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Chapter Text

Soho. London. August, 1763.

He wanted to be welcomed. It never occurred to him that this might be presumptuous. As he looked around the small, dingy room, with its low ceiling, shabby bed and visible mouse holes bored into the walls, he tried to fight off feelings of despair.

He wanted to be grateful, he really did, but all he felt was jealousy, loneliness and, as he saw something scurry across the corner of the room, a rising nausea. On principle he had nothing against rodents, but he had grown up in Venice, as small boy facing off against rats almost half his size in dark alleys. The smell alone was enough to turn his stomach. It reminded him of the time he had spent in prison.

Giacomo felt pain gathering at the back of his throat. His friends were so successful. They had a place, a position. They fit the system. The system put them in a box and they ran with it. It took them so far and left him behind. All he had few glimmering insights, a couple superficial talents and a deep desire to make people happy. And this was how they treated him. There were other rooms in the house, he had asked about that. There was no reason for him to be stuck here in what was little more than a cupboard. He hadn't even seen Therese yet. He'd thought she was his friend. Where was she?

He fought for composure, his face studiedly expressionless. Giuseppe was still in the doorway of his larger, better-kept room, watching him.
He picked up his bag, dusting imaginary dirt off the bottom of it and shuddering. Casanova had always been more squeamish than he cared to admit. He had been spoiled, he knew that. Living with the aristocracy had made him expect decadence and he was almost ashamed.

Giacomo slipped past the teenager in the doorway and fled downstairs. He pushed the door open and stumbled out into the sunlit square, allowing himself to burst into tears.

Ignoring the glances of passers-by, he looked up at the weather-beaten statue that stood in the middle of the square.

'Hello, Charles.'

The statue seemed to peer blankly down its nose at him.

'The wheel turns, doesn't it? One day you have the world spread out before you, the next you're running for your life. Sometimes it's both at the same time. And sometimes...' Giacomo's voice broke, 'Sometimes you're stuck in Soho Square to slowly turn to dust. No where to go and nothing to be.'

The statue, of course, said nothing.

Giacomo took a deep breath, choking back a sob, and took off running. The wind roared in his ears, and dragged cold tears from the corners of his eyes. The tulips that filled the square became a blood-coloured blur before they faded from view. His bag struck his shins as he ran, his embroidered travelling coat flapping against his legs. He ran and ran, feet striking the paving stones. It felt familiar, but he knew, for once, that he wasn't running away from anything. He ran until his breath was ragged and there was a stitch in his side.

Giacomo slowed, taking in his surroundings. There was a coffeehouse on the street corner. He stepped inside, attempting to quiet his breathing.
Someone was staring at him. A dark haired man a few years older than himself in a well-made suit. Casanova, never one to be easily perturbed, though still trying to catch his breath, took note of the cup he was holding.

'What's that?' He asked insouciantly, once he had recovered breath.

'Cappuccino,' the dark haired man said, setting it down on the table, 'It's Italian.'

Giacomo frowned. 'Never heard of it. But this-' Casanova flicked the edge of the ceramic cup with his fingernail, causing some of the milk foam to slosh over the edge, 'Is Austrian. Believe me, I should know.'

The other man wrapped his hands around the coffee protectively, moving it out of Giacomo's reach. 'Is there something you want?' he asked, not entirely politely.

Giacomo shrugged, 'Is there anywhere you know of where I might obtain inexpensive lodging?'

'Never been to London before, have you?'

The occupant of the next table over turned around, 'Leave him alone, DJ.' He switched to speaking Italian, 'I know a place in the Pall Mall, where you could get a decent room. My name's Martinelli, by the way.'

'Thank you.' Casanova whispered.

'Can I get you anything to drink?'

Casanova shook his head, conscious of the drying tear stains on his face.

'You sure?'

He nodded.

Chapter Text

‘Stan?’ Don Juan queried plaintively, draining his cup. ‘Is cappuccino really Austrian?’

‘Hm?’

‘That young man said-‘

‘He spoke Italian with a French accent. For him it’s probably café au lait or the highway.’

‘He was crying, did you see that?’

‘Can we not go chasing people across London? What about that nice opera singer-‘

‘What was her name?’

‘Therese,’ Stan sighed.

‘What about her?’

‘You’ve been seeing her for a fortnight!’

‘So?’

‘You’re horrible.’

Martinelli who had been listening at the next table pushed his chair back. ‘Therese needs a lawyer.’

‘And he’ll be needing a job,’ Don Juan mused, resting his finger on his lips. ‘Pall Mall, you said?’

‘He didn’t look like a lawyer.’

‘What makes you think the two observations are in any way related?’

Giacomo Casanova was indeed in need of a of a job. London’s definition of “affordable” was not what he had hoped. He didn’t want to admit it but the lodging he had accepted was objectively smaller and shabbier than the room he had turned down on Soho square.
But that was okay. He was living on his own means. He pulled on the end of the dark ribbon that held his hair back and sat down on the dusty mattress. Everything was going to be alright and he didn’t owe anyone anything.

He breathed in the arenaceous smell of the room. He was four blocks from the Thames, a five minute walk from the Queen’s House and ten minutes from Westminster. An ideal location if he was someone important. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

There was a knock on the door and Giac jumped. The wooden slats under the mattress creaked under his weight. This bed wasn’t going to be much good for anything, he decided.

He looked at the door warily.

The person on the other side of the door cleared his throat, ‘Is this the residence of a Signor Giacomo Casanova?’ he spoke in an English accent.

Casanova opened the door, not all the way, but enough to peer outside. ‘This is he.’

‘The Venetian Envoy would like to extend an invitation.’

‘Oh?’

’To present you in court.’

‘Vraiment?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

Giac frowned. ‘Didn’t I see you in the coffeehouse?’

The short Englishman shook his head.

‘Well-‘ Giacomo exhaled a long breath through puffed cheeks, ’thank you for telling me.’

‘Do you know the way?’

‘I can read a map.’

Giacomo knocked on the door of the house of the Venetian Envoy at five that afternoon.

He opened the door himself, which should have been a good sign, but then he saw the expression on his face.

‘And you are?’ the envoy asked, looking at Giac rather like he had just crawled out of the sewer.

‘G- Giacomo Casanova, Monsieur- I mean, Signor.’

’Nice to meet you, Monsieur Casanova.’

‘I was informed you had intentions regarding presenting me in court?’

The envoy smiled at him in much the same way one might smile at a rat that has reached the end of a maze and something about it chilled Giacomo’s blood. He bowed cursorily and fled the scene.

He nearly ran into the man that had been at the door of his flat thirty minutes earlier.

‘I may have had the wrong person.’

‘Dreadful aristocrat.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, tell me about it.’

‘He just- You must have seen-‘

‘How about trying Lord Egremont?’

They were shortly informed that Lord Egremont was on his deathbed and not accepting visitors.

The Englishman kicked a lamppost, ‘I’m going to kill him.’

‘Kill who?’

’Never you mind. The French ambassador it is. I said so.’

They arrived at the house of the French ambassador directly across Soho square from Therese’s residence around seven and were greeted warmly.

‘Come in, come in, we’re just having dinner.’

The French ambassador, of course, was having dinner with the Chevalier D’Eon and the dark haired man from the coffeehouse.

‘I hate you,’ Stan whispered to Don Juan.

‘So you’ve said.’

‘What was the point of the wild goose chase?’

‘It wasn’t a wild goose chase,’ Casanova interjected.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Casanova is Venetian,’ D’Eon observed, ‘and, I suspect, in trouble with the Venetian government.

‘And the French government,’ Giac pointed out in confusion.

‘You and me both.’

‘I shall present you to Queen Charlotte and King George on Saturday next,’ the ambassador pronounced.

Towards the end of the meal the ambassador got up to relieve himself and the Chevalier turned to the guests in great earnestness as soon as he was out of the room.

‘He’s been trying to drug me.’

‘De Guerchy? Why?’ Giacomo asked, reconsidering, not for the first time, his aptitude as a judge of character.

‘He’s part of de Pompadour’s faction and I know diplomatic secrets.’

‘Why’re you telling us?’ said Don Juan, his eyes focusing oddly on the middle distance.

‘Don’t mind him, he’s high.’

‘I am.’ He muttered something about resin and “Limehouse Causeway” but no one was really listening.

The Chevalier evidently had more than enough information to take action against De Guerchy.

‘Why don’t you then?’

‘You need an in to London society, don’t you?’

‘Not at the expense of- This is insane-‘

‘I can handle it.’

‘Why are you telling me if you don’t want me to-‘

‘So you’re not upset in a couple of months when he gets what he deserves.’

‘I’m beginning to realize-‘ Casanova said, watching Don Juan stare in fascination at his own hands, ’that I might not have been a very good spy.’

‘Did you get caught?’ Don Juan asked, as De Guerchy re-entered the room.

‘I seem to have done little else.’

‘Get caught doing what? De Guerchy asked, standing in the doorway.

Casanova, artfully oblivious, leaned over and planted a kiss firmly at the edge of Don Juan’s mouth.

‘Whatever you were smoking tastes like a dead fox,’ he hissed. The brown eyes that gazed pellucidly at him held neither dedication nor objection to what he was doing as, dead fox or no, he tilted his head and met his lips fully. Casanova had never seen anything quite like it before. This kind of dispassionate appreciation. Something was missing. He wondered if he had ever looked like that.

‘Do spies kiss with their eyes open?’

‘I’m a very bad spy.’