The Defiant Mistress

Athena looked around, fascinated by her introduction to Venetian architecture. She was even more intrigued when she realised that to reach the Ambassador’s quarters on the first floor, they must climb an external staircase located in the courtyard itself.

They were ushered into a grand chamber which stretched the full length of the palazzo from the courtyard at the back to the grand canal at the front. Large windows overlooking the canal admitted what little daylight remained. Several men were present, standing with their backs to the windows, their faces in shadow.

Athena saw one shadowy man step apart from the others, heard his sudden, disbelieving, but welcoming cry of, ‘Rachel!’

Rachel released her convulsive grip on Athena’s hand and rushed forward to throw herself into her husband’s arms.

Athena didn’t need to see Edward Beresford’s face to know that he was overjoyed at his wife’s arrival. The way his arms closed around her as if he never intended to let her go, the way his head bent over hers, and his husky, urgent questions all told their own story.

Athena’s eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. She tried not to dwell on her broken dreams, but this was what she had once yearned for so desperately. She had longed to find Gabriel and fling herself into his arms. Have him tell her that everything would be fine. Everything would be just the way they’d planned it—but he’d left London without a backward glance…

She gave her head a small shake, annoyed with herself for indulging in such romantic nonsense, and gave her full attention to her immediate surroundings.

Pieter Breydel was introducing her to the Ambassador. She curtsied and smiled. It was her plan to return to England from Venice, but she knew she would need the Ambassador’s help in making her arrangements.

‘Since you have now arrived safely, I will take my leave,’ said Pieter in correct, but heavily accented English.

‘Surely you’ll stay tonight, at least,’ the Ambassador protested. ‘I must insist.’

‘I am expected in Padua,’ Pieter demurred.

‘You can leave first thing in the morning,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘We would not want to keep you from your studies. But for tonight, please enjoy the hospitality of the embassy.’

Pieter hesitated. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last, bowing. ‘You are very kind. As you say, I can leave first thing in the morning.’

Athena bit back a smile. Pieter was a grave and studious young man. He’d taken his responsibilities to his travelling companions very seriously, but she suspected he was eager to get back to his normal routine. She held out her hand to him.

‘You made our journey very comfortable,’ she said. ‘I know Mrs Beresford is as grateful as I am.’ She glanced to where Rachel was still wrapped in conversation with her husband. ‘Thank you.’

He flushed and nodded. ‘It has been my pleasure,’ he said stiffly.

At that moment a member of the embassy household came to stand beside them. ‘My secretary, Mr Roger Minshull,’ the Ambassador introduced him to Athena.

She saw an uncomfortable warmth in the secretary’s eyes as he looked at her, and greeted him with reserved courtesy. She wanted to remain on good terms with everyone she met, but she did not need the complications of an admirer in the embassy.

The pre-dawn light was a blend of cool greys, blues and dark shadows. There was a chill in the air and a slight mist that would only burn away after the sun rose. When Gabriel touched the balcony balustrade the stones felt cold and damp beneath his hand.

Below him the early morning market was in full swing on the grand canal. The surface of the water was crowded with rafts and barges piled high with fruit and vegetables. The vessels jostled constantly for position as the vendors cried their wares.

The busy scene was familiar to Gabriel. He watched absently, his thoughts elsewhere. By all accounts there had been quite a stir at the Embassy the previous day. He’d returned late in the evening from Filippo Correr’s to find the entire household abuzz with excitement. Everyone he had encountered from the Ambassador’s chaplain to the most junior page had been determined to tell him the romantic story of the undersecretary and the devoted new wife who had followed him all the way from England.

Correr’s matchmaking attempt had already put the unsettling idea of marriage into Gabriel’s mind, and the story of Rachel Beresford’s loyalty made a painful contrast to Frances’s treacherous behaviour. By the time Gabriel had reached his temporary quarters in the Embassy, his patience had been in shreds. When his own valet had started to repeat the tale Gabriel had dismissed the fellow with a couple of curt words—but he couldn’t so easily dismiss the story from his mind. Dreams of Frances and the foolish hopes he’d had for their future had disturbed his sleep, until at last he’d risen from his bed to watch the market from the shadows of the balcony.

He tried to focus on the tasks that lay ahead of him later in the day, but his thoughts kept returning to the journey the undersecretary’s wife had made to reach her husband. The presence of a nun in the story puzzled him. Why in the name of all that was holy would a nun leave her cloisters to accompany a stranger halfway across Europe? Perhaps she was on a pilgrimage to Rome?

Annoyed with himself for wasting so much thought on the incident, Gabriel made a final decision to banish the whole matter from his mind. There had been a time when he’d been an idealistic fool who believed in love and fidelity, but now he prided himself on being a man who dealt in the here-and-now of solid reality, not romantic fantasies. And in the here-and-now he was hungry. He leant over the balcony and studied the produce on offer in the nearest barge. His choice made, he called down in Italian to the vendor. After a brief exchange they settled on a price, Gabriel threw down a coin and a loaf of cake-bread was tossed up to him in return.

By now all the nearby traders had noticed the well-dressed man on the balcony and they began to vie eagerly for his custom. Gabriel grinned at their efforts, but refused to purchase anything else. Eventually they gave up and turned their attention elsewhere.

He ripped off a piece of cake-bread and chewed thoughtfully as he planned the day’s business. When he’d eaten his fill he tossed the crumbs on to the balcony for the pigeons and turned to go inside.

Most Venetian palazzi had been built to a standard pattern, even though some dated back two or three hundred years and others were of more recent origin. The Ambassador’s residence was no exception. The first floor, known to the Venetians as the piano nobile consisted of a great chamber that stretched the full length of the palazzo with a series of smaller chambers opening off from it on either side. The large hall, which could be utilised for many purposes, was called the portego. The balcony overlooking the grand canal on which Gabriel currently stood was reached from the portego.

The Ambassador, Sir Walter Cracknell, had his own quarters on the piano nobile. Gabriel, as the Ambassador’s honoured guest, also had his quarters on the same floor. The second floor followed a similar layout and here less important guests and the Ambassador’s gentlemen staff were housed.

Just as Gabriel was about to re-enter the portego, the Ambassador joined him on the balcony. Gabriel was mildly surprised, Sir Walter was not known for being an early riser.

‘Morning, your lordship!’ the Ambassador greeted him. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a fine day, doesn’t it?’ He peered hopefully at the sky.

‘I believe so.’ Gabriel glanced over the balustrade. The floating market had dispersed until the following morning. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to give a hint of warmth to the air.

‘You missed a deal of excitement last night!’ the Ambassador exclaimed.

‘So I heard,’ Gabriel said.

‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Walter nodded vigorously. ‘No need to tell you old news. But I wonder if I might ask a favour of your lordship—on behalf of young Beresford and myself?’

‘A favour?’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘For your…undersecretary, is he not? Of course, if it is within my power—but what is your request?’

‘Shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘You’ll be returning to England in a week or so, will you not? I believe you told me you’d travel to Livorno and then take one of your own ships back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Then I wonder if you would be kind enough to provide safe passage back to England for Mrs Quenell and her maid?’

‘Mrs Quenell?’ The name was completely unknown to Gabriel.

‘The gentlewoman who was kind enough to act as Mrs Beresford’s companion between Bruges and Venice,’ Sir Walter explained. ‘Mrs Beresford is full of praise for Mrs Quenell. She is sure she would not have managed the journey without her help. Mrs Quenell’s only request is that I might find her a safe escort back to England. It seems the least I can do. Young Beresford is almost beside himself with joy at having his wife with him once more. So, what do you say, your lordship? Mrs Quenell is a very quiet, modest woman. I’ll warrant she’ll be no inconvenience to you at all.’

‘Why does a Flanders nun want to go to England?’ Gabriel asked, puzzled by the request.

Sir Walter stared at him in surprise. ‘She’s not a nun,’ he replied. ‘She was a guest at the convent….’

Gabriel heard a soft rustle of skirts. He turned his head to see a woman being shown on to the balcony by a page. For a moment her face was hidden in shadows, then she stepped into the light.

Gabriel was standing still, but the shock of what he saw had the same impact as slamming into a stone wall. His lungs froze. He couldn’t breathe. Disbelief rang in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. His vision narrowed until he saw nothing and no one but the woman in front of him.

Frances?

It couldn’t be Frances, here in Venice. Surely the resemblance was just a trick of the morning light. Talk of Beresford’s devoted young wife had raised the ghost of another, less than devoted bride in his mind. Memories he’d tried to forget had disturbed his sleep. Somehow he’d now superimposed Frances’s face on to that of another blonde woman.

He deliberately closed his eyes for a few seconds. Remembered to breathe. Rubbed his temple. Opened his eyes. Stared at the woman.

She stared back, shock in her blue eyes. Her lips slightly parted. Colour drained from her face. There was recognition in her stunned expression.

It was Frances.

His blood began to pound sluggishly through his veins once more. The tempo of his heartbeat began to increase. He didn’t hear a word of Sir Walter’s introduction or explanation. He forgot the Ambassador was even on the balcony. His attention was locked on the woman who had betrayed him so badly.