Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (5 page)

She felt even more pleased when she heard Harry's sharp intake of breath when she entered the hall and saw the look in his eye. He definitely was not thinking of her as a child.

More pleasure awaited her when they reached the building on the Rue le Peletier that housed the Théatre Impérial de l'Opéra—the official name of the Paris Opera. Although the building had been intended merely as a temporary home for the opera company and was built of wood rather than stone, Elinor decided it was quite decorative enough.

The ambassador had an excellent box in the first of the four tiers of boxes, providing a good view of other boxes as well as the stage. The gilded pillars and arches, to say nothing of the patrons' jewels, glittered under the gaslit chandeliers and sconces. A quick glance around told her that although she and Mama might not be the most spectacularly dressed women in the audience, they were probably among the top dozen.

Elinor allowed Harry to seat her in the front row, sent a dazzling smile in his direction, and prepared to be admired.

Even after the lights dimmed and the opera began—something by Donizetti or Rossini, she thought, given the elaborate trills the soprano indulged in—Elinor maintained a graceful pose, lifting her fan to her cheek on occasion without ever being so rude as to fidget and distract other patrons. When the lights went up again for the interval, there was an expression of delight on her face, which changed to innocent surprise as a stream of elegant young Frenchmen flowed into the box to ask the Cowleys for an introduction.

* * *

By the time they were ready to leave, Harry thought he was going to go mad. What in God's name did Norrie think she was playing at, encouraging these clowns? They might call themselves
comte
or baron or whatever, but they were obviously cads, each and every one. The way that cretin with the curling moustache—he had to be wearing a corset to fit into that wasp-waisted frock coat—had bent over her shoulder, he was obviously trying to peer down her bodice.

And then there was that pair right beside him discussing her
attributes
! When he spun around in fury and they realized that he spoke French, the speaker had blanched. “
Pardon, monsieur.
I intended no disrespect, I assure you.” If the fellow hadn't been such a namby-pamby, Harry would have challenged him on the spot.

The minute the final curtain fell, while the applause was still going on, he had wanted to grab hold of Norrie and drag her out of the theater and into the carriage. But no, the ambassador had insisted that they wait until the crowd thinned out so that the ladies wouldn't be crushed. As they waited, Lady Penworth and Lady Cowley stood to one side chatting while Norrie stood at the front of the box, looking out over the sea of departing Frenchmen, half of them stumbling into each other because they were looking at her instead of watching where they were going.

With a muttered curse, Harry grabbed Norrie's hand and pulled her to the side, out of sight of those idiots.

“Ouch!” She pulled her hand loose and rubbed it.

“Sorry.” He doubted he sounded sorry. He certainly didn't feel particularly sorry. He snarled at her. “Don't you think you've put yourself on display sufficiently for one evening?”

“What on earth are you talking about? I was only watching the audience. The gentlemen are remarkably elegant, aren't they?”

“Is that what you call it? They were practically drooling over you at the interval.”

“Yes.” She beamed at him. “Wasn't it delightful?”

“Delightful? They almost came to blows trying to retrieve your program when you dropped it. And the things they were saying. Don't pretend you didn't understand. I know how fluent you are in French, for all you were pretending to understand not more than one word in ten and sounding like a schoolgirl at her first lesson.”

“That was fun. You hear so much more when people think you don't understand them—you hear all the interesting things.”

“Well, you shouldn't understand them. Damnation, Norrie, it wasn't decent. You ought to be spanked.”

“Don't be such a prig, Harry.” She smoothed her glove over her wrist. “They should use me at the peace conference. I could eavesdrop and then tell them what the French are really thinking.”

Too angry to say anything coherent, he snatched up her cloak and wrapped it around her. At least sandwiched between her parents and the Cowleys, she was cut off from her slavering admirers.

* * *

The coming peace conference to end the Crimean conflict was threatening to ensnare Lord Penworth. After a dinner with the emperor, he spent the day locked in conference with the ambassador, the special envoy, and assorted aides. This was not at all what Lady Penworth had in mind when they left London. Her husband had, she felt, been distressed enough by the war in the Crimea. This trip was intended to distract him from it, not to draw him in deeper.

It was time, she decided, to leave Paris.

What Lady Penworth wanted was generally what came to pass. A few days later, they were on the road to Lyon. The weather was still cold and gloomy, the post horses were sorry plodders, the roads were indifferent, and Lord Penworth worried that his wife and daughter were uncomfortable, a worry Tunbury and Rycote shared. The ladies bounced around in the coach and laughed at the discomforts.

After a day-long trip down the Saône in a cheerful red steamboat, they arrived at Lyon and settled in. This inn was comfortable, with a dining parlor that looked out on the river, which was sparkling under a cloudless sky. After tasting the croissants served for breakfast, hot and flaky and accompanied by fresh butter and fragrant honey, Lady Penworth suggested that they remain for another day and see the sights.

Rycote looked about sadly, but neither eggs nor ham nor any other sort of meat appeared. It was just as it had been at every other inn. The world outside England seemed sadly deficient in its understanding of a proper breakfast. It could not be helped, so he joined the others in agreeing to his mother's suggestion. After all, it was not as if they did not always agree with his mother's suggestions.

By pure chance, they arrived at the Cathedral just before the clock struck noon, unaware that the clock was one of the wonders of the town. It was an astronomical clock, some thirty feet high. When the noon hour struck, a rooster atop the edifice beat its wings, raised its head, and crowed three times. An angel with an hourglass turned it over while other angels played a hymn on the bells. In a small oratory, a dove descended while the Angel Gabriel appeared to Mary for the Annunciation.

The first bell caught their attention and they watched in fascination. Lady Elinor darted around the clock to try to see all its wonders. The sacristan, a little gnome of a man in a dusty cassock, was delighted by the attention and gladly began answering all the questions that were thrown at him.

The clock was indeed of great antiquity, being first mentioned in the fourteenth century. The wicked Calvinists had almost destroyed it in 1562, and the evil Jacobins attacked it again during the Revolution, but it was always repaired and new figures were added over the centuries.

Rycote had begun by viewing it with his English distrust of things not only foreign but papist. However, the mechanics of the thing caught his interest, and he turned to Tunbury. “Can you ask him to explain the dials?”

The sacristan was happy to do so. An oval dial represented the minutes, with the hand lengthening and shortening as required. On the west side of the tower was a perpetual calendar, and above it an astrolabe showing the stars with a round ball gilded on one side to show the phases of the moon.

While Rycote was absorbed in the mechanics of the thing, Elinor succumbed to its enchantment and grabbed Tunbury's arm. “Harry, just look. Isn't it wonderful?”

He could not look away from her face. Most people leave that eager enthusiasm behind with childhood. Not Norrie. She was staring wide-eyed, pulling him around to see the different figures move.

He had forgotten how much fun everything was with Norrie.

A confused Lady Elinor lay on her bunk as the engine of the steamer carrying them from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia chugged in time to her thoughts. He
has
come
back
, he
has
come
back
. Her friend Harry had come back. He was treating her as a friendly companion now, just as he always had. She could be herself with him. There was no need to pretend. He knew her, faults and all, just as she knew him. They understood each other. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? His friendship?

Well, yes, she wanted that. At least, it was what she had thought she wanted when he first returned.

Now she wasn't sure.

She had come to think that she wanted far more than friendship from Harry, but she wasn't at all sure she knew what Harry wanted.

Her confusion had started on the Channel crossing. Something had happened to her then, and she thought something had happened to Harry as well. She was sure of it. Well, almost sure. There had been some sort of spark between them. She thought so, but he had kept away from her after that and had just been brotherly.

On the other hand, when he had gotten so angry at the opera in Paris, he hadn't sounded exactly brotherly. After all, Pip hadn't pounced on her to bawl her out for flirting, and when it came to his sisters, Pip was about as stuffy as a young man could possibly be. But the way Harry had reacted—she couldn't help thinking that it seemed a lot like jealousy. Her body arched and twisted slightly, and she smiled at the memory. Very well, it probably hadn't been the most virtuous way to behave, but she had enjoyed it.

Her smile broadened. She had felt powerful. Harry's reaction had been exciting. No one else had ever made her feel excited that way. Certainly not those silly fellows hanging over her at the opera. How foolish of Harry not to realize that in comparison to him, all those fellows were nothing, barely real.

She stopped to examine that thought. Had she just had a revelation? Compared to Harry, every young man she met was simply…nothing. Was that why all her suitors in London had seemed so boring? Had she been comparing them to Harry all along, without even realizing it?

Why would she have done that?

Was she in love with Harry? She rolled the notion around in her mind, tried to dismiss it, but no. It refused to be dismissed. She had somehow fallen in love with Harry. When on earth had that happened? Had it always been true, ever since they were children?

That was silly. Children don't fall in love, not that way. But there might be something in the idea because she could see now that no one had ever measured up to Harry.

All through her childhood, he had been the one who understood her, who never expected her to be timid or insipid, the brother who was always there to protect her, to make sure she never ran into real danger. She was not a fool and thought it unlikely that she ever would run carelessly into danger, but the feeling of safety he gave her was…comforting. It had been comforting then, and it was comforting now.

He had always been her friend. Her brotherly friend.

But she was no longer a child, and she found that she wanted him to be far more than a friend. Her thoughts turned back to that evening at the opera. It had been exciting. Just the memory of the way Harry had looked at her, had grabbed her arm to pull her out of sight, gave her a warm feeling deep inside. She could almost feel his hand on her arm, the warmth of it, the strength of it.

There was no point in trying to hide it from herself. She wanted him to love her, and not in some platonic way.

She ached to have him touch her, hold her, and—she was not certain what else she wanted, but she knew there was more, much more.

This yearning could not be just on her part. Of that she was certain. Almost certain. Whenever she brushed against him accidentally, she could swear she felt a current running between them. Every now and then she caught him staring at her with a hungry look before he drew a curtain over his expression. She really did not think this was all her imagination. It could not all be wishful thinking.

But if he felt this same yearning, what was holding him back? Whatever it was, she needed to do something about it. She was not going to just sit back and wait. This was much too important.

The dark shapes in the cabin were beginning to grow clear in the gray predawn light. She could make out her mantelet hanging on a hook. The sun would be up soon. They had none of them undressed for the night, since they would be landing early, but she wanted to see the sun rise on her first glimpse of Italy. She slipped her feet into her boots, snatched up her mantelet, and tiptoed out into the hall.

The world was still a hazy gray when she came out on deck, but Harry was there waiting for her with a lazy grin on his face. Did hearts really jump? She could have sworn hers did when she saw him.

“I knew you would never be able to resist getting up to catch the earliest possible glimpse of Italy,” he said.

“And how did you know that?” She took a deep breath and tucked her hand around his arm as they walked to the rail.

“I did the same thing the first time I came.”

“And you would have done it again even if I weren't here.”

He grinned again. “True enough. But it's even more fun with company. Watch over there.”

She followed his pointing finger and gasped when she saw the sharp edge of land appear against the sudden brilliance of the rising sun. “Do you know where that is?” she asked.

“Part of the Maremma, I think. It's a marshy area and will be pretty unhealthy in a couple of months.”

“It's beautiful.”

“You can't even see it, ninny.” He laughed and put an arm around her shoulders.

It was a perfectly acceptable brotherly gesture, not something you could call an embrace, really. But his hand felt warm and his arm around her made her feel sheltered and something more. She leaned against his chest and rested her head against his shoulder. This was so right, so perfect. For a long moment they stood there, united in their enjoyment of the scene, where every moment the rising sun revealed more details of the landscape, and she gave a little sigh of pleasure.

She should have kept quiet because the sound obviously disturbed him. He jumped away, pushing her from him abruptly. His voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “That's Civita Vecchia off to the south. That's where we land.”

Impossible man. She had to ask. “What's the matter, Harry?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. What makes you think anything is wrong?” He turned to look at her with shuttered eyes. “But you had probably best get back to your cabin now. We should be landing in an hour or so, and you and your mother will want to have some breakfast and freshen up before that.”

She allowed him to lead her back to her cabin, but it was frustrating. Very frustrating.

* * *

The scene at the docks in Civita Vecchia was chaotic. Her brother was looking ridiculously stiff and pompous, which meant, Elinor knew, that he had no idea what to do. Even her father seemed taken aback by the number of people hurrying about looking either worried or officious. Lord Penworth was standing slightly in front of Elinor and her mother, one arm outstretched and resting on the knob of his walking stick as if to create a barrier between them and the world. Lady Penworth bestowed a loving smile on him before she turned to watch the turmoil with interest.

Tunbury had gone off to see if anyone from the bank was there to meet them, preferably with a carriage and all necessary documents. He returned smiling with a tall, elderly man, thin—almost cadaverous—but meticulously dressed in a black frock coat and a silk hat that he promptly doffed as he bowed to the ladies while Tunbury performed the introductions.

The gentleman was Mr. John Freeborn, who served as both the British consul and the head of Freeborn's bank. After welcoming Lord Penworth and his family to Italy, he gestured at the two smiling men following him, dressed as servants. “I have a carriage and a baggage cart waiting. These fellows will carry your trunks and anything else you have, but I am afraid they understand very little English. If you could tell your servants to point out to them what needs to be taken…?”

It needed nothing more than a nod from the marquess to have Millie, Martha, and Crispin waving the Italians onward. “They will take everything to the customs shed?” Penworth asked.

“No need for that.” Freeborn smiled. “I may not be His Holiness's favorite Englishman, but even in the Papal States an English marquess is not subjected to tiresome formalities. If you will come with me, I think we can have you settled in Rome well before sunset.”

No one was inclined to object to that forecast, and Penworth insisted that Freeborn share the carriage.

Once they were settled and on their way, Lady Penworth could not restrain her curiosity. “Surely it must be difficult for you as British consul to be out of favor with Pope Pius. In what way have you offended him?”

Mr. Freeborn smiled. “I fear I was a bit too obvious in my support of the Roman Republic a few years ago. As an Englishman, and accustomed to the freedoms Englishmen enjoy, I cannot regret it, but neither can it be denied that the followers of Mazzini and Garibaldi were determined to limit the pope's power. His temporal power, at least. His Holiness objected, understandably, I suppose.”

Rycote was frowning. “But surely that is all in the past. I thought the rebels were thoroughly routed when the French came to the pope's support and they all ran off.”

“Well, yes, they did run off, as you put it.” Mr. Freeborn was still smiling. “But I do not believe they consider the matter settled. Garibaldi has returned, you know, and there is considerable support for unification in Rome itself, even among the nobility.”

He turned to Penworth. “Indeed, the apartments I have found for you are in the palazzo of the Crescenzi family. If you find them acceptable, you will be occupying the
piano
nobile
, the main floor, while the family retains the ground floor. The marchese himself is an invalid, cared for by his wife and daughter. The son was a somewhat hot-headed follower of Garibaldi. He fled, of course, but his family has found things somewhat difficult since then.”

“How very unfair! The rest of the family should not be punished for what the son did.” Elinor could not manage to keep silent.

Her mother put a restraining hand on her arm. “I hope it will not be too distressing for the Crescenzis to have strangers living in their home.”

“On the contrary,” Freeborn said. “To put it bluntly, the rent will lift a burden of care from Donna Lucia and her daughter, and since your rank, Lord Penworth, is equal to his, the marchese has convinced himself that he is simply offering hospitality to a fellow nobleman. He thinks of you as his guests.”

Lord Penworth exchanged smiling glances with his wife before turning to Freeborn. “We would be honored to be the guests of the marchese,” he said.

Rycote frowned again. “You might want to see the place first,” he muttered.

Freeborn turned to the young man. “I think you will find they are probably the finest apartments available in Rome. The palazzo dates to the sixteenth century and has been reasonably well maintained. It is off the Corso and perhaps a little distant from the English quarter, though within easy walking distance. A carriage house and stabling are also available if you wish.”

Elinor grinned. “Well, I hope we didn't come all this way to spend our time with Englishmen.”

Tunbury grinned back at her. “Never fear. You'll encounter all the Italians you like.”

“Remembering your position, of course,” Rycote said. He had never quite left off frowning.

Elinor made a face at her brother. “I shall obviously have to insist on Harry's company, rather than yours, if you are going to be impossibly stuffy.”

Lady Penworth raised a brow at them and turned to her husband. “Dear me. I thought we had left the squabbling little ones back at school.”

* * *

They were all weary by the time the carriage rolled into Rome, weary and sore. Even Elinor could barely turn her head to look around her at the shuttered buildings of ochre stucco lining the narrow streets, so very different from the gray stone of London. When the carriage stopped, they all raised their heads enough to see a pair of heavy wooden gates set into walls of rusticated stone instead of stucco. Before they could see any more, the gates had opened and they rolled into a cobbled courtyard edged with huge pots of unfamiliar flowering plants.

Rycote and Tunbury stepped out first and helped the others down. Lady Penworth seemed to revive the moment her feet touched the ground. She shook her skirts out and looked about her with lively interest. Even in the fading light it was clear that those plants made the courtyard a place of vibrant color.

Freeborn unfolded himself and straightened up with a smile for the visitors. “My lord, my lady, the marchesa thought you might well be too weary for introductions this evening, so she suggested that I conduct you to the apartments.”

Penworth looked a bit surprised, but his wife took his arm and explained. “That way, if we take one look at the rooms and flee in horror to the nearest hotel, as Pip half suspects, there will be no embarrassment for any of us.”

Rycote flushed. “Now, Mother, I never said any such thing.”

“You don't need to,” said his sister. “We all know what you are thinking all the time.” When he glared at her, she simply laughed. “And you will never get away with strangling me.”

“Enough,” said Penworth. “Suppose we simply follow Mr. Freeborn.”

The consul led them through an arch to a wide marble staircase that divided into two semicircles to reach the upper floor. The entrance hall was covered with frescoes. Clouds and cherubs floated on the high dome of the ceiling, while a quattrocento hunting party circled the walls, moving through idyllic woods in pursuit of a fleeing stag. The party heaved a collective sigh of pleasure.