Chapter Twenty-One
Santa Maria del Fiore’s cascade of bells assaulted Ian’s tender head as he strode into the dining room in pursuit of as much coffee as he could drink without burning his esophagus.
Through a series of discreet carriages, cargo trains, and more godforsaken wagons, Sunderland had secured their safe passage to Italy. Two arduous days of travel delivered them to the city of Ian’s birth and the townhouse the duke obtained as their base of operations.
“Come and have some breakfast, Ian.”
Diana stood before the dining room buffet in a narrow patch of morning sunlight. She wore a walking suit of navy wool trimmed with cerulean silk, and he couldn’t help staring purely to watch the way she moved.
“Stop frowning,” she commanded as she sat down to her plate of preserved apricots, cured ham, and cornetto pastries. “It’s too early for you to be cross with anyone.”
“Can I be cross with Giotto for erecting that bloody bell tower?”
“Yes. That bastard deserves it for disturbing the peace of generations of innocent people.”
When she arched her brow, Ian had to shove his hands in his pockets for fear of grabbing her and latching onto her pert mouth.
The servants bustled in with coffee thick as tar. Ian added hot milk to the cup and gulped it all in one go before pouring a second.
“I daresay sipping it would be more enjoyable,” Diana murmured.
“That would imply you like the taste.”
“I enjoy bitter things.”
He wrenched his attention from buttering his cornetto, and the hint of color on her cheeks gave him hope that she’d missed having him in her bed last night.
The servants had shown them to separate rooms. The aftereffects of the poison and his weariness from traveling sent him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Has Sunderland surfaced?” he asked.
“No, but he sent a note asking us to meet at a tailor shop.” Her tone turned markedly cooler at the mention of the duke’s involvement.
Ian knew enough about her and women that it was an invitation for an argument, but he wouldn’t squander a breath or his energy provoking her. These were his last moments with her. Possibly forever. He wouldn’t ruin them.
After squabbling over their walking route, he begrudgingly agreed to Diana’s suggestion to take the longer path along the river, which was too exposed for someone to attack them and escape easily.
The sun came and went beneath the clouds, and a cool breeze stirred the ruffle of her cape as it brushed against him. She’d taken his arm, but kept a loose hold, in case she needed to move in defense. He wistfully longed for a day when they could walk arm in arm with each other without such a care.
Diana glanced over her shoulder casually to check for tails. “When was the last time you visited Florence?”
“Before my father died. After…I couldn’t risk one of the famiglie spotting me.” They would have demanded he turn over the emeralds.
“Are you at home here?”
“Not anymore.” He pulled her closer to avoid a collision with some fool on one of those absurd pedal-bicycles. “Florence has changed. Or maybe I have. Whenever I’m here, I’m searching for something that no longer exists.”
“That’s how I feel when I’m in Bristol. Why I love to travel. It’s like I’m searching for home too.” In an unusually tentative voice, she asked, “Will you show me where you and your mother lived?”
He ached to take her there, despite knowing it would unravel him to experience the physical reminder of what he’d lost. Things Ian couldn’t put into words lived there, and he wanted to show her. He wanted to spend time in a place with Diana wrapped in the familiar warmth of family.
But doing so would sever him in half. It would fool him into wanting something they could never have together.
Today, they needed to complete their plans to gain access to Il Gioco, and he’d have to manage some way to minimize Diana’s part in it.
“We can’t risk a visit,” he said. “The famiglie know it. Someone will be watching.”
She gave a small sigh. “I am disappointed. I was looking forward to stopping at the bakery for one of those pastizzi.”
They found the tailor shop. It boasted a respectable inventory, although it was a far cry from Savile Row.
Ian could imagine the deprecating digs Sunderland was compiling when he waved them into the back room of the shop.
With the flick of his fingers, the staff scattered like birds after a gunshot.
Diana buried her prejudice beneath her elusive mask and bobbed a curtsy.
“No need for such formality with me, Miss Rives,” Sunderland drawled. “I’m happy to have you fighting on our side of this. You’re not a woman I’d want as an opponent.”
He abruptly turned to Ian. “Il Gioco is set. Two days from today, somewhere here in fair Firenze. What a happy coincidence you led us here, Holt.”
It was neutral territory. Ian suspected Il Corno and Manu Rosso wanted a rematch of the last game, which had also taken place in Florence. “Have the factions nominated their players?”
“Only one we’ve confirmed is Costa. The Manu Rosso are still arguing over who will have the seat.”
“Do we know the actual game?” Diana asked.
“Baccarat, chemin-de-fer. There will be only one table and no banker, which gives no one a chance to influence the cards being dealt. Our player will have to play to win.” Sunderland paused. “And there’s also the small matter of securing your invitation.”
Diana’s wide eyes landed on Ian. “You’re going to play for the Tarka?”
“If they’ll let me.”
“And if you lose…” She rattled her head, unable to say aloud the dread Ian had been living with for eight long years.
Win or lose, if he played for the Tarka, he’d be forever in the debt of the Maltese famiglia.
Ian reached over and tilted her chin up so her eyes would meet his. “I won’t lose.”
“Before any of that, you must convince the Tarka leaders you can win,” Sunderland said matter-of-factly. “Your audition is tomorrow night, Holt. We’ll be hosting a private reception for the capobastone.”
The duke rapped at the door to the shop, and attendants scurried in. “Now, let’s get you both something to wear.”
To Diana’s surprise, the Tarka criminals behaved like perfect gentlemen.
As she sat at the green felt-topped card table the servants had arranged in the townhome’s salon, she admired the elegant gray wool of the capobastone’s frock coat.
His son—the resemblance was too close for either of them to deny—wore a necktie with an intricate knot she envied and wanted to try herself.
Both sipped their bajtra cordially, while they stared daggers at Ian.
Sunderland had assumed the role of the banker for the last hand of the horrible rehearsal.
His affable manners hadn’t fooled Diana into overlooking the way his stare prowled over everyone and everything.
The duke had proved himself a deft player.
He’d trounced the capo’s son easily and gave Ian a run on more than one hand.
But she suspected Ian had let Sunderland win, to throw off suspicion from his talent for calculating which cards were in play.
“Final bets, signori,” Sunderland called.
The game had dragged on for hours, and Diana fought against sighing with relief that it was ending.
They’d worked all day and most of the night, strategizing how to disrupt Il Gioco. Every time Diana had broached the subject of what would happen after the game, one of the men drew the conversation back to some technical element of the operation.
Tonight, Diana would ferret it out of Ian.
No matter how difficult the conversation.
From the moment he told her about Il Gioco, she’d known he would have found some way to play for the emeralds.
But if he thought that after everything that had happened, she’d allow him to push her away, he was sorely mistaken.
As Beatrix had said, women like them needed to fight for their happiness.
The duke drummed his fingers on the table. “Call.”
The players turned over their cards. When Ian revealed his winning hand, the capo’s mouth twitched, and his son mumbled something unintelligible.
Ian’s blank expression didn’t falter. If she hadn’t been sitting right next to him, witness to the fact, she would never guess he’d won a victory.
“You play well, Ingliz,” the capo remarked.
“Grazzi, sinjur.” Ian tipped his head to acknowledge the compliment. “You were challenging opponents.”
The capo exchanged a brief nod with his son. “We will discuss the terms the Tarka will stake and send word to you tomorrow.”
He rose from the table and as the majordomo helped him into his overcoat, the Tarka leader looked at Ian with a gleam in his eye. “You count cards better than your parents.”
“My father,” Ian corrected, a little too quickly.
The capo gave a gruff laugh and wagged a finger. “Your mother taught him how, but she was better. You have her talent. I look forward to seeing what else you can do with it.”
It was a compliment wrapped around a subtle threat, and the possessive way the capo watched Ian before he took his leave made Diana fight off a shiver.
“That went well,” Sunderland said cheerily.
Ian blew out a breath. “Do we know what they are planning to stake?”
“Contracts, most likely. Construction projects across Milan and Zurich. Our informant claims Il Corno is putting up railroads across Portugal and Italy. And Costa’s three warehouses are his personal stake.”
“Personal stake?” Diana echoed.
When neither man met her eyes, she stepped between them and whirled on the duke. He’d concede to her nonverbal admonishment quicker than Ian.
“There’s a price of admission,” Sunderland conceded as he pulled on his overcoat. “You two will need to decide what you’re willing to bet. And I know you’re going to row over it. So I’m moving camp to the Porta Rossa. Send word if you settle it before morning.”
He left them standing in the townhouse foyer, with Ian’s hands balled into fists and Diana’s head spinning.
“How long have you known there was a personal stake?” she asked when she found her voice.