “How would you go about it?”
“I’m not telling,” he said. “If you decide to poison me, you must work it out for yourself, in the time-honored tradition of my ancestors.”
“Well, I shan’t try to guess who poisoned him,” she said. “It might have been one of any of the hundreds he used.”
“The ones who didn’t run away the instant the scandal broke,” he said.
“His dear Johanna didn’t wait that long,” she said. “She was gone before Quentin arrived in London.”
Not long after this conversation, the letters began to arrive. Lord Byron had already written gleefully to Francesca, “At least one of us is vindicated.” He’d enclosed a short poem he’d composed for the occasion, which included several n
aughty innuendoes about her second husband.
Lord Quentin had written, too, keeping them abreast of proceedings in London and thanking her for helping them complete the case they’d been assembling for many months.
But then, to Francesca’s great shock, came letters from old acquaintances and friends. There were letters of thanks and letters of apology.
Most shocking of all was a letter to them both from the King. Having traveled by special courier, it arrived late one day in February, long after the servants had collected the post. James and Francesca were awaiting company: Lurenze and Giulietta were to join them for dinner before they all set out for the opera.
James was lounging on the sofa, studying the putti. When they were discussing where to live as a married couple, he’d suggested they remain here at the Palazzo Neroni because the plasterwork had sentimental meaning for him.
Letter in hand, she came to sit beside him. He slid up on the cushions in order to read over her shoulder. Among other things, his majesty thanked her for putting herself in bodily danger on behalf of her country.
“Didn’t know that, did you?” James murmured, after they’d read for a moment in stunned silence. “When you were risking your life, trying to save me, you didn’t know you were performing a public service.”
“It was very good of Quentin to make me out to be a hero,” she said. “But really, I was only being stupidly in love.”
“It was very good of you to be stupid,” he said. “Stupid, but very good.”
She turned to the next page and read on. “Good heavens!” she said.
“Santo Cielo!” he said.
“The silly things,” she said. “What can they be thinking?”
“Lord and Lady Delcaire.” James looked at her. “How do you like the sound of that? We are to be ennobled—for state service, no less.”
“You are to be ennobled,” she said. “I merely go along as necessary baggage.”
“So you do, you baggage.”
“Oh, and I was just getting used to being Mrs. Cordier.”