Valour and Vanity (7 page)

The building had once been magnificent, but, like so much of Venice, now displayed the fallen splendour that had overtaken the islands when Napoleon had ravaged them. The owner had carved it into separate suites and rented those out to people like Lord Byron. It was difficult to look at the exterior and not compare it to the grand palazzo of Signor Sanuto.

Vincent frowned at the refuse in the street. “One wonders what led him to apartments such as these.”

“Perhaps it is grander on the interior?”

“Or his finances are in worse condition than I thought.”

“Are his estates troubled, then? I had thought it was the scandal with Caroline Lamb that caused him to leave England.”

“Mm … Byron thrives on scandal, I think.” Vincent knocked upon the door. “But funds? Even when we were in school together, Byron was always out of pocket.”

“Oh.” Jane had no time to give further response before the door opened.

A young woman with large dark eyes and a graceful figure stood framed in the door. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and her gown was … insufficient. She did not offer them a welcome, but merely raised one brow in question.

Vincent offered her a short bow and spoke in Italian, “Good afternoon, madam. Is this the residence of Lord Byron?”

She snorted. “Yes. But the bastard is not home.”

Jane’s eyes widened at the vulgarity of the woman’s language. Surely the phrase carried the same meaning in Italian as in English.

Clearing his throat, Vincent nodded, as though it were a discussion of the weather. “I see … Did he leave any instructions regarding Sir David and Lady Vincent?”

“Instructions? What do you take me for?” She spat upon the walk. “I am not his housekeeper. I know nothing of you, or your wife, or where that bastard has gone. Try Mira to see if he’s with his slattern there.”

Jane took Vincent’s arm, quite finished with this encounter. “Thank you for your time.”

The woman snorted again and stepped back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

“Well.” Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “That is unfortunate.”

“Indeed. I wonder at his invitation, if that is the sort of household he keeps. I feel that I should be doubly grateful to Signor Sanuto now.”

They turned their steps back toward the main piazza with Vincent in a brown study. He shook his head as if clearing it of thoughts. “Shall we interview glassmakers?”

“That is why we came to Murano.” Jane took his arm. “But we should also purchase some clothes. His wife’s dresses are lovely, but—”

“But one more form of debt.” Vincent raised her hand and kissed it. “You are monstrously clever for finding a way to convince me to shop.”

“An attack by pirates might have been a bit extreme, but I do what I can to make sure you are respectable.”

“A task that I do not envy.” They left Lord Byron’s apartments behind and set out to explore Murano.

*   *   *

The gondola ride from
Venice to Murano reminded Jane again of the ethereal wonder of the island city. Seen from a distance, it was easy to imagine it in its era of glory. The buildings came right to the edge of the water, so it seemed as though Atlantis had reemerged from the deep. Every kind of stone imaginable graced the structures in an exuberance of masonry. Glamour enhanced the effect by creating seascapes that extended up the sides.

The only unhappy moment was when a fast-moving pleasure boat created swells that their gondola bounced over. It pitched and heaved about as if they were at sea.

Vincent sagged against Jane, closing his eyes. He pressed his lips tightly together and swallowed convulsively. A light sweat stood on his brow.

“What may I do?” She felt his brow for fever. Vincent was not prone to seasickness under normal circumstances, but he had a decidedly green cast.

His voice was hoarse as he replied. “Forgive me. It has been some time since I have been badly concussed. The motion of the ship—”

He broke off and leaned out the gondola’s small window, demonstrating the effects with more vehemence than comfort.

Jane passed him her handkerchief, and did her best to not fuss over him. He would be mortified enough as it was, without feeling as if he were a burden. “I would rather that you were unfamiliar with the symptoms.”

“As would I.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

She ventured, “We can wait until you are well to visit the glassmakers.”

He shook his head, though his eyes remained closed. “Please do not worry. Once we are on land, I will be well.”

“You will not be in any fit condition to work glamour.”

“As we discovered yesterday.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed slowly. “But we will not be working glamour today. I would rather spend my recovery making progress in those areas that I can.”

“You are only seeking a way out of shopping for clothes.”

He gave a hint of a smile with the small compression of his lips. “You know me too well.”

Jane sighed. He was right in that. She knew him too well to suppose that she could convince him to spend the afternoon resting. Still, she would keep watch on his health. She could not entirely trust his judgement in the matter.

Indeed, when they arrived at the dock in Murano, Vincent preceded her out of the boat and turned to offer his hand, as though his complexion did not have an unnatural pallor.

She accepted his aid and stepped up onto the dock beside him. “Are you certain that you do not wish to return to Signor Sanuto’s home?”

“Quite. I shall feel better for walking.” True to his word, his countenance improved as they strolled along the canal to the glassmaker’s district.

Jane considered before she asked the question she most wanted to know. Vincent was so often private about the life he had led before he disavowed his family that she sometimes hesitated to ask about his youth, particularly after meeting his father. She felt the urge to protect him from the memories he had walled away, and yet she wanted to know everything about his life, even the parts that were sometimes difficult to hear.

They stepped onto one of the bridges arching over the canal. “Do I dare ask how often you have been in this condition?”

Vincent tucked his chin into his collar in thought. “Three? Perhaps four times, but one was so mild it barely counts. And let me assure you, Muse, that this is not severe.”

“You now require me to ask what severe is and how you know?”

“Severe means that I cannot stand without toppling and am confined to bed for a week. It means seeing everything in double and forgetting great swathes of time. But I was also only twelve, so one must allow for that.”

“Good heavens. Twelve? And so severely hurt? Were you thrown from a horse or did you run into a tree with mad exuberance?” She posed that question, preferring it to the more likely scenario.

“My father hit me.” His tone was easy. His pace did not falter. The sun continued to shine as they crossed the bridge. “He caught me working glamour. Again. I have been told that what actually caused the concussion was that I hit my head on the hearth’s andiron when I fell. I do not remember. Certainly his usual blows were not enough to have caused it.”

“Oh.”

“He was contrite while I was confined. I do remember that, though the rest is patchwork.” He gave a shallow laugh. “I suppose it was unusual enough to remain fixed in memory.”

This revelation was why Jane so seldom asked about his life as The Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury. She hated the silence that followed as he burrowed into old wounds and explored the pain over again. She did not like to be the cause of reminding him how he had lived before he had remade himself as David Vincent.

Vincent straightened his head as they reached the foot of the bridge. Surveying the street, he said, “I believe we turn left here for the Nenci Glass Factory. My notes are, sadly, aboard a pirate ship.”

“That is what I recall as well.” She let him change the subject and accompanied him down the side of the canal. The houses were pressed one against the next without space for gardens, but the island felt alive even so. Bird-cages frequently hung out of windows, filling the air with the twitter of canaries or the cooing of doves. Window boxes dripped a profusion of blossoms in purples and golds.

But the true life was in the glass. Animals, chalices, and candlesticks gleamed in the shop windows, the sunlight seemingly on the verge of bringing them to life. A little girl stood pressed with her nose against a shop window, looking at a glass terrier within. She put Jane in mind of Melody as a child. Shaking her head, Jane pulled her gaze away and looked to the next shop.

Strands of beads in chalcedony, aventurine, and gold-flecked glass hung like unformed glamour in the window. One shop seemed to have nothing but ranks of mirrors. In the midst of this sparkling profusion, the haberdasher stood out.

The soft wools and linens in the window welcomed her attention. A copper basin displayed a selection of fine canes. Jane paused. “Vincent…?”

He looked around and sighed. “Oh. Might we not visit the glassmakers first?”

“I was thinking of the canes, honestly. As a gift for Signor Sanuto.”

At that, he brightened. “That is an excellent suggestion.” He turned his path toward the door.

“But as long as we are here…”

“I continually forget that you are wicked.” His show of affliction was made less convincing by the twinkling of his eye.

Within the store, they were greeted by a smart man of middle years with a tailor’s apron over his coat. His gaze took in Vincent’s jacket and Jane could imagine the tally he was making.
Three years out of date, fine work when new. Recently mended. Buckskin trousers, much worn. Excellent Hessian boots. A gentleman of means, but not in the fashionable set.
Aloud he only said, “How may I be of service?”

“I need to order some clothes.” Vincent scowled at the nearest bolt of cloth.

Though he had been raised as a young man of fashion, Vincent so hated what he saw as pretence that Jane took pity upon him and spoke to the tailor. “We were recently robbed while travelling, and my husband needs to replace his wardrobe. If we could arrange for three fine cambric shirts without frills, a blue coat appropriate for day wear, and one for evening. He will also require a new pair of buckskin trousers and breeches for evening.”

The tailor produced a small tablet and the stub of a pencil from his apron. He jotted notes, nodding.

Vincent had wandered deeper into the shop and was rolling a fold of fabric between his fingers as though it were glamour. “Also a greatcoat. Black, preferred.” He held up a bolt of a soft sorrel. “And I should like a waistcoat of this.”

“Very good. And the other inexpressibles? Should the gentleman require those?”

Vincent compressed his lips. “I am wearing all the clothes I possess, so, yes.”

“That is unfortunate. Should you require gloves, then, as well?”

“No, thank you.” Though it was possible to work glamour with gloves, it was difficult to control the fine details, so most professional glamourists eschewed gloves. This was something that Jane had yet to accustom herself to.

The tailor seemed perturbed at this, so Jane said, “We are glamourists.”

“Ah.” He nodded, discomposure clearing with the explanation. “Then may I suggest a light linen coat, such as one might wear on a summer excursion? It would be more comfortable with the exertion of glamour.”

“Excellent suggestion.” Vincent moved to the next bolt of fabric. “Where is your cloth for cravats?”

“Here, sir.” The tailor lead Vincent to a selection of fine muslin, linen, and silk.

Having now committed himself, Jane’s husband proceeded to examine the fabric with all the attention to detail that he brought to his work. He considered the weight of the fabric, the way the textures worked together, and their utility. Jane settled into a chair to one side to enjoy the spectacle of her husband shopping for clothes.

At times, the varnish of the Right Honourable Vincent Hamilton smoothed the edges of her husband’s taciturn nature as his early training reasserted itself. Unlike the times when he had been forced to assume the role of a young gentleman of means, here his natural love of art seemed to express itself in appreciation for the art of tailoring. As he relaxed in discussion with the tailor, his headache seemed quite forgotten. One might almost think he was enjoying himself, though not enough for her to try him with shopping for her own wardrobe.

When he had done, the tailor asked him to remove his coat for the purpose of taking his measurements. Jane appreciated this quite as much as the rest of the day. The tailor slid his hands over Vincent’s back to smooth the fabric. Jane saw the moment of hesitation when he brushed the scars there. The tailor was a consummate professional, though, and only that momentary pause and the slight widening of his eyes told of his surprise. She knew all too well how apparent the bumps and welts of flogging must be, even through fabric.

Even so, her husband was a tall man with the broad chest of a professional glamourist. With his arms spread wide for the tailor to take his measure, the power of his figure was all the more apparent. If she thought she could dissuade him from visiting the glassmakers this afternoon, Jane would have suggested they return to the palazzo straight away.

That he had not forgotten their purpose was apparent when he shrugged his coat back on. “Thank you, sir. My wife and I have some other errands, but I can stop by this evening for the first of the shirts.”

“No need, Sir David. I will have my shop boy run it to you if you give me your direction.”

“Thank you.” Vincent wrote down the details for Signor Sanuto’s house for him.

As he was occupied with writing, Jane stood and addressed the tailor. “I was wondering if you happened to have a sword cane in the shop.”

“Nothing suitable for your husband’s height, I am afraid.” He led the way to the display of canes. “A nice ebony, perhaps?”

“This is for a friend of ours. About your height, I think.”

“Ah. In that case…” He pulled out a cane that bore a striking resemblance to the one that Signor Sanuto had lost. Twisting the handle, he drew the sword that was held within. “Would this suffice?”