A Chance Encounter (St. John Series Book 10) Page 3

  “I am. Most shipping offices are not this clean.”

  Martin beamed. “I hire some of the local orphan children to clean. It gives them purpose and a few coins. Not to mention, they inform me of any necessary information should I need it.”

  Oliver laughed. “So they are your spies?”

  Martin gave an indifferent shrug. “In a sense.” Approaching the door, he turned the knob. Stepping inside, Oliver’s inspection continued. The inside was just as clean as the out. Two desks sat near the back of the room, and behind the desks were large shelves covered in ledgers. Behind one desk was an older gentleman. The man’s hair was white, and he possessed a large hook nose, on the tip of which were perched wire rimmed spectacles. The man looked up. His brown eyes shined with youthfulness as he smiled. The man gave a politely greeting in Italian, and Martin returned the welcome.

  “Signore Valerio, I would like to introduce you to Oliver St. John. His father owns our company.”

  Mr. Valerio stood and rounded his desk. He stood straight and proud as he approached Oliver with an outstretched hand. “So very nice to meet you, Signore St. John. We are delighted to have you visit our office.”

  Oliver took the man’s hand and was surprised to notice the strength behind it. “Mr. Valerio.”

  “Signore Valerio assists me during the busier times, and Carnival is certainly one of those times.”

  “Indeed, it is!” Valerio said. “We’ve been receiving shipments nearly nonstop for the past four weeks!” The older man rubbed the fingers of his right hand and laughed. “My old bones are achy from logging in the supplies.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Martin replied, grinning. “Watch him, Oliver. He can tell a tale or two.”

  “Are the shipments one of his tales?” Oliver asked.

  Valerio’s grin widened. “No. That I never jest about.”

  Oliver nodded. “Good. Father will be delighted to know the accounts when I return.”

  “Of course,” Martin replied. “We’ll have a report written up to send to him by the time you are finished with your little holiday here.”

  “Don’t be in too big of a rush,” Valerio said. “Carnival begins in three days, lasts for eight, and takes a month to recover!”

  “I truly hope so,” Oliver replied.

  Valerio chuckled. “Oh, the enthusiasm of youth and merrymaking. I remember those days. Just be warned. Roman girls are the prettiest in the world and the most vicious when angered. Just don’t break their hearts and you will be delighted for the visit.”

  “I do not plan on leaving a carnage of broken hearts upon my departure. Only lasting memories.”

  Valerio threw his head back and laughed harder. “Then you will not be disappointed.”

  “I truly hope not.”

  Martin shook his head. “Now that that is cleared up, Signore Valerio, I will be out of the office the remainder of the day. If you need me, please send a runner to my home.”

  Valerio nodded. “Very well. Enjoy the day, and I will see you…?”

  “Monday.”

  “Taking a whole two days off? That is so unlike you.”

  “I have company.” Martin gave a flourishing gesture towards Oliver.

  “That never stopped you before.”

  Martin smiled. “This is different company. This is my friend. Family is not company.”

  Valerio motioned towards the door with his hand. “Go. Show your young friend the city and enjoy your time with your wife.” A wicked grin pulled the older man’s mouth. “You’ll need to butter her up before Carnival just in case you find yourself in hot water.”

  “Relax, Signore Valerio. I have never made my wife angry at me.”

  “And you claim I tell tales. There is always a first time. And Carnival is just the opportunity.”

  “Then I shall enjoy her company until then. Come, Oliver. I will show you the treasures of Rome that are in the direction of my home.”

  Oliver gave a polite nod in the direction of the older man. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Valerio.”

  The younger men left the office. As they walked, Oliver could not help but marvel at the beauty of the city. Pristine buildings with intricately carved adorations. Statues and fountains. Vendors peddling their goods along the walk. The aroma of freshly baked bread filled his senses.

  A beautiful young woman stepped before them holding her freshly baked goods.

  “How much?” Martin asked.

  The woman smiled coyly at Oliver. “For him, free.” She handed Oliver a sampling of bread.

  “How kind of you,” Oliver replied.

  “Carmen!” an older man from the storefront yelled. “Do not be giving away our profits!”

  “Coming, Papa.” Carmen sent another lustful glance in Oliver’s direction. “We have the best-baked goods in all of Rome. Come by later, and I will show you how fresh our dough is.” With that, the young woman left.

  “I’ll be.” Martin glanced at Oliver, a perplexed look on his face. “I think you have just been propositioned by my baker’s daughter.”

  A boyish grin pulled Oliver’s lips. He said nothing. Instead, he placed a piece of bread into his mouth.

  “Stop grinning. And why the bloody hell are you carrying a basket?”

  “You’re just now noticing that?” Oliver asked, his grin widening.

  “Yes. No. Would you please stop that excessive grinning. No wonder your brothers beat the hell out of you in your youth.” Martin furrowed his brow. “Is that why you were late coming to my office? A dalliance with a woman who gifted you with a basket instead of the other way around.”

  Oliver laughed. “I do not kiss and tell.”

  “Signore Henshaw,” a voice called in the distance.

  Oliver watched the man approach. He was an intimidating older man. His posture was straight, and his dark hair was scattered with white. Dark forbidding eyes traveled over Oliver. The man approaching was not nearly as tall as Oliver, but he was a formidable man with strong shoulders and a stern expression.

  “That is Signore Antonio Russo,” Martin spoke, keeping his gaze upon the advancing man. “He is the magistrate in this area.”

  “Is he a problem?”

  Martin shook his head. “Not as long as you don’t involve yourself with his daughters.”

  “Are they an issue?”

  Martin nodded. “That they are. His oldest twin is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. He is highly protective of her. The others—well, their mother is trying her damnedest to pair them with any suitor.”

  “How many?”

  “Five? I think. At any rate, he will want us to come to dine with him sometime during the next few weeks. Find a reason to decline. If his daughter Angela slaps eyes upon you, she will beg her mother to pair the two of you together.”

  “I have no desire for a wife. I am here for the enjoyment of the festivities.”

  “That is why I am warning you. His wife tries to arrange marriages to her daughters to any man she sees. With five single women in a house and suitors only interested in one, it makes a mother desperate to pawn off the others to anyone for any reason.”

  “I’ll simply tell him no if he gives us a dinner invitation.”

  “Politely, Oliver. Lie if you must. Signore Russo can cause problems with shipments. I try to stay upon his good side at all times. Keeps things from getting messy.”

  Oliver looked at Martin. “You pay him bribes?”

  Martin shrugged. “Call it what you will. It is imperative to stay on his good side. Signore Russo! So good to see you.”

  Russo stopped before them, his eyes still upon Oliver.

  “I am surprised to see you out this early in the afternoon, Signore Henshaw,” Antonio said.

  “I have an important guest. Signore Antonio Russo, I would like to introduce you to Oliver St. John. His father owns Emerald Shipping.”

  Russo gave a polite nod of his head. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Signore St. John. What
brings you to Rome?”

  Oliver extended his hand. Russo looked at the offering and loosely took the friendly gesture. Oliver grasped the man’s hand and gave a firm handshake.

  In perfect Italian, Oliver spoke. “A holiday. I have been told that one has not lived life until they partake in Carnival at least once.”

  Russo pulled his hand away. “You speak Italian?”

  “My mother was adamant that my siblings and I speak many languages.”

  “I see. Well, Carnival is most enjoyable. Keep your vigilance. Vagrants like to prowl upon unsuspecting visitors.” A deep breath left him. “And most likely more so this year.”

  “Why?” Oliver asked.

  “The French Army under the orders of Napoleon,” Martin said. “I heard they can cause problems.”

  Oliver glanced around the area and noticed several French soldiers in the distance.

  “Should we be concerned?” Oliver inquired. Oliver knew that there was turmoil in Italy and that Bonaparte’s army had invaded the northern portion of the country, but he had not gotten word of the disturbance in Rome until now.

  “As long as you do not cause too much of a commotion,” Russo said. “I have been assured that no harm will befall our law-abiding citizens as long as they act in accordance of the laws set forth.”

  “And that you will help uphold?” Martin spoke. The instant the question was out of his mouth he could have kicked himself. The last thing he wanted to do was to anger Russo.

  “Indeed,” Russo replied, displeasure in his tone. “Just take care and keep your vigilance.”

  “I will heed your warning, Signore Russo.” Oliver motioned around. “You have a lovely city here. I hope to get to see all the sights Rome has to offer before my departure.”

  “There is much to take in in Rome. How long do you plan on staying?”

  Oliver shook his head. “I haven’t decided. Three? Possibly four weeks. Who can tell? It depends on how trying I am on Signora Henshaw.”

  A forced laugh left Russo. “Indeed. Wives have a tendency to rule the roost, don’t they?”

  “That they do,” Martin replied. “Now, I hate to detain you any longer than necessary. A busy man, such as yourself, has much to do during this time.”

  “That I do. Good day, gentlemen.”

  When Russo was out of earshot, Oliver spoke. “I don’t trust him.”

  Martin began walking, and Oliver joined him. “Neither do I. I do what I do to keep him at bay, and I stay out of his way as much as possible. Now no more talk of Russo.”

  The pair made their way to Martin’s home at the outskirts of the city, and the opulence surprised Oliver. It was a two-story home with arched entryways. Black shutters adorned the multitude of windows upon the front. The roof was covered in red, clay shingles. Bright green shrubbery surrounded the front porch. Dark gray steps led up to the porch. To each side of the manicured lawn were tall white stone fences.

  “Apparently my father is paying you too much,” Oliver said.

  Martin laughed. “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

  The pair climbed the steps. Before they reached the top, the front door opened. The woman at the door smiled and held her hands out to Martin. The wind captured her free-flowing raven locks, and they danced around her rounded face. Her dark eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief. The cream-colored gown she wore was pushed against her body by the breeze, exposing her hourglass figure.

  “Martin! You are home early,” the woman spoke.

  “I had to come to see my lovely wife,” Martin said, taking her hands.

  The woman laughed. “You must be speaking of someone who is not swayed by your slick words.”

  “You are the only woman in my life. From now until always.”

  “Then who is this, if he is not the man you have brought to give me to?”

  Martin motioned to Oliver. “Geneva, my love, this is my oldest friend, Oliver St. John. Oliver, this is my wife, Geneva.”

  Geneva’s hands floated to her sides, grasping the sides of her dress. Giving a polite curtsey, she spoke, “So you are the man my Martin has spoken nothing of for the past two months.”

  Oliver bowed. “All lies I can assure you.”

  Geneva tilted her head to the right. “Not all lies. I do say, you have the reddest hair I have ever seen.”

  Oliver tossed his head back and laughed. “Then I truly hope you will enjoy the trouble that it causes as well. For redheads are known for mischief.”

  “And so are Italians, Signore St. John.”

  “I truly hope so. And call me Oliver. Anyone married to Martin is part of my family.”

  Geneva turned and entered the house. “I can see you are the charmer that Martin has proclaimed you are. But your charms will not work on me. My heart belongs to Martin.”

  “You think I’m charming?” Oliver asked, following Geneva into the house. “Better watch out, Martin. I think your wife likes me.”

  Martin laughed. “I have no fear. You do not have the correct temperament to handle a hot-blooded Italian woman. They would devour you alive.”

  “Oh, I highly doubt that,” Oliver replied. “Women love me.”

  Martin snorted. “Don’t remind me. How many did you steal away from me when we were boys?”

  “So you admit that I am better with women?”

  “No. You just willed yourself into their good graces.”

  Geneva shot a heated look at Martin.

  Martin cleared his throat. “But none of that matters now. I have found an angel in human form.”

  Geneva gave an unladylike snort as she rolled her eyes. “Keep talking, Martin, and you will find yourself sleeping in that log you are carving.”

  “Log?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes. He fancies himself a boat maker now. There is a large log lying in my backyard. Has been for the past six months. He claims he is trying to carve it into a boat to take me sailing. I have yet to see any resemblance of a boat. Only a log with a very small dent in the top. A log that is taking up space in my yard. Space where I could host parties. Instead, I have a rotting log.”

  “It is not a log with a dent in the top,” Martin defended. “It takes time to carve a boat from a beech tree. Those bloody things are hard.”

  Oliver tossed his head back and laughed.

  “What?” Martin snapped.

  “Why would you use beech for a boat? The wood is hard, but it is not known for being good for ships. It rots entirely too quickly.”

  “The blasted thing washed up in my backyard,” Martin mumbled. “What was I supposed to do with it? Besides, I thought if you can build a ship, I can.”

  A type of arrogance crossed Oliver’s features that grated on Martin’s nerves. Martin knew that look. It was the same look all St. Johns possessed. Arrogance fueled by their superiority at their chosen profession. They knew they were skilled with their chosen craft, and Oliver’s expression let Martin know that Oliver was about to show him up.

  “Beech is fine for knife handles. If you wanted to carve a boat, you should have chosen a better type of wood.”

  “Let me guess. You are going to tell me what I should use?”

  Oliver shook his head. “No. I’ll let you figure it out. I am on holiday, not here to work on your bloody rotting boat. But if I find my hands idle, I might give you a bit of advice. That is what I do for a living, after all. Build ships. I cannot have your lovely wife sitting at the bottom of the river because of your lack of knowledge in shipbuilding, can I?”

  “You St. Johns. The lot of you are arrogant as hell, you know that right?”

  “Of course.”

  Geneva laughed. “Boys. No need to fight over a piece of rotting wood. Now, Oliver, you must be weary from your travels. Allow me to show you to your room. Your trunks arrived just before you did.”

  “How kind of you,” Oliver replied. Walking past Martin, he patted his friend upon the shoulder. “No hard feelings. You are just so easy to rile.”


  “Then why do it?”

  “Because it’s fun. Relax. Beech is not the worst for boats. It will be suitable as long as you store it properly.”

  “Then why all the fuss?”

  “Because you are so fun to rile.”

  “Thanks for reminding me why I don’t ask you to visit that often,” Martin mumbled.

  “Now, just imagine how delightful it would have been if I had brought Owen with me.”

  Martin tossed his hands in the air. “Thank God you didn’t, for if you did, I would find a reason to have Russo invite us to his home every night.”

  “What?!”

  “It would have served you right if you had brought Owen. Nothing would be better for the both of you than an ugly wife.”

  “Perhaps for Owen. I enjoy my bachelor life and plan on enjoying it for many more years to come. Now, please excuse me. I must find the perfect location to place my basket.” Oliver held the item up and waved it around. “You know since a lovely lady paid me for my services with it.”

  “Go!” Martin yelled, pointing to the steps.

  “Martin!” Geneva protested. “What has gotten into you?”

  Oliver laughed. “A joke between old friends. Now, where is my room?”

  “In the bloody attic with all the other unwanted items,” Martin mumbled.

  “Martin!” Geneva scolded again.

  Oliver laughed. “That is quite all right. Martin and I always quibble in some fashion. I take no offense from his spouts. In fact, I enjoy them for I know how to annoy the old chap. Now I will find my room myself.” Oliver noticed the frustrated expression upon his friend. “And allow you, Geneva, to reprimand your husband in private.”

  Chapter Four

  Madelena weaved her way through the streets as she made her way to the dressmaker. Her eyes twinkled with happiness. Signore Oliver had gifted her with more than enough to purchase her mask. If she added her funds to the amount, she would have not only enough for her mask but a different dress, too!

  Placing her pole and baskets against the wall to a building, she looked up. This dress shop had the mask she wanted. Mayhap, they would have a dress as well. Pushing open the door into the dress shop, the bell above the door jingled.