Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

Beckford was a millionaire, and the richest commoner in England. Orphaned at the age of ten, his upbringing had been supervised by the great Earl of Chatham, who had chosen the ablest tutors for him; among them Sir William Chambers to teach him architecture and Mozart to teach him music. No youth could have made better use of such opportunities. When twenty he had published his first book Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters. Its subjects rejoiced in such names as Og of Basan and Sucrewasser of Vienna. They had, of course, never existed, and the book was actually a satire on the Dutch and Flemish schools; but so skilfully was it done that many people who posed as being knowledgeable about art were at first hoaxed into accepting it as a serious work. Inspired by the Arabian Nights, he had followed it up with Vathek, which was destined to become one of the classics of the English language.

He was a dark, good-​looking man, now thirty-​five. Until two years earlier he had lived mainly abroad, and at times travelled with so many servants that on one occasion he had been taken for the young Emperor of Austria. He was a passionate collector of all things rare or beautiful, and also an omnivorous reader. Having purchased Gibbon's library he had shut himself up at Lausanne for the best part of a year in order that he might read the whole of it. Such prolonged withdrawals from society had given him the reputation of a misanthrope, but the fact was that with such great wealth he needed nobody's patronage, so had the sense to do as he liked; and he was exceedingly particular in the choice of his friends.

His splendid country home, Fonthill, was no great distance from Normanrood, the seat of Droopy Ned's father, and one chance meeting between these two eccentrics had disclosed that they had many interests in common, including a hatred of all blood sports. Largely on that account, Beckford rarely visited at country houses, but Droopy had brought him down to Stillwaters to see Georgina's paintings; for since being widowed she had again taken up her hobby, and during the past year had produced several canvasses which were decidedly original in construction and colouring.

One of Beckford's characteristics was an intense impatience to press on with any matter that happened to be occupying his mind; so, as he seated himself at the table, he said to Colonel Thursby, 'Can you inform me, Sir, when the rest of the party will be down?'

'I cannot speak for Signor Malderini,' replied the Colonel, 'but few foreigners are hearty trenchermen in the morning, so 'tis probable that he'll take a continental breakfast in his room. As for Dick Sheridan, he may send for a draught of ale or a decanter of Madeira, but he never joins the company before midday.'

' Twas of the ladies I was thinking, Sir; for now we have the morning light, I'm all eagerness to see Lady St. Ermins's paintings.'

The Colonel smiled. 'My daughter. Sir, is apt to take an unconscionable time with her toilette, so I much doubt if we can count on seeing her, either, until the morning is well advanced.

Having piled a plate high with kedgeree and poured himself a glass of claret, Droopy looked across at Roger, gave him a mischievous grin, then said to Beckford, 'Mr. Brook has been staying here for some while, and when he does so Lady St. Ermins always shares her studio with him. Until her Ladyship appears he would, I am sure, be delighted to give us his views on art and a sight of his latest masterpiece.'

'Fie, Ned! Shame on you!' Roger exclaimed. 'You know well enough…'

'So, Mr. Brook, you too are a painter!' Beckford cut in with quick interest.'.

'Nay; I'm nought but the veriest tyro. Sir. And then only for brief intervals between long periods when other matters leave me no leisure to ruin canvas.'

'Such modesty becomes you, Sir; but I'd wager that you are belittling your talents.'

'It is the truth,' Roger assured him. 'Even had I, like Lady St. Ermins, had the advantage of studying under Mr. Gainsborough and Sir Joshua Reynolds, I could never have entered her class.'

Beckford raised his straight dark eyebrows. 'I find it surprising that those rival masters should have been willing to give instruction to the same pupil.'

'In this instance, their rivalry was over who could do the most for her,' Roger laughed. 'I'd not impugn their honour by suggesting that it was a case of Susanna and the Elders; but it was not unnatural that two old gentlemen who had long since won wealth and fame should both find a new interest in parting their knowledge to such a lovely and talented young woman.'

'Of your own painting, though,' the Colonel remarked, 'you have no reason to be ashamed. I thought the portrait you have done from memory of Queen Marie Antoinette, as she was while still living at Versailles, an excellent likeness.'

With eager interest Beckford again looked across at Roger. 'You knew that lovely but ill-​fated Queen, then?'

'I did, Sir. Her Majesty honoured me with her friendship, and I saw her with some frequency both before and after she was imprisoned.'

I, too, continued to visit Paris up till '93, and I was present at both the taking of the Bastille and the execution of King Louis.'

This exchange led to their swapping memories of the Revolution during the remainder of the meal. Then, when all four men had dealt fairly with the selection of chops and kidneys, eggs and sausages, York ham, steak pie and galantines, Colonel Thursby said:

'As Georgina will not be down yet awhile, I suggest we should take a look at Roger's picture, then go round those in the house.'

There was a murmur of assent. Picking up his ebony cane, he led the way, limping a little, to the Studio. There the portrait was duly praised, then they began a tour of the Van 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 Clarissa 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.