The Rape of Venice Read online

  For the first hour or so the Princess had sat apparently absorbed in the books Clarissa had brought her; but she had then left Clarissa busily embroidering a pretty bonnet for little Susan and crossed the room to watch the game from behind her husband’s chair. Had she remained there that would have given no cause for speculation about her conduct; but from time to time she had moved round the table and stood for a while behind whoever happened to be holding the bank.

  Later that night, Roger had discussed the matter with his closest friend, the Lord Edward Fitz-Deverel—known to his intimates as ‘Droopy Ned’. Neither of them had actually seen the Princess make a signal to her ugly husband but, such collaboration being the easiest form of cheating ever devised, they agreed it to be highly probable that the Venetian’s having come out of the game by far the largest winner could be accounted for in that way.

  Roger was somewhat cheered by the probability that the man with whom he had to deal systematically cheated at cards. Trickery in connection with games of chance was prevalent all over Europe. Even in the highest circles it was not unusual; but it could definitely be taken as a sign of an avaricious and unscrupulous nature.

  It went without saying that, from whichever side Malderini favoured in his report to the Senate of the Serene Republic, he would expect a substantial present of money. That was a recognised perquisite of any ambassador; but in most cases envoys accepted such gratuities only for recommending a policy that they had convinced themselves was in the best interests of their country. Here, though, was a case in which it seemed that an envoy’s greed might induce him to accept a heavy bribe to advise his government without searching his conscience too closely about possible results.

  That suited Roger, and he was still deliberating on the size of his opening bid to win the Venetian over when there came a knock on the door. At his call to ‘Come in’, Edgar, the footman who had been valeting him during his stay at Stillwaters, entered the room carrying two large cans of hot water. Having told him what clothes to put out, Roger got up, shaved, washed, dressed and went down to breakfast.

  Only Colonel Thursby was seated at the table. He was a spare, ageing man of kindly disposition and high intelligence. On his retirement from the Corps of Engineers, his faith in the future of machines had enabled him to make a considerable fortune during the Industrial Revolution. He had long been a widower and Georgina was his only child. They adored one another and, although he had two houses of his own, he had for several years past become almost a permanent resident in hers. Roger had a great affection for him and, as he helped himself to a Dover sole from the long array of tempting dishes on the sideboard, they dropped into easy conversation.

  ‘Really,’ remarked the Colonel, ‘what induced Georgina to ask this Venetian here I cannot think! He has the appearance of an overblown woman who was born ugly, follows some hypochondriac régime which makes it embarrassing for other people to do justice to their wine, and treats that charming young Indian wife of his little better than if she were a slave.’

  ‘I fear I am to blame, Sir,’ Roger admitted. ‘It was at my request that Georgina asked Sheridan to bring him down. Never having met him I had no idea that he was such a monster; but, between us two, Mr. Pitt asked me to get to know him and endeavour to prise him from the clutches of the Whigs.’

  The Colonel’s thin face broke into a smile. ‘What an intriguer you are, my dear boy. But I know that you serve your master well, so I’ll grumble no more at having to support the company of this curiously uncouth Italian. Yours is the harder part, by far, and I commiserate with you upon it. Fortunately I am more than compensated this weekend by the presence here of so charming and erudite a guest as Mr. Beckford.’

  He had hardly ceased speaking when Droopy Ned and William Beckford entered the room.

  Droopy owed his nickname to shortsightedness, his constant peering having given him a permanent stoop. He was the second son of the Marquis of Amesbury, and something of an eccentric. His foppish clothes and lazy manner gave a first impression that he was a nit-wit, but under them he concealed an extremely shrewd brain. He was considered an authority on ancient religions, had written several monographs on the effects of Eastern drugs, and owned an unrivalled collection of antique jewellery.

  Beckford was a millionaire, and the richest commoner in England. Orphaned at the age of ten, his upbringing had been supervised by the great Earl of Chatham, who had chosen the ablest tutors for him; among them Sir William Chambers to teach him architecture and Mozart to teach him music. No youth could have made better use of such opportunities. When twenty he had published his first book Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters. Its subjects rejoiced in such names as Og of Basan and Sucrewasser of Vienna. They had, of course, never existed, and the book was actually a satire on the Dutch and Flemish schools; but so skilfully was it done that many people who posed as being knowledgeable about art were at first hoaxed into accepting it as a serious work. Inspired by the Arabian Nights, he had followed it up with Vathek, which was destined to become one of the classics of the English language.

  He was a dark, good-looking man, now thirty-five. Until two years earlier he had lived mainly abroad, and at times travelled with so many servants that on one occasion he had been taken for the young Emperor of Austria. He was a passionate collector of all things rare or beautiful, and also an omnivorous reader. Having purchased Gibbon’s library he had shout himself up at Lausanne for the best part of a year in order that he might read the whole of it. Such prolonged withdrawals from society had given him the reputation of a misanthrope, but the fact was that with such great wealth he needed nobody’s patronage, so had the sense to do as he liked; and he was exceedingly particular in the choice of his friends.

  His splendid country home, Fonthill, was no great distance from Normanrood, the seat of Droopy Ned’s father, and one chance meeting between these two eccentrics had disclosed that they had many interests in common, including a hatred of all blood sports. Largely on that account, Beckford rarely visited at country houses, but Droopy had brought him down to. Stillwaters to see Georgina’s paintings; for since being widowed she had again taken up her hobby, and during the past year had produced several canvasses which were decidedly original in construction and colouring.

  One of Beckford’s characteristics was an intense impatience to press on with any matter that happened to be occupying his mind; so, as he seated himself at the table, he said to Colonel Thursby, ‘Can you inform me, Sir, when the rest of the party will be down?’

  ‘I cannot speak for Signor Malderini,’ replied the Colonel, ‘but few foreigners are hearty trenchermen in the morning, so ’tis probable that he’ll take a continental breakfast in his room. As for Dick Sheridan, he may send for a draught of ale or a decanter of Madeira, but he never joins the company before midday.’

  ‘’Twas of the ladies I was thinking, Sir; for now we have the morning light, I’m all eagerness to see Lady St. Ermins’s paintings.’

  The Colonel smiled. ‘My daughter, Sir, is apt to take an unconscionable time with her toilette, so I much doubt if we can count on seeing her, either, until the morning is well advanced.’

  Having piled a plate high with kedgeree and poured himself a glass of claret, Droopy looked across at Roger, gave him a mischievous grin, then said to Beckford, ‘Mr. Brook has been staying here for some while, and when he does so Lady St. Ermins always shares her studio with him. Until her Ladyship appears he would, I am sure, be delighted to give us his views on art and a sight of his latest masterpiece.’

  ‘Fie, Ned! Shame on you!’ Roger exclaimed. ‘You know well enough ...’

  ‘So, Mr. Brook, you too are a painter!’ Beckford cut in with quick interest.

  ‘Nay; I’m nought but the veriest tyro, Sir. And then only for brief intervals between long periods when other matters leave me no leisure to ruin canvas.’

  ‘Such modesty becomes you, Sir; but I’d wager that you are belittling your talents.’

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bsp; ‘It is the truth,’ Roger assured him. ‘Even had I, like Lady St. Ermins, had the advantage of studying under Mr. Gainsborough and Sir Joshua Reynolds, I could never have entered her class.’

  Beckford raised his straight dark eyebrows. ‘I find it surprising that those rival masters should have been willing to give instruction to the same pupil.’

  ‘In this instance, their rivalry was over who could do the most for her,’ Roger laughed. ‘I’d not impugn their honour by suggesting that it was a case of Susanna and the Elders; but it was not unnatural that two old gentlemen who had long since won wealth and fame should both find a new interest in imparting their knowledge to such a lovely and talented young woman.’

  ‘Of your own painting, though,’ the Colonel remarked, ‘you have no reason to be ashamed. I thought the portrait you have done from memory of Queen Marie Antoinette, as she was while still living at Versailles, an excellent likeness.’

  With eager interest Beckford again looked across at Roger. ‘You knew that lovely but ill-fated Queen, then?’

  ‘I did, Sir. Her Majesty honoured me with her friendship, and I saw her with some frequency both before and after she was imprisoned.’

  ‘I, too, continued to visit Paris up till ’93, and I was present at both the taking of the Bastille and the execution of King Louis.’

  This exchange led to their swapping memories of the Revolution during the remainder of the meal. Then, when all four men had dealt fairly with the selection of chops and kidneys, eggs and sausages, York ham, steak pie and galantines, Colonel Thursby said:

  ‘As Georgina will not be down yet awhile, I suggest we should take a look at Roger’s picture, then go round those in the house.’

  There was a murmur of assent. Picking up his ebony cane, he led the way, limping a little, to the Studio. There the portrait was duly praised, then they began a tour of the Van Dykes, Lelys and Knellers; but Roger slipped away, intending to go to the nurseries.

  As he walked through the long corridors his thoughts turned to Clarisa Marsham. She was a cousin of his late wife, Amanda, and an orphan without fortune. Until a little less than two years earlier, she had lived with an elderly, impecunious and sanctimonious aunt, from which sad fate Amanda had rescued her, and taken her with them as an unofficial lady-in-waiting when he had gone out to the West Indies as Governor-designate of Martinique.

  From a gawky girl with a thin face, beaky nose and mass of ill-dressed pale gold hair, he had seen her develop into a young woman of sylph-like figure and ravishing beauty. On two occasions she had declared her love for him in no uncertain terms. He had tried to persuade himself that hers was an adolescent passion, and that she would soon get over it; so he had done his utmost to discourage her, hoping that she would turn to one of the numerous suitors who were eager for her hand. But deep down he had known that she would not do so

  Now that she had returned to England something had to be settled about her future. So far he had managed to avoid discussing it with her, and he was most loath to do so because he found her so bewitching that he feared he might weaken in his determination to keep his freedom.

  He was still pondering the worrying problem she presented when he entered the main hall and went up the stairs.

  On reaching the landing he saw Signor Malderini and his beautiful Indian wife coming towards him. Instantly he dismissed Clarissa from his mind and decided to postpone his morning call on the children. With Sheridan out of the way for another hour at least, this was too good an opportunity to be missed of sounding the Venetian about his opinions.

  Having made a graceful leg to the Princess, he enquired of her husband how they had slept and if all their wants had been attended to. Then he said that, as a guest of long standing in the house, they must allow him temporarily to play host and show them something of its beauties.

  Malderini thanked him for his courtesy and the three of them descended the great marble staircase together; but, instead of taking them into any of the rooms, where they might shortly have run into the other party, Roger led them out between the tall pillars of the Palladian portico and down its steps onto the long terrace. The stone vases along it were gay with flowers and below the balustrade the well-tended lawns sloped gently away to a broad lake, from the far shore of which rose woods of silver birch and pine. In the sunshine of the June morning it was as lovely a prospect as could have been found in England.

  The vases were filled with many-hued Phlox Drummondi and, pointing at the nearest, Malderini made some remark to his wife in her own language. She returned a low-voiced reply, then he said to Roger. ‘The Princess Sirisha has a great fondness for flowers. Her name, you know, is that of a particularly beautiful flower that grows in her native country.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Roger. ‘Then let us go to the rose garden and the herbaceous borders. We’ll visit the hot-houses too. They contain many tropical plants and the Princess may find there several with which she is familiar.’

  As they strolled through the gardens to the west of the house, pausing now and then to admire a vista between box hedges, a fountain, a lead figure, or some specially lovely bed of flowers, Roger made no attempt to turn the conversation to the state of things in Italy. After a quarter of an hour it struck him that he might be shirking the job because it meant working against his own convictions, but he quickly reassured himself, as it was obviously sounder policy to endeavour first to get on terms with the Venetian. That would not be easy, for his heavy features held no trace of bonhomie, and his curious mind-probing eyes no hint of desire to make himself liked. Even so, given a little time, there was every reason to suppose that in the course of conversation he would make some remark about the war, and so provide a natural opening, it was, after all, only Saturday morning, and that strengthened Roger’s feeling that there was no hurry yet to grasp the ugly nettle.

  They spent a further twenty minutes in a leisurely progress round the glasshouses. Malderini proved very knowledgeable about plants and his conversation with Roger disclosed a quick, well-ordered mind—another depressing indication that, when they did get to business, he would prove a hard nut to crack. To his wife he scarcely said a word and she never spoke unless first addressed by him. Roger felt deeply sorry for her but could do no more than give her an occasional friendly smile. More and more he wished the weekend over and that, having done his best for Mr. Pitt, he would never be called on to set eyes on Rinaldo Malderini again.

  It was shortly after they had entered the orchid house that they caught sight of one of Georgina’s footmen, and another man, hurrying towards them. The footman pointed Roger out, then the other, who wore a plain riding livery, came through the glass door, removed his hat and, taking a letter from a leather pouch at his waist, handed it to Roger. A glance at the seal showed him that it was from the Prime Minister. With a word of apology to his companions, he tore it open and ran his eye over the single paragraph. It read:

  If you have not yet opened the business with Signor R. M. refrain from doing so. I have just learnt that, contrary to my expectations, after spending three weeks as a private person in the other camp, he accompanied his ambassador to the Foreign Office on Friday morning and presented credentials as a Plenipotentiary Extraordinary. Now that my cousin, Grenville, is in a position to put our cards on the table openly, I shall have no further need of you as intermediary. W.P.

  Malderini coughed and remarked politely, ‘I trust that this urgent message does not contain bad news.’

  ‘The very contrary,’ Roger laughed. ‘For a friend I had undertaken a most uncongenial task, and one which I was convinced would cost him a lot of money to no good purpose. He writes me now that he relieves me of it; so I could not be more delighted.’

  Thrusting the letter into his pocket, he gave expression to his pleasure by dismissing the messenger with a guinea, then cutting some of Georgina’s choicest orchids and, with a bow, laying them in the slim brown hands of the Princess.

  But he was wrong in his belie
f that now he would never have cause to remember the ugly Venetian and the beautiful Indian except as the most casual acquaintances, and that he would not be called on to play any further part in the affairs of Venice. Fate, in the person of Mr. Pitt, had woven the first tenuous thread that had brought the three of them together. It was soon to coil and strengthen into a terrible bond that would alter the whole course of their lives, and a time was to come when Roger would hold the fate of the thousand-years-old Serene Republic in the hollow of his hand.

  3

  A Very Strange Performance

  That afternoon Georgina took her guests into Guildford. The drive through the well-wooded countryside made a pleasant excursion, and it had occurred to her that with such difficult guests as the Malderinis a visit to Guildford caves would serve to while away an hour or so. The caves were a natural formation but had been occupied by primitive man from great antiquity.

  Provided with a candle apiece and led by a guide, they traversed the narrow tunnels and halted in the larger chambers, a little awed by the weird effects of their shadows on the rough hewn walls and ceilings. When they were assembled in the largest cave there came a sudden sharp cry. It was uttered by Sheridan’s wife as her husband, bored with the caves, had decided to lighten the solemnity which had descended on the party by pinching her bottom.

  The dim light hid her blushes, but much embarrassed she stammered out, ‘I ... I thought I felt a ghostly hand touch my cheek.’

  Malderini, who was standing near her, shook his head and, speaking in French as usual, declared in his rather high-pitched voice, ‘Maybe it was so, Madame. If you are psychic you may well have felt the touch of the long-dead in such a place as this. Yours was not the only cry that I have heard these past few minutes. The despairing screams of virgins being dragged to the sacrifice still echo round the walls. I have but to look at yonder archway to see the bearded priests with their long knives and the terror on the faces of their victims.’