and wed to an Irishman?’
‘A gentleman of Irish birth, your Grace,’ Jane said firmly, determined to defend the choices that both her charges had made. ‘His lordship is a younger son, true, but his brother is a marquis.’
‘An Irish peerage is as worthless as muck in a stable!’ the duke cried with disgust. ‘At least if the thing was done in Paris with a Romish priest, then I can have it dissolved as—’
‘Forgive me, your Grace, but they were wed properly, before an Anglican cleric,’ Jane said. ‘Lady Mary herself was most conscious of that.’
Pained, the duke closed his eyes. ‘If Mary’s thrown herself away on an Irishman, then what kind of scoundrel has ruined Diana?’
‘Lady Diana’s husband is Lord Anthony Randolph, your Grace, brother to the Earl of Markham.’
‘Another younger son, when with her beauty and breeding, she could have had a prince!’ He shook his head with despair. ‘At least he’s an Englishmen, yes?’
‘His father was, yes. His mother was from an ancient Roman family of great nobility, which is why his lordship has resided in that city all his life.’
‘A Roman by birth, and by blood,’ he said, bitterness welling over his words. ‘An Italian, draped with an English title. An Italian, and an Irishman. My God.’
‘I beg you, your Grace,’ Jane said softly. She loved his daughters, and because of that love, she owed it to them to try to make their father understand. ‘These are good and honourable gentlemen, worthy of—’
‘Miss Wood.’ He cut her off as surely as if the words had been wrought of the steel. ‘I trusted you with my dearest possessions on this earth, and you—you have carelessly let them slip away.’
‘But, your Grace, if I might explain—’
‘No.’ Pointedly he turned away from her. ‘Signora, pray show me to my rooms. I will dine there, alone, as soon as your kitchen can arrange it.’
Signora della Battista knew when to put aside her animosity, especially towards the gentleman who had leased her entire house in the winter, a season of few travellers. The Venetian republic was famous for its mercenaries, and the signora was no different.
‘This house is honoured beyond measure, most excellent sir,’ she said in English. ‘My finest chamber shall be at your disposal, and my cook will prepare his very best to tempt you. This way, if you please.’
As Jane watched the duke follow the signora up the stairs, she saw how his usually squared shoulders sagged with weariness and discouragement, how the jagged white salt-stains from the sea worn into his once-elegant dark cloak seemed to illustrate just how long and arduous his journey here had been. She deeply regretted disappointing him, and though she knew better, she impulsively hurried up the stairs after him.
‘Your Grace, if you please,’ she said softly. ‘If I might speak to you further, to explain and—’
‘You’ve explained more than enough for tonight, Miss Wood,’ he said, brushing her away. ‘If you’ve any sense left at all, you should prefer to wait until tomorrow to hear what else I shall say to you.’
This time, Jane did not follow. Instead she remained behind, alone on the staircase, listening as the voices and footsteps of the duke and the signora grew fainter before they finally faded away.
It couldn’t have gone any worse with his Grace, short of him tossing her into the Grand Canal. Perhaps, Jane thought with growing despair, his Grace was saving that for tomorrow. In any event, she should prepare herself for the worst. Lady Mary and Lady Diana had assured her that their father would understand, and that he couldn’t possibly blame Jane for their choices. Yet already she’d seen that he could, and he would.
She had failed in her duty, failed in a way that in her entire life she’d never failed before. She had put the wishes of her charges ahead of their parent, an unforgivable sin in any governess. Yet still she believed she’d acted in the interests of both sisters. Wasn’t that the first order of her responsibilities? To put the welfare of her charges before everything else? But because of it, she was sure she’d now be turned out here in a foreign country, without references, or worse, with damning ones from the duke.
Slowly she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed down the long hallway to her room. She’d already dined earlier with the signora; there was nothing left for her to do this evening beyond preparing for her seemingly inevitable departure in the morning.
Like all the lesser rooms in grand Venetian houses, hers lay between the elegant bedchambers that were to have been occupied by the duke’s two daughters. One of these faced the front of the house, with tall windows and a balcony that overlooked the Grand Canal, while the other faced the house’s rear courtyard and private garden. Although comfortable enough, Jane’s chamber was undeniably intended for a servant, with a lesser view of the Rio della Madonnetta. Depending on the hour and the cast of the sun, candles were necessary, and the tiny stove for heat did little to relieve the winter damp either.
Always frugal, Jane lit only the single candlestick beside the small bed. She set her two trunks on the coverlet, and briskly set about emptying the clothes-press and chest of her belongings. Given the humble nature of her wardrobe, packing her clothes into the trunks took no time at all, and only her letters now remained to be sorted. She changed from her gown into her nightshift, brushed out her hair from its customary tightly pinned knot and wrapped an oversized wool shawl around her shoulders against the chill. Then, with fresh determination, she scooped the bundled papers into her arms and headed for the front bedchamber.
Once Signora della Battista had understood that Jane had arrived alone, without the English ladies who had been expected, she’d given the governess leave to use the other two bedchambers as well. It was of no concern to the signora who occupied them; she’d already been handsomely paid in advance long ago by the duke’s agents.
But for Jane, the luxurious bedchambers had only added to the dream-like quality of her visit to Venice. Each room had exuberant carved and gilded panelling and swirling paintings of frolicking ancient goddesses and cupids. Huge looking-glasses reflected the view of the canal and the garden, and magnified the dappled light off the water as well.
Jane hadn’t gone so far as to sleep in either of the huge bedsteads—each more like a royal barge than a mere bed—but she had permitted herself to spend time in the rooms, and she’d taken to writing letters at the delicate lady’s desk overlooking the Grand Canal.
Now she set her papers on the desk’s leather top, and settled in the gilded armchair. First she turned to the journal that had accompanied her ever since they’d left Aston Hall late last summer. This tour of the Continent had been planned to put the final finishing on the educations of Lady Mary and Lady Diana before they returned to London society and, most likely, suitable husbands and marriages. The trip was also meant to restore the reputation of Lady Diana, singed as it had been by a minor scandal. Her father had decided that a half-year abroad would serve to make people forget Diana’s misstep, and Jane had guided the girls with the mixed purpose of education, edification and whitewashing.
To Jane it had been a glorious challenge. She’d begun by recording her impressions each day in her journal in precise short entries, from their crossing to Calais, the carriage across the French countryside to Paris and then on to Italy, to Florence and Rome and finally here to Venice.
But those initial brief entries had soon blossomed into longer and longer writings as Jane had succumbed to the magic of travel, and the journal bristled with loose sheets of unruly scribbled notes and sketches that she’d hurriedly tucked inside. But that wasn’t all. Pressed into the journal were all kinds of small mementos, from tickets and playbills to wildflowers. Jane smiled as she rediscovered each one, remembering everything again. Not even his Grace could take such memories away from her, and with special care she tied the journal as tightly closed as she could.
Yet there’d been far more to her journey