The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (23 page)

Alethea had expected that. She lowered her eyes to the ground. “An accident in childhood,” she said.

He came over to her, raised her chin in his hand, and looked critically at her, turning her face from side to side. Alethea had to control herself, beating down the urge to pull away; Napier had often held her so, in a tight and painful grip, while he demanded that she sing to him. She held her breath and looked back at the skull with unwavering eyes.

Then, before she knew what he was doing, he had moved his hand down to run it across her breasts and, with the other hand, grasped her between her legs. Now she did move, even as Figgins sprang up from her chair in the corner, and she gave Massini a violent cuff to the cheek with her fist.

 

Figgins had turned into a ferocious nag. “No, Miss, I mean Mr. Hawkins, I won't be quiet. You can't do it, indeed you can't. It's bad enough to go jauntering about foreign parts dressed like a man, but to go on the stage! An opera dancer, there's no way anyone in your family will forgive you that.”

“I'm not going on stage as an opera dancer, but as an opera singer.”

“There's no difference, everyone knows what those women are. They show their legs and worse, and all the men are after them.”

“The men won't be after me, for I shan't show my legs, and they won't know I'm a woman.”

“Then you'll have the likes of Lord Lucius backstage, and if that isn't just as bad; oh, dear, what are we do?”

“Go down on our knees and give a prayer of thanks,” Alethea said. “I've no patience with you. Here is a way out of our present difficulties that is neither criminal nor immoral, and all you can do is protest and murmur about it.”

“Not immoral! How can you say that, of course the stage is immoral.”

“I'm earning a living doing what I'm trained to do, which is to sing. God gave me a gift, and now, when we're in such trouble, it's going to save our skins. I want to hear no more about it. We must hurry, for Massini wants me back to rehearse within the hour, and we must settle up with the apothecary.”

Figgins stopped dead. They were on a bridge, and Alethea took advantage of the pause to watch a boat carrying brilliantly coloured flowers, a floating flower garden gliding silently beneath them. “Now what's the matter?”

“Settle up with the apothecary? Where are we to sleep tonight?”

“In a house owned by Mr. Massini.”

“A house owned by—To be sure, I know what his game is, even if you don't. I shan't let you stay in his house, and that's my last word.”

“It's his house, but he doesn't live there. It is where he has rooms for his singers, the ones who come from other parts of Italy and have no home in Venice. He doesn't reside there himself.”

“What, a lodging house full of opera dancers? Bringing back their fine bucks for a quick one-two? How you can think of it!”

“Singers, not dancers. There's a housekeeper, I'm sure it is all quite respectable. We are to share a room, you and I; naturally I can't share with either the men or the women, lest my secret should be discovered.”

“It didn't take him long to discover it, with his nasty hands roaming where they had no business to be.”

Alethea's first reaction, after the blow to ward the man's probing hands off, had been fury that her sex had been discovered, and that her plan to seek employment in the chorus at the opera house had come to nothing.

Salvatore Massini had other plans, a scheme of his own. Had she studied the whole of Cherubino's part? Mozart of course was no particular draw these days, although there always was some audience for
Figaro,
for a good
Figaro.
It was a shame she was not a professional, when she could have sung Rossini or Spontini or Figlioni, all infinitely more popular composers than Mozart.

Nevertheless—and he stalked round her, examining her from every angle. “It is indeed remarkable,” he said, “that any young woman should look so like a boy, a young man. This is no doubt why Englishwomen are so cold; they are not truly women.”

Alethea, who hadn't found a woman's lot to be an agreeable one, didn't want to argue this point with the Italian. And there was some truth in what the man said; take herself, certainly as cold as ice where men were concerned. Napier had cured her of men for good.

Mozart it must be, and so the rate would be lower, and lower also because she was a woman. Had she been a true castrato—he cast his eyes heavenwards at this point and kissed his fingertips at the thought—then no sum would be too great. For one performance only, and there was the expense of coaching her for the role, not only the voice, but the acting, the moving on stage, there would naturally be a reduction.

Could she be ready in time?
La Cenerentola
had been announced for Friday, but his Don Ramiro had a bad cold, the substitute had a voice like a gondolier, and now he, too, was beginning to sniff.
Figaro
could be put on in its place; a spate of posters and word spread about the fashionable world, that word being
castrato,
should do the trick. He hoped she were up to it; even if she could only stand and sing, with that voice and a handkerchief stuffed in her breeches, then the audience would be pleased. Audiences today adored a novelty, and a freak was better still.

She must take great care that none of the company learned her secret, since they would spread the truth abroad if they knew it. Then the audience would fail to flock, the performance would be a disaster.

He turned clinical eyes on Figgins. “Is he your lover, that he accompanies you everywhere?”

“She is my maid.”

A skull grimace, and a shake of the head, and then they had both been dismissed to find their new lodgings.

“Here we are,” said Alethea.

“Looks dirty to me,” said Figgins.

“It's a roof over our heads, and a bed each, and it's costing us nothing.”

“When's he going to pay you? You'll like as not go out and ruin your reputation for ever, should anyone ever find out, and when you've finished, he'll say he won't pay you. You won't be able to argue with him.”

“He's paying me some money at once. I told him I wouldn't do it otherwise, and that I'd have expenses.”

“Like what?”

“Like my costume. I have to find a costume for myself.”

“Costume?” said Figgins, grumbling up the cracked marble staircase behind the immense bottom of the housekeeper. “What costume?”

“Man's dress of the last century, and a woman's dress also.”

Figgins looked around the tiny room, with a single sagging bed, a rickety washstand, and a skylight for a window. “Makes the apothecary's look like a palace, this does.”

“It's only for a few nights. Then we'll have money in our pockets; we can go back to the pensione and collect our bags, and find somewhere clean and cheap to await Camilla's return, or go on to Rome, just as we choose.”

“Clean and cheap! Fat chance of that, in this city. Now, what's this about a costume?”

Alethea perched herself on the other side of the bed, and launched into a description of the plot of
The Marriage of Figaro.

Figgins's eyes were like saucers. “I never heard the like; what a wicked man that count was, to behave in such a way. I know many men of his kind, disgraceful men. And this part you play, a page dressing up as a woman, and in love with the Countess. Such goings-on! How can you say it's more respectable than being an opera dancer?”

“I don't show my legs, you see. Or, at least I do, but clad in breeches. Perfectly proper.”

“There's nothing proper about you, Miss Alethea, and your dressing up as a man, and I've known it from the start.”

“Admit, Figgins, you've taken to being a man as though you were one of your brothers. Think of the freedom it gives you. And how pleasant not to be accosted by men.”

“How you can say such a thing, when we travelled in the company of Lord Lucius and that creepy valet of his, is what I don't understand. And it's been a shock, let me tell you. I'm used to men, what with the stables and brothers and all that, but what those men talk about among themselves, well, it'd make your ears burn.”

“I'm sure London will seem most dreadfully boring when you return there.”

“I return? I won't be returning without you go back, Miss—sir, and that's flat. I've been turned away the once, but I'm not being got rid of again. Where you go, I go, and if you aren't returning to London just yet, then nor am I.”

“Oh, Figgins, don't say that. I may never be able to go back to England. Women in my position often have to live out their lives in some spa town in France or Germany.” A foreign Bath, dowdy, respectable, and dull.

“I don't see you settling down in no spa town, that's where all the gouty folk go for the cure. It wouldn't suit you one bit, and your family wouldn't stand for it.”

“I do hope not,” said Alethea.

Bootle stood before him, sleek, obsequious, and triumphant.

“Are you sure about this?” said Titus. “You tell me that Warren's man, Nyers, was in his cups, was not quite aware of what he was saying. You were companions in some tavern; were you drinking, too? Perhaps you were not quite aware of what you were hearing.”

This was unjust, and Titus knew it. Bootle was an abstemious man, especially when on what he perceived to be his duty, out and about on behalf of his master.

Bootle grew taller and thinner and more dignified. “I would not so demean myself as to drink the brandy that Nyers was imbibing. I value a clear head in such circumstances, and a little wine was quite sufficient to ensure that Nyers felt I was matching him glass for glass.”

“What had he to say in this drunken state that's of any concern to me? Servants' gossip, as you know, is not to my taste.”

“I am aware of that fact, sir. Nyers was bragging about how his master, Mr. Warren, had acquired what he came to Italy to obtain, viz a certain painting by an Old Master.”

“Both you and I know that is why Warren came to Italy, and you also know that we are here for the same purpose. Come to the point, Bootle; if you have anything definite to show for an evening spent in dissolute company, then tell me what it is. Which painting does Mr. Warren have? Where is it? From whom did he acquire it?”

“It is at present in the possession of Mr. Delancourt, the foreign person you honoured with a visit yesterday morning.”

Bootle's mouth twitched, and this faintest of movements revealed to Titus just how his valet's mind was working. He, Titus, had spent an hour with Delancourt, and all the while the picture he so longed to find had, no doubt, been concealed on the premises. His Titian beauty, tucked away in a damp ground-floor room or behind a bundle of engravings in an attic.

Delancourt had, it seemed, taken Warren to wherever his place of concealment was, and had there concluded a bargain that the dealer must have known was a dubious one. If Delancourt's claim to the painting, as owner or go-between, had any vestige of validity, the painting would surely have been on show, inviting offers from the highest bidder.

Why had the Frenchman not tempted Titus with the picture, thus raising the eventual price he might be able to get for the painting? It was a question scarcely worth the asking. The oleaginous rascal knew perfectly well that Titus owned the picture, and would be unlikely to pay a further large sum of money for what his father had already bought.

Warren, with the king's name and wealth to support a collector's greed, was the kind of customer that men such as Delancourt dreamt of. The more secrecy, the better; no awkward questions to be asked or answered.

“Mr. Warren is to arrange the transfer of funds immediately, so that the painting may be packed up. He plans to take it with him, back to England. Nyers has to make all the arrangements for the journey today. And I don't wish him joy of it with the head he must have on his shoulders this morning,” added Bootle with righteous savagery.

Titus didn't hear these last words. He was lost in thought and temper. Curse Warren to hell and back again, for achieving the purpose of his visit so easily. He was no doubt full of self-satisfaction. He stood to gain a large sum of money and the goodwill of the king, all for the most trivial expenditure of effort. Well, he wasn't going to find it as easy as he imagined, not while Titus was in Venice.

“Of course, there is no knowing whether the painting Mr. Warren buys is the one I'm looking for.”

Bootle's face took on a closed look. “A lady with red hair, I understand, clad in nothing very much as to garments. The goddess Venus, I believe, is the subject of the painting. A harlot, Nyers called her, he said it was a depiction of a harlot displaying her wares.”

“Nyers's opinion is not of the least interest to me,” said Titus. He snapped his fingers for Bootle to bring him his coat. His valet eased it on to his wide shoulders, smoothing it down the back and setting a sleeve exactly to rights. Titus gave an angry shrug; the effect was ruined. Bootle sighed. That was what came of working for a master who had served in the army. Neat, yes, but nothing of the dandy about him.

“I know what you're thinking, Bootle,” said Titus. “You're thinking how exquisite in his dress is Mr. Warren. So would I be, if I didn't have better things to think about than a wrinkle in my pantaloons or a neck cloth a fraction of an inch out of true. Ask the major-domo if I may have use of Mr. Hellifield's gondola; it will be quicker than walking.”

Up the steps of Palazzo Tullio again, and across to the entrance in the square, where a suave doorman bowed, refused him admittance, denied that Delancourt was within, relented on receipt of a coin, retired, returned with the same information, accompanied by a knowing smile.

Which vanished swiftly from his face as Titus thrust him aside, flung open the door, and stalked inside.

Delancourt was there, of course, as Titus knew he would be. He was not expecting a client, that was clear from the loose robe he wore and the cigarillo that he held between his fingers.

“My dear sir,” he said, waving Titus to a chair opposite the table, upon which reposed a coffee-pot and a small spirit stove. “What an unexpected pleasure. However, I cannot be of much assistance to you this morning. I only see clients by appointment, as I am sure Monsieur Hellifield explained to you. I need my hours of solitude to restore myself. Working with art takes a great deal out of oneself, as you will appreciate.”

There was a whiff of something in the air which Titus couldn't quite identify. Then it was lost, as Delancourt attended to the spirit stove, which lit with a little whoosh and a splutter of noxious fumes. Delancourt flapped a pudgy hand. “These are wonderful devices. I am such an admirer of all the benefits that science brings, but unfortunately, progress often means smells. It will pass, I assure you. Do you care for some coffee? Perhaps you like it made in the Turkish way.”

Titus didn't. He preferred his coffee strong and black, and considered the syrupy brew offered up in the coffee-houses of Venice to be undrinkable. In any case, he didn't want to drink coffee with Delancourt, he wanted an explanation.

“You have sold a picture to Mr. Warren. A Titian, I believe. A reclining Venus, with Cupid in the background.”

“Yes, indeed. One of several depictions of the goddess of love painted by Titian in his erotic period. The exquisite beauty of the flesh tints! I am sure you are familiar with the
Diana and Actaeon,
another of his masterpieces from those years.”

“I'm not concerned with other depictions of classical subjects. This particular painting does concern me, however, since I have reason to believe that it is the one belongs to me. I have the paperwork for the original purchase, which was made by my father in Rome, eighteen years ago. There is a detailed description of the painting.”

“Ah, such troublesome years we have all lived through since then,” said Delancourt with a profound sigh. “The Emperor's triumphs and defeats, and all Europe in turmoil. So many possessions changed hands. Countries, land, houses, furniture, paintings, jewellery. All spoils of war, so disgraceful to men of culture such as we are, Mr. Manningtree.” He made an eloquent waving gesture, which allowed the frills of an over-ruffled shirt to spill out of his robe. His voice grew a shade more silky. “Besides, I understood that the Manningtree Titian hangs in your library, you told me so yourself. Did your late father then buy two Titians?”

“If you will permit me to see the painting, then I can assure myself that it is not my Titian. If it is, then I am sure the provenance I can provide will convince a reputable dealer such as yourself that the picture is not yours to sell.”

Delancourt shook his head, the picture of regret. “Why do so many Englishmen lie to me? You have lied to me, Mr. Manningtree. I was so happy to hear that your Titian was safe and sound in England. It is a pity that your father was unable to take the painting back to England at that time; of course, the circumstances were such that travel was an uneasy business.”

He sat back in his wide-armed chair, which made a loud creaking sound, and took a few slurping sips of his coffee. “As to the painting which is the subject of our conversation, I bought it in good faith. I am afraid that it is impossible for you to inspect the canvas; I am desolated to say that it has already been packed up. And since I am well aware that the ultimate purchaser of this masterpiece is no less than a king, it would almost amount to treason for you to question the painting's ownership.”

“A fig for treason!” Titus was outraged. He had fought for king and country, and respected the institution of the monarchy, but he had not the least respect for the gross Hanoverian who presently sat on the throne in London. “If the king buys, he buys as a private individual; such a painting is destined for his personal collection. It is a matter between gentlemen, not kings and subjects.”

“Such niceties are beyond me. I have a painting, I have sold it, I await the final payment, and then the whole business is out of my hands. Perhaps you might care to discuss it with Mr. Warren. But for now”—he leant forward and picked up a gleaming gold bell, which he tinkled vigorously—“for now, I very much regret that I have to dress and must deprive myself of your amiable company. Guido will show you out. Good day to you, Mr. Manningtree.”

 

“Well, if he don't care to let you get a peep at it, and he insists it's his to sell, I don't see what you can do about it,” said Harry.

Titus was lunching with his friend in another exquisite room, this one a blaze of cream and crimson and gold. He had decided to satisfy his friend's curiosity about the painting after all, and ask his opinion of what Delancourt and Warren might be up to.

“It sounds to me,” Harry went on, “as though Delancourt rolled you up, horse, foot, and guns.”

“He wants the picture off his premises and into Warren's care as quickly as may be so that he can wash his hands of it all,” Titus said. “Mind you, he's as nervous as a cat about it, sweat breaking out all over him, quite revolting.”

“You can be a frightening fellow in a temper,” Harry observed. “Or out of one if it comes to that. You've got such a devilish frown, and the sort of countenance that warns the most hardened villain to be on his guard.”

“Nonsense,” said Titus, annoyed. “I do lose my temper from time to time, I admit, but other than that there is nothing threatening about me at all. I am the kindest of men.”

“No need to flare up at me. There's no one I'd sooner have beside me in a scrap, no, nor a friend I'd rather turn to if I were in difficulties, but then I've known you since we were boys, and Delancourt hasn't.”

“I'll have to have it out with Warren, that's all,” Titus said. “I'd hoped to keep one step ahead of him, and prevent him ever getting near my Titian; too bad that it hasn't worked out that way.”

“My people say he's not been back to his lodgings for a while. A servant there tells them he's gone to stay with friends elsewhere in the city.”

“You mean your men have lost him.”

“It does seem that he's given them the slip, yes,” Harry admitted. “Which means that he probably noticed them watching his house and his movements. Warren has a guilty conscience, not surprisingly. He is the kind of man who must always be up to mischief of one sort or another. He may not connect the watchers with his purchase of the painting at all, he may consider it prudent to be elsewhere for any number of reasons. But do not fret over it; he is bound to show up sooner or later.”

“His man says he's preparing to leave as soon as he has the painting in his hands.”

“The painting is still with Delancourt?”

“So he told me. So Bootle said, after his conversation with Warren's servant.”

“Then my singularly useless people may redeem themselves by watching the Palazzo Tullio, and I will ensure that a close watch is kept on every conceivable exit. Not a water rat to leave the premises without it is noticed. Is it a large canvas, your painting? One trusts it has not been removed and rolled up, in which case it will be a less bulky object.”

“Even rolled up, it would be hard to hide.” Titus, too, hoped Delancourt had no such intention; it would do an old painting like that no good at all to be removed from its stretcher and carried about in a roll. No, Warren wouldn't risk the chance of damaging anything so valuable, and why should he? Speed was what he counted on, speed and the advantages of having the painting in his possession, doubtless with a sheaf of genuine-seeming papers from Delancourt to satisfy any nosy customs officials who chose to make an enquiry about it.

“You'll have to possess your soul in patience, my dear,” Harry said, watching his friend with laconic amusement. “Like padding around after Wellington, skirting round the enemy, wondering if we'd ever come up to an actual battle.”

“Warren is hardly Marmont.”

“No, nor Soult, so take it all in your stride, Titus, take it in your stride. You are eager to have your Titian back, an understandable desire, but do not lose your sense of proportion. There is something middle-aged about lusting after a picture.”