With her ladylike bearing and knowledge of upper-class society, Allie always ensured potential marks were wealthy individuals who could easily afford financial losses, and given the ill-gotten nature of their own funds, were unlikely to report the theft to the authorities.
For example, today’s target—Signore Carrerra, a man-of-business from Padova—had been secretly carrying nearly ten thousandlirato a bank in Innsbruck. The coin came from murky trading deals with pirates off the coast of Morocco. So to Allie’s equally murky moral calculations, two wrongs made a right in this instance.
But she had not intended for an innocent poet to be caught up in the fracas. Their robberies rarely resulted in injury, but as a precaution, thevetturinohad been ordered to refuse passage to any other travelers. Of course, the Scot had likely charmed his way into a seat regardless.
The man was too attractive for his own good. His handsome face, silver tongue, and careless disregard for his own safety could land him in serious trouble. Even hours on, Allie fretted for him. The poet had regarded the world with a wide-eyed optimism that, to her view, bordered on naiveté and innocence.
He certainly doesn’t kiss like an innocent,a dry part of her noted.
Yes, well . . . the kiss had been necessary.
She had seen how Fabrizio assessed the Scot, as if looking for reasons to harm him. Her colleague was impulsive and had no qualms about hurting anyone he perceived as an obstacle to his goals.
Fabrizio saw himself as her would-be lover, no matter how many times she refused his advances. And so when the Scot protected and flirted with her, Fabrizio had become a bomb in search of a fuse.
At that point, Allie had done the only thing she could:
She had claimed the Scot as her own.
It was rather like a dog marking its territory—an unsavory, though accurate, comparison.
By kissing the Scot, she had tagged him for herself, effectively stating to the rest of her band, even the enraged Fabrizio, that the Scot’s life belonged to her and her alone.
Honor among thieves and all that.
Not that she would ever see the Scot again.
And how odd . . . that simple fact pricked like a sliver in her heart—a sharp twinge of agitation.
She shook her head. Harboring regrets for a charismatic Scotsman would serve nothing. Sentimentality had only ever brought sorrow and hardship to her door. Her twin brother had thoroughly schooled her in that painful truth.
Though perhaps she would claim the Scot’s revolver for herself. Fabrizio had taken it before she had a chance to examine it, but she would like it as a souvenir.
Outside, the sky had faded slowly into a dusky purple, the sunset having spent its glory.
“I say we celebrate another successful venture.” Fabrizio crossed to her, a second glass of redchiantiin his hand, the Scotsman’s revolver forgotten on a table. “Mazzini will be pleased with our efforts.”
Allie nodded and took the goblet from Fabrizio.
Yes, Giuseppe Mazzini would be ecstatic over the rush of funds intoLa Giovine Italia’sdwindling coffers. Mazzini was the leader of their movement, a man who rubbed shoulders with the kings and queens of Europe, using his smooth charm and clever tongue to raise money for his cause.
Devoted acolytes such as Fabrizio resorted to baser methods of securing funds.Rash, fanatical,mercenary. . . those were the words she would summon to describe her friend.
Allie knew Fabrizio had dreams of grandeur. Of raising enough money—either through theft or gambling—to be appointed Mazzini’s right-hand man and travel around Europe with the dashing revolutionary.
“To our success.” He leaned a shoulder on the wall beside her window seat and lifted his glass.
Allie followed suit, clinking her goblet against his.
She swallowed half the cup’s contents in one swallow and then frowned.
“This wine has gone off. It tastes far too acidic. Where did you get—”
Realization came quickly.
Fabrizio had spiked the wine with laudanum.
Her goblet tumbled from fingers gone numb.
