As she reached the vestibule she heard once again the rousing military music she had heard earlier, and now she could tell that it came from the dining room of the hotel itself. Dismayed at the thought of taking breakfast to such a noisy accompaniment, she approached the doors where the smiling
maître d’hôtel
waited to greet her.
“Buon giorno,
Miss Milbanke. I trust you slept well.”
“Excellently, thank you.”
“If you will please follow me.” He led her into the vast red and gold room that had once been the ballroom.
A sea of white uniforms greeted her eyes. The hotel seemed to have been entirely taken over by the Austrian army; there were very few civilians, Venetian or anything else, and even fewer ladies. Her dismay deepened as she followed the
maître d’hôtel
past the long, fully occupied tables, and a flush touched her cheeks at the obvious stir her arrival was causing in this masculine stronghold. The sound of the band was louder than ever, for the musicians occupied a stand in the very center of the room, and the floor throbbed a little beneath her feet as she passed them and was conducted toward a very small table in a far corner, well away from the band and from most of the other tables.
“Buon giorno,
Sir Nicholas,” said the
maître d’hôtel
politely.
Her head came up sharply and she looked with horror at the sole occupant of the table. It was the gentleman in the gondola! Her cheeks, already warm, now became uncomfortably hot. If she recognized him so swiftly, then he must equally as swiftly identify her as the immodest lady on the balcony!
Sir Nicholas rose to his feet with a polite, but silent, bow as the
maître d’hôtel
drew out her chair and muttered something about her being a
donna inglese,
before hurrying away to attend to her breakfast. Nervously, Laura sat down, glancing up at her table companion. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his hips were slender
—all in all, he was her ideal of masculine beauty. But his glance was witheringly cold, and her nervousness increased. She fumbled with her recalcitrant reticule, which seemed of a firm mind to tangle itself with the crisp, spotless tablecloth, and she knew that she must be going from bad to worse in his eyes.
He took his seat again and returned his attention to a small account book which lay on the table beside his untouched breakfast. She could not help noticing that a great many of the figures written in the book were in red, and that the letter, which also lay close by, was from Messrs. Coutts, the London bankers. He poured himself another dish of the thick Turkish coffee in the elegant silver-gilt pot. Instinctively she knew that his uneaten meal and the black coffee were not the result of over-indulgence the night before, but rather a consequence of the contents of the account book and the letter.
The
maître d’hôtel
brought her the light breakfast of toast and coffee she had requested the night before, not being accustomed to taking a large meal at the beginning of the day, and as she began to eat she stole another look at Sir Nicholas
.
He concentrated so fully on the book that he was unaware of the close scrutiny to which he was being subjected. Up close he was even more handsome than she had thought, and with his golden hair and tanned face could lead the fanciful to compare him with a Greek god, She sipped her coffee. Yes, maybe it was not so fanciful after all, for that was what he did remind her of
—in particular of a statue in the grounds at Hazeldon Court, although that statue had certainly not been clad in Bond Street elegance! What
would
he say had he known the indelicate thoughts she was thinking at this very moment! What would
anyone
say! Laura hid a smile. Glancing around, she saw that she was not alone in
admiring him, for the few ladies present looked frequently in his direction. His fashionable clothes would have set him aside in any London drawing room, but here, among so many white-uniformed officers, he was outstanding, the more so with his pale hair and fine gray eyes. A diamond pin sparkled in the folds of his cravat and he wore a heavy signet ring on which she could make out a design of the sun with many curving rays. Now, as in the gondola, he toyed with the frill of his shirt cuff, and she knew that it was a habit resorted to when he had a great deal on his mind. It was no great feat of insight on her part, merely the fact that she had often seen her late Uncle Hazeldon do precisely the same thing.
As she watched he closed the account book and put away the letter. Then he took a miniature of a red-haired woman from his pocket. Who was she, wondered Laura? She was very beautiful. His wife maybe? But he wore no wedding ring…
.
Suddenly he looked at her, and his voice when he spoke was soft and almost light. “It would seem that we are thrust together as being the only two Britons in this nest of Austrians. Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Nicholas Grenville of King’s Cliff.” He inclined his head.
“I
—I am Miss Milbanke. I trust you do not find it too disagreeable having to share your table with me.” A vision of herself in her nightgown floated horribly in front of her eyes as she tried to meet his gaze.
“In view of the crowded state of this establishment, Miss Milbanke, I doubt if finding it disagreeable would have any practical consequences to justify the effort.”
It was not politely said and she was suddenly angry. She may have been guilty of reprehensible behavior a little while earlier, but her crime had not been deliberately committed and it ill became the likes of Sir Nicholas Grenville of King’s Cliff to behave as if it had! “I will endeavor to disturb your meal as little as is humanly possible,” she said coldly, turning her attention to her breakfast and, as she thought, ending the conversation with the last word.
The last word, however, was to belong to him. “You will not disturb me at all for the moment, Miss Milbanke,” he said, getting to his feet, “For I am about to leave you in sole possession of the table. Good day to you.”
She did not deign to reply or even to look up. He may have the looks of an angel, but his disagreeable manners damned him in her eyes! The word ‘gallant’ was probably not in his limited vocabulary! Still, no doubt his dear mama adored him! Laura spread marmalade on her toasted bread as if it offended her. Then she took a long breath. This was foolish; she had not come to Venice to be immediately put out by a toad like Sir Nicholas Grenville! She had come to enjoy herself, and enjoy herself she would!
The marmalade had a pleasant sharpness that went well with the coffee. Thoughts of Sir Nicholas receded over the horizon and she contemplated instead the delights that lay before her. She looked around the room, the ceiling of which was so high that it took up two whole floors of the building. Immense chandeliers glittered in the smoky atmosphere and the red and gold decorations were elegant and pleasing. Gradually, however, she became uncomfortably aware that she was being observed. It was a disturbing sensation, one which made the hairs at the nape of her neck prickle a little and sent a cold shiver down her back.
She turned sharply in the direction of that steady gaze. Among all those white uniforms there was one of a completely different hue, and she wondered how she had not noticed the tall, dark hussar before. His jacket was dark green, his tight breeches a bright crimson, and the fur-trimmed pelisse fixed casually over one shoulder was of the same dark green as the jacket. Black and gold braiding sparkled impressively and a red shako bearing the Austrian oak-leaf emblem lay on the table before him. He smiled at her in a way she found offensively forward and she looked coldly away to signify her disapproval. He continued to stare disconcertingly at her, a touch of amusement on his thin lips. His face was dark, as were his peculiarly intense eyes, and there was an ugly scar on his cheek.
Her heart almost stopped when he stood, for she thought he was about to approach her, but instead he left the busy dining room, his tall, imposing figure drawing mixed glances from his fellow officers. He did not speak to any of them, nor they to him, and the atmosphere in the room lightened noticeably with his departure.
Soon afterward, Laura left the dining room herself. She had forgotten the hussar, but then suddenly he was in the doorway before her and she almost collided with him. He must surely have been waiting there for her, although he managed to make the encounter appear to be accidental.
With a gasp she stepped back from him, her blue eyes wide and startled.
He bowed, smiling at her. “Entschuldigen Sie bitte, gnädige fräulein,” he murmured.
“The
—the fault was entirely mine, sir, for I was not paying attention.”
“Ah, you are English…
.
Forgive me, dear lady, for barring your way.”
His deep voice disturbed her as much as his burning gaze, and she muttered something hasty and unintelligible before hurrying past him and up the sweep of the grand staircase. As she went, though, she knew that he was still watching her, and the conviction that he had lain in wait for her grew with each step she took. Out of his sight, she halted at the top of the staircase to look back down at him.
A sardonic smiled touched his thin lips and he tossed a coin lightly into the air, catching it deftly in a way that suggested he had found the answer to some irritating problem. Then he turned on his heel and left the hotel. She heard him calling a gondolier before the doors closed loudly behind him.
She stood there a moment. She was afraid of him. There was something devilish about him and she knew instinctively that he was a man to avoid at all costs.
The sun was high in the heavens when Laura emerged at last from the hotel to commence her first day of sightseeing. Her green parasol twirled gaily and a floating veil of embroidered net was draped over her satin bonnet. The perfume of orange blossom was strong from the small trees in their terracotta pots on the hotel steps and she remembered how cold it had been when she had left England and how the catkins had been the only color in the hedgerows. Spring had barely begun at home, but here it was well on the way to summer
—
An old man called a ganzier held a gondola alongside for her, and she was mindful of the guide book’s advice and took care to drop a coin into his outstretched hand. Realizing that the
zentildonna
was English and not one of the loathed Austrians, the gondolier grinned broadly at her, waving away the guide book she held. In halting English he promised that she would not need it, for he would show her all the many sights of the most beautiful city God in all His wisdom had ever created!
Smiling, she sat back on the black leather seat beneath the gondola’s curtained felze. The little wrought-iron holder, which the night before had held a little light, now held a posy of fresh flowers, and the gondolier was already humming to himself as he poled his craft through the crush by the famous hotel. She felt sure now that she was in a dream, as indeed she supposed she was, for had she not dreamed of this moment every day since finding the book in her aunt’s library?
At last the gondola was out on the shining water and Venice began to unfold before her. The pale gold and ocher reflections of the marble palaces shimmered in the dazzling water and the continuous lap-lap of the small tide against the gondola served to make everything seem even more dreamlike. Not even the relentless decay that pervaded everything could detract from the city’s unique charm. There was the infinite arch of the brilliant azure sky above and the mirrored shades of the water beneath
—and in between the beauty that was Venice….
She noticed incongruous things as well as the magnificent sights. The gondolier pointed out the Doge’s palace, but she noticed as well the bright red valerian growing in crevices, the flower heads so heavy that sometimes they bent to touch the rippling water. She was shown the Rialto Bridge, but glancing up at an open window she saw a tiny canary hopping from perch to perch in its gilded cage. The gondolier pointed away into the distance where stood the white marble gazebo where the tyrant Bonaparte had like to take his coffee, but in another window she saw a bowl of orange marigolds. Time passed swiftly, and even had this one morning been her only time here, she knew already that she had been right to squander her meager inheritance upon this journey. Saving it all would never have given her as much exquisite pleasure as this lazy excursion in a gondola.
It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon before she realized that she had not taken her luncheon, and so she asked the gondolier to take her back to the hotel. He gave a disparaging sniff and remarked that he could not understand
anyone
wishing to take an Austrian meal when there was good Venetian fare to be sampled.
She smiled. “I am sure the Hotel Contarini serves excellent food.”
“Certainly. If you are an Austrian.” He removed his hat and placed it reverently against his chest. “As I swear upon the Blessed Virgin. Contarini serves only sausages, pickles and cold cabbage.”
She laughed then, for she was certain that such mean fare would not find favor with the well-fed officers she had seen at breakfast. However, the hotel dining room would undoubtedly mean that wretched band playing again, and that would surely jar upon her after having savored Venice all morning.
“Tell me then,” she said at last, “if you were going to eat now, where would you go?”
“Fontelli’s,” he said promptly.
She wondered slyly if he had an arrangement with the proprietor of Fontelli’s but perhaps she was being a little unchristian. “Very well, I too shall eat there,” she said.
He beamed at her and turned the gondola. Her conviction that he did indeed have an arrangement with this particular eating house deepened when he took a very circuitous route through a great many narrow side canals before at last poling his craft toward some steps by a bridge. Some women were opening shellfish there and a crowd of beggars swarmed forward as the gondola nudged the steps. The gondolier leaped ashore to help Laura disembark and then turned to wave the beggars away imperiously, singling one out, however. He was a tall, burly fellow who did not look in the least as if he needed to beg for his livelihood, and Laura guessed that he and the gondolier were well acquainted. Was this play reenacted time after time, she wondered? No doubt they had an interest in the prosperity of Fontelli’s!