The Sometime Bride (3 page)

None of which, fortunately, were apparent the night he made his debut in the gaming rooms.

Catarina was waiting for him, tucked up in her favorite hidey-hole. Red velvet draperies enclosed a minstrel’s gallery which overlooked the largest of the Casa’s gaming rooms. An affectation from another age, the gallery had been included for sentiment’s sake when the house was rebuilt, as was most of Lisbon, after the disastrous earthquake of 1755.

By the time Caterina was ten, her surreptitious use of the minstrel’s gallery had become an open secret. If Thomas Audley had been a more conventional father, that might have been the end of it. But he was heard to say that anything his Cat might learn from her perch in the small gallery could only be of use to a female attempting to survive in a wicked male world. So leave her alone. Soon enough she would be called upon to take her place in the gamble of life. She might as well know what to expect.

For the last two years Catarina had been allowed to play hostess, upon occasion, in the gaming rooms. But now, this night, when she so wanted to be present, Papa had told her to stay away. Hovering over the poor boy would make him nervous. Nervous, indeed! Cat fumed. Blas had the hide of an ox and ice water in his veins.

The Casa Audley was a quadrangle occupying a full square block in one of Lisbon’s better neighborhoods. Its two-story stucco walls, punctuated by balconies on the street side, rose directly from the narrow sidewalks. On the inside, the casa’s rooms were built around a central courtyard, with a staircase to the upper story at each of the four corners. A covered walkway at ground level and a roofed gallery above provided access to each room. At the rear of the quadrangle were the stables and storage areas, with rooms for the male servants above.

The Casa’s entrance hall, tiled in an intricate pattern of Moorish
azulejos
in turquoise, white, and black, provided a striking welcome to the Casa Audley. Its walls were hung with pictorial Moorish rugs, and a small two-tiered marble fountain, elaborately decorated with sea creatures, greeted visitors with a continuous tinkling of soothing sound. The gaming rooms, three on each side of the entrance hall, were as finely decorated. Indeed, many of the locals—Portuguese, Spanish, and English—considered the Casa Audley more of a gentile club than a gaming establishment.

If the two strong, brightly uniformed young Portuguese at the door recognized the young Spanish dandy who sounded the knocker, they gave no indication. He was, however, admitted without demur. The Spaniard paused just inside the impeccably decorated room to the left of the hall and surveyed it with a look compounded of mild curiosity and a soupçon of disdain. He, Don Alexis Perez de Leon, had seen better establishments in Madrid and Barcelona . . . and possibly Paris. In actuality, he was wishing that quizzing glasses were in fashion in this part of the world.

Not too arrogant
, Thomas Audley had warned.
At the moment Spain is the enemy and we don’t need hot words. Be gracious. Blend. You are charming . . . only reasonably intelligent. Don’t win too much money. No clever remarks, no peeking down the wrong bosoms. Wait ‘til I tell you which ones are fair game
. With such instructions, what fun could a young man have? Obviously, spying was not as glamorous as he had hoped.

Catarina widened the gap in the red velvet draperies and stared, awed by the transformation. Almost every trace of the scurrilous singer of bawdy ballads was gone. Blas’s strangely pale face was surrounded by gently waving short black curls which gleamed in the light of the multi-faceted chandeliers. Folds of white lace fell from his neck nearly to his waist and were framed by a short black velvet jacket decorated down the front edges with a row of modest-sized mother-of-pearl buttons. Lace ruffles flowed from the cuffs of his shirt, falling gracefully over his fingers. His tight-fitting black velvet breeches were also decorated with shining pearl buttons down the sides. His broad satin waistband was black, as were his knee-high silk leggings. On his left hand gleamed two ornate gold rings. A diamond winked from among the lacy layers of his jabot.

And it was not just the clothes, Cat realized. Everything about her hero had changed. He seemed smaller. Lithe and graceful. A man who had never thought of doing something so menial as hefting a cask of wine. The bold carter who had bowed to her from the ox cart had been replaced by a pleasant, somewhat supercilious
hidalgo
of Spain who might possibly be regarding his Portuguese neighbors as some sort of backward poor relations. Then again, the Portuguese
fidalgos
and the many foreigners present were all the society there was, so it behooved him to make the best of it. An infinitesimal shrug of his shoulders, and Blas moved into the crowded room, watching the play at the various tables, nodding occasionally to those who caught his eye. How he conveyed so much without saying a word Catarina could not imagine, but he had done it. She pushed the drapery a bit farther out, peeked at her father who was holding the faro bank at a table on her right. Thomas was blandly returning his eyes to his card box, but Catarina was quite sure she caught a quirk of satisfaction on his lips.

Blas passed through the largest gaming room, which was devoted to faro tables and two of the new roulette wheels, imported from France. He listened politely to the click of dice in a room where hazard was featured, paused to observe the action at the
vingt-et-un
tables, an ancient game not much seen in London’s clubs. The smallest of the six gaming rooms was set up for intimate games of piquet with a few tables occupied by elderly Portuguese gentlemen playing the card games of their youth.

Deciding to indulge in what he knew best, Blas returned to the faro salon and joined the group at a table where the
major domo
of the Casa Audley, Lucio Cardoso, presided over a less expensive bank than Thomas Audley’s. Although Blas was loathe to admit it, he felt more comfortable initiating his masquerade under the aegis of Marcio’s father than under the eagle eye of his mentor, Thomas.

Catherine’s arm grew stiff from holding her peephole open, but she never took her eyes off Blas. When he finally scooped up his winnings and stepped out into the courtyard, she hurriedly vacated the tiny gallery, flying down the wrought iron stairs into the courtyard. He was seated on one of the curved marble benches by the softly tinkling fountain, smoking a pungent cigarillo, patently enjoying the quiet courtyard and the cool night air.

“
Curling tongs?” Catarina challenged, poised before him, a picture of demure innocence as she clutched her shawl high around her neck.

Flaunting her innocence was how Blas saw it. “
Boa noite, senhorita Audley
,” he replied without a hint of expression, adding somewhat succinctly, “Natural. I have to use oil to keep it straight.”

“
And your face?”

“
Lemon juice and a dusting of powder.”

She nodded her approval. He was a worthy addition to her father’s stable of spies. And strangely handsome with the irregular planes of his face softened by moonlight and the faint red glow of his cigarillo. The mist from the fountain blended with the smell of earth still warm from the afternoon sun and the courtyard flowers whose blooms lingered through the gentle Lisboan autumn.

Catarina was too young to know any other word for what she felt but love. He was strong and brilliant, gifted beyond any other she had ever known. She could no more have left him sitting there alone than she could have drowned herself in the Tagus. Still clutching her shawl high under her chin, all trace of the proud daughter of the house swept away by shy awakening, she lowered herself onto a scant few inches of marble at the far end of the bench.

With some vehemence Blas threw his cigarillo onto the tiled walkway and ground it under his heel.
Hell and the devil!
Why must the most beautiful woman in Portugal be fourteen years old? And his employer’s daughter, to boot. Since coming to Lisbon, he could have had a different woman each night. Had had . . . almost. So why in the name of all that was holy did he have to want this one? This was not the kind of chit a man played with. Definitely not. Even sitting with her in the moonlight was compromising. No need to touch. In the strict culture of the Iberian peninsula his unchaperoneed presence was enough to see the knot tied. His choice, if caught? Parson’s mousetrap or pistols at dawn.

Abruptly, Blas stood, sketching a bow while making a supreme effort not to look at the pale heart-shaped face looking up at him so appealingly. Nor at the great green eyes shining with adoration in the moonlight. “For God’s sake, go to bed!” he growled.
And what a singularly inappropriate remark, you dolt!
With a show of stern indifference Blas the Bastard scowled as Catarina took herself off across the courtyard and climbed the outside staircase to the gallery above. She walked with immense dignity, a queen on her way to the guillotine.

When Catarina reached the door to her room, desire triumphed over dignity. She turned and looked down toward the fountain. He was still standing there, bathed in moonlight, like the statue of some ancient Greek God. Heart pounding, she bolted into her room, slamming the door behind her.

The next day Catarina shut herself up in her room and read
Romeo and Juliet
from cover to cover. Since Thomas Audley would not allow a copy of Thomas Bowlder’s
A Family Shakespeare
to disgrace his house, Catarina read the play as William Shakespeare wrote it, blushing mightily over passages which had quite escaped her when she first read it at the age of twelve. If only Dona Felipa were more like Juliette’s nurse! Then again, for all its grand romance, the silly twits managed things rather badly. Blas would never have made such a mull of it.

Chapter Two

Catarina glared at her image in the mirror. Untying the drawstring on the front of her peasant-style blouse, she tugged at the gauzy fabric until the neckline drooped far enough to reveal an expanse of budding young bosom. Cat cocked her head to one side. No . . . perhaps not, she conceded. It was highly likely Blas would only laugh. And,
deus me livre
, if her father should see her! Reluctantly Cat tightened the strings until the neckline was only a scant two inches lower than approved by Dona Felipa.

She lifted the hem of her full black skirt, smiling in satisfaction at the many layers of brightly colored petticoats beneath. Sucking in her breath, Catarina tightened her gold satin sash another half inch before draping a black shawl, colorfully embroidered with flowers of gold, red and purple, around her shoulders. One more look in the mirror. She rubbed her lips together to enhance their color, angled her head to make sure her long dangling earrings were not tangled. With a satisfied shake of the bracelets on her arm, Cat left her room, descending the gallery staircase to the courtyard where Blas was waiting.

With him was Marcio Cardoso, who had obviously been imparting some last minute man-to-man instructions. Until Blas arrived at the Casa Audley, Cat considered Marcio her ideal of young manhood. Though only of medium height, his figure was lithe and graceful. A mass of dark curls topped a face handsome enough to turn female heads wherever he went. His deep brown eyes had soulful depths. Or so Cat thought. Now . . . now she tended to think rugged imperfection far more appealing. Obviously, she was growing up, Cat decided, with smug satisfaction as her feet touched the final stair.

As she approached the two young men, Lucio Cardoso came out of the house. Solemnly, he handed her a wicker basket whose bulging contents were covered with a red and white checked cloth.

The
major domo
of the House of Audley then directed his attention to Blas. “You will be careful,” Lucio Cardoso commanded the young man who was so obviously unaccustomed to taking orders. “Catarina has done this many times, so do not fail to do exactly as she says. No, you will not protest this! She is experienced, you are not. We are allowing you to take Marcio’s place because you have done well in the other tasks we have given you. So tonight you are to be entrusted with the most precious possession of Senhor Tomás—his Catarina and the contents of this basket. Now off with you. Do as she tells you. And nothing else!”

Inside his study Thomas Audley let the drapery fall back in place. Sitting down heavily at his desk, he breathed a deep sigh,. With his country’s secrets he would trust the enigmatic young Englishman without a qualm. With Catarina he was not so sure.

The gaming rooms of the Casa Audley were just beginning to fill with customers when Blas, dressed in the peasant’s clothes he had worn the day he arrived, and Catarina slipped out a small door set into the massive wooden gates at the rear of the house. The gates through which Blas, a month earlier, had driven his ox-cart with the eerily squeaking wheels. As they entered the dark narrow street, Catarina pulled the shawl up over her head, draping it into a cowl that hid her face from view.

“
Blast it, girl,” Blas protested, “this isn’t the
harim
. Or is this the approved ensemble for baby spies? If so, let me assure you it’s a tad obvious!”

“
You think you know everything!” Cat hissed, quivering with youthful indignation. “Portuguese women
are
almost as sheltered as the women of the
harim
. Inside the Casa I am allowed freedom because I am the daughter of a mad
inglês
and only to be pitied because I was not brought up in the proper manner. But in the streets I must be modest. I must also carry the basket, for it is not expected a man would so lower himself.”