Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (30 page)

No, this wasn’t about ransom. He had to believe that the letter writer—this Rosaria—was being truthful when she teased him with information about his father’s death. But how did she know? And who was she to his father?

Standing on the bank of the Canal Grande wasn’t going to get him the answers he sought. Only going to Rosaria would, so he climbed into the boat.

Thomas pushed away from the dock and picked up the oar, steering them into the middle of the canal. Nathan tried to determine where they were going but everything looked the same in the night. And while he’d been to Venice a few times, his memories were more of the inside of gaming halls and brothels. Eventually he resigned himself to wait it out and see where Thomas took him.

He thought of Claire, glad that she was with Sebastian and Gabrielle, saddened that whatever happened between them had to end like this. He wished he’d had time to explain. Wished he’d explained from the very beginning that Sebastian had asked him to watch out for her.

He wished so many things and yet wouldn’t have changed anything because then he would have never experienced his time with her. If he managed to survive this ordeal, he would tell her everything about his conversation with Sebastian, and he would tell her he loved her. If she didn’t love him in return then so be it, but he was done with keeping secrets from her. What Claire needed was someone who believed in her, not someone who thought what was best for her.

After about a quarter of an hour of rowing, Thomas steered the
sandolo
toward the bank. The small boat bumped up against the dock and Thomas nimbly hopped out, grabbing the rope and quickly tying it to the dock.

It seemed darker here. Wherever here was. Shadows were more prevalent, light almost nonexistent. There was no muted laughter, no music, no streetlamps to light their way. The cobblestones were dirtier, rutted and loose, wobbling as Nathan and Thomas walked across them.

Thomas entered a warped, wooden door from the
calle
side and ascended a dark, damp stairwell. Nathan hesitated before plunging into the darkness. This was a different world from the one he had just left. Gabrielle lived in the fashionable part of Venice. This was where the common people lived. He made his way up the stairs, running his hand along the wet, mossy wall as he went.

Thomas pushed open a door. Light spilled out, a lemon-colored wedge penetrating the blackness.

Nathan followed, blinking into the brightness. He peered around at the shabby furniture, the worn carpets, the faded drapery closed tightly against the darkness outside. At one time the pieces in the room had been the height of fashion and made by the master craftsmen of the time, indicating that whoever lived here had not always been poor.

A woman stood in the center of the room, her shoulders rounded with age and time, her face lined, her silver hair streaked with black. Her eyes were a blue washed out by the passage of years and circumstance. Like the furniture, there were remnants of the beauty she’d once been.

She looked up at him, studying him before shuffling forward on feet encased in worn
friulane
, the velvet house slippers favored by the Venetians. She stood so close that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She reached up with a gnarled hand and touched his cheek. Her skin was dry and thin.

“Michael.”

Nathan stilled. “Michael was my father.”

She shook her head, those faded blue eyes creasing at the corners when she smiled. “I knew you would come.” Her voice was wispy. At one time it probably would have been described as sensual, but again, time had not been kind to this woman.

“Rosaria?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “He called me Rosa.”

Who called her Rosa? His father? What the hell was going on here? How did this woman know his father? “You sent for me.”

Her hand had not left his cheek, cupping it as if she didn’t want to let go. “He told me if I ever needed anything to send for him.”

Nathan swallowed. “Michael’s dead. He died sixteen years ago.”

The smile faded. A spasm of grief crossed her face. She drew in a deep, pained breath. “You spare no words, do you, son of Michael?”

“I’ve found brevity to be an advantage at times. How did you know my father?”

She chuckled, the sound dry, and patted his cheek hard enough to leave a slight sting. “Cheeky. I like that about you. Your father and I …” Her gaze slid away and what was left unsaid was all the answer he needed.

His father had been intimate with this woman at some point. But how intimate?

On the other side of the room Thomas shifted, then sidled to the door, slipping past Nathan. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls as he descended the steps, leaving Nathan alone with Rosaria.

Her expression softened. “I’ve missed you.”

She obviously was a bit touched in the head. He’d heard of this happening, people slipping in and out of reality, living in the past.

She leaned forward. “I don’t trust those men you are with.”

Men? “Which men do you refer to?”

“I’ve heard things.” She looked around as if someone were lurking in the shadows. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” She fiddled with her shawl, looked around the room as if she didn’t know where she was, then back up at him with a confused look. “You’re not Michael. Who are you?” She glanced around again. “Where’s Thomas? Where did the boy get off to now? He’s not right in the head, you know.”

“Thomas left.”

She threw her hands in the air. “That boy. Just like his father, disappearing then reappearing.”

She appeared perfectly lucid now, leaving Nathan more confused.

“I would offer you tea, but I don’t think …” Her voice trailed off and creases appeared between her brows. She looked up at Nathan, stepping back to get a better view. “You look just like him.” Her voice was soft, sad. “I miss him so even after all these years.”

Nathan shifted uneasily, her words conjuring regret and an old grief softened by time but still present.

“I told him not to go,” she said. “Told him it wasn’t safe but he insisted. Said it was his duty.”

“Who said this?”

She looked at him as if he were the daft one. “Why, Michael of course. The former Lord Blythe. Your father.”

Nathan’s head spun trying to keep up with the conversation. One minute she thought he was his father, the next she didn’t know who he was, and the next she thought
he
was the one losing his mind.

“You look just like him,” she said again.

“So people tell me.”

“I see you received my missives.”

“I did.”

She nodded, her eyes bright and clear, not muddled as before. “I was unsure you would come. Then I feared you would. It’s been so long since his death, but I’m afraid the danger is still present. That is why I asked you to go to Paris first. I needed to be certain you weren’t followed.”

“Thomas followed me.”

She smiled, clear pride in her son shining in her expression. “He is a good boy. A little slow at times.” Her hands fluttered about her. “I am too old to travel now, although I would love to see Paris one last time.” She looked off into the distance, no doubt remembering happier times, better times. With his father?

He didn’t want to ask.

With a jerk, she brought herself back to the present. “Is that bitch still alive? The one who whelped you?”

Despite her crude language, Nathan had to bite back a smile at the apt reference to his mother. “She is.”

Rosaria snorted. “Useless female. She never appreciated what she had.”

“No. She never did.” But he suspected Rosaria appreciated what she had. He should be shocked to discover that his father had a mistress in Italy. Instead he was almost pleased that his father found some happiness in his life.

He led Rosaria to the settee and helped her sit. She spread her worn gown out as if she were at a ball, clothed in silk and diamonds, instead of well-mended rough wool and worn slippers.

Nathan settled into a nearby chair and leaned forward. “Your letter indicated you had information regarding my father’s death?”

A shadow passed across her face. “I told him not to go. I told him the men weren’t what they seemed.”

“Men?”

“The
Fratello di Sangue Familia.
”

Nathan reared back. She was literally saying the blood brother family. “I don’t understand.”

She grew agitated, twisting her fingers together. Color leaked into her wrinkled cheeks. “He was to leave with them. I begged him not to go. Told him I was carrying his child but he insisted. He said I was being …” She waved her hand in the air. “What is the word? Foolish. He said he would return after he led the men over the mountains and informed the king of his findings.”

“The king?” Nathan felt like an imbecile repeating everything she said, but he was having a difficult time understanding. His father was involved in a secret society and he was going to tell the king … what? And what the hell did she mean she was with child?

Again she looked at him as if he were the daft one. “King George.”

He took her hand in his, gently cradling her swollen knuckles to keep her from wringing her hands. “Rosaria. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. My father was involved in the
Fratello di Sangue Familia
?”

“No. No.” She yanked her hand from his and stood to pace a few feet away. “You don’t understand.”

He was trying, damn it, but she wasn’t making sense. And he didn’t know if she was reliving the past or telling him some story she’d concocted from her addled brain.

She whirled around. “You aren’t
listening.
They
killed
your father.” She looked around furtively as if
they
were hiding behind the draperies listening.

“Who killed my father?”

She flung her arm out. “The
familia.
” Tears filled her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She sobbed, her chest heaving, and collapsed onto the settee where she crossed her arms over her stomach and rocked back and forth. “I should have never told him. All my fault.” She drew in ragged breaths.

Nathan could only stare at her, his mind a whirling mass of questions and incomplete thoughts.

Rosaria wiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffed. “They killed him. They killed him and made it look like an accident. All these years no one knew but me and I was too frightened to say anything because of Thomas.”

She looked at him with eyes full of fear. “What if they hurt Thomas? What if they take
Michael’s son from me?”

When Claire walked away from Blythe, she did it with as much dignity as she could muster. One would think she’d had enough practice, seeing as she clung to her dignity like a security blanket during her marriage to Richard. But this was different. This was a pain unlike she’d ever experienced before.

Every event, every moment since boarding that ship in England, had not been an adventure in being independent, or finding herself or whatever other rot she’d desperately wanted to believe. It had been a very cleverly disguised guided tour perpetrated by her brother and Blythe. She should be angry at her brother but she couldn’t seem to summon the energy, for every bit of her anger was directed at Blythe.

Except Blythe didn’t
plan
on putting her up at Gaudet’s or the blizzard that struck just as they were crossing the Alps or the peasant uprising.

Drat it all. She was so confused.

Gabrielle led Claire to her home and Claire was grateful for the support because suddenly she couldn’t see through the blinding tears that filled her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She valiantly tried to control her sobs, which built inside her, pressing against her rib cage until it hurt.

She
hurt
, damn it!

She stumbled up a set of stone steps that opened up into the
portego
of Gabrielle’s home. Her friend led her to a sumptuous settee and Claire dropped into it and sighed.

Gabrielle sat next to her and rubbed her arm. “What has happened,
cara
?”

For a long moment all Claire could do was breathe, never mind speaking. Gabrielle sat silently, patiently waiting for Claire to gather her composure and thoughts.

“Did Lord Blythe hurt you?”

Claire shook her head and swiped the tears now falling onto her bodice.

“Would you like some tea?” Gabrielle asked.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Gabrielle snorted, an indelicate, unladylike sound. “You are certainly not fine, but if you
insist on the farce then I will play along.”

Claire sighed deeply. “It’s all so muddled, Gabrielle. I set off for one purpose and discovered along the way that I wanted something entirely different.”

“Isn’t that the reason of a journey,
cara
? To discover new things, experience new … delights?”

Claire tried to smile but failed miserably. “I started off with the intention of visiting you and finding an Italian lover.”

Thank goodness for Gabrielle’s worldliness for she didn’t so much as flex a muscle at Claire’s announcement.

“Let me guess,” her friend said. “You found the lover and he wasn’t Italian and because he wasn’t Italian he was a complete disappointment.”

Claire surprised herself by laughing. “Quite the opposite in fact.”

“I thought as much. So why the tears?”

“I thought …” Claire dropped her head into her hands.

“You thought your adventure was something it was not.” Gabrielle paused. “You do realize how foolish it was to travel to Paris unchaperoned, do you not?”

“Please, Gabrielle. Not you too.” But she did know. And maybe someday she would admit it to her brother.

Gabrielle patted her hand. “I will not lecture. So what will you do now?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, Claire.
Stupendo!
”

“Yes and no. He lied to me, Gabrielle. By not telling me that he was sent to protect me, he lied.”

Footsteps sounded on the steps and Claire tensed. She wasn’t ready to see Nathan just yet, but it was Sebastian who appeared, looking sheepish and exhausted.