Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (10 page)

A common interest in the Etruscans had created an immediate rapport between the English marquess and the Roman prince. That in turn led to an invitation for the English party to visit the Palazzo Savelli to view the prince's collection of antiquities.

Lady Elinor looked about her and decided that the palazzo itself was more than worthy of a visit. Like the Crescenzi palazzo, it had walls and ceilings covered with frescos and floors covered with tiles. Unlike the Crescenzi palazzo, it showed no signs of faded glory. Everything here was beautifully maintained. The marble floors gleamed with wax and were covered with thick carpets from Persia and India.

Far from flaking, the frescoes looked as fresh as the day they had been painted. In the enormous reception room where they awaited the prince, one wall was devoted to a landscape of the Roman countryside that seemed to quadruple the size of the room. On another wall, windows opened into a garden, letting in the spicy scent of wisteria, already blooming in April. And something else. Something sweeter.

“What is that?' Elinor asked Tunbury quietly.

“What is what?”

“That sweet smell from the garden.”

He sniffed. “Lemon blossoms. The lemon trees are blooming.”

“Oh,” she breathed out on a contented sigh.

“Why are we whispering?”

She looked at him impatiently. “Because I don't want to sound like an ignorant foreigner.”

He bit back a smile. “But you are a foreigner. In case you hadn't noticed, we're in Rome. The fact that everyone here speaks Italian might have given you a hint.”

“You're just being difficult. You know perfectly well what I mean. And don't think I haven't noticed how you pride yourself on your Italian accent. I saw you preening the other day when the waiter asked if you were from Florence. You like to think you fit in.”

He had the grace to blush slightly. “Point to you. And I do know what you mean. But you needn't worry, you know. People never get upset when you are admiring their country, only when you are sneering at it.”

“How could anyone sneer at Rome? At Italy? Just look around.” She waved a hand at the room. “Everywhere you look there are treasures from the past. The very stones are ancient.”

There was a gentle laugh behind her, and she turned to see Prince Savelli smiling at her. He was really quite handsome despite his age, she thought. Not at all portly, as so many elderly gentlemen were, but slim and standing straight, and he had a full head of hair, even if it was graying. She didn't generally care for aquiline noses, but on the prince it looked appropriate. Especially when, as now, a smile softened his fierce features. Elinor smiled back at him.

“I am pleased indeed that you admire my city,” he said. “And the very stones of which this building was constructed are indeed ancient. My ancestors—who were, perhaps, not as respectful of the past as we are today—found it convenient to build this palazzo on the ruins of an ancient theater. Fortunately, the Romans were not careless, and the arches they built provide us today with a firm foundation. You will see them in the rooms below that house my Etruscan collection.”

“We are looking forward to that, Your Excellency,” Tunbury said, taking Elinor's hand and putting it on his arm.

Savelli turned his eyes from Elinor and stared at the younger man briefly before smiling again. “It will be my pleasure.”

As the prince stepped away, Armando Landi appeared at Elinor's side. Tunbury tightened his arm against his side, firmly trapping Elinor's hand. She ignored this and greeted Landi with a smile.

“Lady Elinor, your smile brings new life to these old stones.” The cavaliere lifted her free hand, brushed a kiss over her knuckles without ever taking his eyes from her face, and kept her hand in his just a fraction too long for her comfort.

She would have said something discouraging, but Tunbury's derisive snort was too audible. Instead, she made herself look flattered by the flowery welcome. “It is delightful to be invited to the prince's beautiful home.”

Just beside them, Rycote looked around nervously. “Is your mother joining us as well?”

“Not just yet.” Landi smiled at Rycote's obvious relief. “She is still preparing herself for dinner and will join us later. I suspect that her real reason for delay is that she does not wish to disturb her costume in these underground chambers. I fear she cares little about the past. Her home, her family—it is there that her interests lie. Someone like the beautiful Lady Elinor, who takes an interest in the history of our country, is most unusual and delightful.” He sent a flashing smile, accompanied by a bow and a flourish, in Elinor's direction.

Rycote may have looked relieved, but Tunbury did not. He continued to glower, and Elinor wanted to shake him. Did he really think she was flattered by the sort of drivel Armando spouted?

“Do not monopolize our guests, Armando.” The prince spoke sharply to his cousin, who flinched at the tone. Then, with a smile, Savelli suggested that the tour begin.

They proceeded down a broad stone staircase, accompanied by servants carrying lamps to illuminate the way. Although the rough stone of the walls and arches was a warm gold in tone, there was a chill to the place as they descended. Elinor was glad to hold on to Tunbury's arm, finding comfort in his nearness.

“I apologize for the inadequacy of the lighting,” said the prince with a rueful smile. “Gaslights have come to the cities of Lombardy, but here in Rome we seem to prefer the dimness of the past. Change is very slow here.”

“But change is coming,” said Landi, sounding a bit angry, thought Elinor. Or resentful.

Savelli looked at him in silence, no expression on his face, and then gave a quick smile. “Is it?” he said softly. “Perhaps. We shall see.”

“I notice that you speak of Rome and of Lombardy, but not of Italy,” observed Penworth. “Do you disapprove of the efforts at unification?”

“Disapprove? No, I neither approve nor disapprove. If it happens, it happens. Will it change anything? That I doubt. Mazzini, Garibaldi, they seem to think that unification will somehow transform us into a great nation of honorable and virtuous men. I fear that most of their followers want only to benefit themselves.” Savelli was looking at Landi in a way that seemed half amused, half contemptuous.

Whatever that look meant, it caused Landi to flush. “If you will excuse me, I will see if my mother is in need of anything.”

His departing footsteps echoed in the uncomfortable silence.

“I apologize if my question ruffled feelings,” said Penworth. “I did not intend to provoke. I was simply curious.”

“That is quite all right, my friend. You see, my young cousin is somewhat embarrassed by the knowledge that he joined himself with the Garibaldini during the early days of the Roman Republic.”

“And you disapproved?”

“No, I would not say I disapproved,” Savelli said slowly. “I was surprised, I confess it, but rather pleased to think that he had some ideals, however foolish they might be. Unfortunately, he drew back as soon as it appeared that the Republic might be crushed. It seems he was as self-seeking as I always suspected. I would have preferred to be wrong.”

There was not much one could say to that, so Lady Penworth turned to examine a statue of a reclining couple. “This pair looks remarkably cheerful,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Savelli, smiling once more. “I believe that is why the Etruscans give me so much pleasure. They are, to our eyes, most remarkably cheerful. They were defeated by the Romans, their cities destroyed, their language lost. All we have left of them are their tombs, and yet what we find in those tombs is a testament to the joy of life. Look at these two, carved for their sarcophagus. They look at each other and smile. They hold hands. Who they are, what they did, we do not know. But we can see the love and happiness they shared, and that is enough.”

Nodding in agreement, Penworth said, “We know the Etruscans must have been great warriors. They held off the Romans for centuries, after all. They probably worried about war and politics, affairs of state, just as we do. Their great gift to us, however, is their recognition that joy and happiness, music and feasting—these things deserve celebration. We may know nothing else about them, but that is enough.”

Tunbury had left Elinor to examine a beautifully chased bronze mirror and was circling a black-figured amphora. “What we don't know is perhaps part of the appeal,” he said. “We can use our imaginations.” He turned back to the sarcophagus. “That pair over there. Was he a warrior? A merchant? Did he bring home this amphora to please his wife, or did she choose it? Did she bring that mirror with her when they were married, or was it his gift to her?”

Elinor looked at him in surprise. She had never thought of him as so imaginative, so romantic. The realization made her happy, and she smiled.

“That is part of both the appeal and the problem,” said Savelli, also giving Tunbury a smile of approval. “In the case of these three items, they are of the same period, but from the same tomb? It is possible, but we can never know because I purchased all of them from antiquities dealers, and they rarely even know where the things they sell were discovered.”

“But isn't that foolish?” asked Penworth. “Aside from the importance for scholars of knowing about what things belong together, would the items not be more valuable if their origin were known?”

Savelli shrugged. “More valuable to scholars, certainly, but more valuable to the finders? That depends. If a shepherd tumbles into a tomb and discovers that mirror there, he can tell his master, who thanks him and gives him a few
baiocchi
, a few coins. If instead he takes the mirror, he can sell it to a merchant, who gives him a bit more, perhaps a few
scudi
, more than he earns in a year. Then the merchant takes it to an antiquities dealer, who gives him a few hundred
scudi
. Then the dealer sells it to me for a few thousand
scudi
.”

“Thousands?” Rycote sounded shocked.

“Oh, yes indeed. And if that shepherd is enterprising, he will discover where the merchant sells the mirror. Then he goes back to the tomb and gradually empties it out, selling to the antiquities dealer for enough to buy himself a house in town and spend the rest of his life sitting in a caffè. It is a sore temptation for a poor man. That is why we rarely find an untouched tomb. Even on my own estates, tomb robbers and thieves are a constant problem.”

“The temptation must be great,” said Elinor, looking again at the mirror. The back of it had an engraved picture of a woman with a winged boy—Cupid, perhaps? It was quite lovely.

She turned to Savelli. “May I touch it?”

He smiled with delight. “Certainly. After being buried for thousands of years, it will no doubt appreciate the touch of a lovely woman.”

She held it out at arm's length and discovered that she could see herself in the polished bronze surface. “Oh, goodness!” She turned to Tunbury, smiling with delight. “I can see myself in a mirror that belonged to a woman thousands of years ago. Thousands of years. Can you believe it?”

He smiled back, and she knew he understood exactly how she felt.

She was having a wonderful time. She had been having a wonderful time for weeks now, for months even. Ever since Harry came back. He was the only man she knew, outside her family, who didn't assume she was an idiot, who didn't
expect
her to be an idiot. He was never surprised when she was interested in something or even knew about something that was generally considered the sort of thing only a man could understand. He gave her such an incredible sense of freedom.

That's what love was, she realized. The freedom to be yourself.

* * *

Tunbury drifted back to the sarcophagus. The couple haunted him. The woman was smiling up at the man, and he was looking tenderly at her. His arm rested on her shoulder protectively. They seemed complete, in and of themselves. They needed no one else. Love, trust, faith, certainty—these were all there in this one carving.

He closed his eyes. He must be going mad. Here he was feeling jealous of a couple who had died more than two thousand years ago.

But he longed for the happiness they had had, the happiness he feared he could never have. He wanted Norrie to smile up at him that way, with a smile full of love and trust. He wanted to be able to put his arm around her. He wanted to be the one to protect her. He wanted her in his arms, melting with passion.

He wanted… God, how he wanted!

* * *

Rycote settled into the blue chair across from Marchese Crescenzi. He was beginning to think of it as his chair, since he had been sitting in it practically every day for the past two weeks. They were, as always, in the marchese's hot, stuffy room, surrounded by little tables covered with miniatures, while Crescenzi ancestors glowered at them from the dark portraits on the walls. The marchese had greeted him with what he now knew were the accustomed courteous phrases, and he had responded with the equally courteous phrases Lissandra had taught him.

It was strange, really. He had always hated trying to speak French because he knew his pronunciation was all wrong and he felt like such a fool. But he didn't mind at all that Lissandra was teaching him Italian. He didn't even mind when she laughed at his pronunciation. He sometimes mispronounced things just to hear her laugh.

He loved her laugh. If he could, he would see to it that she always laughed, that she never had to worry about her parents or her fool of a brother. If she allowed it, he would protect her always.

The formalities completed, the marchese began one of his stories about Rome, or rather, one of his stories about the importance of the Crescenzi family in Rome. Rycote didn't mind. The stories were interesting enough and Lissandra sat on a low stool beside her father to translate. That meant Rycote could feast his eyes on her without seeming in the least rude or impertinent.