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Nolan raced out into the dark courtyard, spotting Archer coming towards him in the darkness from the stables. That was to be expected. Archer loved horses more than humans. ‘Archer, old chap! We’ve got to go!’ Nolan seized his arm without stopping and dragged him towards the waiting coach, his words coming fast, well aware his pursuer had stumbled out of the hotel. ‘Don’t look now, but that angry man behind us thinks I cheated. He has a gun and my good knife. It’s in his shoulder, but I think he shoots with both—hands, that is. It wouldn’t make sense the other way.’ Nolan pulled open the coach door and they tumbled in, the coach lurching to a start before the door was even shut.
‘Ah! A clean getaway.’ Nolan sank back against the seat, a satisfied grin on his face.
‘It doesn’t always have to be a “getaway”. Sometimes we can exit a building like normal people.’ Archer straightened the cuffs of his coat and gave Nolan a scolding look.
‘It was fairly normal,’ Nolan protested.
‘You left a knife embedded in a man’s shoulder, not exactly the most discreet of departures. You got away in the nick of time.’
Nolan merely grinned, unfazed by the scolding. If he had been discreet, he would have stopped playing two hours ago. The other players could have respectably quit the table, their pride and at least some money intact. ‘Speaking of time, do you think Haviland is at the docks yet?’ They were scheduled to meet two friends at the boat this morning to begin their Grand Tour. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds Haviland is there.’
Archer laughed. ‘At this hour? He’s not there. Everything was loaded last night. There’s no reason for him to be early. Besides, he has to drag Brennan’s sorry self out of bed. That will slow him down.’ He and Haviland had known each other since Eton. Haviland was notoriously prompt, but he wouldn’t be early and Brennan was always late.
‘Easiest five pounds I’ll ever make. I bet he’s already there, pacing like a lion, and he’s got his fencing case with him. He won’t let it out of his sight.’ Then, because he couldn’t refuse the goad, ‘Kind of like my knife.’ But Archer hadn’t heard. His friend had leaned back and closed his eyes.
Nolan was too alert to doze. He thought about his five pounds. They would indeed be easy winnings, but Archer could afford it. He looked out the window. Haviland was already there, he’d wager more than five pounds on that truth. Archer might be Haviland North’s best friend, but Nolan knew people and Haviland was a warrior. He wouldn’t be parted from his weapons of choice. Besides, Haviland was anxious to be off. Nolan wasn’t sure what demons were driving Haviland, but they were driving hard and fast, as odd as the notion was.
To all appearances, Haviland North’s life was perfect; he was rich, in line for a choice title and endowed with extraordinary good looks. Haviland had it all. And yet, he couldn’t leave England fast enough. He would have been there an hour ago watching them load the carriages even if the trunks had all been stowed last night.
A movement outside the window grabbed his gaze. He squinted and rubbed a circle on the window for a better view. For a moment he thought they’d been followed. Was that his man outside? But, no, this was no man. He nudged Archer with a boot. ‘Care to explain why a horse is following us?’
Archer mumbled, ‘I sort of rescued him this morning.’
‘You abandoned me for a horse? I could have been killed,’ Nolan exclaimed.
‘And yet it was your knife in his shoulder. You were doing fine on your own,’ Archer replied drily, moving his gaze to the window.
The drive to the docks was short despite the foggy dawn, and the horse was still with them, running alongside the carriage. Nolan clambered down from the coach, letting Archer deal with the horse. He sighted a tall, lone figure on the docks and let out a whoop, calling to Archer, ‘What did I tell you? There he is. I win! Look at that, he’s even got his case with him.’
Haviland strode towards them and Nolan clasped him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Good morning, Old Man. Is everything loaded to your satisfaction? I told Archer you’d be here overseeing.’
Haviland laughed. ‘You know me too well, the coaches went on an hour ago.’ Nolan was glad Haviland was handling the details. If it had been up to him, he’d simply have packed a trunk, jumped on board a ship and left everything on the other side up to fate. He was far more spontaneous than Haviland and Archer. It was the one gift of having to live an imperfect life. He’d learned early to be one step ahead of the blow so that when it fell, he was miles away.
The other benefit in not having an ideal family life was that he had nothing to live up to, not like Haviland, who was going to inherit the Englishman’s perception of Heaven on Earth, or Archer, whose family owned the most successful and expensive stud farm in Newmarket—for fun. Yes, they’d inherit perfection but they’d also have to spend their lives maintaining it for future generations. That was a lot of pressure.
He had no such pressure to conform to family tradition. The only perfection he’d inherited was his memory. He could count cards, three to four decks’ worth if he had to, and he could calculate odds. That inheritance was quite portable. Of course, he’d inherited plenty of imperfections along with it. Those were in no short supply, starting with a puritanical father who firmly believed in beating excellence into his children at all costs and ended with the reality that choice created: his family hadn’t seen each other in ten years. As soon as he and his brother had come of age, they’d scattered just as they had in the summers home from school—they’d never actually come home from school. They’d always arranged to spend the summers with friends. School might not have been intellectually edifying to him, but Nolan had found it freeing in other ways. He’d met Haviland, after all, and it had been the saving of him.
Archer was ribbing Haviland about keeping his case with him when Nolan’s thoughts re-engaged the conversation. ‘I told you that, too. I know these things, I’m a student of human nature.’ He laughed.
‘Too bad you couldn’t study that at Oxford,’ Archer joked. ‘You might have got better marks.’
Nolan laughed. He and Archer had been sparring for years. They had each other’s measure. When he hadn’t been spending summers with Haviland, he’d been spending them with Archer. ‘What can I say? It’s true. You two were the scholars, not me and Brennan.’ Nolan looked around, realising the absence of their fourth member. ‘Is Brennan here yet?’ Time was getting dear.
‘No.’ Haviland shook his head. ‘Did you expect him to be? Scholar of human nature that you are.’ He ribbed.
Nolan gave Haviland a playful shove. ‘A scholar of human nature, yes, a psychic, no.’ He grinned. He was looking forward to this trip more than he realised, the four of them back together again. It would be like old times. Indeed, they saw each other in London during the Season, but it wasn’t the same. The four of them were never all together at once. Archer was always in Newmarket these days. It was either he and Brennan or he and Haviland. Even then it was usually just for drinks at the club or a quick greeting at a ball.
All of them were approaching thirty, that most important age for men of their birth, when they were expected to marry and settle down. This trip might very well be their last time together as bachelors unencumbered by the responsibility of wives and children. Haviland would marry—it had already been arranged. Archer would follow. A man who loved breeding horses would surely love to breed his own children. As for Brennan? It would depend on who would have him on a more permanent basis. He was probably with a woman right now.
The captain of the vessel approached and urged them to board, making it clear he would not wait for the rest of their party. Haviland blew out a breath after the captain left, blaming himself for Brennan’s tardiness. ‘I should have stayed with him.’
Nolan murmured something encouraging. Brennan would be here. He had to be. Brennan was always late, always on the verge of trouble. Not too unlike himself. He was just better prepared for it. Brennan never saw it coming until it was too late. Perhaps that was why he liked Brennan, they were kindred spirits of a sort. They both had messy, imperfect lives. They both lived in the moment. Brennan wasn’t a planner and that was certainly working against him this morning. Nolan could imagine him oversleeping in some woman’s bed only to wake too late and realise he’d missed the boat.
Waiting was a luxury they couldn’t afford. It wasn’t an issue of just catching another boat. Channel crossings didn’t run on schedules, they ran on the weather. Nolan knew they were lucky their own crossing today was proceeding like clockwork. He opted to keep spirits up. He clapped a hand on Archer’s back as the three of them moved towards the boat. ‘I’ll wager Brennan misses the boat,’ he announced with forced joviality. ‘Archer, are you in? If I’m wrong, you can win back your losses.’ Please let me be wrong. He had every hope Brennan would come dashing up at the last minute.
They took up positions at the rail facing the dock. Nolan knew they were all hoping for a glimpse of their errant companion, but time was slipping away. He started at the sound of chains in motion. ‘They’re pulling the anchor. He’s not going to make it,’ Nolan said quietly, leaning on his arms. ‘Dammit! I didn’t want to win that bet.’ He exchanged glances with Haviland and Archer as the boat slowly nudged away from the dock. The trip was off to an ominous start.
Then he saw it—commotion on the pier, a figure racing towards them, shirttails flapping. Suddenly, Haviland was shouting, ‘It’s him, it’s Brennan!’ And he wasn’t alone. Nolan could make out two men behind him, one of them armed as they gave very hearty chase. Whoever they were, they meant business.
Haviland moved first, sprinting towards the back of the boat. Nolan stayed rooted where he was, his eyes focused on something else moving behind the men, something dark and swift. Next to him, Archer made it out first. ‘My horse!’
Nolan and Archer thundered down the length of the boat behind Haviland who was waving his arms and shouting commands to Brennan. Impossible commands, really, such as ‘jump’ and ‘don’t jump here, it’s too wide, jump at the back of the boat where it hasn’t left the dock yet. Hurry!’
It was insanity, by the time they reached the stern, even that part of the boat had left a gap between the dock and the deck. Brennan would never make the jump. If Brennan missed... There was no time to contemplate the consequences. ‘The horse, Archer, look!’ Nolan shouted. The bay had come up alongside Brennan, matching his stride to the running man.
Archer took the idea from there, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Get on the horse, Bren! Jump him!’
Nolan felt the moment suspend itself in time. He watched Brennan grab the mane and swing himself up bareback. It would be a mad jump even with stirrups and a saddle. But Brennan was an excellent rider, as good as Archer and far more reckless.
The horse leapt.
And landed. On its knees, on the deck.
Time sped up again. He and Archer grappled for the reins, trying to keep the horse calm. Haviland wrestled Brennan off the downed horse. Nolan glanced back at the shore. The two men in pursuit were forced to give up their efforts, having reached the edge of the pier. One of them raised his gun. Nolan hit the deck with Archer and the horse just as Brennan shoved Haviland to the ground. The bullet whined harmlessly overhead, but, dear lord, it had been a near thing. A second or two would have made a tragic difference. If Brennan hadn’t pushed Haviland down...
Nolan’s eyes narrowed in speculation. Deuce take it! Brennan had suspected they would fire. What kind of trouble had he got himself into this time? Haviland was already asking those questions as the group picked themselves up from the deck and brushed off their clothes. Archer marched the horse off to temporary stabling and Brennan was all smiles as he tucked in his shirttails despite Haviland’s scolding. Definitely a woman, then. It was usually a woman with Brennan.
Clothing settled and greetings exchanged, Nolan drawled his question. ‘So the real issue isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’
Brennan’s blue eyes were merry, his face splitting into a wide, satisfied grin as the wind ruffled his auburn hair. He laughed up at the sky and Nolan knew the answer before he even said it. ‘Always, Nol, always.’
Nolan grinned, too. The crisis was past. The future lay spread out before them. It would be a while before he saw England again and that was fine with him. Deep down, he wondered if he’d ever see it again and was not surprised to discover he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Grand Tours took years and all he had was time.
Chapter Two (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)
Venice, Italy—winter 1836
All gamblers are alike in luck. They know the exhilaration of dice rattling in boxes, the adrenaline fuelled by hot tables, the decadent thrill of hinging everything on the turn of a card and when that card favours them, they know a surge of elation so great they become immortal gods in the moment of victory. But no two gamblers are alike in their fall. From the moment the cards desert them, to the moment they should have walked away and didn’t, gamblers are always unlucky alone.
Nolan Gray knew when a man was broke and Count Agostino Minotti was very close. Surrounded by the opulence of Palazzo Calergi where every whim was anticipated by the serving staff, where no one should have any worries, Count Agostino had worries aplenty. The signs were there in the desperate sweat on his brow, in the sharpness of his eyes as his brain rapidly inventoried his assets, searching for anything left worth bartering to cover the latest hand—the one in which he was sure his luck would turn.
Nolan knew it wouldn’t. His own hand was too good, and if there was such a thing as luck, it favoured the intelligent. Surely, the count had to know the odds of drawing the queen of spades were nearly non-existent. The count would never complete his straight. He’d been rather obviously collecting high-end spades this hand and everyone at the table knew it. Nolan didn’t suffer fools who couldn’t count cards nor did he have much sympathy for men who overplayed their funds. The count should have walked away an hour ago. Nolan only hoped the man would be able to cover tonight’s commitments. He had plans for that money.
The count pushed the rest of his money to the centre of the table, not nearly enough to cover the bet. What else would the count offer? The count’s next words took Nolan alternately by surprise and then disgust. ‘Two hundred lire and my daughter’s maidenhead.’
That was certainly different than the items wagered at English tables. But it made the man no less of a bastard to offer it. The principle of the matter dug sharp claws into Nolan’s sense of fair play. A gambler could risk anything he or she liked as long as it was theirs. But to risk what belonged singularly to another, to someone who was not directly involved in the play at the table and who had no say in the decision was beyond the pale of acceptability.
A quick glance around the table indicated he was the only one who apparently held any such scruples. There was a certain irony in that considering how jaded his palate had become over the years. He’d wagered and won numerous non-traditional items of interest in his career. But never a woman who hadn’t first offered herself as barter. Even then, that particular woman had wanted to lose. To him. On purpose. This was entirely different, and Nolan wasn’t sure he liked it.
The man to his left was greedily reassessing his hand. The man to his right made a crass comment about the girl in question and his own prowess that was better reserved for a cheap whorehouse than Palazzo Calergi’s elegant interiors. The others at the table laughed and threw out their own crudities, each one worse than its predecessor. Nolan felt his temper rise on behalf of the unseen girl. He counselled himself with quiet caution. He did not need to get sucked into this. Logic reminded him there was much he didn’t know about the situation. Logic also reminded him he was still the richest man at the table tonight and the one with the best hand. They were all playing against him. He was in charge. He would be the one to decide the girl’s fate; take her away from this with him or leave her to one of the others unless he could head this disaster off.
His first line of attack was to dissuade the count, perhaps even to rouse some dissent on behalf of the girl once these men saw sense. ‘Five thousand lire? That seems a bit expensive.’ The table didn’t seem to think so. These were born Venetians and this was Venice at Carnevale where virginity was a most elusive commodity. A city didn’t acquire a reputation for having the most accommodating courtesans in Europe by hoarding virgins. The economics of supply and demand made the price believable. So did the count’s desperation. Almost. This was a man who had been desperate before.
‘What insurance do we have that she’s actually a virgin? How do we know you haven’t offered her before?’ Nolan jested lightly, pushing his case as he watched the table, his body tensed for action should his comment meet with offence. The count was a desperate man and a reckless one if he was willing to sell his daughter to cover a bet. Assuming the woman in question was his daughter. The count didn’t particularly impress Nolan as a fatherly figure for obvious reasons. Still, he wouldn’t be the first man alive to be poorly suited for the occupation. Nolan’s own father would rival him there.
Minotti’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Are you saying my daughter is a whore?’
‘Is she?’ Nolan leaned back in his chair, the nonchalance belying the tension coiled within him. If Minotti came at him, he would be ready. He could feel the comforting press of his new blade inside the sleeve of his coat. It could be in his hand in under a second.
Minotti’s eyes slid to the left, towards the long windows overlooking the Grand Canal, his voice smug with triumph. ‘Judge for yourself. She’s the one in pale blue, my Gianna.’
Nolan would have known her without the description. She was the one who looked out of place despite the blatant wealth exhibited in the expensive pearl-encrusted blue-damask gown. Good lord, the gown must weigh fifteen pounds on its own, adorning the palazzo as if it were an art piece designed for the room. Still, the richness of her costume couldn’t disguise the fact that she didn’t belong here. Palazzo Calergi might be a regal setting and this might be a private party for a few hundred of its owners’ personal friends and their guests, but it was still a party in the middle of Carnevale, hardly the sort of venue one took a daughter to. Her head turned towards the table as if she sensed she’d become the topic of conversation, her eyes landing on Nolan. On second thought, five thousand might be a generous bargain indeed, virgin or not.
The girl was stunning in her own right once one got past the dress. Certainly not in the way the other women in the room were stunning with their cosmetics, low-cut silks, and elaborate coiffures, the products of hours and artifice. Her beauty was natural, clean, somehow apart from the cosmopolitan elegance surrounding her and yet her beauty was not the lesser for what could only be described as its plainness. It was her skin that did it; a smooth, pink-tinged alabaster and as translucent, framed by hair so dark it appeared black at this distance.
Her eyes might have helped the cause, too. He could not tell the colour from this distance, but it hardly mattered. Her eyes were shrewd and sharp as they held his; challenging, thinking. Nolan had the uncomfortable sensation he was being assessed. Did she feel the same with the eyes of the table riveted on her? Did she know her father had put her up for auction to the winning hand? If she didn’t know, her fate would come as shock. If she did, however...
Cynicism flashed. Had father and daughter done this before? Was this some sort of scam they ran whenever the count was down on his luck? The whole offer smelled of trouble. Nolan’s eyes dropped back to the cards in his hand. The tiny voice of caution that usually kept quiet in his head was barking loudly now, joined by a strong sense of self-preservation. He should throw the hand and win the money elsewhere.
This money came with strings—more precisely, it came with a virgin. That was the very last thing he needed. What would he ever do with a virgin? He certainly wasn’t going to bed a woman against her will. Nolan’s eyes went to the pile in the centre of the table. But the money was a temptation nonpareil. Only noblemen wagered sums like these. This would take several nights to acquire at lesser venues. It would be a shame to waste this rather golden opportunity. Tonight would put him at his goal. His hopes were within reach. One virgin wasn’t going to stand in his way. Across the table, the count raised his hand and beckoned for the girl.
* * *
Gianna saw the summons, aware that the count and his table had been watching her. Worry pooled in her anxious pit of a stomach. What hell had he concocted for her now? Hadn’t the hell he’d presented her with this afternoon been enough to satisfy his jaded palate? Dante’s Inferno had nothing on Count Minotti when it came to exacting revenge or getting what he wanted.
She smoothed her hands over her elaborate skirts in a calming repetition of strokes and repeated her silent mantra: the count would not stand in her way. She would not allow him to. Whatever he did, she would be equal to the task. She would outthink him, outmanoeuvre him as she always had. She’d done it for five years. She could do it for four more weeks. He cannot hurt you. He would not dare. The money will protect you. But the usual comfort the words gave her was absent tonight. Her freedom was within reach, just a month away after years living under his so-called protection.
At the table, the count took her arm and she pulled away, not tolerating his touch. ‘Still upset by this afternoon, my pet?’ The count’s tone was wry as if this afternoon had been a minor concern, a mere game. But it hadn’t been, not to her and not to him. But she would not suffer him to touch her again.
‘What have you done?’ She kept her tones low, her eyes fixed on the count. The men at the table were eyeing her with something nearing avarice. Gianna’s anxiety was rising steadily, although she dare not show it. The count would like to see her fear, like to know he had power over her.
The count gave a shrug of his shoulders as if to indicate it was nothing of significance. ‘I am having a bit of bad luck tonight, I’m afraid. But that’s about to change. I have a good hand. I am sure to win.’
Gianna knew where the conversation was going. It was a distasteful one, but one she could handle. She reached up to pull off the pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother. The count had ordered her to wear them tonight. He’d probably planned on forcing her to surrender them. He knew how she treasured them. She had resisted giving them to him once. It had been a mistake. It had shown the count they had emotional value to her. She’d quickly learned not to make that mistake twice.
The count gave a slight shake of his dark head. Gianna’s jaw tightened and her hands went to the clasp of her pearl choker. They were just things, she told herself. Placate him, give him what he wants. These are nothing in the scope of the greater picture. After their quarrel this afternoon, his demand could have been worse. She would be thankful for this small mercy. She only wanted to be done with him. She would do whatever it took to make it through the next four weeks. She would be twenty-two, old enough to claim her inheritance without him. Whatever her mother had seen in the man during her lifetime, Gianna could only guess.
The count shook his head again and Gianna froze. ‘You are very generous, but I’m afraid your pearls won’t be enough.’ His mouth turned up in a cruel smile. ‘Not those pearls anyway. There is one pearl these gentlemen seem to value, however.’ He paused. ‘I have wagered you, Gianna. More specifically, the pearl between your legs.’
Panic swamped her. He repeated himself, no doubt enjoying the perverse pleasure of saying the crude words out loud. On the surface, it was an appalling wager. Beneath that surface it was truly horrific in a way only the count would recognise. ‘Does my mother mean so little to you that you would make her daughter a whore?’
‘Your mother is dead. She holds no sway here,’ he countered, his words bloodless. ‘I offered you better this afternoon and you refused. You did this to yourself.’
Stay calm. Under no circumstances show him any emotion. She understood the men’s stares now. They were undressing her, imagining what they would do with her, to her, all except one whose gaze was on the count. Her stomach turned. The grip on her ‘calm’ was slipping. It was a Herculean task to maintain her reserve. She wanted to grab up the carefully blown glass goblets on the table and smash them against the silk-clad walls, to rage out loud against the count’s latest barbarism. She would show these men nothing, certainly not the count who thought he could pass her about, wager her as if she was nothing more than a bauble of mediocre value; as if he could wreck her plans with the turn of a card, as if she had no say in the matter. That last was a sticking point. Legally, she had no say, not until she turned twenty-two.
‘This is revenge,’ she accused, anger coursing through her, volcanic and explosive. If she was a man, she’d kill him. But if she were a man this would not have happened. She would have left the count years ago. ‘You are blackmailing me.’
‘This, my dear, is what happens when you leave me no choice,’ the count hissed.
‘Your offer was to marry the morally corrupt Romano Lippi, or to marry you,’ Gianna spat. ‘It was hardly a choice since either option turns a substantial portion of my inheritance over to you.’ She knew a moment’s triumph at the dark look stealing over his face. ‘I’m not stupid. I know exactly what you and Lippi had arranged. The two of you decided to split the inheritance.’
‘I must have something, Gianna. I’ll have my five thousand pounds with or without you. I’m broke and you are all I have left. Don’t worry. I will win and you can rethink your position on today’s negotiations. This is nothing. You’re only being wagered in theory.’
The count took his seat with a wide smile and a relaxed bonhomie at odds with their terse conversation. She was trapped. She would run if she could, but aside from the fact she had nowhere to run, she simply couldn’t. The dratted dress was far too heavy for anything but a sedate walk. So Gianna stood, she waited, she watched and tried not to panic.
The count leaned forward, his face flushed with the fever of the wager and the surety that he couldn’t possibly lose. ‘All right, gentlemen, let’s see your cards.’ Gianna stilled. This was it, the moment of truth.
Chapter Three (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)
Nolan knew the truth before the cards were laid down. The count’s hand was good, good enough to understand why he’d had hope of winning. But the count, like many amateur gamblers, lacked the ability to see beyond his own hand. Nolan knew not only what he, himself, held, but what others at the table held as well. The count had not yet learned that a hand was ‘good’ only by comparison.
Nolan lay down his hand. There were a few humorous moans from the other players who hadn’t bet more than they could afford to lose with some élan. But the count went pale. He’d lost everything, even his daughter. Ostensibly. Nolan still didn’t quite believe she was his daughter or even a virgin, although the paleness of the count’s face was starting to make it believable. Or perhaps it was only loser’s remorse, the crash that came after the high of an extraordinary wager before it had gone bust. The girl beside him showed no reaction beyond the movement of her eyes locking on his, a sharp, hazel-green gaze.
In that moment he knew he’d been wrong. She was not a girl. This was a woman. It was hard to be sure of her age, of her experience. Certainly, she was not a first-Season débutante, but neither could she be more than a year or two over twenty. There were flashes of youth in her at odds with the shrewdness he’d seen in her gaze, but she was a woman. Girlhood had been left behind years ago. The question surfaced again: had she done this before? He could usually read people well, but she was blank to him.
‘Perhaps another hand, Signor Gray?’ The count’s voice couldn’t disguise the tremor. Nolan had expected it, the gambler’s recourse; a second hand, a second try, anything to erase the sting of defeat.
‘Do you have another daughter to lose?’ Nolan queried in wry tones. He gave the man a rueful smile in the silence as he rose. The table had become deadly quiet. He needed to make a quick exit for everyone’s sake. ‘I didn’t think so. You have nothing left to wager.’ Nolan extended his hand to the daughter, her face still a blank canvas devoid of any emotion even as her fate clarified itself. There would be no quarter given to the count. He would be held to his brash wager. If she was frightened, angry, embarrassed or any of the thousand emotions one might feel after having been sold into a bargain not of their making, those emotions didn’t show. But Nolan was not dense enough to assume those emotions didn’t exist beneath her calm surface. Calm surfaces harboured all variety of dangers in his experience.
‘Signorina, it seems we are to leave together.’ Nolan took her arm. He would treat her respectfully until she gave him a reason not to. He did not envy her the situation. If she was innocent of all this, she must be in shock. If she was a knowing accomplice, she would be the one to directly endure the brunt of his anger when her duplicity was found out.
Nolan nodded once to the count. When he spoke, his words were for Minotti, but his manners were for her in the hopes of assuring her all would be well. ‘Buonanotte, your night ends here, I think, Minotti. Better luck another day. I shall return her to you.’ It was generous of him. Returning had not explicitly been part of the arrangement. Neither had not returning her. The parameters of this arrangement were somewhat nebulous in regards to their permanence. Nolan wondered which choice offered her the better chance. Would going back to the count only lead to more of this? The idea of her staying with him was impossible, not part of his plans. Nolan could only imagine what Brennan would say—when he stopped laughing.
* * *
This was no laughing matter. Panic receded in the wake of her anger. She had been sold to a foreigner and now she was being carted off like chattel. Not literally, of course. She’d not been slung across his rather broad shoulders, but even the touch of his hand at her back, guiding her through the crush of the ballroom, was too much for her roiling temper. She stepped beyond his reach, her words cold and demanding. ‘Take your hand off me. I am not your property.’
The Englishman chuckled, not the least put off by her cold tone, his voice was low and easy at her ear as he claimed her elbow, his arrogance unequalled. ‘My four aces beg to differ with your assessment.’
‘You don’t own me.’ Her words were vehement, but they were only words. There was no substance behind them and they both knew it. At the moment, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to go except with him. She needed a plan. She needed a way to see the silver lining. How could she turn this tragedy into an opportunity? If she could push past the panic that had consumed her at the table; the anger and disbelief that consumed her now, she could find a solution. But the Englishman’s arrogant words made it difficult.
‘Again, I must beg to differ. You’re as much my property as five thousand lire, Signor Bellosi’s gold watch and four diamond stickpins. The only difference is that you’re not as useful. I can’t convert you to cash.’
That did it. If there had been any lingering vestiges of shock, he’d effectively exorcised them. She would not be the pawn of any man again, not the count and certainly not this Englishman who acted as if this were a grand lark. At the bottom of the palazzo’s steep steps, gondolas bobbed on the waters of the canal. The Englishman handed her in and waited patiently for her to sit and arrange her art piece of a dress before joining her on the plush velvet seat. He had manners aplenty, even if he was arrogant, and that was something at least. She would take what she could get. It was starting to sink in just how much danger she was really in. If the money hadn’t protected her, nothing would.
He called out directions to the gondolier. ‘Hotel Danieli, per favore.’ Gianna smiled to herself. He had good manners and good taste, part of his arrogance, she supposed. He was a man who liked the best and perhaps therein lay his flaw. A proud man was blind to his weaknesses. She would exploit them if she had to, as long as he let her stay.
It was the hotel that clinched her decision, that showed her the silver lining. Staying was the key. The count had attempted to frighten her into compliance tonight, but he’d made a grave mistake. When he’d lost his hand, he’d inadvertently set her free. For a few days or for as long as the Englishman was willing to keep her, she was beyond the count’s control. Gianna didn’t fool herself into believing it would be easy. If, after a few days, she didn’t return, the count would come looking for her. She would have to act fast.
She couldn’t go back, not after tonight. Gianna shuddered to think of what going back would entail. The count would be cruel, crueller than he’d ever been. If he was willing to sell her virginity in a card game, there was no telling what he’d do next in order to get what he wanted. His home was no longer safe for her, if it had ever been.
Safe was a relative term in this case. If it was only herself to consider, she’d leave the city, but she couldn’t leave the city, not yet. There were things she needed to retrieve from the count’s home, she needed Giovanni and she needed her money. Otherwise there would be no way to support the two of them. Until those items were assured, she needed somewhere to live. She also needed a protector or at least the illusion of one.
Her mind began to work, a plan started to form, beginning with the premise that she’d catch more flies with sugar than vinegar. Perhaps the Englishman would play the role of protector for her if given the correct incentive. To do that, though, she’d have to change her current tack immediately. Everything hinged on the Englishman letting her stay beyond the night.
That conjured a host of other thoughts regarding what she might be required to do in order for her persuasion to be successful. Certainly, the Englishman was expecting to claim that which he’d won. A shiver took her. In her anger, her disbelief and panic over her plans being shredded, it had been easy to shove aside the more practical implication of what the wager involved: sex. With a stranger. With this man who sat beside her, a man about whom she knew nothing except his accommodations and that his manners, while nicely turned, bordered on arrogant. But perhaps she’d find a way to avoid that, too.
‘The Hotel Danieli is the finest in the city...’ she began, trying to make the stranger less strange. Perhaps if they talked, she could build some rapport. ‘It used to be a private palazzo.’ Gianna shivered again, this time from the breeze off the canal. She regretted not having had the Englishman stop for her cloak. Then again, if she had her cloak, she wouldn’t have an excuse for what she did next.
