Sense & Sensuality

 

Candles guttered in the sconces of the gaming room as servants returned for the third time that night to replace them with new tapers. The walls were covered with mirrors that reflected the light, along with the images of the richly dressed gentlemen intent on the dozen tables at which hazard, faro, and other games of chance were being played.

A tall gentleman, his dark, unpowdered hair tied back with a bow that matched his dove grey coat and breeches, threw the dice, and laughed as they rolled to a halt.

“I win again,” he announced, as the other gentlemen at the table groaned.

“Either you stop or I do, Gresham,” said one of them with a grimace. “You have the devil’s own luck tonight.”

“Someone has to win, Valmaccia, and as you say, this is my night. But I’ll cease tempting fate for now.” Tristan, Baron Gresham pushed back his chair and stood, surveying the other tables.

The usual motley assortment crowded the gambling club; young noblemen on the Grand Tour, inveterate card sharps and other adventurers living by their wits, Italian and European aristocrats, and a few Englishmen, enjoying a respite from the British climate, or like him, living down scandal. A number of the famed Venetian courtesans hovered nearby, their painted faces and revealing gowns bathed in the light of the reflected candles.

This late in the evening it was clear that many of those present were deep in their cups. A waiter approached Tristan to refill his wine glass, just as a lady, her dress leaving little to the imagination, moved closer and touched his shoulder. He shook his head at them both, a hint of distaste crossing his features as he surveyed the dissipated scene, followed by a blank gaze, as though he contemplated a distant place.

He turned back to the table. “Conde, have you had enough yet?” he inquired of the gentleman he had spoken to previously. “Will you join me on my walk home?”

Valmaccia looked up from the dice he had just thrown.

“You do not appear to have bequeathed me your luck,” he remarked, “so joining you seems to be an excellent notion.”

He too stood, and soon after they walked out of the gaming room and into the hall, where the staff provided them with their capes and hats as they departed. They strolled out in to the warm Venetian night, a bright silver moon hanging in the sky, its light reflecting off the dark water of the canals.

“Will you be attending the Duchessa di Parma’s masquerade ball two days hence?” the Conde asked as they walked.

“I intended to,” responded Gresham. “But I find myself tiring of Venice. I have been visited lately with the oddest longing for home.”

Valmaccia shuddered. “You are most unfortunate to be tied by the heart to the damp, chill winds of England rather than the hills of Italy, and the scent of rosemary on a sunny breeze. But the call of the land cannot be ignored.” There was a pause as the pair walked on, Gresham clearly sunk in thought.

“Will the memories of your English society have faded?” Valmaccia inquired obliquely.

“Society’s memory is always short,” Gresham snorted. “The Duke of Gravesmere will of course still be angry that I attempted to seduce his wife, but his immaturity and absurd mishandling of his young bride was nearly as much to blame as my mischief making. I can return; no doors will be closed to me to me, nor will I be blackballed in the clubs, and the Duke will not wish to revive the tittle tattle of two years ago. The Duchess has been delivered of a healthy son, and I hear that they are far happier than many a married couple.” Gresham gazed off into the distance. “I wonder how his sister does,” he added.

“His sister?” asked Valmaccia in a puzzled tone.

“Oh, Gravesmere’s sister, the widowed Countess of Eskmaine,” replied Gresham absently, as a beautiful blonde face with a perceptive green gaze rose in his mind’s eye. “She helped to put a stop to my scheming in the most elegant way. A woman deserving of respect, indeed.”

“I have known you nigh on a decade now, Gresham, and I cannot recall you speaking of another woman in this way,” ventured Valmaccia.

“No doubt that is because I have never encountered another such as she,” said Gresham. “Lady Eskmaine, in my experience, is unique.”

“It sounds as though you have unfinished business with the Contessa, my friend,” remarked Valmaccia.

“Perhaps I do,” responded Gresham slowly.

“Is she very beautiful?” the Conde inquired cautiously.

“Very.”

“And does the very beautiful English Contessa also have unfinished business with you?”

“The Countess of Eskmaine keeps her own counsel. I doubt she will show her hand to me willingly.”

“Well then, I suppose that the pull of your ancestral acres – or perhaps the lure of something far more delightful – will keep you from the Duchessa’s masquerade. Shall I offer her your apologies when I see her? She is very fond of you and will miss you sorely, as will all the women of Venice,” the Conde said.

Gresham laughed, an oddly light-hearted sound from one so cynical. “Yes, by all means, do let her know that I am sorry to disappoint her. I think that the next ballroom I enter will be in London.”

“I regret the loss of your company. When will I see you in Venice again?”

“I don’t know,” said Gresham. “Next year perhaps, when the English winds blow chill again.”

“And will you be alone?” asked the Conde slyly.

“You are as curious as a monkey, my friend,” said Gresham. “I have no notion what the next months will bring – it is like a roll of the dice. I only know that, for now, England is where I must go.”

“I wish you luck in your endeavors,” said Valmaccia. “I think the lovely Contessa will have to be very cautious around you.”

“Or I around her,” murmured Gresham.

The two men strolled off into the scented Venetian night.