The Rape of Venice by Dennis Wheatley Read Free Book Online Page A

Dykes, Lelys and Knellers; but Roger slipped away, intending to go to the nurseries.
    As he walked through the long corridors his thoughts turned to Clarisa Marsham. She was a cousin of his late wife,Amanda, and an orphan without fortune. Until a little less than two years earlier, she had lived with an elderly, impecunious and sanctimonious aunt, from which sad fate Amanda had rescued her, and taken her with them as an unofficial lady-in-waiting when he had gone out to the West Indies as Governor-designate of Martinique.
    From a gawky girl with a thin face, beaky nose and mass of ill-dressed pale gold hair, he had seen her develop into a young woman of sylph-like figure and ravishing beauty. On two occasions she had declared her love for him in no uncertain terms. He had tried to persuade himself that hers was an adolescent passion, and that she would soon get over it; so he had done his utmost to discourage her, hoping that she would turn to one of the numerous suitors who were eager for her hand. But deep down he had known that she would not do so
    Now that she had returned to England something had to be settled about her future. So far he had managed to avoid discussing it with her, and he was most loath to do so because he found her so bewitching that he feared he might weaken in his determination to keep his freedom.
    He was still pondering the worrying problem she presented when he entered the main hall and went up the stairs.
    On reaching the landing he saw Signor Malderini and his beautiful Indian wife coming towards him. Instantly he dismissed Clarissa from his mind and decided to postpone his morning call on the children. With Sheridan out of the way for another hour at least, this was too good an opportunity to be missed of sounding the Venetian about his opinions.
    Having made a graceful leg to the Princess, he enquired of her husband how they had slept and if all their wants had been attended to. Then he said that, as a guest of long standing in the house, they must allow him temporarily to play host and show them something of its beauties.
    Malderini thanked him for his courtesy and the three of them descended the great marble staircase together; but, instead of taking them into any of the rooms, where they might shortly have run into the other party, Roger led them out between the tall pillars of the Palladian portico and down its steps onto the long terrace. The stone vases along it were gay with flowers and below the balustrade the well-tended lawns sloped gently away to a broad lake, from the far shore of which rose woods of silver birch and pine. In the sunshine of the Junemorning it was as lovely a prospect as could have been found in England.
    The vases were filled with many-hued Phlox Drummondi and, pointing at the nearest, Malderini made some remark to his wife in her own language. She returned a low-voiced reply, then he said to Roger. ‘The Princess Sirisha has a great fondness for flowers. Her name, you know, is that of a particularly beautiful flower that grows in her native country.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ replied Roger. ‘Then let us go to the rose garden and the herbaceous borders. We’ll visit the hot-houses too. They contain many tropical plants and the Princess may find there several with which she is familiar.’
    As they strolled through the gardens to the west of the house, pausing now and then to admire a vista between box hedges, a fountain, a lead figure, or some specially lovely bed of flowers, Roger made no attempt to turn the conversation to the state of things in Italy. After a quarter of an hour it struck him that he might be shirking the job because it meant working against his own convictions, but he quickly reassured himself, as it was obviously sounder policy to endeavour first to get on terms with the Venetian. That would not be easy, for his heavy features held no trace of bonhomie, and his curious mind-probing eyes no hint of desire to make himself liked.