Valour and Vanity (6 page)

Vincent sat on the balcony and posed as Cupid waking. The winged god emerged around him in powerful swathes of glamour, but Jane could hear his breath already, while her own pulse was only a little accelerated. As soon as the wings appeared in the glamour, Jane reached for the knot that had tied the
Sphère Obscurcie
in place. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She untied the knot and they became visible in an instant.

Signor Sanuto sat forward in his chair, eyes widening in wonder. In spite of her fears for Vincent, it was a beautiful tableau. Psyche held the lamp toward her husband, chiton fluttering about her legs as the flame of the lamp flickered. Cupid stared up at her, with his wings captured in the act of unfolding. The glamour completely obscured Vincent’s clothing and replaced them with the sculpted figure. Even in his weakened condition, the artistry of his work was apparent. It reminded Jane that while anyone could work glamour, it was the same as saying that anyone could paint. Pull a thread from the ether or hold a paintbrush, yes, but to achieve the emotion, the sense of betrayal and longing that her husband could wring from a few swiftly placed folds, required a rare talent.

And then Vincent lost his grip on the glamour.

The wings warped and trembled with colour before vanishing into the ether. The strands unravelled and the rest of the weave came undone. A trailing thread evaporated into an oiled rainbow before disappearing entirely.

Jane released hers as soon as she realized what was happening. With the discipline of long practise, she let the threads slide from her grip back into the ether. The illusion vanished smoothly.

She had never seen Vincent drop a glamour in public before. It had happened on occasion when they were working on a large installation and he pushed himself to the limits of what his body could withstand, but never in performance. His face was flushed with effort and clear humiliation, but at least he had not fainted.

Signor Sanuto clapped, seeming not to notice the peculiar end to the
tableau
. “Bravo! Brava! Wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Jane stepped forward to draw attention away from Vincent.

“I particularly liked the flourish at the end when Cupid whisked away into darkness. It quite took my breath away.”

Jane inclined her head to hide her expression. That was a … gracious way of viewing Vincent’s gaffe. She cleared her throat. “If there are any glamours around the palazzo that you need refreshed, I should be happy to take a look at them.”

“Perhaps I might commission you. That would be something, eh? A glamural by such celebrated artists, favoured by the Prince Regent of Britain.” He rubbed his knee again. “Now, unfortunately I have a few more items of business I must attend to before dinner. If you will excuse me?”

“Of course.”

He rose and limped off the balcony. The fact that Vincent did not rise to see him out made Jane certain that his distress was greater than he would admit. She waited until Signor Sanuto had gone inside. “Vincent?”

“You were right.”

“Oh … love. I am sorry.” She knelt by him and felt his brow. It was not fevered, but his cheeks were still flushed.

“Everything is spinning.” He clenched his hand into a fist and pounded his knee. “I hate this.”

“I know.” Jane ran a hand down his back, trying to soothe him. His pride was wounded quite as much as his head, and only time would heal either.

Four

A Suitable Circumstance

The next day Signor Sanuto seemed in sounder health, but his knee was clearly troubling him, so it was approaching noon before they were able to take their host’s gondola from Murano to Venice, where Banco de Giro was situated. Vincent was nearly silent the entire ride, and held the rail of the small boat as if it were tossing on a much larger sea, though Jane found the crossing to be quite easy. When she inquired if he was well, he merely said that he was thinking. She let him “think” in silence, but resolved to limit their water excursions until his head was clearer.

At first blush, the main island of Venice was all that had been promised in travellers’ tales, with its long graceful canals, arching bridges, and sun-dappled buildings. The walks along the canals were filled with people from every continent, reminding Jane that Venice had once been the centre of an empire. Moors, Jew, Arabs, and Armenians mingled among the Venetians and gave Jane happy memories of London. Only as they walked through the town did Jane begin to note the signs of poverty everywhere. Napoleon had sacked Venice, leaving the fabled city with none of its former wealth. The magnificent palazzos often had cracked façades or empty window boxes where there once would have been flowers.

Signor Sanuto led them across a footbridge and down a small lane that opened on to a piazza filled with the seemingly incessant pigeons. Banco de Giro faced on to this piazza and showed none of the signs of decay that were evident in other portions of Venice. A long gallery shaded the main entrance with a series of graceful arches. Inside the building, marble floors echoed with the hushed passage of men of business. Heavy wood tables glowed with polish and gave the dim impression of a library devoted exclusively to the study of money.

This impression was broken only by the workers who were drilling into the masonry wall above the steps. A length of canvas stretched down the stairs and puddled on the floor to catch the dust. They had installed wall sconces above the first half of the stairs and were at work on a third near the first landing.

Their host took in the mess and sighed. “Yesterday, I complained about the plaster dust on the floor when I slipped, and the canvas is apparently their solution. I shall be so happy when this is over.”

“What is the work they are involved in?”

“Gaslights. It is the newest thing, and should make it easier to see, but the process of having them installed has been unpleasant.”

Jane nodded in understanding. “The Prince Regent has them in Carlton House. They are astonishingly bright.”

“That is the chief argument in their favour. Well, I am afraid my office is upstairs, so we shall have to go by the workmen.” Signor Sanuto led the way across the bank, nodding to a clerk here and a businessman there. “I do wish it were not so unpleasing, though.”

“I could mask it for you.” Vincent nodded to a clear section of the wall. “Set up a repeating pattern to hide the workmen while they are about their business.”

Signor Sanuto started up the stairs, with a little sigh. “Having seen your work, I wish I could take you up on that, but alas. We have a strong room here, and with the glamour laid upon it to prevent theft, our policies do not allow any other illusions in the building.”

He gestured toward a seemingly blank wall, which stood behind the banking counter. Jane expanded her vision to the second sight and saw that the blank wall was actually constructed of glamour. She had heard of strong rooms before, but had never had the opportunity to see one. The glamour concealed the entrance to the bank’s vault, as well as a variety of corporal alarms. A thief who did not know the correct entrance would sound one of those alarms. At first glance, the illusion appeared to be a tangled mess that would have appalled Vincent’s sense of artistic integrity, but those interwoven strands concealed glamourous alarms. Attempting to undo the folds to see the corporal truth beneath them would be surpassingly difficult. It was an ingenious combination of the tangible and the illusory.

Continuing, Signor Sanuto said, “At some point, I should ask you to take a closer look. We have had some trouble with—” His foot snared on the canvas and his bad leg went out from under him.

Jane reached for him, but Vincent was there first. He caught Signor Sanuto, staggered down a few stairs, but somehow managed to keep them both upright. The cane bounced and rattled down the remaining stairs, rolling across the floor until it stopped against a clerk’s desk. For a moment the room was silent; then a flurry of men ran across to assist them.

It was clear that their host could not put weight on his bad leg. Still, he drew himself erect, leaning on Vincent, and unleashed a torrent of Venetian on the workers. It sounded, to Jane’s ear, very like Italian, but was entirely its own tongue. She could gather nothing from the local language, except through his tone. Though Signor Sanuto’s voice never raised, his face became quite red and a vein throbbed in his neck. He pointed at the canvas, and waved his hand as though to indicate the entire mess.

The most senior of the clerks came up the stairs and gave a low bow, speaking Venetian in deeply penitent tones.

Signor Sanuto clapped Vincent on the shoulder as he replied.

The clerk nodded, and then came to stand on his other side. Together with Vincent, they assisted him back down the stairs to the main floor. Jane hurried in front of them, trying to stay out of their way. Had he fallen, he could have been grievously injured. If Vincent had slipped as well … It did not bear thinking about. He
had
caught their host.

She bent and picked up Signor Sanuto’s walking stick from where it had fallen, feeling of no other use.

Since Signor Sanuto seemed incapable of managing stairs, the clerk escorted them to a nicely appointed room on the main floor for patrons who wished to examine the contents of their vault in privacy. Signor Sanuto was lowered into a chair at the large conference table. He winced as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

He changed back to Italian for their benefit, and gave them a rueful smile. “I believe the balance between us has been restored. I would have taken a nasty fall were it not for you.” He grimaced and rubbed his leg. “Please, have a seat and we shall take care of our business.”

Jane started. “But you are injured. Surely you must want for a doctor—”

“Who will tell me that my knee is ruptured, as it has been for over a decade. This has aggravated it, but done no new damage. Please believe me. I have had time to become used to the vagaries of the injury. I used to be quite the good dancer.”

The door to the room opened and they were joined by the senior clerk, who bore a lap desk and an envelope bulging with papers. Signor Sanuto thanked him in Venetian and proceeded to organize the papers, in spite of Jane and Vincent’s protests. “I have work to do today, so I would need to set up shop in here regardless, because I will not be able to manage the stairs. Tending to your accounts”—he held up a hand to stop Vincent who had drawn breath to speak—“Truly. I appreciate your concern, but will feel better to have some work that I can accomplish. The rest of my tasks today will not be so easy. So … here.”

Signor Sanuto’s efficacy was impressive. It took only a few moments for him to have Vincent sign the agreements. Though Jane had no direct experience with banking, she could nevertheless see that Signor Sanuto had done everything in his power to expedite the process. He had established a line of credit at Banco de Giro for use with local merchants, as well as arranging for them to be given a supply of coins for their immediate needs.

Vincent took fifty pounds out of the purse they had been given and offered Signor Sanuto the coins. “You had said that a donation to your church was welcome.”

Signor Sanuto smiled and looked chagrined at the same time. “Yes, but truly, there is no need.”

Jane put her hand on the table to offer her support to Vincent. “Please. With thanks for our deliverance.”

“How can I refuse a lady? The Abbess will be most grateful.”

“And you must also allow us to repay you.”

He hesitated and straightened his papers, with a frown. “A thousand pounds is less than it costs to clothe my wife and daughters, but for you? And I mean no offense by this: For you it is not an insignificant sum, am I correct? Prince Regent or no.”

“It is a matter of honour.”

Signor Sanuto pressed his hands against his eyes and sighed. He lifted his face a moment later with some apparent pain. “And you will not allow me to claim that you saved my life today?”

“Perhaps,” Jane said, “but you saved two.”

Their host smiled. “You British and your debts of honour.” Sighing, he pulled a paper toward him and wrote on it for some moments. “This is a promissory note against funds you hold in England. If you are quite certain, deposit this with the clerk as you depart, or wait until you are ready to leave Venice, or after you are back in England. Or not at all, which would be my preference.” He did not flaunt his wealth again, but the implication remained clear that he could afford the ransom and they could not.

Vincent took the paper and added his broad, masculine signature to the bottom. “Thank you.”

Jane offered Signor Sanuto her hand in appreciation. “Can we not convince you to go home and rest?”

He shook his head and waved at the papers in the envelope. “I have all of this to attend to. I shall see you tonight. Dinner, perhaps? Or the opera … I shall have to see what is playing.”

“I think you and Vincent will get on well, because you have a familiar stubbornness.”

Laughing, Signor Sanuto bowed from his seat. They took their farewells and stepped out to the hall, leaving him bent over the table with his stack of papers.

Vincent turned the paper over in his hand and tilted his head toward Jane. “Well, Muse? It is your money, too.”

“Of course, we must.”

Nodding, he strode across the room to the nearest clerk and handed him the paper. “Will you see that this is deposited?”

“With all due speed, sir.” The clerk looked the paper over and added his stamp to it.

Vincent heaved a sigh as he stepped away from the desk.

“Relieved to no longer be dependent?”

“Very much so.” He straightened and rolled his shoulders. “And now, I propose that we see if Byron has made arrangements for us so that we no longer need to trouble our host.”

*   *   *

The apartments that Lord
Byron had taken were not far from Banco de Giro. Though they no longer had the directions, Vincent recalled that they lay just west of the Piazza, over the shop of a draper. Fortunately, Lord Byron was a notorious enough figure in Venice that they had little trouble in discovering precisely where the “English poet” lived.