Larcenous Lady by Joan Smith Page A

Fernvale, urging her bailiff to find an occupant for the estate on a six-month lease, renewable. This done, she turned to her niece.
    “Bring along a shawl, Deirdre. It will be chilly in the gondola, and drafty as bedemmed at the palazzo.”
    Deirdre picked up her silver-spangled shawl that wouldn’t keep off the breath from a gnat, but it looked good. The Ginnasi gondola was waiting for them at the landing. In the starry dusk of twilight, they were whisked across the Grand Canal to the left bank and a little north to the palazzo, nestled in beside the Accademia. The Palazzo Ginnasi was a fairly ugly old stone building of great antiquity. Moss climbed a few feet up its walls. The duchess took one look and was struck with the notion that she would pay not to stay there, and that was saying a good deal. Her joints would seize up entirely in those moist drafts.
    But when the footman led her up the walk from the landing to an entrance on the north side, she observed that the breezes, while damp, were really not at all chilly. Once in the palazzo, she discovered a delightful surprise—fireplaces, which had been absent in Italian hotels. The heat from them mingling with the moisture created a balminess similar to a conservatory, an atmosphere in which not only plants but also octogenarians might thrive.
    The contessa awaited them in her saloon, a chamber of faded grandeur in which the duchess felt very much at home amongst the other antiquities. There were threadbare Oriental carpets, draperies sagging with age and dilapidation, ornate gilt-trimmed sofas covered in shredding satin—all of it topped by a fine chandelier with its lights turned as low as seeing would permit.
    But it was the hostess that was of more interest to Deirdre, and her youthful eyes could see well enough that the contessa was as beautiful as she remembered. This evening she wore a dramatic black gown that revealed a pair of alabaster shoulders and hinted at other attractions as well.
    “Duchess, Miss Gower, so kind of you to come,” the contessa said, striding forward to shake hands. “My husband will be here in a moment. Belami has gone to fetch him.”
    The ladies made polite greetings and were shown to one of the sagging sofas. Within a minute, Belami appeared at the door pushing a hooded bath chair. In it sat the conte, a shriveled little gentleman of some seventy-odd years, wearing a deep blue velvet jacket of ancient cut. At his throat a fall of white lace gleamed.
    He greeted them in a quavering voice. “Ah, Duchessa! Lei è molto gentile— “
    “Inglese, caro, “ the contessa reminded him.
    Even while he welcomed the duchess, his black eyes turned to ogle Deirdre. “Che bella!”
    “Mind your manners. Guy,” his wife scolded, and nodded for Belami to push him up to the fireplace. The duchess hastened to occupy the chair closest to him and Deirdre stood, struck dumb that the beautiful young contessa should have shackled herself to this wreck of humanity. The conte was obviously a skirt chaser, but why on earth had Carlotta married him?
    Deirdre became aware that both the contessa and Belami were staring at her, both in much the same way. They looked curious, alert, expectant, and it made her very nervous.
    “What a charming palazzo, Contessa,” she said.
    “ Grazie. May I offer you a drink, or would you rather have Belami show you the gardens while it’s still daylight?” Before Deirdre could answer, the contessa continued. “Do show Miss Gower the garden, Belami, and I’ll tend to Guy. He’ll become snappish if I don’t get him his posset.”
    “Deirdre?” Belami offered his arm, and in some confusion Deirdre accepted it and was led out the door.
    “You are looking very beautiful this evening, Deirdre,” he said as they went along to the door.
    “Thank you,” she said stiffly. “The contessa is lovely.”
    “She’s a diamond of the first water,” he replied unwisely.
    “It’s odd that she should have married such an