Bad Miss Bennet Read online

The following morning started well enough: the weather was milder than of late and Tito appeared promptly with the gondola. Mrs Makepeace was well-wrapped and shielded from the elements in the vessel’s small cabin.

  After an hour on the lagoon we were re-entering the Grand Canal passing the great white dome of the Salute church when I spied a man swimming across the water about ten yards ahead of our gondola. Lord Byron had taken a lease on the Palazzo Mocenigo nearby and his swimming exploits were legendary. I leaned further out and saw a dark head bobbing in the water.

  ‘Yes, it is the English milord,’ Tito assured us. At last! Frantically, I called out to him but he appeared not to hear. In my excitement I leaned very far out over the gondola’s side and the next moment I found myself submerged in the freezing, odiferous waters of the canal. I sank and rose and sank and rose, waving my arms in the air and swallowing a great deal of filthy salt water before I managed to scream. I heard answering screams from the gondola and the startled swimmer turned his head in my direction.

  As I was hooked on board by Tito’s pole I thought I heard his lordship cry out, ‘Bring the poor woman to my palace, let her stay.’ Later, Adelaide maintained that his actual words were, ‘Get that infernal woman out of my way.’ She has a cruel tongue sometimes.

  As I collapsed in a shivering, sodden heap behind the curtains of the little cabin I became aware that the wretched Wellington had disappeared and that Mrs Makepeace was lying very still on her cushions.

  ‘I think the old girl’s dead,’ Adelaide remarked.

  I gulped and shivered volcanically. ‘Where is Wellington?’

  She shrugged. I looked at Tito who also shrugged.

  ‘I think ’e fall in the water, signora.’

  He must have been dislodged when I fell in – or was he pushed? Adelaide disliked the animal intensely and Tito had been nipped on the ankles more than once. He could easily have used the pole to keep the dog under water while attention was focused on me. Mrs Makepeace’s cries were probably for her pet rather than for her companion. I examined her more closely, dripping water over her velvet hat. She had indeed expired, from shock, no doubt, at losing her canine companion. And once again it was all my fault. I looked around distraught. Astonishingly, Captain Marshfield was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘By the body of Diana!’ Tito swore his favourite gondolier’s oath. ‘Now I think we go back ’ome,’ he added. Where was Lord Byron when one needed him?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Thus ended my sojourn in Venice, dear reader – in chaos and death. I was left with the responsibility for conveying my late employer’s corpse and her belongings back to England, hampered by several hysterical servants, a severe chill caused by my dip in the Grand Canal and a total lack of experience in such matters.

  I took to my bed after Adelaide had provided me with a mustard bath, and a message was sent to the British consul forthwith. I was mortified that Lord Byron had not seen fit to enquire after my health when I had almost drowned in front of his eyes. Captain Marshfield was soon on hand, however, reminding me that one’s heroes usually had feet of clay. He assured me that the poet always greased his body from top to toe before swimming in the winter and he advised me to do the same. He also added, with a snigger, ‘I have heard on good authority that your hero is not well-endowed in the pleasure department. He would not have wanted to appear before you in a sodden condition, if you take my meaning.’ I was not greatly diverted.

  In truth, I had reason to be grateful to the captain and to Mr Hoppner, the consul, who came to my rescue, attending to everything and leaving me with little to do except pack, which chore I delegated to the servants. In the circumstances it was decided that Mrs Makepeace should be buried on the cemetery island of San Michele. She had no close relatives and it would have been extremely difficult to arrange transference of her body to England.

  It was a mournful procession which set off on a singularly beautiful Venetian morning. The domes of the city’s thirty-two churches were aflame in the early morning light and mist curled around the landing stages in an appropriately sinister manner. How my employer would have enjoyed this spectacle. She had loved all things Venetian while I could think only of the slime-coated walls of the side canals with limp washing strung across them, the dark, unlit buildings and the tiny, claustrophobic alleyways that ended in the black waters of an unseen canal. Those who were abroad at this hour were saying their morning prayers at the little shrines adorning the walls, or laying a few pathetic blooms as an offering.

  ‘This is a city of the dead,’ the captain remarked cheerfully as we followed the black and gold funeral barge in Tito’s gondola. ‘There is nowhere else in Europe that speaks so eloquently of decay, don’t you agree, Mrs Wickham?’

  I sniffled and wept a few tears thinking his remarks curiously insensitive. As we crossed the lagoon Marshfield explained that the cemetery island had been created a few years before on the orders of Napoleon. The city had run out of places to bury the dead.

  ‘The Venetians would have done nothing about it, naturally,’ the captain continued. ‘They would probably have chucked the corpses in the canals.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ I growled and he had the decency to keep quiet for the rest of the journey.

  Many trees had been planted on San Michele and in fifty years’ time when they had fully grown the island would look very beautiful, but as yet it appeared a bleak spot. The corner reserved for non-Catholics was even bleaker. Mrs Makepeace was interred while the consul’s chaplain said the words of the Anglican burial service, the six servants looked on indifferently and the few Venetians present stood aside to avoid Protestant contamination. The consul had promised to arrange for a headstone and with that we all returned to the palazzo for a welcome lunch.

  Before we set off for England I had one last meeting with the captain at Florian’s. He ate a hearty dish of polenta smothered with onions and anchovies and washed down with grappa. I toyed with my glass of prosecco and peach juice. The captain would accompany us as far as Paris to ensure our safety. I had told him that I intended to meet my friends there before returning to England.

  ‘You must come to the embassy when we reach Paris,’ he told me as he speared an anchovy. ‘Then we will explain the service we would like you to render to your country.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with the death of Von Mecks and the affair of the Cambridge emeralds, by chance?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Of course, what else? You are involved in grave affairs whether you realise it or not.’ I suddenly felt lightheaded and called for more wine. The tone of his voice indicated that I had no choice in the matter. My late husband had given me little in the way of useful advice but I recalled his favourite saying about keeping one’s options open.

  I was determined to return to the casino before we left Venice. My previous visit had been taken up with the Captain and I had not been able to replenish my store of money. I was intrigued by the croupiers in their little booths, all dressed in an androgynous way in tight breeches and ridiculous codpieces, eighteenth-century style. Their faces were covered in white paste and their lips were rouged. I knew that some of them were women – or rather, young girls, spreading the cards, rolling dice and fleecing the customers. The stakes were always loaded against the gamblers. Sometimes the croupiers withheld important cards or allowed patrons to take one away.

  The Venetians did not care: they were the custodians of the world’s greatest plaything, the city of Venice itself. They were utterly familiar with winners and losers, paupers, millionaires and the desperate. As the custodians of this city of pleasure they regard the whole world as ripe for picking.

  But I had also served an apprenticeship in these matters, although in less striking costumes and in less exotic surroundings. When it came to fizzing, cogging and sleeving the cards I could hold my own. My teacher, Mr Wickham, had at least done me that service.

  I dragged Adelaide along with me promising her a generous tip fro
m my winnings. She looked unconvinced as we set off in the gondola with Tito. I wore black in deference to my late employer, together with Mrs Makepeace’s pearls. She had, after all, offered to loan them to me. I carefully placed my personal pack of marked cards in my reticule.

  I seized the opportunity to question my maid about the Brighton Affair, as I had named it. She admitted opening the door to Von Mecks and allowing him to come in.

  ‘He was so handsome and so well-dressed, madam! I could not turn him away. I thought he must be one of your admirers,’ she added, in an attempt to flatter me. When I chided her for this she scowled and remarked that he was much more attractive than ‘that Sartain fellow’. Adelaide knows how to wound me.

  When I asked her why she had not admitted all of this at the time she said that she was afraid of losing her place, or even of being arrested. I understood that and, in truth, I could scarcely blame her.

  ‘We will say no more about it,’ I agreed.

  At the casino I offered a coin at one of the booths and the youth fanned out the cards. I gave him a bewitching smile and took one. It was the eight of clubs.

  As I refreshed myself with a glass of wine and watched the other players a gentleman in an elaborate military costume gave me a low bow and introduced himself as the Marques de Monte Vittoria. He was from Portugal and his accent and form of English were very strange to me. Only foreigners and visitors were allowed into that casino. The Venetians must go elsewhere for their gambling.

  After complimenting me on my appearance he launched into a conversation, apropos nothing, to which I listened in some bewilderment.

  ‘In England you are very fond of the wild life, are you not?’

  ‘There is an appreciation of horses and domestic animals,’ I replied politely.

  ‘But you are fond of the monkeys, no?’ I assured him that I had never seen one in the flesh as they were not native to my country.

  ‘In Portugal I kept a marmoset for a short time,’ he continued. ‘It is a kind of monkey which was sent to me from our lands in Brazil. They are quite good to eat, you know.’ I looked at him in horror. ‘Do you mean that you ate the monkey, sir?

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled broadly, ‘I craunched the marmoset.’

  ‘Crunched,’ I said automatically, ‘not craunched, crunched.’ As the full meaning of his words dawned on me I stepped back with a yelp of horror. Adelaide obliged me by grabbing my arm and calling loudly, ‘Come madam, you are wanted urgently.’ We beat a hasty retreat into another salon where I restored my equilibrium by winning a little money at bassetto.

  When we returned to the apartment for the last time as dawn was breaking, the buildings on the Grand Canal appeared to be suspended between earth and sky, the light slanting off them as in a Canaletto painting.

  Once again we embarked on the long journey back over the Alps and through France with everyone in the party moaning and complaining incessantly. My second sight of Paris inspired feelings in my breast comparable to those pilgrims reaching the Holy City of Jerusalem for the first time.

  As soon as we had recovered from the journey I rushed off to find Selena and Miles who were overjoyed to see me.

  ‘We thought we had lost you, dear thing!’ Miles wiped his eye while Selena enveloped me in a carnation-scented embrace. It was agreed that they would accompany me back to England. Miles would remain in London while Selena and I would travel on to Bath to deal with Mrs Makepeace’s household matters. I explained that I needed to visit the embassy before leaving. They assumed this was on my former employer’s account and asked no questions.

  When I presented myself I was ushered into a room where I was greeted by Captain Marshfield and another gentleman who did not vouchsafe his name. The captain had left our party suddenly on the outskirts of Paris and rode ahead of us ‘on urgent business’. I was told that my part in aiding the Prince Regent (the two men exchanged brief glances at this point), had involved me willy-nilly in an affair of the utmost delicacy and secrecy.

  ‘You are referring to the Cambridge emeralds and the death of Von Mecks, I assume? You know I had nothing to do with the death of that man!’ I cried, thus giving the game away very neatly. The captain twinkled at me. ‘We know that, but the man’s boots were discovered in your apartment, madam. Can you explain that?’

  ‘How did you—?’ He quickly interrupted. ‘Your apartment was searched in your absence. What did you do with those boots, by the way?’

  The other man took up the interrogation at this point. ‘Your involvement with the affairs of a notorious executed banker was unfortunate, madam.’

  If only they knew.

  ‘I was not involved with the banker, except inadvertently,’ I lied.

  The two men smiled at each other.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask Mrs Wickham who arranged for her to stay in that apartment.’

  ‘My friends and I rendered a great service to the Prince Regent,’ I squeaked, still terrified. ‘Surely that counts for something?’

  ‘Indeed,’ they chorused, ‘and now you can render another. You see, dear lady, the emeralds were in the possession of Princess Caroline and she is estranged from her husband, as I am sure you are aware.’ As if all England was not aware of that situation.

  ‘The princess’s activities on the continent have caused great dismay and embarrassment to His Royal Highness.’ I could not imagine anything embarrassing our portly prince but I held my tongue. ‘I understand that you plan to return to the continent soon, Mrs Wickham. There is a service you can perform for the crown. It is connected with Count Ferenc Esterhazy. You are acquainted with him, are you not?’ Captain Marshfield tried to hide a smirk behind his hand as he observed my startled expression.

  ‘What … what has the Count to do with this?’

  ‘He is a diplomat, a servant of the Hapsburgs, and he has had several meetings with Princess Caroline. We fear she will be used by the Austrians to inflict further indignities on the British Crown.’ This was ridiculous: the crown was already in disrepute owing to the antics of the Regent himself. The people sympathised with Princess Caroline. Many politicians sided with her plight for their own ends.

  The second man peered at me through owlish spectacles as if trying to determine my level of determination and cunning. ‘When you are reunited with the Count you will be well placed to obtain certain information which you must pass on to us. You are a true patriot, madam.’

  I felt this was meant to be a rhetorical question. Papa had once explained the meaning to me. An alarming prospect danced before my eyes. I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Do you want me to spy on the Count for you?’ I said in anguished tones. ‘My feelings for him would not permit it.’

  The nameless man looked impatient. ‘Come, come madam, think of England. It is your duty. You will of course receive a renumeration for your efforts. The government is not ungrateful in these matters.’

  Captain Marshfield chimed in again. ‘Did not your husband fight and die at Waterloo? Can you truly refuse our request with honour?’ I wondered if they knew how Mr Wickham had met his end. I had a feeling that between them these two knew more about me than I knew myself. I sat down suddenly and the captain poured me a glass of sherry.

  ‘Our prime minister, Lord Liverpool, wishes to set up a committee to investigate the princess’s behaviour. For that we need evidence. You will be uniquely placed to provide that.’ The unnamed man sat down and crossed his legs in a sententious manner before continuing. ‘You are not in a position to refuse, madam. The consequences would be, shall we say, unfortunate for you – and possibly for the Count. You would not wish that, I am sure.’

  Alarming thoughts scurried through my head. What would happen if I failed in this mission? Would the prince demand the return of my necklace – or my head?

  The prospect of a monetary reward was an inducement. Certainly my finances needed a boost now that I was no longer employed. The unknown man spelled out the tasks I would be required to perform.


  ‘The Count is in Vienna but he will return to Paris shortly. We will make arrangements for you to meet him.’

  It was agreed that I needed to spend a few weeks in England attending to my late employer’s affairs and my own. The fee payable on successful completion of my task would be three hundred and fifty pounds – and expenses. It was a fait accompli. I now fully realised that I had not been given the option of refusing. As I left a darker thought struck me.

  ‘What if I am discovered. I would be in danger, would I not? The unnamed man shrugged and bowed. ‘Your country would be in your debt, madam.’

  I shrugged. What would have happened if I had refused to come to the embassy? Marshfield would have discovered me. He was indefatigable. I was not greatly diverted by the prospect.

  ‘Think of the money,’ said Marshfield.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pemberley, England

  After we arrived in London, Selena and I pressed on almost immediately to Bath. As we travelled I regretted that I could not tell her about my commission from the embassy but I had been sworn to secrecy on pain of I knew not what – incarceration in the Tower, probably.

  Mrs Makepeace’s legal advisor was waiting to receive us. He instructed me to pay off the servants and to close up the house.

  ‘Before you leave, Mrs Wickham, please be good enough to attend me in my office on George Street. There are some matters I need to discuss with you.’

  When I presented myself he informed me of the contents of my late employer’s will. Her house and the bulk of her fortune had been left to a distant cousin, but to my astonishment I had been left a legacy of three thousand pounds and Mrs Makepeace’s fabulous pearls. As I sat dumbstruck at this good fortune, Mr Whittier handed me a small box containing a folded notelet. The note read:

  For Lydia in recognition of the companionship and pleasure she gave me in my last days, Letitia Amelia Makepeace.

  Under the note was Marie Antoinette’s brooch.