Читать книгу To Kiss a Count - Amanda McCabe - Страница 13

‘Fool, fool!’ Thalia muttered, pacing from one end of her chamber to the other. She didn’t know if she meant herself—or Marco di Fabrizzi. Or perhaps they were all fools. It certainly felt like it at that moment.

She reached the carved marble fireplace, and turned to stalk back in the other direction. Even though her room was exceedingly pretty, with creamcoloured wallpaper, and cream-and-blue chintz curtains and hangings, it was not terribly large. It didn’t quite allow for satisfactory stalking, so she plopped herself down at the little writing desk instead.

She had begun a letter to Clio that morning, before they left for the Pump Room, and now Thalia didn’t know how to go on with it. All the family news, the gossip about Bath, seemed so silly beside what she really longed to write.

Dearest Clio—was the Count di Fabrizzi in love with you, as I suspect he was? Was his heart utterly broken when you married the Duke? And is that now why he has turned to the attentions of Lady Riverton?

Thalia frowned as she stared down at the paper, seeing not the half-finished scribbles but Marco’s face at the Pump Room. That handsome, bronzed Italian face, smiling down so flirtatiously at Lady Riverton.

Lady Riverton, of all people! No, she really could not believe it. It had to be a scheme of some sort.

Thalia reached for her pen and ink, hastily adding a long postscript to the letter. Clio would know how to advise her, could tell her the whole truth of what had happened in Santa Lucia. If only Thalia did not suffer agonies of embarrassment that her sister might guess her own feelings!

The Chase sisters were always united against the world, but amongst themselves they could tease unmercifully.

‘My dear Clio,’ she wrote. ‘Since I concluded my missive, a most curious thing occurred. I met with an old acquaintance from Santa Lucia at the Pump Room—and he was not alone…’

She wrote the rest of her tale as fast as she could, and sealed it up before she could change her mind. She also had to write to her father, and to her younger sister Cory. But she found she was too tired after that one letter, and closed up her writing box until later.

As she shut the lid, she glimpsed a bundle of documents tucked away in its depths. Her play, The Dark Castle of Count Orlando.

It was only one act at the moment, Thalia thought wryly, and likely to remain so for some time. The story, full of intrigue, secrets, forbidden romance, and picturesque Italian ruins full of ghosts and curses, had seemed so grand in Santa Lucia. A story of how finding real love could overcome anything at all. Now that she was face to face with its inspiration, though…

She firmly closed the lid, turning the key in the little lock. She had no confidence in her observational skills now. How could she write convincing drama? Convincing romance?

A knock sounded at the chamber door. ‘Come in,’ Thalia called, dropping the key into her desk drawer.

A housemaid entered, bobbing a curtsy as she announced, ‘Lady Westwood is returned, Miss Chase, and asks if you will join her in the drawing room for tea.’

Very glad of the distraction, Thalia hurried downstairs to the gold-and-coral drawing room, where Calliope reclined on the couch. Another maid set out an array of tempting cakes and little sandwiches, but there was no sign of Cameron or little Psyche.

Thalia kissed her sister’s cheek, noticing that, aside from a few damp curls at her temples and a slight pinkness in her cheeks, she seemed unaffected by the waters of the Hot Bath. She also didn’t seem to want to eat, though she sipped at some tea.

‘You weren’t at the baths very long,’ Thalia said, helping herself to a strawberry tart. Sadly, emotional turmoil always made her feel more hungry!

‘It is far too warm,’ Calliope said. ‘I could scarcely breathe.’

‘That, my dear, is why they call it the Hot Bath! Here, have a cucumber sandwich, it will revive you. Where has Cameron gone?’

Calliope obediently nibbled at the sandwich. ‘I sent him to procure some theatre tickets, and to see about the assembly at the Upper Rooms on Tuesday.’

‘Are you quite certain you feel up to all that, Cal? Rest, remember. That is why we came to Bath.’

Calliope frowned down at her half-eaten sandwich. ‘I am tired of resting! And I told you, I will not have you grow bored and leave us.’

‘I would not leave you! And I am not bored. I’m a Chase, remember? We are never bored. There is always reading to do, studying, writing…’

‘Indeed. Though I have not noticed you doing much writing lately.’

‘I will get back to it soon.’ She thought of that Italian play upstairs. Would she ever want to write of the mysteries of love again?

‘Perhaps you are the one who should rest, Thalia. You look weary.’ Calliope paused, setting aside her plate. ‘I have been thinking, perhaps Bath was not the best place to visit. We could leave here, go to Brighton. Or Tunbridge Wells. Maybe even back to Italy! They have spa towns there.’

‘You are not yet strong enough to travel to Italy,’ Thalia protested. ‘And we have just arrived in Bath. What is this urge to leave so suddenly?’

Calliope shrugged. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Of course it is not nothing. Is it—is it because of meeting with Count di Fabrizzi this morning?’

‘So, you do know this so-called Count.’

‘And so do you!’ Thalia cried. ‘I knew it! But how? I don’t understand anything.’

‘Not even why he might be here?’

‘Especially not that.’

Calliope gave a deep sigh. ‘It is true I have met him before, though in a far different guise. He was pretending to be a gypsy.’

‘A gypsy!’ Thalia gasped. This was turning into a tale far more interesting than any she could ever devise for a play. And Marco just became more and more complex, more incomprehensible to her. ‘When was that?’

‘Oh, a long time ago, before Cameron and I were married,’ Calliope answered. ‘You remember when we went to Yorkshire, to visit Emmeline Saunders’s family?’

‘Of course I remember. Our Ladies Artistic Society was chasing after the Lily Thief then. We went to Averton’s castle…’ Suddenly, Thalia felt like the greatest of fools. She slumped back in her chair, shaking her head. ‘Was Marco the thief? Even back then?’

‘No, he wasn’t the thief,’ Calliope answered quietly. ‘But I certainly wouldn’t put it past him to be a thief. Clio tells me he is quite fanatical about Italian history and culture, about retrieving parts of its great heritage that have been scattered. He must feel such contempt for collectors like our father and Averton! That is probably why he and Clio got along so very well.’

A cold wave broke over Thalia, and she covered her eyes with her hands. ‘He was in Yorkshire with Clio.’ Of course he was. He did love Clio. It was probably good that she was reminded of that fact, before she foolishly drowned in those dark eyes of his.

She lowered her hands to find Calliope gazing at her, her expression full of sisterly concern. Dearest Cal—she had protected all of them for so long, had taken her position as the eldest of the Muses so seriously. But she needed to take care of herself now, and Thalia was weary of being protected.

‘I don’t know what his feelings for Clio might have been then,’ Calliope said. ‘She is married now, and it seems he has transferred his affections to Lady Riverton. I wouldn’t trust appearances, though. Not with a man like that.’

‘A man who is a gypsy, a count, and a thief, all in one?’ Thalia said with a laugh. ‘Not to mention a ladies’ man. Please, Cal, do not worry about me. I won’t fall prey to his charms, great though they are. I haven’t the time or energy for deciphering such vast complexities as the Count di Fabrizzi.’

‘You are the most “energetic” person I know, Thalia,’ Calliope said. ‘And I am sure you could decipher anything you set your mind to. But I would never want to see you hurt by a man who was so entirely unworthy.’

Thalia laughed again, as if she hadn’t a care in the world about ‘unworthy’men. Yet she turned her face away so Cal could not see her eyes. ‘Not when there are so many worthy men beating down my door?’

‘You have far more suitors than any other young lady I know! Mr Bramsby, Lord Egreton, young Viscount Moreby—I know they have all made an offer, and they seem quite respectable. Not to mention utterly infatuated.’

Thalia thought of those men, of the avid way they looked at her as they drove in the park, the way they lined up to dance with her at balls. The flowers they sent, the compliments they paid. The way they never even saw past her façade, her prettiness, her connections, into the real her.

For a few moments in Santa Lucia, she had thought someone did see. Saw, and understood, and answered. But that was foolish.

‘They are respectable,’ she answered, pouring more tea. ‘And nice enough. I doubt any infatuation would last more than a few days, though, once they saw what I am really like.’

Calliope sighed. ‘It is true that we Chase girls are not quite as other ladies. We were raised to actually use our brains, to speak our minds! But there are men who quite like that, I think.’

Thalia gave her a teasing smile. ‘Men like Cameron?’

Calliope laughed. ‘I have never held back from expressing my thoughts to him! We have very—lively conversations. And quarrels, from time to time.’

‘Cameron is a very fine man, to be sure. But there aren’t many like to him to be found in England.’

‘Perhaps that is because his mother was Greek. It is true that my husband is quite unique, but I am sure we can find someone just as special for you.’

Thalia doubted that. Her sisters were very fortunate in their marriages. Lightning didn’t strike three times.

‘I am content as I am,’ Thalia said. ‘I will write my plays, and teach Psyche her music when she is older. I will be the perfect maiden aunt!’

Calliope laughed, but Thalia could see she looked tired again. ‘I cannot be selfish enough to keep you with me, though I would dearly love it. Psyche is so very—vivid now, I cannot imagine what will happen when she is walking and talking.’

‘Or, heaven forefend, when she is old enough to have suitors of her own! She is a true Chase.’ Thalia went to tuck a blanket around Calliope’s legs. ‘I will leave you now, Cal dear, so you can rest. Please, don’t worry about me. I am entirely well and happy.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Thalia said firmly.

‘Very well. I will pretend I believe you. Just do one thing for me.’

‘Of course.’

‘Write to Clio and ask her about the Count. She will know more of him than I, and she can tell you things I have promised not to speak of.’

Promised not to speak of? Thalia positively ached with curiosity. Ordinarily she would bombard Calliope with questions, but her sister’s pale face stopped her. Calliope was weary, and she would never tell her secrets anyway. She had her share of the Chase stubbornness.

‘Yes, I will write to Clio,’ Thalia said. She went to the pianoforte, running her fingertips over the cool ivory keys. This was no time for the storms of her beloved Beethoven, the one she always turned to when her thoughts were in turmoil. Instead, she played for Calliope a folksong she had learned in Italy, a light, trilling piece to raise the spirits.

It raised hers, too, drawing her into the other world music always created for her. A place where nothing mattered but sound and creation, emotion and freedom. But as she moved into another song, she happened to glance up at the window.

Passing along the curve of the Crescent were Marco and Lady Riverton with her little dog, arm in arm and laughing.

Thalia’s fingers fumbled, clashing on a discordant note. She looked hastily to see if Calliope had noticed, but her sister was asleep. And when Thalia turned back to the window, Marco was gone.