Let it be Me (Blue Raven) (6 page)

And Mr. Merrick would know where she could find Carpenini.

Bridget peered closer at the map, her nose coming close enough to touch the pages.

“Good heavens, Bridge, do you need to borrow Mother’s spectacles?” Amanda said, startling Bridget out of her reverie.

“What?” Bridget asked, her focus blurry as her head came up from the page. “Oh, no—ah, may I borrow this for a moment?”

Without waiting for an answer, Bridget grabbed the guidebook from Amanda’s hands and quickly crossed the room to their haggling mother.

“Mother!” Bridget said breathlessly. “Look, we are on the Rio di San Marina.”

“Yes, my dear, that’s lovely. But I am trying to deal with our arrangements, as you see . . .”

“But, look how close we are to the Rio di San Salvador!” Bridget could not keep the excitement out of her voice. “We could go there this very afternoon and ask Mr. Merrick to help us find Carpenini . . .”

“Bridget,” her mother said on a sigh. “We just arrived. Surely it can wait.”

“But we could walk there easily—”

“I don’t think so, my dear. Now, Signor Zinni, surely such a sum would be by week, not by night . . .”

“But Mother!”

“Bridget, I said no!” Her mother ordered, turning her attention fully to her daughter. Her gaze was straight and focused—albeit slightly squinted, without her spectacles. “It would be utterly unseemly for us to impose upon the man, without any notice.” Then, with a little more kindness, “I know you are excitable, but do keep in mind this holiday is not solely for the purpose of your musical instruction. We are in Italy to . . . take a respite. And I personally think you would do better to show more of an interest in our surroundings than in the prospect of being taught by Carpenini.”

The words stung. “You . . . you don’t wish me to study with him?”

“I did not say that, my dear.” Her mother laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Once we are settled in, we shall send a note to Mr. Merrick. I promise. You’ve waited this long. What’s another day or two?”

A day or two. Her mother wanted to wait a day or two, when Mr. Merrick, who knew where to find Signor Carpenini, was a mere two canals away? Bridget clamped down on an automatic, panicked reply, instead taking a deep breath and settling on what she needed to do.

She had waited this long, as her mother had said. But that was precisely why she could not wait another minute longer.

“I’m sorry, Mother. You are right,” Bridget said meekly, once she found her voice. “I think the madness of travel and this busy room has unsettled me.”

Her mother smiled at her daughter but then turned sharply to Zinni. “You see that? Your Carnival madness has unsettled my daughter.”

“Signorina, you can rest in the dining room; surely it will be less crowded . . .”

“No, thank you. Mother, if it is all right with you, I think I shall stand outside the front door. Take in some fresh air.”

Her mother looked worried for a second. But since all of her attention was on Zinni, it was possible her focus was on her next counteroffer. “Do not leave sight of the door. And keep Molly with you,” her mother said finally. Bridget slid her glance to where Molly, the girls’ lady’s maid, was chatting with one of the footmen and gesturing toward the trunks, likely trying to ascertain which one should go where. “And,” her mother continued, “do not let your reticule off your wrist. Tie it twice if you must. Now, Signor Zinni, about that dining room—is it private?

“Oh, and wear your bonnet!” her mother called back, as Bridget headed for the Hotel Cortile’s entrance, grabbing Molly on her way. “If you get any more freckles you will be one big spot!”

“All right, miss, it’s that one,” Molly said, pointing to a crumbling redbrick structure as she rejoined Bridget on the path that ran alongside the buildings on the north side of the Rio di San Salvador. They could not walk on the
rio
itself, as the buildings abutted right up against the water, but there were footpaths and alleyways on the back side of the houses.

“Are you certain, Molly?” Bridget asked nervously. The house looked very plain from this side. Very nondescript.

“Well, frankly, no, miss, I’m not. But I went over to that chap and said, ‘Signor Merrick?’ and he said a string of Italian I didn’t understand and then he pointed to this house. And then he tried to pinch my bum,” Molly finished darkly. “I still canna believe your mother let you to go off on your own like this and find the letter-writing gent.”

“She was busy with the hotel proprietor and said I should take a walk,” Bridget lied smoothly.

It had not taken long to get here. With the help of Amanda’s guidebook, she and Molly had made their way from the hotel to the Rio di San Salvador. They could have taken a gondola, but neither Bridget nor Molly had much money, and none of the local currency at any rate. So they walked. Molly had expected to get lost, but Bridget had always been able to read a map. Music, maths, and maps were all things at which she excelled, and all were connected in her mind somehow. After all, finding where you were going in music was akin to finding where you were going on the streets, wasn’t it?

However, one minor flaw in the plan was that she hadn’t known which particular house was Mr. Merrick’s, and thus they had spent a considerable length of time walking the footpaths on the other side of the canal, crossing back and forth when there was a bridge, asking people in the crudest of Italian if they spoke English and consequently if they knew which home was Signor Merrick’s, and getting Molly’s bum pinched.

But, Bridget thought, she was finally here. A thrill of anticipation went through her. It was better that she came here herself, not sending a note and waiting days to hear a reply. And it was better that she came alone. Her mother, Amanda, they did not understand. None of her family really understood how she felt about music.

She
must
play again—because without the music, what was she? The melodies in her head would dry up and the silence would be intolerable.

And she must play better, too—because she knew she could. Knew it in her bones that she had it in her.

And Carpenini had seen it. Five years ago, before her nerves overcame her, before the tortures of the London Season, he had heard her play one song and seen that she had it in her.

And with that surety giving her strength, she squared her shoulders and went to knock on the little door on the side of the brick house.

“Frederico, get the door, would you?”

Oliver Merrick stamped down the stairs of his house, his eyes on the papers in his hand. Bills, bills, a letter from his father, more bills. Damn it all, but none of this was ever going to be under control, was it?

Oliver reached the landing just as another tentative knock came from the door to the street.

“Frederico?” he called again for his erstwhile valet/butler/footman/occasional cook. But Frederico did not respond, lazy bastard. Indeed, the only sound Oliver heard was the same phrase of music, repeated over and over again, coming from the main sitting room. It would stop between playings, a scratching of a pencil could be heard, and then it would start again.

Oliver knew this was a bad sign. If his friend was on a good streak, the music would never stop.

“I’ll just get the door myself, shall I?” he grumbled under his breath in his fluent Italian. Even if his mother hadn’t been the classic dark-haired, olive-skinned (both of which he’d inherited), passionate firebrand that typified the race, he’d spent enough of the past decade in Venice to speak like a native.

Strange, he thought as he crossed to the door, it couldn’t be a caller. His friends from the theatre and any prospective commissions for Vincenzo would come by gondola via the canal. The latter of which were very few and far between.

The only people who ever came by the street door were the grocer and . . .

Oh no. Not again.

He knew what he would find. “Goddammit, Vincenzo,” he breathed, as he threw open the doors. “You are out to drive me insane with your whores, aren’t you?”

But his self-ramblings were cut short when he found himself staring down into the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

Like the lagoon when it caught the sun just so, making the water turn jewel toned and alive, those eyes stared up at him, wide and trembling with nervous resolve. Freckles danced over her nose and cheeks like someone had reached down from above and sprinkled them there. Freckles that he found oddly familiar but could not place. Dark curls were tucked up in her bonnet, but a tendril behind her ear had escaped, trailing down her neck. She had a kind of delicate prettiness rarely seen in the streets of Venice, where bright colors and extravagant beauty seemed the fashion.

Oliver was halfway to enchanted in the space of a breath. But then he remembered he was supposed to be annoyed.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said in Italian, his face as stern as he could make it, “he’s not taking visitors today, nor is there coin to pay for your services.” When those green eyes just blinked, then looked nervously back at the older, more practical-looking woman behind her, he let out a breath.

“Look, Carpenini might have sent for you, but I’m sending you away. I’m sorry, but the best I can do is pay for a gondola to take you back where you came from.”

“Carpenini!” the green-eyed enchantress finally said, her language and accent decidedly English. That was shocking enough. What was more shocking was what she said next. “That is exactly why I am here!”

English. She was English. He blinked twice. And by her cultured tones, she was a lady. One who, considering what he had assumed her to be, he fervently hoped did not know the Venetian dialect.

“Er . . . can I help you, miss?” His English, so rarely used here, felt thick and awkward on his tongue. He suddenly became very aware of the fact that he hadn’t put shoes on yet that day.

“Yes,” the girl replied, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I should like to see Mr. Merrick, please.”

“You are seeing him,” Oliver replied, in shock enough to only wonder where this conversation would lead.

“I thought you looked familiar,” she said, and smiled.

And she had one hell of a smile. Seemed a bit rough, though, somehow. As if the muscles in her face had briefly forgotten how to arrange themselves. But smile she did, and Oliver again found he was losing himself in her impish countenance.

“Might we come in, sir?” the practical, stiffer one said from behind the green-eyed one. “My lady has been traveling for weeks, after all.”

Oliver shook himself out of his reverie and stepped back to admit them to his foyer. He felt immediately awkward about the surroundings. The rugs were threadbare and the plaster was crumbling in a way he found charming, but he supposed young ladies of good family might not.

“You seem familiar, too,” he finally blurted. “Er, your freckles.”

A delightful blush spread across her cheeks and Oliver found himself wishing it would happen again. And again, and again.

“We have met before, briefly, Mr. Merrick,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “I am Miss Forrester, and you wrote me a letter.”

As she worked at the fierce knot of a reticule and then began to rummage in it, a sense of the familiar began to mingle with a sense of dread. “Miss . . . Brittany Forrester?”

A small frown flashed across her face. “Bridget,” she replied tersely, and then handed him a piece of paper from her reticule. A letter written in his own hand.

Oh, hell.

“You wrote me on behalf of your friend Signor Carpenini, who heard me play some years ago, and wondered if I would be amenable to taking instruction from him when he—you—came back to England. Unfortunately I learned that you would not be coming to England after all, so . . .”

“Miss Forrester,” he interrupted her. “Please do not tell me that you came all the way to Venice because of this letter?”

“No.” The word came out weakly, and Oliver knew it was a lie. “My family is taking a holiday . . . and since we were in Venice and you were here, we thought . . . I thought, that maybe . . .”

Oliver wanted to let his head come down into his hands. Oh, hell. Oh damn, and blast. He cursed profusely under his breath in Italian, which was a language much better equipped for the current predicament.