The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (25 page)

“And of every other city on earth; no, I have not. I hate to see innocence destroyed in that way. My tastes do not in the least run in that direction, I'm thankful to say. The person of whom I speak is none of those, she is as well-born as you or I.”

“Never say so! Who is this freak? She is surely not an English-woman. Why does she wish to pass herself off as a man, how do her family permit it?”

Titus could hear the zest for scandal in his friend's voice, and he laughed. “I shan't say any more about her.”

“There's sluttishness in the soul of any woman who would stoop to such a trick,” Harry said, annoyed.

Titus whirled round on him. “You know nothing about it. There is courage and bravery and foolhardiness, yes, but there is nothing of the slut about her at all. That isn't the game she plays; in fact, she plays no game at all.”

“You intrigue me,” said Harry after a moment's silence. “I see that she has intrigued you, this minx of yours.”

“She has done no such thing. I merely spoke of her in the context of my musing on androgyny.”

“Where is this marvel of nature?”

“I have no idea, I have no interest in her beyond remarking upon the success with which she carries her disguise. I doubt if we shall ever meet again; our encounter was the result of chance, no more.”

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he hated himself for uttering them. It felt as though he were foreswearing Alethea, and it hurt him to the quick to do so. Damn it, what did it matter? It was the truth. Alethea Darcy, or Napier, as she was, of course, was up to some scheme of her own, a desperate affair, he must assume; it was nothing to do with him.

For a horrid moment, the figure of Mr. Darcy appeared in his mind's eye: tall, cold, and accusing.

To hell with Mr. Darcy; if he had brought up his family of daughters to behave so imprudently, so hoydenishly, or had permitted one of them to marry a man like Napier, then he must bear the blame for the consequences.

“Observe the exotic carving.” Harry waved his quizzing glass to a relief of a man who at first glance appeared to have a third leg between his other two.

“Good Lord,” said Titus, his laughter echoing across the water.

“Note his companion, she has a flame between her legs. I told you we were come into the lewdest part of town.”

“It would never be permitted in London, not in such a public place.”

“England is, as ever, a Puritan country. Venice has often felt the need to encourage what it considers the right end of lust; too many Venetian men have in times past preferred the company of their own sex. But we are back to the forbidden subject of androgyny once more. If we walk through here, we shall soon be home.”

He ducked through a dark arch, shouldering aside a man who slouched towards them, and led the way at considerable speed through a maze of narrow streets that opened unexpectedly into silent squares, the flagstones and walls washed into an eerie paleness by the moonshine.

As they crossed one such square, Harry paused by the marble well in the centre and waved up to a set of lighted square windows. Titus could see a crystal chandelier, ablaze with candles, a painted ceiling, and hear voices, music, laughter.

“A
casino,
” said Harry. “One of the most elegant, only the most ravishing girls work there. Are you not tempted?”

“No,” said Titus.

“The trouble with you is that you're heartsick, not loinsick. It's a dangerous state to be in.”

“Because I don't fancy a night with a whore? You draw your conclusions too swiftly, you know nothing about my heart. Nor do I, for it's not anything I ever think about. I'm not some sentimental youth languishing for love.”

“Here's a fellow much the worse for love,” said Harry.

A man emerged from the ground floor of the
casino,
escorted by a liveried servant. He balanced himself for a moment against the pillar beside the door and then launched himself on a wavering path across the square.

“By God, it's George Warren, as I live,” exclaimed Harry. “What's he cradling there, is it a bottle?”

“No, a shoe,” said Titus as Warren drew nearer. “Hey, Warren, a word with you!”

Harry caught his arm. “Leave him alone, Titus. He's drunk.”

“In vino veritas.”

Warren stopped and stood swaying, his hand, clutching a lady's shoe, dropped down by his side. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. “Titus Manningtree, or am I so foxed that I'm seeing visions?”

“You aren't. I'm glad to meet up with you, Warren.”

“Can't return the compliment. Don't want to meet up with you. Not now, not ever, not anywhere. I bid you good night, gentlemen.”

Before he could reel on his way, Titus had hold of him. “Not so fast. You're in no state to make your way home alone. Pray tell us your direction, and we will accompany you to your door.”

Harry uttered a protest, but Titus ignored him. Warren looked at him, and his lip curled. “My direction? I think not.” He tried to shake Titus off, but Titus's grasp held firm, and forced the drunken man round to face him.

“I want my picture, Warren.”

“Picture?”

“My Titian. The painting you have acquired from Mr. Delancourt was not his to sell. It is mine, and I want it.”

“Go to hell, Manningtree. Or back to Cloud-Cuckoo-Town, where you must have come from.”

“Amazing,” put in Harry, “being able to get that out when he's intoxicated.”

“He's not half as disguised as he makes out,” said Titus. “Just worked up over that damned shoe.”

Warren waved the shoe in the air. “This belongs to Flavia, who has the prettiest foot in all Venice. In all Italy! Do you malign her fair name? I'll meet you for that, Manningtree.”

“Don't be absurd. Is my painting still with Delancourt?”

Warren sobered up again, and gave a titter of laughter. “Wouldn't you like to know, and don't wish you may go there and ask for it again. Delancourt will be waiting for you this time, and he don't like troublemakers, I tell you that for nothing.”

“There's no point in you taking that painting back to England, Warren, for I will dispute its ownership every inch of the way.”

“What, with the king? I doubt it. Anyhow, he knows it belongs to you, or rather, belonged to your father, because I told him so, and he don't give a damn. Nor do I. All's fair in love and war, Manningtree, and that painting's a spoil of war.”

“That's for your damned impertinence,” said Titus. His rage rose in him, and he gave Warren a back-handed slap across his cheek, making such a resounding noise that the girls at the windows above, who had crowded to watch the altercation in the square, exclaimed and cried shame on him.

Warren wrenched himself free, flung aside the shoe, and made to pull his sword. Titus's hand was already on the hilt of his own weapon, when Harry pounced on him and dragged him back. Servants were spilling out of the
casino,
and two of them caught hold of Warren. One pinned his arms behind his back, the other took possession of his sword.

“You can't fight here,” Harry was saying to Titus. “You'll land yourself in jail; they don't like sword fights in public places, and the magistrates will have no mercy on a pair of Englishmen. Put up your sword, no, put it up, I say, and listen to reason.”

“Reason!” spat a struggling, breathless Warren. “I'll have reason of him. Name your seconds, sir, and then we'll see who has reason on their side.”

“Harry?”

Harry groaned. “For God's sake, Titus, let it go.”

“Oh, no, Hellifield. You shan't get him out of this. He hit me, across the face, you saw it. On no provocation. I want satisfaction, and by God I shall have it. Swords or pistols, Manningtree, I can make an end of you equally well with either.”

“That is for the seconds to agree,” Harry said quickly. Titus understood why; Harry knew Warren for a famous swordsman, while he supposed Titus would have a better chance with pistols.

“I can cool his blood with a bullet as well as with a sword,” said Warren. “My supporters will call upon you later today, Hellifield, and then we'll have an end to this.”

 

“I do believe he means to kill you,” Harry complained at breakfast much, much later that morning. “A surly fellow, barely worthy of being called a gentleman, came by while you were still sleeping, demanded to see me, said he hoped Mr. Manningtree wasn't shy, as an apology wouldn't be accepted.”

“I've no intention of apologizing,” said Titus. “Any apology due must come from him. Moreover, apologies are beside the point. The matter may be resolved by his returning my painting.”

“I do not believe he sees it in quite those terms. And I believe you are longing to let blood, and his will do as well as anyone else's. So much for the savagery of the army being behind you. To fight over a painting, I never heard of anything more absurd.”

Titus rose from the table. “Where, and when, do we meet?”

Harry sighed. “What a bore all this is. We have arranged, this unsavoury friend of Warren's and I, that you are to meet at a spot near the Arsenale, a deserted spot since Bonaparte's men sacked the place. You may escape the notice of the authorities there, and I hope you do, for the Austrians frown on duels in the city.”

“Austrians are always duelling.”

“That is different. You aren't Austrian, nor is Warren. It is to be pistols. I've a pair you may borrow, since I don't suppose you thought to bring duelling pistols with you.”

“When should I be ready?”

“The gondola will be here at half past five in the evening.”

“There will be shadows at that time.”

“Better than under a noonday sun.”

 

“Who's the little man like a monkey?” Titus asked as he tucked his stock more firmly inside his coat. Buttoned tightly into it, he was swelteringly hot and he found to his dismay that sweat was trickling down into the palms of his hands.

“The surgeon,” said Harry.

Harry was carrying a flat case beneath his arm, and he now approached the man standing on Warren's right. They drew apart, and Harry laid the case on a plinth that had once held a statue. Titus watched him flip open the lid of the gun case and draw out a pair of wicked long-barrelled pistols.

The world about him seemed to have slowed to an unreal pace. A gull flapped from the balustrade of the stairs over the canal; with such leisurely wings, how could it keep aloft? A clock in the distance struck the quarter, but the sound of the bell stretched out across minutes. A
sandalino
came past, an oarsman at each end, working their oars as though in a dream where time counted for nothing. They looked curiously at the figures in the table on the patch of waste ground, heads moving round in slow motion, soundless words coming from their lips as they commented on the scene to each other.

Then time played her next trick, speeding up so that he could hardly draw breath. Harry was beside him, handing him a pistol; the other second was pacing out the distance, gulls were mewing, a gondola flashed past, a streak of black, the gondolier ducking his head as the boat shot under the bridge before vanishing. Harry spoke staccato words of encouragement and warning, the pistol was in his hand, hot and heavy, a purple cloud billowed up from behind the walls of the Arsenale and blotted out the sun.

Titus shook his head, trying to restore a sense of order to the minutes. He glanced down at his gun, and saw that his hand was holding it so tightly that it shook. He prised his fingers away, and shook them, then wrapped them around the pistol butt again, weighing the balance of the weapon. His feet carried him to the spot indicated by Harry; he turned mechanically sideways, the gun at his side. The surly man swept a grubby handkerchief into the air, where it fluttered like a dying bird before he dropped it and the gun went off in Titus's hand.

A bullet screamed past his ear, and then time stopped again. Paces away, Warren sank to the ground, his hand holding his arm, blood seeping through the fingers. Titus could see the blood fall to the ground, drip, drip, drip.

He could smell blood all around him, the blood of men and of horses. His eyes were raw from the smoke, his throat dry and choked, his hands raw and blistered. Around him men cried out and horses screamed and the guns sounded, over and over, the guns that had begun firing on the day God made the world and would never stop.

“Titus.” Harry's voice was urgent in his ear. “Titus, you're shaking like a leaf. Here, have some brandy.”

Titus tried to shake his head, but the flask was at his lips and the spirit searing down his gullet, startling him back into the present.

“Have I killed him?”

“No, unless he dies from loss of blood; he's bleeding like a pig, but the surgeon will attend to that. You caught him on the arm; did you mean to hit him?”