The Lace Balcony (24 page)

Find Severin – and I find Fanny!

‘What do you reckon, Boadicea?'

Boadicea twitched her mane, a clear signal she had regained her calm and was eager to do her master's bidding. Mungo nodded agreement.

‘I reckon he's one of those so-called gentleman convicts – never done a day's labour in this life. His eyes are as cold as Antarctica. I swear to God, if that flash bastard hurts a hair of Fanny's head, his days are numbered!'

Mungo rode Boadicea at a gallop to make up lost time. The idea of asking Felix for help was galling.
But he's the one man I know I can ask.

•  •  •

On his return to Little Rockingham Street Mungo saw to Boadicea's needs, then hurried down the walkway into the garden, leapt over the drystone wall and gave a cheery nod to Cook and Molly as he passed the kitchen. He took the servants' back stairs two at a time, crossed the Bridge of Sighs then entered the bedchamber.

At the sight of Felix's immaculate figure, Mungo was suddenly conscious his own hair was windblown, his shirt stuck to his skin, his riding boots coated in dust.

Felix raised his head from the tome he was reading, looked Mungo over and enquired mildly, ‘I take it the house is on fire?'

Mungo decided he must play his cards close to his chest. ‘I've just met the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You can't hide beauty like hers in this Colony.'

He described her in minute detail, waiting for Felix's response until his patience ran out. ‘Well? Have you seen her or not?'

‘I can't be sure. But your description resembles the portrait of a young woman I saw at an exhibition. Do you know her name?'

‘No,' Mungo lied. ‘But she called the flash gent with her Severin.'

Felix half rose from his chair, suddenly pale. ‘Why didn't you say so?'

‘So you do know
him
?'

‘We met briefly. He runs a gaming house. He has this
lady
in keeping.'

Mungo felt a jolt of relief.
At least she's not Severin's wife.
He rushed to her defence. ‘So are half the women in the Colony. They're labelled whores just because they're living with a man who's not their husband.'

Felix added hastily, ‘Of course. I don't mean to condemn all Fallen Women. ‘But I regret to say, Mungo.
This
woman is now notorious.'

‘Why? What's she done?'

‘I leave it to your imagination. Vianna Francis is the “Sydney Town Venus.”'

Mungo stared at his half-brother until Felix averted his eyes.

‘I don't care what she's done. I'm going to find her – set her free.'

‘How can you hope to interfere? His pursuits might be somewhat shady, but he's a born gentleman with friends in high places.'

Mungo turned in the doorway. ‘So what? You're also a gentleman with powerful connections. But you'd rather talk than act. Well, it doesn't require a gentleman to
kill
a gentleman. Logan's murderer proved that.'

‘For God's sake, Mungo. You've just been released from Moreton Bay. Don't throw your life away on some pretty . . .' Felix stopped short.

‘Whore? Is that the word you're searching for?'

‘Severin's known to be a villain but the law doesn't touch him. God help me, Mungo. If anything happened to you, Father would never forgive me. If you don't care about his feelings, I do!'

Mungo suspected his half-brother knew more than he admitted.
What kind of a game is Felix playing? He's just as devious as I am.

‘What if this Vianna Francis turns out to be the same girl who attended Will's execution? Doesn't
our family
owe it to Will's memory to make sure she's safe from Severin? I saw the
fear
in her eyes, Felix!'

Felix gasped. ‘Severin! I suspected as much.'

Mungo realised he had stumbled on the truth. ‘So, you knew who she was all the time. You want her for yourself!'

Felix struggled to retain his dignity. ‘I'll play the game my way, as a gentleman. Do whatever you damn well please. But don't expect me to save your hide next time you break the law.'

Mungo lost his temper. ‘The trouble with you, Felix, is you've got your head stuck up your telescope. That girl needs to be rescued – fast! But you always play by the rules. Real life isn't a gentleman's game of cricket.'

‘To me it is!

‘Right. So let's play by your rules. Have you got some money on you?'

‘You need money already? I'll write you a cheque until Father –'

‘No, you fool, I want a penny to call the toss.'

Felix handed him one and Mungo flipped it in the air. ‘Heads or tails?'

‘Heads,' Felix called as the coin fell.

‘Tails,' Mungo said quickly and tossed the coin back to him. ‘I won the toss so I'll go in to bat first. May the best man win – or the worst brother!'

Mungo offered his hand. ‘I'm not leaving, Felix, till we shake on the deal.'

Their eyes locked over their handshake – a declaration of war.

Mungo fired his parting shot. ‘Enjoy your star-gazing. You're safe looking for Venus in the Milky Way.'

His confidence wavered the moment he closed the door.

Fanny knows she saw Will hanged. So I can hardly pass myself off as Lazarus, resurrected from the dead. Somehow I've got to find a way to make Vianna Francis fall in love – with Mungo Quayle.

Sunday mornings at Severin House were usually as quiet as a convent during Lent. Severin generally left strict instructions that he was not to be woken before midday, managing a few hours of sleep after Blewitt had escorted the last patrons to their carriages either with a cheque for their winnings or, more often, far lighter in pocket than on their arrival.

This Sunday was different. Vianna had an ominous sense that Severin was in a deeper financial bind than he cared to admit. For days past he had impressed on her the importance of her role in attracting fresh patronage to his planned theatrical productions, the details of which he kept strictly under wraps.

When Guido failed to join her at breakfast to discuss Severin's instructions for their rehearsals, Vianna searched the house for him, distinctly uneasy. She came across Severin's henchman in the vestibule, taking delivery of a bouquet of flowers.

‘For Madame, of course. Will you read the card or shall I?' he asked sarcastically, as both were unable to read.

‘Later, Blewitt. Where on earth is Guido? His bed hasn't been slept in.'

‘It ain't for me to say.' Blewitt hinted darkly, ‘But you'll find the painting Severin ordered in the ballroom.'

On the edge of panic, Vianna picked up her skirts and hurried downstairs.

What painting? And what's he hiding about Guido?

She knew that Severin kept Jean-Baptiste's more respectable portrait of her, ‘Venus Observed', under lock and key in his office, but what about the other portrait, the one that had created the furore?

Jean-Baptiste assured me that it had been bought by an unknown gentleman and returned to his care, never to be seen by anyone – out of respect for me. The act of a true gentleman – if there is such a thing.

The ballroom was immaculate, its sofas, chaises and wine tables artfully arranged to face the stage in readiness for tomorrow night's
performance. Even Severin's gentlemen did not risk breaking the Colony's strict laws about the Sabbath.

Vianna was shocked to discover that not only was Guido missing – so was the pianoforte. Centre stage was a classical chaise longue and positioned behind it, concealed under a cloth, was a rectangular painting so large it filled most of the space inside the proscenium arch.

Exasperated, Vianna threw her hands in the air. ‘What the hell is he up to?'

‘He's had a stroke of pure genius, m'dear.'

She whirled around to face Severin, his tall frame swathed in a saffron-coloured oriental dressing robe, his jawline displaying the line of grey stubble that he left unshaven on Sundays. She demanded to know where Guido was.

‘Gone. I sacked him.'

Vianna stamped her feet in a fit of temper. ‘How could you? Guido and I work so well together. How on earth can I perform tomorrow night without him?'

‘Spare me the
prima donna
tactics, Vianna. You won't need a musician. All your performances next week will be silent.' He steered her firmly across the stage.

‘Come, let me satisfy your curiosity.
Voila!
'

When he whipped away the cloth covering the painting, Vianna was even more confused. There
was
no painting. Nothing but a giant gilt frame.

‘Stop playing games, Severin. What does this mean? How am I to perform?'

He directed her to sit beside him on the sofa and raised her hand to his lips.

‘Trust me, m'dear. This week you will make our fortune. You remember what I told you about Lord Horatio Nelson's mistress? How the notorious Lady Emma Hamilton enthralled society with her artistic performances of ‘Attitudes' – poses in the style of classical paintings?'

‘Lady Hamilton was a skilled actress. I have no such delusions.'

‘You will be perfect. I have created for you a program entitled
The Transit of Venus.
Each night you will create a single “living
work of art”. Tomorrow night is the first of six. You will simply lie here on this chaise longue, wearing the Greek robe of your portrait, the living replica of Bonnard's “Venus Observed” – enclosed by this gilt frame. I have planned theatrical lighting that will complete the perfect illusion.'

‘You must be crazy, Severin!'

‘On the contrary, there's method in my madness. Bonnard's original painting will stand on an easel at one side of the stage. You see? It will be an exquisite, silent illustration of life imitating art.'

Vianna's voice rose in outrage. ‘That robe is diaphanous! I might as well be naked. It's one thing for men to stare at my portrait. I flatly refuse to lie there and have a room full of men leering at my body.'

‘Not men, Vianna,
gentlemen
. Art lovers who will appreciate the classical reference to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty.' Severin added casually, ‘Each evening, a gentleman will bid for the privilege of sharing a champagne supper alone with Venus – in her bedchamber.'

Private suppers on six consecutive nights. What is Severin leading up to?

He continued smoothly, all the while gauging her reaction.

‘Saturday's “living portrait” will be your final performance
in public
. One gentleman will be chosen from the final six candidates. After that your performances will be
in private
 . . .' Severin completed the unfinished sentence with a flourish of the hand, as if granting her heart's desire.

Vianna waited in silence until the impact of his words sank in. ‘You promised me the choice would always be mine.'

‘And so it shall,' he said quickly, ‘given that that particular gentleman has the means to afford the
full
privilege.'

Vianna was forced to confront reality.
So it has finally come to this. Why now?
She tried to buy time to avoid inflaming his anger, by gambling on a rumour.

‘I think you owe me the truth, Severin. Recently, during a private supper with one of your patrons, the gentleman told me you are in desperate straits. A professional gambler had infiltrated the club and “broken the bank”. Is that true?'

Severin looked strangely haunted. ‘Would I ask this of you otherwise?'

‘I see.' She waited. ‘Exactly how deeply are you in debt?'

‘The lease on Severin House is six months overdue. I am on the brink of being arrested and taken to debtors' prison. I don't care what happens to me, but God alone knows what will happen to you – and Daisy.'

Vianna felt a wave of nausea, reminded that her sister's expensive fees must be paid or Daisy would be given up for fostering or adoption. She tried to mask her fear. But Severin could not fail to see his words had hit home.

His manner was as soothing as if dealing with a fractious child. ‘Think of
The Transit of Venus
as a temporary measure to buy time for us. The gentleman of
your
choice will assume full responsibility for all our – your expenses. You will continue to live at Severin House. It will be my responsibility to ensure that both the gentleman's pleasure and your own are in no way restricted . . .'

That means he'll continue to prevent me falling with child.

‘Trust me, Vianna, this liaison will be as discrete as the gentleman desires. Conducted to the advantage of all – a watertight contract. Your new protector may choose to safeguard his marital status or his position in society. A temporary liaison.'

‘How long is temporary? Weeks? Months?'

‘No more than a year,' he averted his eyes, ‘or two. Until such time as we have no further need of him. You will of course make yourself available for his pleasure day or night, as the whim takes him.'

Her words were out before she realised their full implication. ‘I shall take one lover and one only. I refuse to be used for sport or shared amongst his friends.'

She instantly recognised her mistake. Severin had not expected her to capitulate so quickly.

‘Of course, m'dear. You are a courtesan, not a prostitute.'

‘The distinction grows narrower by the hour,' she said coldly.

Severin needed to regain his stance as an unwitting victim. ‘Vianna, you must understand, it will kill me to relinquish you to another man. I adore you. I
never
planned for it to come to this . . . the gods decreed otherwise . . .'