Anne Stuart - The Wicked House of Rohan

Venice, 1740.

Desperate, starving, Kathleen Strong makes her way to a job interview that promises a chance at proper employmentand maybe a bite to eat. Accused of gross immorality, shes adrift after being dismissed from her governess position, despite being entirely innocent.

That innocence is precisely what a mysterious group of debauched aristocrats finds so alluring about Miss Strong. When they propose a scandalous offer that she cant refuseshe cant refuse. But if the darkly gallant Alistair Rohan, a gentleman involved in all manner of wicked deeds himself, has anything to say about it, Kathleen can escape her disrepute in another way.

Of course, the escape route looks very similar to the groups illicit proposition itself

1740, Venice

Miss Kathleen Strong was so hungry she could have eaten three of the pigeons that normally fluttered through St. Marks Square, raw. The only problem being that they were wily little creatures, and every time she got close they flapped away, knowing that a scarecrow like her wouldnt be providing bread crumbs.

But today it was pouring rain. There were no tourists. The pigeons had deserted the place.

Still, she could be glad of the rain. It kept her awake and alert enough to make her appointment with Sir Wesley Marblethorpe. She hadnt had a bed in two days, and sleeping in an alleyway had its drawbacks, like rats and other nighttime predators. She had no weapon apart from a particularly nasty hairpin about six inches long, fairly suitable for jabbing a miscreant in the eye. She was long past being squeamish.

She was reasonably clean, thanks to the presence of water everywhere. Her serviceable gray dress was stained, to be sure, but shed gotten most of the darker spots out, and shed even managed to plait her hair in severe braids, affixing them to the base of her neck with the hairpin cum Excalibur. She knew that Sir Wesley would see her just as she was, a proper British governess, down on her luck, admittedly, but starched and proper enough; presuming he didnt look too closely, she would qualify for whatever form of employment Sir Wesley was offering.

If she got the job she might even have enough nerve to request an advance on her salary and she could liberate her meager belongings from Signora Montalba, the beady-eyed landlady whod kicked her out two days ago. The very idea of asking such a boon made her shrink with shame, but her last meal had been a withered apple, and that was a day and a half ago. If she didnt get something to eat soon she was going to end up facedown in the Grand Canal.

Palazzo del Zaglia was up ahead, on one of the less busy campos. There were none of Venices omnipresent cats around, and Kathleen wondered idly if shed ever eat one. Probably not. She liked cats.

In truth, there was no way to tell for sure if this large, crumbling building was indeed Palazzo del Zaglia. She should have approached it from the water side, but she hadnt enough money for a gondola.

She would just have to hope for the best. The steady beat of the rain had turned her bonnet into a sodden mass that hung limply around her face, and her hair was plastered to her head beneath it. She would look unprepossessing indeed, but the advertisement said Sir Wesley was quite desperate. As was she. Surely a match made in heaven.

She climbed the cracked stone steps to the intimidating door and pulled the bell. Next shed have to face a superior servant, who might just send her off with a flea in her ear. She had no idea what shed do in that case.

But the man who opened the door was a far cry from a servant. A bit on the short side, with a little too much paunch and a simple bag wig set askew on a balding pate, he wore a well-trimmed goatee and had the smallest, meanest eyes shed ever seen.

Miss Strong? He had a high-pitched, almost effeminate voice. Miss Kathleen Strong?

She wondered if she was supposed to curtsy. If she tried she might very well pass out at his feet, which would hardly improve matters. She managed a slight dip. Sir Wesley? she said hopefully.

Indeed. But my poor Miss Strong, youre soaked! Please come in out of the rain and dry off. My friends wont mind waiting.

Your friends? she said doubtfully, relinquishing her bonnet and reticule into the hands of the supercilious servant shed been expecting.

Marcello, please take Miss Strong into the dining room or whatever the hell Alistair is calling it. Miss Strong, Ill be joining you in a moment.

Her brain hadnt melted in the Venetian rain, even if it felt like it. She knew, immediately, that this was not the kind of employment she was seeking. She should say shed made a mistake, turn and get out of there as fast as she possibly could.

But where could she go?

Sir Wesley must have read the indecision on her face, and he smiled winningly, like a chubby, naughty little boy intent on mischief.

Shed dealt with naughty little boys and she knew just how to handle them. The grown version couldnt be so different.

Just hear us out, Miss Strong, he said with the right amount of earnestness and charm. I just know we can be of service to each other. Please, go with Marcello.

The absurdity of her suspicions hit so hard she laughed. Venice was filled with the most beautiful women in the world. No one would have any use for a skinny spinster nearing thirty years of age. She was being ridiculous.

This way, miss, the servant said, and, consigning her doubts to the Adriatic, she followed his stiff figure down a series of passageways, hallways and salons. They were in the same declining condition of every single palazzo shed seen since shed arrived in this beautiful, curst city. The palazzos must be built already disintegrating.

She heard the voices well before they reached the room, and her irrational misgivings came back. Mens voices, loud, slightly drunken.

Courage, she reminded herself. There were almost as many courtesans as there were pigeons in Venice. They didnt want her for that . Nobody did.

Marcello pushed open the door, and the noise and heat spilled forth, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and chocolate. Maybe theyd feed her even if they didnt hire herif she just had a decent meal she might be able to attend to her desperate problems with a fresh perspective.

She stopped in the doorway, unsure what to do. And then she saw him.

He sat at one end of the table, long legs propped up on the scarred surface, and for a moment she stared. He was jaded, beautiful, dissolute, and his faint smile was dangerously seductive. All the other men in the room seemed to fade into the shadows, and Kathleen stared at him as if shed seen a ghost.

And ghost he was. The ghost of her girlhood, when she was young and hopeful and daydreamed with her sister about the man who would be her true love.

Hed looked very much like that man, from the tousled wave of thick brown hair, the piercing blue eyesthe mouth perfect for kissing. A knight on a white stallion, come to rescue her.

Madness. He caught sight of her, and his mouth curved in a smile so cynical that for a moment she was crushed.

I believe we have a guest, gentleman, he announced in a lazy voice, and the sudden silence was shocking. A little gray wren has come to visit us. Lets make her welcome, shall we?

She wasnt sure what she would have done next. This announcement was greeted with such raucous enthusiasm that she almost turned and ran, but Sir Wesley had come up behind her, taking her arm in his and escorting her into the room as though she were an honored visitor.