Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (9 page)

She tilted her head and looked at him now. Finally she smiled again, to his relief. But then she said, “Very well. I accept. You may accompany me. Come. We must hurry. Eduardo will let us leave through the back, just in case Girard is still watching.”

She was on her feet and heading toward the kitchen before he could even begin to think of a reply. That was not at all what he had meant. Unfortunately he now had no choice but to hurry after her on her mad errand.

They went through a maze of narrow streets. Rycote had absolutely no idea where they were, or even in what direction they were heading. This was clearly an old part of Rome, the medieval city, where streets were laid out without rhyme or reason. All the buildings looked alike, drab and run-down, peeling stucco on the walls, and heavy shutters covering all the windows. They walked in silence. He had no idea why she did not speak, but he was too angry to frame a coherent sentence.

At last they stopped before a door. How she knew it was the right one, he could not imagine. It looked exactly like a dozen doors they had already passed. She knocked in what he realized was an odd rhythm. That was all that was needed in this ridiculous melodrama—secret signals.

The door opened a crack. Then a hand reached out and pulled Lissandra in. The door began to close, but Rycote slammed it open and pushed his way in.

A young man was still holding Lissandra's arm, but pushed her behind him and let loose a stream of utterly incomprehensible Italian. He was no doubt the brother. He had her delicate features, a bit too pretty on him, and light hair, though darker than hers. The idiot was wearing a red shirt with a scarf wrapped around his waist from which he pulled a dagger.

More melodrama, thought Rycote in disgust. He bowed slightly and said, “Messer Pietro Crescenzi, I presume. I am Rycote.”

The young man half stumbled as he was halted in his attack by Lissandra, who had grabbed hold of his arm and was pulling him back, her own stream of incomprehensible Italian mingling with his in some bizarre contrapuntal duet. Rycote could not help but smile.

“He is a friend, Pietro, you idiot.” She finally switched to English so Rycote could understand her. “He came with me to protect me. He and his family are staying at the palazzo.”

Pietro eyed him dubiously but put away the dagger before he spat out a few more sentences, less aggressive perhaps, but still incomprehensibly in Italian.

“I'm afraid I do not speak Italian,” Rycote said.

Pietro looked confused for a moment and then broke out in smiles. “Ah, English. You are a sympathizer, then.”

“I'm afraid I have no interest whatsoever in your politics one way or another. I wanted to accompany Donna Lissandra for an entirely different reason. This.” He drew back his right fist and delivered a punch to the jaw that sent Pietro flying back to land on the floor.

“Stop!” Lissandra jumped between them before Pietro recovered enough to pull out his knife again, but turned from one to the other, not certain which one required protection.

Before Pietro could speak, Rycote said, “That was for putting your sister in danger.”

“What danger?” Pietro looked confused.

“You think it is safe for Donna Lissandra to go wandering around Rome by herself, with no protection?”

“No, no, I thought…” He turned to his sister. “I know you could not tell our parents, but why did you not at least have a maid with you? Maria?”

She looked at him in amazement. “Maria? Are you mad? The moment she so much as suspects that you are back in Rome, she will be running to the police or to the French.” She stopped, worry shadowing her face. “Perhaps she did suspect. Perhaps that is why Girard was watching.”

“A gentleman protects his sister,” said Rycote stiffly. “He does not put her in a position where she is prey to creatures like Girard.”

“Girard? Who is this Girard?”

“He is nobody of importance, I am sure. He is a French lieutenant. He probably thinks that to capture someone like you would win him notice.” Lissandra gave a careless shrug. Too careless to be convincing.

Rycote shook his head at her and turned to Pietro. “He may be interested in you, but I think he is far more interested in your sister. You simply provide him with an excuse to put pressure on her.”

“Ah.” Pietro looked thoughtful and turned away from them to pace around the room. He stopped at one point to look at Rycote. “Your family stays at the palazzo? How is this?”

Lissandra sighed and said, “Mr. Freeborn arranged it. You know we need the money. And Lord Rycote's father is an English marchese, so Papa considers it hospitality and is not shamed.”

Pietro looked at Rycote appraisingly. “A marchese. That is good.” He smiled. “Then you will be watching out for my sister. You are perfectly correct. She should not be involved in this.”

“What do you mean, I should not be involved? Do I not get to decide such things?”

“Such things are not for ladies,” said Pietro loftily. “I need to send a message, but there must be another way.”

“You think me incapable of delivering a simple message?” Lissandra was sounding quite outraged.

“Not this one. It is to a waiter at the Caffè Greco and it must be delivered there. You know they would never let you enter, and you can hardly stand around the door without attracting suspicion. But perhaps…” He looked at Rycote as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “Perhaps
you
could deliver it. No one would be surprised if you were to go there. All the English do. And there would be no need for Lissandra to endanger herself.” He smiled. It was not a particularly friendly smile.

Rycote knew blackmail when he heard it. He smiled back with his teeth clenched. “I would be delighted to be of service in this small matter. Simply tell me which waiter.”

“Of course. It is Giovanni. He is the small one, very young, with a nose that is crooked. He works during the day—they send him home at night. I am sure you will be able to recognize him with no difficulty.” He went over to a small table, scribbled out the note, and handed it to Rycote. Just before he let it go, he said, “And I am sure I can trust you to see that no danger befalls my sister, is that not so?”

“It is most assuredly so. I have a sister of my own, so I know precisely how you must feel.”

Lissandra stamped her foot. “Bah! You will stop talking over me as if I am some sort of imbecile. Both of you with your silly plots and protections, you are the infants.” She flung her scarf about her and headed for the door.

Rycote and Pietro exchanged what was probably their first look of real understanding.

* * *

Lissandra marched down the street, not bothering to wait for Lord Rycote. She knew he would be following because that was what they did, these honorable gentlemen. That was what they thought courtesy meant—making certain that a woman did not take two steps unescorted. Did they ever stop to ask if the woman wished to be escorted? Did they bother to ask if the destination to which they took her was the destination she desired?

Of course not!

She would like to smash something over his head, the idiot. He was just like her brother. Because a woman was not strong enough to knock him down the way he had knocked Pietro down, she must be a mindless ninny, incapable of understanding anything.

He had caught up with her and was walking beside her. She sneaked a sideways glance at him. He was looking straight ahead with a martyred air about him, as if he was the one who had been insulted back there. His mouth—his beautiful mouth—was set in a sulky pout.

It was not fair for him to be so handsome. Everything about him, not just his face. He was tall and strong but not bulging with muscles. No, he was all lean grace, like a leopard. Why did he have to be stupid, like her brother?

She sneaked another look at him. No, that was not fair. He was not entirely like her brother. Pietro sent her to run his errands because he thought she was too stupid to see the danger and refuse. Lord Rycote wanted to protect her because he thought she was too foolish to see the danger for herself.

He was wrong, but it was not so terrible to have someone wanting to protect you. Not terrible at all. In fact, it gave her a warm feeling inside.

She reached over and tucked her hand around his arm. He almost jumped, he was so startled, and looked down at her as if he could not quite believe it. She smiled, and he smiled back, not a courteous smile, but a glorious smile that lit up his face, a smile full of joy. He put his hand over hers to hold it in place, and they walked home in silence.

There was no need to say anything.

* * *

“We'll be dining with Freeborn and his wife on Thursday,” Lord Penworth told his wife with a smile.

She looked at him curiously. There were few people at whose homes Penworth actually enjoyed dining, and they were all either close friends or relations. “Is this some special occasion?”

“Not precisely.” He looked a trifle embarrassed. “I asked Freeborn if he knew anyone conducting excavations who might be willing to let me observe. It seems there is a Prince Savelli who is an expert on the Etruscans. And not just an expert. He's actually an experienced archaeologist himself. He and some friends are establishing an Etruscan museum here in Rome. In addition, he has what seems to be a large Etruscan necropolis on one of his estates and is in the process of excavating it. Freeborn knows him well and thought to introduce us.”

“What an excellent idea.” She beamed at him. This trip had been a good idea. An interest in ancient tombs was far better for him than constantly worrying about the messes the fools in the government were creating.

The consul's house, on the Via Condotti, was not as splendid at the Crescenzi palazzo. It lacked the centuries of history, the ancient frescoes. The chairs were upholstered in plush, not faded brocades. One did not walk through the rooms thinking that perhaps an assassin had hidden behind those tapestries, a lady had fled with her lover through that portal. It lacked, somehow, the romance that permeated the palazzo. However, as they were welcomed by the Freeborns in a most proper drawing room, Lady Elinor could not deny that it was all in much better condition.

In fact, it was much like home. Penworth Castle might be centuries old, but it also had windows that fit properly, fireplaces that did not smoke, gas lighting, and proper plumbing. There were days when she would have traded the romance of Italy for a nice hot bath.

The treacherous thought did not last long, because she truly was looking forward to meeting an Italian prince and his family. An Italian prince, or a Roman prince, was not the same as an English prince. He wasn't a member of the royal family or anything like that. He was more like a duke, Papa had said. She hoped the prince would not be as old and dull as the dukes she knew in England. At least this one was interested in Etruscans. That was a major improvement over the last duke who had been her dinner partner. He had spent most of the evening telling her about his gout and the treatments he had tried, all of which had failed.

Mr. Freeborn was as meticulously dressed as ever and seemed even more cadaverous next to his wife, a sweet dumpling of a woman with rosy cheeks and gray hair worn in a simple bun. Her dress, of pale gray velvet trimmed with bands of satin, was precisely right both for the lady and the occasion. Elinor was pleased that her own dress of changeable blue-green taffeta with a bertha of cream-colored lace did not clash with her hostess's gown and wondered momentarily whether that was one of the things a consul's wife had to consider. Perhaps that was the reason for the choice of gray.

No sooner had they greeted the Freeborns than the other guests arrived. Prince Savelli did not disappoint. Although not particularly tall, he held himself well and looked most dramatically handsome and distinguished, with a head of thick iron-gray hair that he wore slightly long. He was accompanied by a lady of a certain age who was quite breathtakingly glamorous and moved with languid grace. She had black hair, perhaps a little too black, worn in a madonna style, and pale skin that reminded Elinor of thick cream. Her dark eyes were half covered by eyelids that seemed too heavy to stay quite open, so she looked sleepily out at the world. A full mouth just hinted at a smile. Her dress of crimson velvet was trimmed with black, and an extraordinary necklace of rubies circled her throat.

Elinor felt her mother stiffen and saw her lay her hand on her husband's arm. He looked down at his wife with amusement.

By far the most interesting member of the party was not the glamorous lady but the handsome young man beside her. Handsome was a most inadequate word for him. He was tall, almost as tall as her brother, and he had either broad shoulders or an excellent tailor who understood padding. His hair, as black as the woman's, curled around a high forehead, and his black eyes seemed to focus directly on Elinor the moment he entered the room. He smiled, and white teeth gleamed against his olive skin. He looked just slightly wicked.

Her breath caught and she was very glad that her gown was so becoming.

Introductions were made. The lady was the prince's cousin, the Contessa Landi, and the young man was her son, the Cavaliere Armando Landi. The prince made a fuss over Lady Penworth and Elinor. Lord Penworth made a fuss over Mrs. Freeborn and the
contessa
. The contessa made no fuss over anyone but looked at Rycote as if he were a particularly appetizing morsel. Rycote looked as if he would like to vanish. The cavaliere smiled at Elinor and held her eye just a little too long, then he and Tunbury looked at each other, not quite antagonistic but definitely wary, sizing each other up.

Despite this bit of awkward mistrust at the introductions, dinner proceeded quite pleasantly for the most part. The contessa commiserated with the absent Crescenzis on the poverty caused by their foolish son's radicalism—“So much of their property was confiscated, you know”—prompting Lady Penworth to expatiate on the family's kindness and generosity to visitors. The cavaliere covered an awkward moment by turning the subject to opera, and managed to be both knowledgeable and amusing as he discussed the recent premiere of Verdi's
Il
Trovatore
at the Teatro Apollo.

“Do you know Verdi's work?” Landi was sitting beside Elinor and she received the full blast of his eyes, looking into hers with a surprising hint of passion. Not really offensive, but still surprising, to her at least. He was, after all, a stranger.

“I've never seen the appeal of opera,” Tunbury interrupted from across the table. “All those squawking sopranos with their silly trills, going on and on about dying before they finally get around to it.”

“Ah, then you have not heard Signor Verdi's works.” The cavaliere turned his back to Tunbury and concentrated on Elinor. “In his operas you will hear true passion. The count loves a lady, but she loves another, a troubadour. For him she will sacrifice everything, just as he will for her.”

He was leaning toward her. Actually he was leaning a little closer than was quite proper, uncomfortably close. He was wearing a heavy, musky scent that seemed to overpower her. She was about to lean back when she saw Harry scowling and decided to stay where she was. Perhaps a bit of prodding was what Harry needed. She smiled at Landi. “Why, Cavaliere, you make it sound truly exciting.”

Since the group was small, the conversation was general, ranging from opera and music to a comparison of garden styles to the acknowledgment of a fondness for macaroni on the part of all. There was one moment of confusion when Rycote suddenly leaped back from the table, almost overturning his chair. Conversation came to a halt while everyone stared at him, but he mumbled a confused apology and subsided into his seat.

Landi proved himself skilled in the art of offering graceful compliments—not just to Lady Elinor but also to Mrs. Freeborn on the gracefulness of her hands and to Lady Penworth on the elegance of her posture. The ladies rewarded him with smiles. Tunbury regarded him with narrowed eyes.

After dinner things were a bit strained in the drawing room where the ladies waited for the gentlemen to join them. The contessa seemed to find the effort at conversation so exhausting that she found it necessary to lean back in an armchair with her eyes barely opened. Whenever Mrs. Freeborn offered a topic of conversation, the contessa would open her eyes slightly, raise her brows, and resume her semi-somnolent pose. She came to life only when Lady Penworth admired her rubies, at which point she embarked upon a loving description of jewels she owned, jewels she had seen, jewels she coveted.

Finally, as she was winding to a close, she focused on the brooch nestled in the lace of Lady Penworth's bodice. It was a large sapphire, a very fine one, surrounded by a filigree of delicate gold set with small diamonds. It was also the only jewelry Lady Penworth wore, other than her wedding ring. The contessa looked puzzled. “You do not greatly care for jewelry?” she asked.

“I do not care to take much jewelry with me when I travel.”

Lady Penworth's tone was not encouraging, but the contessa did not seem to notice. She nodded understandingly. “That is very wise. One never knows what sort of people one may encounter.”

Lady Elinor turned away. Had she met the eye of either her mother or Mrs. Freeborn, she was not sure that she could have restrained her laughter.

* * *

Things went a bit better among the gentlemen, who were enjoying Freeborn's excellent port, an English habit of which Savelli heartily approved. While the others discussed Etruscans with considerable erudition, Tunbury drew Rycote aside.

“What the devil was going on at dinner? You jumped up so fast I thought you were going to hit the ceiling.”

Rycote turned uncomfortably red. “It was that…that
woman.
She put her hand on my leg.”

“Oh for goodness sake, Pip. You aren't carrying on because a woman's hand brushed you.”

“She didn't brush me,” he said in outrage. “She put her hand right on my thigh, and then, and then she
mov
ed
it.”

Tunbury had all he could do to keep from howling with laughter. “It's those damned Byronic looks of yours, Pip. You get that faraway look in your eyes and women think it's passion smoldering in you when what you are really doing is deciding which varieties of apples to plant.”

“I'm glad I amuse you,” Rycote said stiffly, “but how am I supposed to look that woman in the face when we rejoin the ladies? She's old enough to be my mother!”

As it turned out, there was no need for him to worry. When the gentlemen reached the drawing room, the contessa ignored Rycote and concentrated on Penworth. Then, when Lady Penworth joined them, she smiled and withdrew to offer her charms to Freeborn. Tunbury watched them for a minute, fearing he might have to go to the older man's rescue, but he concluded that the consul was accustomed to the lady. He handled her with admirably polished courtesy that warded off anything even slightly warm.

Tunbury was less approving when he turned around and realized that Landi had managed to seat himself next to Norrie and seemed to be making himself agreeable. Too agreeable. Norrie was enjoying his company far too much. Not that Harry didn't want her to enjoy herself, but Landi was a stranger. He might not realize that Norrie was just a friendly person. Landi might think she was actually interested in him. She really needed to learn to be more distant with strangers. He went over to them.

“May I join you, Norrie?” He didn't bother waiting for an answer but sat down, even closer to her than Landi was sitting.

“Hello, Harry. Cavaliere Landi has been telling me about a wonderful Etruscan amphora his uncle discovered with a painting of Admetus and Alcestis between two demons.”

“Oh?” Tunbury looked at Landi coldly. “Alcestis belongs in one of those Greek myths, doesn't she? If it's a Greek subject, how do you know it isn't a Greek amphora?”

Landi smiled, showing too many white teeth. “In this case, because the writing is Etruscan. But you are correct. There is much Greek influence to be seen.” He paused and looked at Norrie quizzically. “The viscount calls you Norrie? Is this a name?”

She glared at Tunbury before she turned to smile at Landi. “It's a nickname. When I was a baby, my brother couldn't say Elinor and called me Norrie. The name stuck, and as a child I was always called Norrie by my family. It seems that some people have trouble realizing that I am no longer a child.”

“I see.” Landi smiled happily. “Then Lord Tunbury is a member of your family.”

“Not at all. Just an old friend.” Tunbury smiled back.

“Yes. Harry and my brother went to school together, and he's been around our family for years and years.”

“How nice for him,” said Landi, his smile a bit cooler. “I would have liked to see you as a child. You must have been a delightful little girl. Did you have tea parties for your dolls?”

“Actually, she was a dreadful little hoyden, climbing trees, fishing, swimming in the sea.” Tunbury grinned. “She was forever escaping from her governess to join Pip and me in our games.”

Landi smiled at her warmly. “That is an even more enchanting picture. You are a woman of spirit, not one to be bound by silly rules.”

She smiled at Landi and was pleased to see that Tunbury's grin faded.

* * *

In the carriage on their way home, Landi shook his head at his mother. “You are really too bad. You greatly shocked poor Rycote.”

She shrugged. “These English are impossible to understand. He is so beautiful. Who would have expected him to be so cold?”

“You will have to behave yourself. His Excellency seems likely to take them up, and you must not cause trouble. You saw the girl, did you not?”

She sighed and leaned back. “Yes, yes, I will be good. What of the girl? Her father has a title, but titles are of no use.”

His smile gleamed in the darkness. “They are rich, these English.”

“What makes you think that? They wore no jewels, the women. One paltry brooch the marchesa had on. It was a good stone, but still.”

“They may not wear their wealth, but I made some inquiries. The father is one of the richest men in England.”

“Ahh.” The contessa sat up and peered at her son. “Then you must make haste. Capture her interest.”

“That should be no problem. She already smiles at me.”

“The other young man is not a rival?”

“Bah. He growls and glowers when I am near her, but he has no idea how to woo her himself. It never occurs to him to give her a compliment, to show his admiration.”

“You will have to move quickly. You are not likely to find another girl so rich.”

“Both rich and pretty. Do not fear. I have no intention of allowing her to escape.” His teeth flashed once more in a smile.