Ariadne's Diadem Read online

  The door opened suddenly, and Gervase’s cousin, Hugh, entered. “Ah, you’re awake,” he declared, crossing to the wardrobe and opening it to search through the elegant clothes hanging there as if they were his own.

  “So it would seem,” Gervase murmured, watching him with some irritation.

  “Then you’ll accompany me to the theater tonight after all?”

  “The questionable delights of the San Carlo hold no appeal,” Gervase replied, thinking of the Neapolitan insistence upon making so much noise throughout performances that actors had to shout to be heard. “But I’ll dine with you afterward at our usual place along the street.”

  “Suit yourself, but if it’s macaroni again, I swear I’ll expire.” Hugh went on sifting through Gervase’s wardrobe. The cousins were very alike, possessing the same height and coloring, but Hugh was less good-looking, and didn’t possess me immense charm of which Gervase was capable when he chose. Hugh was also from the less wealthy branch of the Mowbray family, a fact Gervase knew he bitterly resented, although the resentment was always hidden behind smiles. Hugh had hidden depths, and some of those depths were better left unplumbed, Gervase thought, for there were aspects of his cousin he found hard to like. Hugh was not a man to rely upon in an emergency, nor in whom to place faith if one’s life depended upon it, but for all that, he was Gervase’s only living relative, and so had to be tolerated. Tolerating someone was one thing, however, being cooped up with him constantly for six months quite another. This European visit had been a mistake, and the veneer of friendship between the cousins was beginning to wear thin.

  “Is there something you require, Hugh?” Gervase asked a little tetchily as Hugh went on sifting through his clothes.

  “I was looking for your greatcoat. I thought I’d take a stroll before the theater, and although the lilacs are out and the days are warm, the evenings soon prove to be February after all.” What Hugh said was true, for although as a whole the Neapolitan climate was clement at this time of year, at night it still became quite cold; indeed frost and ice were not unknown. “Ah, here it is.” He lifted out Gervase’s best greatcoat, a fine ankle-length garment of charcoal wool with an astrakhan collar and gleaming silver buttons that bore the maze badge of the Mowbrays. Belatedly, he thought of seeking Gervase’s permission. “May I?”

  “I suppose it would be churlish to refuse.”

  “Is that what you said to your father when he confronted you with the Willowby creature?” Hugh asked with lightning change of subject.

  The sudden barb was there, and it found a mark. Gervase flushed a little. “I bowed to his wishes because it was the only way to make certain of my full inheritance.” He could hear the old man’s voice now. That’s my final word, Gervase. Your recent entanglement with that actress creature caused me great concern, so I wish to be certain that the right sort of woman becomes the next duchess. I have found that woman in Anne Willowby, and she is the price you will have to pay for wasting your life thus far. There is nothing you can do about it, for my will has already been altered, and it is binding. You marry Miss Willowby, or forfeit your right to the family estates and fortune. The title you are bound to inherit anyway, I can do nothing about that, but if I could deny it to you, I would.

  Hugh turned to look at him. “No doubt you fear such a rustic will embarrass you before the ton.”

  “Since I have never met Anne Willowby, I cannot form an opinion. She may be very accomplished for all I know.”

  “I can’t understand that you haven’t even wanted to see her.”

  “I resent her too much to wish to have any contact more intimate than the written word. She is clearly a fortune hunter who somehow, although God knows how, managed to wrap my father around her scheming finger.”

  “If she was simply a fortune hunter, don’t you think she’d have trapped him into marriage, not you? The purse strings are usually held by the reigning duke, not the duke-in-waiting,” Hugh pointed out practically.

  Gervase shrugged. “Perhaps she tried and failed. Who can say?”

  “You can’t postpone the match forever, you know. I seem to recall that the terms of the will dictate marriage within a year.”

  “I’m aware of that, but until those twelve blessed months are up, I intend to stay free, which is why Italy seemed so blessed a haven.”

  “Seemed? Past tense?”

  “It begins to pall. One can examine only so many ruined temples, admire so many reliefs, and gasp at the beauty of so many busts.”

  “Ah, now when it comes to busts...!” Hugh gave a sly grin.

  “I was thinking of the marble kind.”

  “I know, but I am more drawn to soft, warm busts, especially when attached to the person of the delightful Teresa del Rosso.” He was referring to their landlady’s daughter, a doe-eyed coquette of voluptuous proportions, who had thus far spurned his determined attentions.

  Gervase sighed. “I’d forget her if I were you,” he advised. Why couldn’t Hugh see that Teresa simply wasn’t interested in him? And why couldn’t he also see the wisdom of steering well clear of a young woman who clearly possessed a vindictive nature. One fell foul of Teresa del Rosso at one’s peril.

  Hugh’s smile became fixed, for Gervase had offered exactly the same advice concerning Kitty Longton, the fascinating Drury Lane actress Hugh had wanted from the first moment he’d seen her.

  Gervase recognized the expression on his cousin’s face, and was irritated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t hark back to Kitty again, for she was not the injured angel you choose to believe!”

  “No? Then why will you not say why you ended things with her so very cruelly?”

  “Cruelly?” Gervase gave a brief laugh. “My dear Hugh, believe me when I say I was not the cruel one.”

  “Then tell me what happened.”

  Gervase hesitated, but then shook his head. “No, Hugh, for it is none of your business. Suffice it that Kitty Longton was guilty of such a harsh and unfeeling act that when I found out about it I could no longer bear to be in the same room as her. That she was a whore with ambitions to marry into the aristocracy I had always known, and it made no odds, but that she was a whore entirely without heart or conscience I did not know, and the difference it made was too great by far.”

  ‘Tell the truth, Gervase. She was no more than a passing fancy to you.”

  “Are you suggesting I used her and then cast her aside without a second thought?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Not in the way you think, although it’s true she didn’t exert her fascination over me for very long. A man’s self-esteem is not best served by a woman who is determined to parade in the hoops and diamonds of court dress, nor does he feel comfortable when she shows herself to have little discretion. A daring expanse of bosom is embarrassing and vulgar outside the confines of the bedchamber, a fact to which Kitty would not pay heed, no matter how often it was pointed out. Desire soon wilts under such circumstances, I promise you, and it wilted still more when I learned unpleasant details from her past.” He looked away, remembering when he had reached the final straw where the lovely actress was concerned. Quite by chance he’d discovered that when her parents died, rather than encumber herself with her ten-year-old brother, she had consigned the boy to a disreputable orphanage, where he had died a year later of a deadly chill brought on by the cruel conditions there. Such monstrous callousness was beyond comprehension, especially as Kitty could well have afforded to show compassion for the child.

  Jealousy devoured Hugh. After Gervase, Kitty had set her calculating cap at Sir Thomas Fanhope, a dashing sporting type who was very much available on the marriage mart, but financial difficulties had soon obliged him to leave her bed in order to marry the heiress to a Staffordshire pottery fortune, a selfish only child whose doting father still controlled the purse strings. Fanhope, like Hugh himself, still loved Kitty, but Gervase, upon whom the gods smiled as usual, fully escaped the tortures of heartbreak. Women always flocke
d to Gervase. It had happened with Kitty, and no doubt would happen with Teresa del Rosso and the serving girl at the inn along the street...

  Overcoming the moment of steel-bright hatred he really felt for Gervase, who was all that stood between him and the dukedom he coveted, Hugh slipped into the coat and admired his reflection in the cheval glass in the comer. “You have an eye for clothes, I’ll give you that, Coz,” he murmured.

  “It’s as well, since you wear them almost as much as I do,” Gervase remarked.

  “What are cousins for?” Hugh replied, taking a black velvet mask from his trouser pocket and slipping it over his head.

  Gervase raised an eyebrow. “You intend to follow the rites of Bacchus Night to the full?”

  “Naturally,” Hugh replied, reaching for Gervase’s hat, gloves, and cane. “You don’t mind, do you? Only they do complement the coat so perfectly.”

  “That is why I chose them,” Gervase murmured. “No, I suppose I don’t mind—well, not that much, anyway.”

  A moment later, Hugh strolled out, looking for as if he, not his cousin, were the Duke of Wroxford. As his footsteps died away along the passage, Gervase heard the sounds of merrymaking in the street outside. Paganism seemed to tingle tangibly in the air as he reached for the half-finished glass of sweet white Lachrymae Christi wine on the table nearby. Lachrymae Christi, Christ’s tears. Well, those tears might indeed be shed before tonight’s rather profane reveling was done, he thought as he resumed his slouch against the window embrasure.

  * * * *

  As Hugh emerged from the lodging house to stroll among the exuberant Bacchus Night revelers on the lamplit pavement, he was sure he could hear the menacing rumble of Vesuvius in the distance. But the sound was faint because of the singing and dancing, the throbbing of guitars and tambourines, and the fireworks bursting above the rooftops. In spite of the merrymaking, he was very much on his guard, for Naples possessed an army of beggars known as lazzaroni, most of whom were skillful pickpockets, and he had no intention of becoming one of their victims.

  He hadn’t gone far when he noticed Teresa del Rosso ahead of him. Her shapely ankles twinkled tantalizingly from beneath the hem of her warm gray-striped gown as she hurried along, and she held her long woolen shawl over her raven hair. As he watched, she turned into the dark alley that led, he knew, to the wine store kept by her mother. Without hesitation he followed her.

  The alley was dark and deserted, and when Teresa heard his steps, she turned nervously. She saw his tall shape outlined against the light from the street at the far end of the alley, and by the coat thought she recognized Gervase. Her dark eyes softened, and her pretty lips curved into the sort of knowing smile that proved her chastity had long since been consigned to the realms of distant memory.

  “I hoped you would not resist much longer, signor,” she murmured, holding out a hand and melting back into the dark shadows of the store doorway.

  Hugh felt desire begin to surge unstoppably through him, and he dropped Gervase’s cane as he went to her. He knew it was a case of mistaken identity, that she would not have welcomed him at all had she known who he really was, but for Gervase she was prepared to surrender all. Bitterness heated Hugh’s lust, and he knew he would punish her for wanting his cousin, not him.

  She was soft and yielding, her lips parting beneath his, and there was nothing innocent in the way she pressed into his loins in order to feel his arousal. He trembled as she undid her bodice to reveal those breasts he’d yearned for from the moment he’d arrived in the Riviero de Chiaia. Even in the darkness he could see their plump firmness and the way her nipples turned up eagerly for him. He lowered his head to kiss them, but as his lips brushed the perfumed sweetness of those delectable mounds, the remnants of restraint vanished into the night. His gloved hands were rough as he wrenched up her skirts, then unbuttoned his trousers to take her without further ado.

  He hurt her, and she was at last seized with fear. She tried to call for help. “Aiuto! Aiuto!”

  He clamped his hand over her mouth and forced her against the door, but then an old woman entered the alley, advancing toward the courtyard with shuffling infirm steps. At first Hugh thought she’d come in response to Teresa’s choked cries, but then he heard the chink of keys and realized she was coming to unlock the wine store. With a stifled curse he straightened his clothes, but was careful to keep a hand over Teresa’s mouth as he did so. The old woman was still yards away as he looked coldly at Teresa, his eyes shining behind his mask. “I will say you invited my advances, so say nothing unless you wish your mother to learn how many men have sampled her supposedly virginal daughter these past few years,” he whispered harshly in the formal Italian he’d learned at Cambridge University. Then he retrieved the cane before walking swiftly away. He didn’t even glance at the old woman, who paused with a start as he suddenly emerged from the shadows.

  Still under the impression that he was Gervase, Teresa gazed hatefully after him. She knew it would be foolish to accuse him because he would carry out his threat, and the last thing she wanted was for her strict mother to find out how immoral her daughter had become. Stepping forward quickly, she seized the old woman’s arms. “You’ll say nothing, Maria, nothing at all! Do you understand?”

  The old woman shrugged. “It is none of my business that you are a whore, Teresa del Rosso. I am paid to look after the wine store, not guard your morals.”

  A particularly rowdy group of revellers passed the mouth of the alley. They were dressed as fauns and bacchantes and were chanting Bacchus’s name as they brandished wine bottles aloft. One of them was playing panpipes, and a new light entered Teresa’s eyes. The Englishman would not escape, for there were still ways to punish him, old ways that went back into the mists of time.

  Chapter Three

  As Hugh left the scene in Naples, faraway to the northwest, at Llandower, Anne was seated in the drawing room, finishing her needlework. Her hair was unpinned, and she wore a dark red velvet gown flushed to the color of warm wine by the flickering fire, which flared now and then as the blustering gale drew mournfully down the chimney. The dismal wet weather had continued all day, and she’d been obliged to light Penelope’s candelabra a little earlier than she would have liked.

  At last the final stitch was done, and she held her work up to admire. It was only a plaid shawl, but she’d fringed the thick blue-and-green woolen material herself. Plaid accessories were all the rage now because of Sir Walter Scott, and even in the sticks of Monmouthshire one wished to be as fashionable as possible, but as usual she had modified things to suit her own particular taste. Fringes were always modish, although not as long as this, or as intricately knotted. Maybe ladies of true fashion would look down their noses at it, but she was well pleased with her efforts.

  The mantelpiece clock struck eleven, and she closed the workbox, then folded the shawl and placed it neatly on top. Getting up, she pulled the guard in front of the fire, and then extinguished all Penelope’s candles except one, which she placed in a waiting candlestick. Shielding the little flame with her hand, she went down to the kitchens to talk with Mrs. Jenkins and enjoy a glass of hot milk, as she did every night.

  The plump housekeeper beamed as she entered. “Ah, there you are at last. Miss Anne,” she declared unnecessarily, dusting a chair with her apron in readiness. As a new maid, she had been present when Anne was born, and although she and her late husband had never been blessed with children of their own, she had come to regard herself as Anne’s second mother. She was in her late forties, with soft brown eyes, an unexpectedly youthful pink-and-white complexion, and graying hair that was always concealed beneath a large frilled mobcap. Her apron was starched, and her wine taffeta gown, which once belonged to Anne’s mother, made a familiar rustling sound as she went to put a saucepan of milk on the fire.

  The other two servants were also in the kitchen, Joseph at the table surrounded by his woodwork paraphernalia, and Martin, thin and nimble, with spiky brown hair and
huge dark eyes, was sprawled on the stone floor with the gardener’s sly lurcher, Jack. Joseph was a fifty-year-old bachelor, and the sort of slow-moving countryman who was never fazed by anything. Still handsome beneath his full beard and weather-beaten complexion, he adhered firmly to the philosophy that everything—no matter how fantastic on the surface—had a logical explanation beneath. His unflappability sometimes drove Mrs. Jenkins to distraction, for she was of a far more impulsive and busy disposition. She often declared that he was about as animated as one of his carvings, and he called her gullible and twitchy, but he said it in the sort of fond way that hinted there was more regard between them than might at first appear.

  Anne was usually able to see the gardener’s latest piece of woodwork, but for several weeks now he had always hastily drawn a cloth over it the moment she entered. It was about a foot high by a foot long by four inches wide, but she couldn’t even begin to guess what it was, beyond the fact that it was probably a gift for her approaching birthday. Knowing his skill, she did not doubt that it would be perfect in every detail. She glanced at the cluttered table, where his implements, oils, and waxes were carefully laid out. The smell of linseed and turpentine hung in the air, and there were soft cotton squares stained with brown from whatever he’d just been polishing. A double saucepan stood in the hearth, and she knew he’d just mixed some more of his special beeswax polish, three parts bleached beeswax to nine parts turpentine. That the kitchen was still intact meant that on this occasion he’d taken the necessary care.

  Mrs. Jenkins persuaded Anne to eat a slice of currant cake, and every mouthful she took was watched longingly by Martin and Jack. The former was eventually rewarded for his patience, but the lurcher received not a single crumb because the housekeeper rightly held it responsible for the disappearance of many a tidbit from the kitchens. Mrs. Jenkins had never caught the crafty dog in the act, but she vowed that if ever she did, heaven help its mangy hide. Joseph left the animal to its own devices. If it got caught, it only had itself to blame, and if it got away with the crime, then Mrs. J. would have to be more vigilant in future.