Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Giovanni had managed to survive the whole working day without thinking too much of Beatrice.
He had buried himself in work with Silas and not left the study until the evening when he and Silas had finally retired to the drawing room for a drink.
Unfortunately, Anna and Beatrice were there, practising piano together.
“What shall you have, Gio?” Silas asked, standing beside the liquor table. “Madeira? Brandy?”
“Madeira, please.”
Giovanni sat, trying not to look at Beatrice.
She had changed out of her earlier gown for supper and was now clothed in a delightful creamy peach dress that brought out the softness of her skin tone.
It looked like satin. Giovanni wondered how the soft fabric would feel under his fingers, how the curves of her body would feel inside it. Stop it.
“You do not wish to join the ladies?” Silas asked, handing Giovanni a glass.
“No,” Giovanni said quickly. “No, let us sit and talk.”
“Ah,” Silas quirked the corner of his mouth knowingly. “Anna told me about this.”
“About what?” Giovanni’s heart raced. What might Anna have said to Silas about the fight in the garden? Silas had said nothing all day, but perhaps he was only waiting for the right time to berate his friend.
“She mentioned you were in a foul mood—and Beatrice, too.” Silas settled more comfortably in his seat, looking at Giovanni with raised eyebrows. “Said it was another one of your disagreements, but now you can barely look at one another. What happened?”
Giovanni didn’t answer. He sipped his wine and watched Beatrice from the corner of his eye.
She was doing the same. Even though she was too far away to hear their conversation over the loud sound of the piano duet, Giovanni felt like she could hear every word, or maybe even read his mind.
See his lustful, torrid thoughts as they remembered the warm slope of her breast under his hand, the taste of her skin on his tongue, the heady anticipation of his hand crawling up her thigh...
“Come on. What did Beatrice do?” Silas joked, nudging Giovanni in the ribs with his elbow.
“What? Nothing!” Giovanni looked up at him, anxiously crossing his leg and slightly turning away from his friend, trying to disguise his unfortunately aroused manhood.
God, he felt like a randy school boy! How could he be thinking such things about Beatrice in the presence of her brother? It was entirely dishonorable.
“Why should you ask that?” Giovanni stuttered.
“Because whatever she said has clearly left a mark.” Silas frowned at his friend, evidently confused by his jumpiness. He leaned closer and Giovanni fought the urge to lean away. “Do I need to have a discussion with my sister?”
“No, it is nothing,” Giovanni shook his head. “Nothing is wrong.”
“That’s clearly untrue,” Silas scoffed, taking a sip of his brandy. “You’re in a terrible mood.”
“I am not.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Silas countered, and Giovanni rolled his eyes at his friend’s insight. “One time you told me that bedding a woman was the only way to move on from a bad mood?—”
“I suggested you bed your wife—that is different,” Giovanni whispered angrily, his eyes darting back to Beatrice. He knew she could not hear them, but what would she think if her brother told him to sow his oats? She already thought him a rake.
“Yes, well, in lieu of having a wife, maybe I should send you off to a brothel,” Silas snapped back, setting his glass down on a side table with a sharp click. “Something is eating you. You are usually so even-tempered.”
“I’m Italian,” Giovanni deflected. “There is nothing even-tempered about me.”
“Yes, you’re usually passionate,” Silas conceded. “But you always keep a cool head in a crisis and are generally well-mannered. You’ve been stomping around like an angry bear.”
“Have not,” Giovanni retorted stubbornly.
Suddenly, a footman appeared beside him with a letter on a silver platter—a welcome distraction from Silas’s interrogation.
“For the signore,” he said, offering it to Giovanni.
“Thank you.” Giovanni took the letter and looked at it curiously.
It was surprising for him to receive mail at the Grosvenor Square house—most of his correspondents knew to write to Fallenbrook.
Then he noticed the familiar handwriting.
He had seen it before, on the note Bess had passed him at the club.
“What is it?” Silas asked.
“I don’t know,” Giovanni said.
He ripped open the letter and perused it quickly.
The past is catching up with us. If you want to know more about who you are, come to the Hyde Park fountain at noon tomorrow.
Giovanni sucked in his breath tightly. The phrasing was the same as before, but it was much less threatening this time.
The promise now was information. Information about himself?
Whoever wrote this note must have known what an enticing draw would be for Giovanni.
They must know how lonely his childhood had been, how he knew nothing of his parents—one dead and one long absent.
How did they know all this information about him?
“What is it?” Silas repeated.
“It’s nothing,” Giovanni snapped, crushing the letter in his hand. He was infuriated. He had been investigating the providence of the first note and had come up empty. He had been presuming the author meant to do him harm. Now he wondered if that was true.
“It’s not nothing,” Silas said angrily. “Is this what has put in you such a bad temper? Explain yourself.”
Giovanni glared at him. For a moment, he wanted to shout at Silas, to rage at him as he had sometimes done when they had first started working together.
Back then, Giovanni was a fire-cracker of a young street urchin, prone to loud outbursts.
He had been more likely to bring things to blows than to discuss an issue, but he had grown up significantly as Silas had mentored him.
Giovanni had worked hard put his turbulent childhood behind him, but when he was emotional, it was hard not to reach for old habits.
He flexed his muscles. How good it would feel to brawl at that moment!
To push all of his aggression and frustration out through his fists.
“Are you going to land a facer, Gio?” Silas asked, raising his eyebrow at his younger friend as if he was reading his mind. He lowered his voice even further, transitioning into that dangerous, silky tone synonymous with his notoriety as Lucifer of London. “Shall we take this into the boxing ring?”
At his words, Giovanni instantly deflated.
No matter how frustrated he was, Silas was the last person he wanted to hurt.
He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could think of another way to deal with this that didn’t draw Silas into it, but he couldn’t.
Silas deserved the truth, at least in this. He sighed and handed him the note.
“Read it,” Giovanni reached for his drink. “If you must.”
Silas opened it warily, his frown deepening as he read what was on the page.
“The past is catching up with us,” he repeated.
Giovanni saw the way his fingers flexed around his brandy glass.
He could only think of his most recent violent brush with the past. Willie Dugby, a former business partner and a terrible enemy, had kidnapped Anna not two years before.
When Silas looked up at Giovanni, his eyes were filled with compassion.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “My nefarious reputation has not only threatened my life, but now it threatens yours too.”
“You never made me do anything, Silas.” Giovanni shook his head, surprised that his friend so quickly took on the burden of responsibility.
Sometimes, Giovanni forgot how protective Silas could be of him.
“I chose to work for you. We both did what we had to to make our way in this world. You never forced me on a path of violence.”
Silas nodded, looking slightly mollified by his words, but not enough to shake his guilt entirely. He considered the letter carefully.
“Is this the first correspondence?” Silas asked.
Giovanni winced at the question. He didn’t want Silas to be disappointed that he had kept the truth hidden, but it was only because he hadn’t wanted to involve his friend. Just as Silas wished he could protect Giovanni, Giovanni felt the same way. Yet now was definitely not the time to lie.
“This is the second,” Giovanni said, steeling himself for Silas’s disappointment—but it never came. His friend simply nodded for him to continue.
“The first simply said, ‘The past is catching up with us.’”
“Threatening,” Silas said, turning the paper over in his hands. “It is good quality, and the penmanship resembles a gentleman’s. Any ideas who it might be?”
Giovanni shook his head, pursing his lips. His search so far had frustratingly borne no fruit. Bess’s lead had taken him to Covent Garden, but none of the low-lives there remembered seeing any servant in the livery Bess had described.
“I don’t necessarily think that it is someone with ill intent,” Giovanni said slowly, looking down at the letter. “My research shows that a servant in livery delivered it.”
“So, someone with money,” Silas bit his lip. “Not good news. Though luckily, in England, we don’t have many former clients of that ilk. On the continent, however...”
Silas let his words drift off. Giovanni knew he was running through the extensive lists of noblemen and nouveau riche they had stolen from, blackmailed, and collected secrets against across France, Spain, and Italy. It was not a list that left a lot of room for hope.
“Yet they speak of your past,” Silas continued. “They did not do that before?”
“No.” Giovanni shook his head. “Perhaps they are not malicious. Perhaps they have information to share. There is so much I do not know.”
“Then there is little to verify a potential tale,” Silas warned.