Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (25 page)

She marched forward, head high, and halted a few feet from him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, speaking in Italian. He did not speak her language well, but would doubtless know from her tone that she was speaking as if to a servant.

He did not seem in the least to be cowed by her. Instead, the smile turned into something uncomfortably like a sneer as he answered her in French. “Ah,
chérie
, you must learn to speak to me more kindly.” He unwound himself from the pillars and advanced on her like a predator.

She fell back a step but then determined to hold her ground. What could he do to her here, in her family's own palazzo? “I can think of no reason why I should ever look on you with kindness. How dare you intrude yourself on my family!”

“But it is about your family that I have come.” His voice was all sweet reason. “I come to offer you a way to protect your brother. Even to save his life.”

It was a bizarre conversation, as he spoke in French and she in Italian, but she had no difficulty in understanding him. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are talking nonsense. My brother is off with Garibaldi. Everyone knows that.”

“Do they? I have been speaking with an old acquaintance of his, one Armando Landi.” She could not hide a start at that, and he smiled. “I see you know the name. I now know that your brother is here, in this building, and he is being protected by the Englishman, the one who looks like a brawler. Does your lover also hide him? Do the others all know about this? Does your father?”

She could feel the panic rising. It seemed to be coming up from her stomach. She swallowed to force it back down. “You would take the word of a dog like Landi? He would say anything to save his own skin.”

Girard's grin broadened. “I see you know Signore Landi.”

Stupid, stupid!
If she lost her temper or, worse yet, panicked, everything could be lost. It would mean disaster not just for her brother but for Pip and for his family. She got control of herself and stiffened her spine. “What is it that you want?”

“But,
chérie
, you know what I want.” He lifted his hands in a thoroughly Gallic gesture. “I want you.” He seemed pleased to see her recoil.

“You are mad.”

“Perhaps.” He looked at her meditatively. “I think perhaps you have driven me a bit mad. I can think of no other explanation for this. So I think that you must be the one to cure my madness.”

She shook her head, less in denial than in an effort to clear it, to make some sense of this.

“You have two choices,” he continued. “Either you come with me, or I descend on this building with my troops and we search every inch of it until we find your brother and carry him off to the hangman.”

“You cannot do that. You would not dare offend the English visitors. Your superiors would never allow it.” She tried to sound certain, but feared she did not.

He smiled. “When I bring your brother before my superiors, they will pin medals on me. And the English will say nothing.”

She chewed her lip. Why did he have to appear now? In another hour or so, Pietro would be safely away. “Time,” she said. “You must give me some time to think. Come back in the morning…”

“You take me for a fool,” he snapped, “one of your tame lapdogs like that oh-so-proper Englishman who dangles after you.” He grabbed her arm to pull her to him. “Decide now, this minute. Either you come with me or I will have this place torn apart, and I do not guarantee the safety of anyone in it.”

That was too much. When he touched her, her temper snapped. “
Vai
al
diavolo
,” she shrieked. “Go to the devil.” She clawed at his face with her free hand and kicked him, less effectively.

“Bitch!” He yanked her off balance and landed a backhand swing on her, knocking her to her knees. “I will teach you!”

* * *

Downstairs, Rycote was having an ambiguous conversation with the marchese. It was clear that the marchese knew his son had been recuperating upstairs. Indeed, he obviously had known all along that his son was in Rome and had known precisely what had happened. On the other hand, he equally obviously did not wish to admit to having known any of these things. Now he wished to thank Rycote's family, his parents, his sister, and her new husband for smuggling Pietro out of Italy. However, he wished to express his thanks without ever saying precisely what he was thanking them for.

At least, this was what Rycote thought Marchese Crescenzi was saying. Rycote's Italian was really not very good, and the marchese spoke no other language. Not that Rycote's French was much better than his Italian, so another language would not have helped. He mumbled
per
niente
and
prego
a few times. He thought that was something like saying that it was nothing. At any rate, the marchese seemed pleased with him and patted him on the shoulder as he departed. He would have to talk to Lissandra to find out what this had been all about.

He came up the stairs just in time to see Girard knock Lissandra to her knees.

With a roar of rage he charged at the Frenchman. Girard heard him just in time to shove Lissandra aside and turn to meet the assault.

They were both too blinded by fury to engage in anything resembling a scientific boxing match. It was nothing but a brawl as each one tried to hurt the other as much as possible, and no rules applied. In the end, the French soldier trained by the military was not a match for the English gentleman who had learned to fight from the stableboys on his father's estate and honed his skills in schoolboy battles at Rugby. Unfortunately for Girard, the uppercut that knocked him out came when he stood at the top of the stairs, and he landed motionless at the bottom.

The noise had drawn the attention of the entire household, who arrived in the hall to see Rycote, disheveled and breathing hard, looking down the staircase. Lissandra was wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with a lacy handkerchief and murmuring endearments.

“What the devil is going on?” demanded Lord Penworth.

Rycote wrapped an arm around Lissandra and pulled her close. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled up at him with adoration. “You were magnificent.”

He turned to his father. “Girard was assaulting Lissandra.” He looked down to where Girard lay motionless, a garish doll on the pale stone floor. A circle of servants, carefully keeping their distance, were watching curiously. “Is he dead?”

Doncaster, who had arrived just in time to see Girard fall, ran to kneel by the body. He checked for a pulse and found it steady enough. After a quick examination he called up cheerfully, “He's alive, all right, but not undamaged. His arm is at a rather odd angle. I think it's probably broken.”

Lord Penworth did not share the good cheer. He looked grim and spoke curtly to the servants. “Carry him upstairs. You'd better put him on a door or something, in case more than his arm is broken. And you, Rycote, will join me in the library.”

* * *

Lissandra insisted on being present in the library as well, since she, after all, was the one who knew what had happened. Rycote looked at his father and shrugged. Doncaster also came along, with his wife at his side and Pietro following behind. Bringing up the rear was Lady Penworth, who smiled at her husband and closed the door on the curious servants.

Lord Penworth heaved a resigned sigh, sat down behind the desk, and frowned at his son. “Well, Rycote, would you care to explain what the devil is going on here?”

He flushed. It was not often his father called him Rycote in that tone, and it meant his father was displeased. Very displeased. However, he was not about to apologize for his actions. “He assaulted Lissandra. He struck her.” There was an eruption of Italian from Lissandra's brother, but Rycote ignored it and looked full at his father. “I do not see that I could have acted in any other way.”

Penworth's frown deepened. He looked at Lissandra.

“That is true, my lord,” she said. “That pig of a Frenchman said that he knows Pietro is being hidden here. He says that if I do not go with him, he will call in his soldiers to search everywhere. They will find Pietro and hang him and make trouble for all of you.”

Pietro's previous eruption had been mild in comparison to the one he produced now. It required the combined efforts of Doncaster and Rycote to keep him from charging out to slit Girard's throat, or dismember him, or simply geld him. A wide variety of possible punishments was mentioned.

Lissandra shook her head at her brother before turning back to Lord Penworth. “I tell that pig to go to the devil and then he hits me.” She tilted her head and considered. “Well, I hit him first, but then he knocks me down, and Lord Rycote comes to my rescue.” She turned a smile of blinding brightness on her betrothed.

“This is the devil of a mess,” said Penworth under his breath. He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk while he stared at the blotter. The others stared at him and waited. And waited.

“Very well,” he said at last, lifting his head. “This is what we shall do. Harry—Doncaster—you and Elinor will set off for the steamer immediately. Crescenzi will travel in that hollowed-out seat Freeborn is so proud of. He will stay in there until you are safely out of the city. You have the passports Freeborn provided?”

“Yes, sir. For Elinor and myself and for the servants. That includes Crescenzi.”

Penworth nodded. “Good.” Then he turned to the young Italian. “And Crescenzi, you will obey Doncaster at all times. You will be silent, as a good servant should be. There will be no histrionics. No theatrics. None at all. Do you understand?”

Crescenzi started to speak, then swallowed and looked subdued. “Yes, my lord. I understand. You have all been put in danger because you have helped me. I will do nothing that might endanger you further.”

Penworth nodded again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now, we will have to deal with Girard.” He thought some more, and the others waited. “The steamer leaves tonight at ten, is that correct?”

“That's right,” Doncaster said.

“And it takes a horseman a good six hours to get to Civita Vecchia. It's longer by carriage, I know, but it is a fast horseman we must consider.” He glanced at the tall clock standing between two bookcases. “It is almost eleven now. I will send a message to Girard's commanding officer, but I don't want him to receive it until four at the earliest. Let us hope that the streamer departs on schedule. Then it will not matter if he finds Girard's account of events more convincing than mine.” Penworth allowed himself a slight smile. “But I doubt that he will.”

There was a moment of silence. Lady Penworth spoke first. “Very good. And if Lieutenant Girard shows any signs of growing restive, a good dose of laudanum should render him tractable. Now come along, children. Elinor, Harry, Pietro, you need to be on your way. And I think you should explain to Martha what is going on. She is quite level-headed and unlikely to throw a fit. Pip…” She looked at her son consideringly. “I was going to say that perhaps you should remain disheveled, but I think not. We will have to do something about the lieutenant's arm, and no one could expect you to refrain from washing on his account.

“Lissandra, if you have no objection, it would be best for you to wear a bodice with short sleeves and a shawl when we receive the French commander. Then at an opportune moment you can let the shawl slip, exposing the marks where Girard grabbed you. That, plus that most impressive bruise on your cheek, should leave no doubt of his villainy.”

The severity in Penworth's face eased a trifle, and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “My dear, I have often thought that you would have made a marvelous director of theatrical pieces.”

She turned to him and smiled. “I think so too. That is why I give such excellent parties.” She continued out the door. “Now, about that arm, I do believe Crispin used to be quite adept at setting broken bones. He did it for a number of the children. Perhaps he has not lost the skill.”

Pietro managed to seem to be no more than one of the numerous servants carrying trunks and valises to the carriage, and no one peering into the courtyard would be likely to notice that one of the servants never returned to the palazzo.

Doncaster tenderly handed his bride, swathed in black, into the carriage and had barely seated himself beside her when the seat opposite popped up and a grinning face appeared. “You see, my lord, all is…”

The words were cut off and the seat crushed down as Martha settled herself firmly in the middle of it. “Silly jackanapes,” she muttered. “Doesn't have the sense he was born with or he'd know to keep still.”

“Quite right,” said Doncaster. He stretched out his legs to give the side of the seat a kick and raised his voice. “I do hope we'll have a quiet trip. I wouldn't want my wife to be disturbed by unnecessary noises.”

The rumblings ceased except for an occasional grunt when the carriage encountered a particularly uncomfortable bump, and not even half an hour had passed before they reached the city gate. A few soldiers leaned against the wall where an abutment offered a bit of shade. Doncaster and his lady descended and stepped into the tiny office where passports were presented for examination and stamping.

This was one of the danger points. They had to assume that the guards had been told to watch out for Pietro Crescenzi and might recognize him if they saw him. He was safe enough, hidden in the hollow seat. However, they needed a stamp on his passport, and a guard did not have to be a genius to realize that three travelers did not usually require four passports.

Elinor had insisted that she could provide the necessary distraction.

They entered with her leaning weakly on Harry's arm. The young guard half stood from behind his desk in a semblance of courtesy and put out his hand for the passports. He sat down again, gave the top one a cursory glance, and stamped it.

Elinor gave a sigh loud enough to attract his attention. She threw back the black veil that had hidden her face and his eyes widened. Gazing about her with a tragic air, she spoke in low, mournful tones. “Alas, that we must leave Rome for such a sorrowful reason.” She bestowed a pained smile on the guard. “But the passing of a loved one is a grief we must all suffer, is it not?” She stepped slowly to the side, a hand pressed to her breast.

The guard, who could not have been more than eighteen, turned his head to keep her in view as he stamped the passports. “Ah, my lady, all sadness should be kept from an angel like you.”

Doncaster slipped Pietro's passport under the stamp.

The stamp came down.

Pietro's passport disappeared into Doncaster's pocket.

Elinor turned the full force of her smile on the guard and held out her hand to him. “It is the kindness and gallantry of gentlemen like you that will make Rome live forever in my heart.” The young man turned a fiery red and bowed dramatically over her hand before he ushered them from the room.

Back in the carriage, the seat began to lift as they drove off, but Doncaster administered another kick. “Really, Norrie,” he said.

“Do you think I overdid it? He didn't pay any attention to the number of passports.”

“No, but you did such a good job that the entranced puppy is now staring after the carriage and we'll have to be a mile down the road before we can risk letting Pietro out.”

* * *

“Do you think I should give the lieutenant another dose of laudanum? He is beginning to wake up.” Lady Penworth came into the library, where her husband had withdrawn into the simpler world of the Etruscans and was studying Dennis's chapter on Norchia. “I don't want him to be completely unconscious when his commanding officer arrives, but I don't want him quite coherent, either.”

Penworth looked at the clock. “I should leave him be, I think. We don't want it to appear that we are keeping him drugged, merely that we are relieving his pain. Colonel Labouche should have received my note by now, and I made it sound urgent enough for him to come quickly.” He looked up at her and smiled. “You have changed your dress. You look quite fetching in all that lace.”

“Well, I thought I would aim for the frivolous and helpless look.” She patted her lace cap and frowned a bit as she looked down at the six tiers of her skirt, all trimmed with lace. “Military men seem to like it. I told Lissandra to wear something pale so she would look helpless and virginal. And I thought we should each clutch a handkerchief. Do you think that would be overdoing it?”

Just then Rycote came in, Lissandra on his arm. She did indeed look fragile and helpless, making the bruise on her face all the more shocking.

Lady Penworth smiled at her approvingly. “I think you should sit over here on the right. That way the bruise on your face will not be immediately visible. It will be more effective if Colonel Whatever doesn't see it until you turn to speak with him.”

“Really, Mother, I don't see any need for theatrics. I'll simply tell the fellow what happened and that will be that,” said Rycote stiffly.

His mother and Lissandra looked at him pityingly.

“And I think he's coming now. I heard a bit of commotion downstairs when we were in the hall.”

Just then the door was opened and the majordomo, in his most formal livery, announced, “Colonel Labouche of the French Army has come to call upon you, Excellency.”

“Show him in, please.” The marquess stood to greet his visitor.

In marched the colonel, his posture surely an inspiration to young subalterns. With his gray hair and lined face, he must have been well into his sixties, but his fierce moustache and eyebrows declared that no sign of weakness was allowed. He swept a quick glance over the others, but Penworth doubted that any detail had escaped him.

“Colonel Labouche, it is good of you to come so promptly.” Penworth held out a hand.

After a moment's hesitation, the colonel took it with a firm clasp. “Your message implied that the problem is serious.”

“Yes. Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Penworth, my son, Lord Rycote, and his fiancée, Signorina Crescenzi.”

Labouche nodded to them abruptly but looked at Penworth in inquiry.

“They are all concerned in this,” he explained, a touch of apology in his tone. “You see, one of your officers, Lieutenant Girard, has been pursuing Signorina Crescenzi to an extent that has caused her considerable distress. Then today he came into this palazzo and assaulted her.”

They all looked at her, and she turned her face so that Labouche saw for the first time the bruise darkening her cheek and eye. He drew a sharp breath and turned back to Penworth.

The marquess continued, “Rycote came to her rescue, of course, but Girard was—I don't quite know how to describe his behavior. He was acting like a madman. My son was forced to knock him down, and in falling, Girard broke his arm.”

Maintaining impassivity, Labouche asked where Girard was at present.

Lady Penworth fluttered a bit, waving a lavender-scented handkerchief, as she explained that she had felt they couldn't, of course, leave the young man in such pain, so she had had his arm set and dosed him with laudanum. “He is just waking up now, if you would care to see him.”

Lady Penworth took the colonel's arm to lead him into the small sitting room where Lieutenant Girard lay on a velvet settee, his bandaged arm and sling looking very white against the scarlet velvet. He raised his head groggily and fixed his eyes on Lissandra. He burst out in fury, “You! Your brother is a dead man! I will be avenged!”

“Such a foolish young man.” Lady Penworth shook her head pityingly.

“Ah, Colonel, you see? Always he threatens to harm my brother.” Lissandra raised her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “My poor brother who had to flee from Rome six long years ago.” She turned away to lean on Rycote's arm.

Girard managed to focus his eyes enough to see that his commanding officer was present. He struggled to sit up. “Sir, Pietro Crescenzi is one of Garibaldi's aides. He has been in Rome these past two months, and now these English are hiding him.”

“Months? You have known that there is a Garibaldi spy in Rome for months? How is it that I have heard nothing of this?” demanded Labouche coldly.

Still half drugged, Girard failed to notice the icy note in his commander's voice and persisted. “He is here. The English are hiding him in their apartments. I know it.”

Lady Penworth shook her head sadly. “He must be a madman. He has this bee in his bonnet about Miss Crescenzi's brother.”

“I assure you, Colonel Labouche, that so far as I know, Pietro Crescenzi is not even in Rome. Neither he nor any other revolutionary is hiding in our apartments.” Lord Penworth gave a small smile. “If it will make your mind easier, you have my leave to look anywhere you choose.”

The colonel, who was scowling at his young officer, shook his head. “That would be absurd. I am hardly going to question the word of a man who dines with my emperor.” He turned to give Penworth a wry smile. “We are notified when important visitors come to Rome, you see.”

Penworth touched him lightly on the sleeve. “Then, if I might have a word?” The two men drew apart, and Penworth spoke softly. “My son was very angry at the insult to Miss Crescenzi, and I fear he wishes to challenge the lieutenant. I may not be able to dissuade him, and I know that a French officer would never refuse a challenge. Quite apart from the potential for tragedy, such a duel could be extremely embarrassing for me, for my country, and for yours as well when the incident that brought it on became known. And it would become known, as such things do.”

Labouche looked at him consideringly. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“Obviously, no challenge can be offered while Lieutenant Girard is suffering from a broken arm. Is there any possibility that he might be sent elsewhere to recover?”

“Oh yes.” The colonel's smile was grim. “He will indeed be sent elsewhere to recover. Algeria, most likely. I do not think you need worry yourself about him any longer. I will have him removed from here immediately.”

The concord was sealed with handshakes, bows, and curtsies. The colonel departed and a guard of four men led Lieutenant Girard away in his wake. Rycote and Lissandra withdrew to converse, or perhaps to communicate in some other way, leaving Lord and Lady Penworth alone. She took his arm and said happily, “And I don't think we even had to tell any lies.”

* * *

It had grown dark by the time the borrowed carriage arrived at the customs house in Civita Vecchia, but the steamer could be seen pulling up at the dock. The coachman had taken to heart the order to travel with speed, and the passengers had been flung about mercilessly as the coach bounced about on the rutted roads.

“Tomorrow there will be bruises covering every inch of me,” said Elinor, shifting uncomfortably. “I feared on occasion that we would be sending Mr. Freeborn's carriage back to him as a pile of splinters.”

“I will treat you to a massage as soon as we reach our cabin,” her husband promised with a grin. He lifted her onto the ground, holding her just a little longer than necessary.

She grinned back and then dropped the black veil Lissandra insisted she wear. Elinor had protested that only widows wore such veils, but Lissandra said that in Italy people would be most solicitous of a woman wearing one even for a father-in-law. Harry scowled at it, but did not protest.

Entering into the customs house, Doncaster looked about him scornfully and spoke in his best aristocratic drawl. “Good heavens, my dear, what a madhouse. Is there no order anywhere in this country?” He waved a hand at Pietro. “Go find out who is in charge here, if anyone is. We will wait outside where the air is at least fresher.”

Pietro, throwing himself into his part, even gave his forelock a tug. Crouched over, he scurried off saying, “
Subito, subito
, immediately.”

Elinor kept her hand on her husband's arm as he led her back outside, still peering down his nose at their surroundings. “You look supremely arrogant,” she whispered. “How do you manage to keep a straight face?”

“Practice, my dear, practice. This is the way the rest of the world expects English gentlemen to act. Thoroughly pompous, self-important, and a bit stupid.” He let his eyes roam over the crowd, apparently casual, but missing nothing, and moved his wife out of the path of the urchin who might be simply an urchin but was more likely a pickpocket. “Hush now. I think an officer is coming this way with Pietro.”

She turned and saw a nervous-looking young customs agent accompanying an equally perturbed Pietro.

“My lord, I have explained to these officious fools that you are an English nobleman of the highest rank, returning home under circumstances of the most tragic, but they seem unable to comprehend.” Pietro could not entirely subdue his usual dramatic flair, but his upper lip displayed a slight hint of moisture.

Doncaster looked at the officer wearily and spoke in fluent but atrociously pronounced Italian. “What is it now? Another series of stamps required?”

The agent, who could not be more than eighteen years old, whipped off his cap and jerked a bow. “Excellency, a thousand apologies, but my commander has received warning that a dangerous revolutionary may be in Rome. We must be on guard lest he try to escape this way.”

“What has that to do with us?” Doncaster looked at the young man in amazement. “Do I look like a revolutionary? Does my wife?”

“Forgive me, Excellency, but…” He licked his lips and tried again. “My commander, he insists that he must interview you. Only, you understand, so that he can assure himself no one has imposed on you by inserting himself into your party.”

Doncaster turned to his wife with an exaggerated sigh and spoke loudly in English. “So tiresome, these foreigners, my dear. But if this is what we must do in order to get home, this is what we must do.” He put his hand over hers and gave it a warning squeeze.