Glittering Promises (2 page)

“But I agree with your family,” Will said, surprising me. “It’s far safer for you to be with the others, under guard, than on your own.”

“Will, I—”

“No,” my father said. “Listen to him. If we are to tarry here in Italy rather than return home immediately, it is imperative that we remain together.”

Rising voices, floating down the marble staircase, drew our attention to the open doors. Vivian. And Andrew. They were getting closer, bickering, and then Vivian arrived, flushed and wringing her hands, Andrew directly on her heels. She looked up, belatedly realizing that so many of us had gathered and overheard them arguing.

I splayed out my hands and forced a smile, eager to relieve her of the pressure of the group’s attention. “We were just discussing the possibility of parting ways for a time.”

“Parting ways?” sputtered Vivian, her small features drawing together in a frown. “Who of us wishes to part ways with you?”

I almost laughed at Andrew’s steady gaze behind her. He was one, for certain. Somehow, he seemed ready to pin their growing dissonance on me.

“I believe we are past that idea,” my father said quietly. “Now we must plot our safest course.”

I considered him and then cast my eyes about the room, thinking. “What if we changed course again? Get off the Grand Tour track. See Antonio’s Italy together?” I gestured toward our guide and then folded my arms. “Nathan Hawke is resourceful, but I wager it was Luc Coltaire that kept them on our trail before. If we up and disappeared in the wee hours, this very night, would we not likely slip from the city without him knowing where we’d gone? And if we kept to the smaller towns and villages, rather than the grand cities, would we not be far less likely to encounter those that knew the first thing about us?”

My father’s gaze shifted to me, his gray mustache twitching as he considered my plan. And it was then that I knew he agreed with me.

“But what of the big cities?” Nell whined. “I do so want to see Milan. Turin. And Florence!”

“We could stay outside of the cities. Come in for the day and disappear again,” Will said, looking excited. He nodded his head, hope making his eyes sparkle. “It’s far more difficult for a man to follow us on the small, isolated country roads than it is in the thick of crowded streets.”

Pierre rose and nodded in agreement. “It is a good plan, to stay together and yet step off of Italy’s stage for a time.” He turned sad, warm eyes on me. “Regardless of how much you belong on it.”

I colored under his steady gaze. Was there nothing I could do to dissuade him from his pursuit?

“You are off then, Richelieu?” my father asked, stepping up beside him. “To Paris?”

Pierre nodded, still staring at me. He forced his eyes to my father. “In a few hours.”

“Then you have enough time for a proper farewell with Cora,” my father said.

I started, straightened, and wondered what I could possibly say that wouldn’t hurt Pierre’s feelings further and—

“I did hope for that, yes,” Pierre said, his eyes sliding to Will, silently asking permission.

Will shifted his gaze to me. “That is up to Cora,” he said.

Will had my heart, but sending Pierre away
broken
hearted wasn’t what I wanted. He’d done nothing to deserve such sorrow.

Will sighed, reading my expression. “May I have a private word with Cora?”

My father waved us out, and we turned around the corner and into the spacious, airy hall of the grand Venetian palazzo, every nearby room empty except for the salon behind us. In the center, the palazzo was open to the skies above, and a small, tidy garden grew below, as it had for centuries.

Will crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, facing me. “Tell me,” he said miserably. “Tell me,” he repeated, an edge of anger in his whispered tone as he pointed out the hall, “that you are not hesitating saying farewell to him because you still
feel
something for him.”

“I care for Pierre,” I whispered back. “How could I not? He has been nothing but kind to me! But I love you, Will. I’ve always loved you.”

His expression was a mixture of relief and misery. “Then I have no fear in giving the Frenchman a moment to say good-bye. He’ll undoubtedly try and make you look his way one more time. You know that, right?”

“You have nothing to fear,” I said. I gave him a rueful smile. “But it is Pierre de Richelieu. You know he’ll do his level best.” I stepped toward him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “But I know who is better for me than even the grand Pierre de Richelieu.”

He reached down and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, feigning ignorance. “Who? Hugh? Antonio?”

I smiled back up at him. “Why yes, either of them.” Hugh Morgan was a womanizing cad, half the time—though he’d seemed to mature over the course of the tour—and Antonio was our sweet, fatherly fellow guide.

“It’s been lovely,” Will said, wrapping his arms around me and giving my forehead a careful kiss. “These last days, setting the tour aside, simply enjoying Venezia and each other. But now we must move forward. And we start by sending Pierre
home
.” He put one hand behind my neck, his touch gentle, reassuring, and with his other hand, he stroked my cheek.

I smiled up at him and nodded quickly. He leaned down to gently kiss me, once, twice, until we heard voices coming closer from the salon. Quickly, we drew apart, and I took his arm.

Pierre lifted a brow in question, along with his hand, and smiled as I walked toward him. “Excellent,” he purred, tucking my hand around the crook of his arm. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, in a fine suit of a delicate summer weight, crisp white shirt, and cravat in a blue-green that enhanced his eyes. “This way,
mon ange
…” he said, gesturing toward the front of the palazzo, on the canal side.

“Pierre,” Will growled. No doubt he’d heard Pierre’s romantic name for me in French.

“
Je suis si désolé
,” Pierre said with an apologetic moan, lifting a hand and casting Will a look laced with remorse. “Force of habit,” he said, staring down at me in adoration, as if there really could be no other name for me than
my angel
.

Will trailed behind us to the top of the marble stairs that led down to the canal-level
piano
, what the Venetians called each level of a building, right along the water. “You’re going outside?” Will said, frustration lacing his tone. “Can you not share a quiet word of farewell in the safety of the palazzo?”

“Nothing to fear, my friend,” Pierre said. “I only wish to take a ride on the water with Cora. Unless this Hawke walks on water, he will not get anywhere near us. And if he does…” He patted his jacket pocket, where he carried his pistol.

Will considered him. “See that you have easy access to that,” he said at last. “And take Pascal with you. Those are my terms.”

“Honestly, Will. Isn’t that a bit much?” I asked. I considered it rather embarrassing, thinking of a private conversation in front of Pascal.

“Isn’t it a bit much that Hawke dared come close enough for any of us to see him?” Will responded levelly.

I glanced with Pierre over to Pascal, the burly guard who was walking down the stairs behind us. He was so quiet, half the time I forgot he hovered near. And there would be no shaking my silent guardians, not after our kidnapping. And especially now, if Nathan Hawke was indeed lurking in the vicinity.

~Wallace~

Hugh and Felix left out the back door of the palace, most likely to find a place for an afternoon glass of wine and a chance to flirt with the local young women. Wallace bit back a demand for them to stay inside, unnerved by this latest sighting of Nathan Hawke, but he knew it would simply agitate the young gentlemen. Glancing out the window, he comforted himself with the sight of Stephen, a lanky detective, following the boys.

Sam Morgan came up to the window beside him. “They’ll be fine, Wallace. We can’t keep an eye on them every minute,” he said, biting down on an unlit cigar.

Wallace gave him a rueful smile and then turned to sit heavily in a chair in front of the cold, unlit fireplace. “You’re right, of course. But if anything happened to any of the children…” He bit his lip and looked over to the wide, empty doorway that led to the hallway.

“Perhaps it’s best if you switch tactics with Cora now,” Morgan said gently, taking the chair facing him.

Wallace stared hard at his old friend and business partner. Morgan didn’t speak to him in such a direct manner often, but Wallace had learned it was wise to pay attention when he did. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Morgan said carefully, stroking his short beard, “she is perhaps more like you than any of your other children. And the harder you press her, the more she’ll press back.”

Wallace waved his hand in agitation, encouraging him to go on, even while a good part of him wanted the man to remain quiet.

“She is naive in some ways, and yet wise to the ways of people. She understands what drives them, incites them. And she does not wish to be controlled.”

Wallace studied him. “You think I’ve gone about it wrong. My desire to assert my authority as a father, guide her.”

“She sees you more as a threat than a guide. When she did not come willingly, you tried to coerce her, which has only driven her further away.”

Wallace sighed heavily and closed his eyes, rubbing them. “So? What do you suggest?”

“Care for the girl. Why not give her her due? She and her parents have worked that land for years. Take forty-nine percent, give them controlling interest. You’ll still more than triple your fortune, and she’ll have no choice but to see it as the gift it is. She’ll have to come to you for advice. It’s been some years since Alan Diehl considered such sums. In time, perhaps you can forge the sort of relationship you’ve sought all along. At
that
point, perhaps you can point her in Pierre’s direction rather than William’s.”

Wallace considered him. “She has no experience. She might make poor decisions, endanger what we are on the brink of claiming.”

“She might,” Morgan allowed. “Or she might not. As I said, I believe she is more like you than any of the others. She is smart, Wallace. And if you give her free rein, I believe she’ll seek you out for guidance before things get too far out of line.” He leaned forward. “If you give her and her parents controlling interest, she has more incentive than ever to honor the gift. She’ll understand it’s work to manage a fortune, not simply an idle task.” He sat back again and threw up his hands, the cigar now pinched between two fingers. “Who knows? Perhaps she’ll inspire the other children to appreciate what they’ve been given and step up to some responsibility.”

“Perhaps,” Wallace allowed. He thought about Vivian, looking so unhappy. The girl needed Andrew to commit and put a ring on her finger at last. And Felix… How Wallace wished the boy would concentrate on his education and claim any part of the Kensington business as Cora appeared to be attempting a claim with the mine. She was acting more a man than his one and only son, who seemed to have nothing on his mind other than finding the next diversion. Lillian? He would soon need to turn his attentions to finding her a proper suitor and getting her settled.

But first…Cora. If he could simply find his way with her, perhaps the others would fall into line. And Morgan was right. There was no way to force Cora closer; she had to come to him on her own accord.

He considered Morgan’s thoughts, testing them from one angle and then another. “I’ll do it,” he said quietly, feeling a little awestruck over such a momentous, instantaneous decision. “Make Cora and the Diehls more rich than they’ve ever dreamed.”

“No strings attached,” Morgan pressed.

“Well,” Wallace said, cocking his head and steepling his fingers. “Let’s just say no strings that are
obvious
. You and I both know that there are always strings. Always.”

CHAPTER 2

~Cora~

We walked down the remaining stairs, and I forced my thoughts back to Pierre. For now, right now, on this languid summer afternoon on one of the prettiest waterways in the world, I needed to bid Pierre
adieu
once and for all. I took hold of the gondolier’s hand and stepped gingerly into the bottom of the long, thin boat, then sat primly on the red brocade-covered seat in the back. The gondolier helped Pierre in, then Pascal, then offered me a parasol. I’d forgotten mine.

Pierre sat beside me, and I edged a couple of inches away, well aware that although Will had disappeared back inside, he likely watched from the windows. Pascal looked to his right, as if offering us privacy, even though his knees were but a foot away from ours.

“Where to?” asked the gondolier.

“Your normal route,” Pierre said with a soft flick of his fingers.

“Pierre,” I said, giving him a warning look.

“We won’t go far,
mon ange
,” he said, leaning back and giving me a catlike smile.

“Pierre.”

“What?” He frowned, but there was still laughter in his eyes. “Is not your loyal guard dog right here with us? What could happen?”

I sighed and shook my head a little.

A lot could happen when it came to Pierre de Richelieu.

I saw what he was after when we turned one corner and then the next within the Rialto district, leaving one tiny canal for another. Here, in this passageway, there was no room for another boat to pass. The gondolier must’ve known that only one direction of traffic was allowed. Between the shadows of the buildings, the air cooled, a nice respite from the heat of the summer afternoon.

I set aside the parasol and swatted away a mosquito, breathing deeply for the first time since Will and I had returned from our afternoon outing. It was quiet, peaceful here on the water. Away from the bustle of the Grand Canal, in among the narrow, residential passageways, with people just now rising from their afternoon naps. Italians favored long, restful afternoons, work into the evening, and late-night suppers spent huddled around dripping candles. It was a natural cadence of life, particularly during the heat of summer, that I longed to adopt.