The Lady Travelers Guide to Happily Ever After

by Alexander, Victoria

  “Oh, I think enthusiasm is appropriate.” Cleo drew a deep breath and released it all at once. “Marcus and I were wed a few days before we left for Paris.”

  Shock widened Violet’s eyes.

  “Surprised?”

  “Good God, Cleo, how could you?”

  Cleo’s brow furrowed. “You don’t like him?”

  “Oh, no, I like him. He seems like a fine man. He’s most amusing and obviously intelligent and rather dashing, as well. It’s just that...” Violet grinned. “You didn’t invite me.”

  Cleo laughed with relief. “We didn’t invite anyone. It was a civil ceremony at a registrar’s office. We didn’t want any fuss.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We haven’t even told our families. Although I daresay my mother will be thrilled that I married anyone, let alone a man with a good future and respectable family. We really haven’t had time to tell anyone—your fault entirely.” She met Violet’s gaze pointedly. “You found out James lied to you and then we were off to Paris and now we’re on to Italy and Greece.”

  “Well, yes, things have happened rather quickly, haven’t they?” She studied her friend. “Are you certain about this?”

  “It’s too late if I’m not.” Cleo smiled. “But yes, I am. He’s really quite wonderful.”

  Violet frowned. “Does James know?”

  “Marcus intends to tell him when the right moment presents itself.” She shrugged. “He doesn’t like me, you know.”

  “Nonsense.” Still, she was hard-pressed to deny it.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Cleo grinned. “I don’t especially like him, either.”

  “Well, the two of you are going to have to work out your differences,” Violet said firmly. “You are my dearest friend and James has no closer friend than Marcus. It won’t do for you and my husband to be at odds with each other.”

  Cleo’s eyes widened. “You called him your husband.”

  “Well, he is,” Violet said uneasily. “And I’ve called him that before.”

  “Rarely and certainly not with that same tone in your voice.” Disbelief rang in Cleo’s voice. “Have you forgiven him?”

  “No.” Violet scoffed. “Of course not.”

  Doubt shaded Cleo’s eyes.

  “I have not forgiven him,” Violet said in a firm tone, ignoring that she was starting to like him again. Blasted man.

  “I just want you to be as happy with James as I am with Marcus.” Cleo shook her head. “And I’m not sure, after everything that has happened between you, everything he’s done, he can make you happy.”

  “Are you sure Marcus can make you happy?”

  “Yes,” Cleo said without so much as a moment of hesitation.

  “Good.” Violet smiled and pushed aside the disquieting question of whether James could make her happy. Or whether she could make him happy, for that matter. “Between his blond hair and yours, no doubt you’ll have dozens of little fair-haired children.”

  “Dozens?” Cleo laughed. “Neither of us want dozens but a few would be nice.”

  They pulled up in front of Palazzo Enpoli, a square-shaped, gray stone block building—unimpressive in outer appearance to Violet’s eye, as many palazzos here were. Double arched windows marked the first and second floors. Three tall arched openings that originally led to the courtyard and were now closed off by raised wooden panels were evenly spaced on the ground level, the door unobtrusive in the center archway.

  Before they reached the entry, the massive wood door creaked open.

  “Violet!” Lady Fenton, Penelope, swept out of the doorway and threw her arms around Violet. “What a wonderful surprise. And Cleo.” Penelope greeted Cleo just as exuberantly. She had never treated Cleo as anything less than a friend. “I am so delighted to see the two of you. Violet, your letter last month said you were forgoing travel for a while. How wonderful that you changed your mind.” She peered around them. “Where are your bags?”

  “They should be here any minute,” Cleo said.

  Penelope hooked her arms through her friends’ elbows—not easy as she was considerably shorter than both women—and led them into the palazzo, through the columns marking the large courtyard. “I can’t tell you how horribly dull Florence has been of late.”

  Penelope was American by birth, the daughter of a wealthy diplomat. Some five years older than Violet, she had met and married Lord Fenton on her first trip to London. Unfortunately, the marriage lasted only a few years before his lordship succumbed to a bout of influenza. Penelope had no desire to return to America, and England held no particular appeal, so she’d wandered Europe for a year or so until she’d found herself in Florence. She’d fallen in love with the city just as Violet had and when the opportunity arose to purchase the Palazzo Enpoli, she didn’t hesitate. She let suites in the palazzo not because she needed the money—although she often confided upkeep on a sixteenth-century building was an endless drain on her finances—but because she enjoyed the company. Penelope wasn’t at all fond of being alone. Her guests were always by referral and her home was rarely empty.

  “Now that you’re here, life will be much more interesting.” Penelope led them to a table in the back of the courtyard where Tomasia, Penelope’s cook, greeted Violet and Cleo with effusive Italian and motherly hugs.

  A buxom older woman with a smile that clearly said she would treat you as one of her children whether or not you wanted to be so treated, the cook offered them glasses of something citrusy and delightful accompanied by plates of pastries. Refusal was pointless and would only result in a well-meaning lecture in Italian about how impossible it was for a thin woman to find a good husband. Violet and Cleo adored her.

  “In spite of your letter, I had hoped you would be here—given tomorrow’s unveiling. I’ve had a sneak peek and this new sculpture is really Rinaldo’s masterpiece.” Penelope’s brow furrowed in confusion then her eyes widened. “Oh, my, that’s why...”

  “Why what?” Cleo asked.

  “Nothing important.” Penelope waved off the question. “You know how my mind wanders.” She hesitated. “The sculpture might be somewhat different than you expect.”

  “It’s still the goddess Minerva, isn’t it?” Violet asked.

  “Yes, of course. The commission was specific regarding the subject of the work. And you know the Italians—anything else would be tantamount to sacrilege.” She smiled. “I do think you’ll love it.”

  Penelope was a patron of the arts, when she liked the art in question. And she did like the work of Rinaldo Lazzari. Penelope had taken an interest in his work and now provided financial support for the artist, as did Violet.

  “Unfortunately, since I hadn’t heard from you, I assumed you weren’t coming. I’m afraid I only have one room, so you’ll have to share. However, it’s the enormous suite on the top floor.”

  “We do have two others in our party, as well,” Violet said.

  “But I took the precaution of telegraphing for a room at the Hotel dei Pucci,” Cleo added quickly. “So we will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Penelope asked. “I can have one of the parlors made up for you.”

  “Actually, we’re traveling with Lord Ellsworth and his friend Mr. Davies,” Violet said.

  “Lord Ellsworth?” Penelope frowned. “Your husband’s uncle Richard?” Penelope knew everything about Violet and James and had from Violet’s first visit five years ago. Perhaps because Penelope was American and had a unique view of English aristocracy it had been remarkably easy for Violet to pour out the story of her marriage, helped by a significant amount of local wine.

  “No, I’m afraid Uncle Richard died a few months ago.”

  “Then Lord Ellsworth is—” Penelope gasped and her eyes widened “—the husband?”

  “James.” Violet nodded. “Yes, the husband.”

/>   “You’re traveling with the husband?” Penelope shot Cleo a disbelieving look. Cleo shrugged. “What on earth does this mean? How did it happen? Have the two of you reconciled?”

  “No.” Violet shook her head and paused. As much as she’d love to tell Penelope the truth about her current situation, the American had a difficult time keeping things to herself. And there were far too many English living in Florence to risk talk that would inevitably get back to London. She smiled weakly. “I mean yes. It’s very new and rather complicated and...”

  Penelope held up a hand to stop her. “No need to go into details. Well, not now. I understand completely. It’s always complicated between a man and a woman. It probably wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t. Oh, and speaking of complications between men and women, do you remember that American writer who was here on your last visit? Well, as it turns out...”

  The ladies chatted for another few minutes, catching up on all sorts of inconsequential matters—what mutual acquaintances were in Florence at the moment and the latest gossip. Penelope made it a point to know everything of interest when it came to the English and American communities in Florence.

  The massive iron door knocker clanged and echoed through the courtyard, the door opened promptly by Penelope’s majordomo. James and Marcus stepped inside, Marcus reading aloud from a small book he held in one hand—obviously an Italian language phrase book.

  “These must be your companions now.” Penelope considered the newcomers. The majordomo waited until Marcus had finished his attempt at Italian then addressed him in nearly flawless English. “Which one is yours?”

  “The dark-haired one, on the right,” Violet said.

  “So this is the husband,” Penelope said under her breath. “You never mentioned how dashing he is.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No, you certainly did not.” Penelope considered James with an appreciative smile. It was surprisingly annoying.

  “He has an attitude to match,” Cleo muttered.

  “They usually do when they look like that. And the other one is the friend?”

  “Mr. Davies is his lordship’s solicitor,” Cleo said.

  There must have been something in her voice. Penelope cast Cleo a curious look. “And he’s yours?”

  Cleo hesitated, then grinned. “Yes, he is.”

  “But it’s something of a secret at the moment,” Violet added.

  “I won’t say a word,” Penelope promised and crossed to the entry to greet the newcomers.

  Cleo leaned close to Violet and spoke quietly into her ear. “Please don’t say anything to his lordship about Marcus and me.”

  “Of course not.” Violet patted her friend’s arm. “It’s not my secret to tell. And do try to like him at least a little. He and I will be together for the next three years.” At least. The thought popped unbidden into her head. She ignored it.

  “The only reason I don’t like him is because he’s treated you disgracefully.”

  “That was a long time ago, Cleo.” Violet’s gaze settled on her husband.

  “And then he continued to let you believe a lie for six years.”

  “I’m well aware of what he’s done. But he is trying to make amends.”

  “I shall make an effort to like him, but it won’t be easy.” Cleo’s brow furrowed. “Do be careful.”

  “I assure you, there’s nothing to be careful about. I have not forgiven him for six years of deceit.” Violet’s gaze settled on her husband and she frowned. “Is it my imagination or does he still look rather pale?”

  “He did say he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him,” Cleo pointed out.

  “And then spent most of the trip alone in his sleeping car.” In fact, Violet hadn’t seen much of James at all during the two days it had taken them to get to Florence. The first morning of the trip, as the train had wound its way through the Alps, James had appeared briefly, then abruptly took his leave, Marcus later explaining James was still suffering from whatever it was he had eaten. Fortunately, none of the others were affected. James had of course joined them when they changed trains but then had disappeared into a sleeping car for much of the rest of the trip. According to Marcus, James slept most of the time, which would serve him well.

  It wasn’t uncommon for those who did not travel frequently to experience any number of stomach problems due mostly to unfamiliar foods. Why, both Violet and Cleo had had their share of difficulties through the years. And even if she was still furious with him she couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor man. Sleep really was the best thing for him.

  “I was just telling your husband how sorry I am that I don’t have accommodations for all of you.” Penelope and the gentlemen joined Violet and Cleo. “Violet, your bags and Lord Ellsworth’s are being brought to your room.”

  “Lady Fenton only has one room, but I have arranged for accommodations for Mr. Davies and myself at a nearby hotel,” Cleo explained to James.

  “Lady Fenton.” James frowned. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”

  “Not to worry, James,” Marcus said quickly. “Mrs. Ryland and I will be fine at a hotel. Shall we join you for dinner?”

  It might have been a trick of the late-afternoon light slanting into the courtyard from widows near the ceiling, but it did seem James turned the tiniest bit green at the thought of dinner.

  “Actually, I was thinking of forgoing dinner and retiring early tonight,” Violet said quickly, glancing at James. She wasn’t the least bit tired, but he obviously needed rest. “We’ve been traveling for two nights and nearly two full days. It’s been terribly tiring and I never sleep well on a train.”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want, I have no objections.” Relief flashed through his eyes so quickly she might have been mistaken, but he did look a shade better than he had a moment ago.

  Cleo and Marcus took their leave and Penelope showed them to the grand suite on the top floor. Violet and Cleo usually had private rooms here adjoining a small sitting room. This was one large room, magnificent with painted murals, ancient beamed wooden ceilings and inlaid wooden floors. There was a sitting area with a sofa and matching chairs—quite lovely and probably at least a hundred years old. An ornate painted dressing screen in the corner of the room could be unfolded to hide a shaving stand with a pitcher and provide a modicum of privacy for changing. The bed seemed small in the huge room, but was in fact massive with dark wood and intricately carved head and footboards. Carved posts held up a canopy draped with deep red silk. It was straight out of a sixteenth-century painting by Raphael. All it needed was naked, romping courtesans to complete the picture.

  Two of Penelope’s wonderfully efficient maids finished unpacking their bags and immediately disappeared.

  “I’ll have Tomasia prepare a light supper whenever you wish.” Penelope glanced around the room with a critical eye then nodded with satisfaction. “I do hope we can have a long chat later. I’m dying to hear all about...” She slanted a quick glance at James. “London. Yes, that’s it. I haven’t been to London in years. You know how quickly things change in London.”

  “Indeed I do.” James considered her thoughtfully. “You’re not English, are you?”

  “Only by marriage. Well, I have other matters to attend to and guests, of course. I shall see you both later.” She cast them a brilliant smile and took her leave. Penelope always had a dozen things going on at any one time. Aside from her guests, she frequently hosted receptions for visitors from England or America and held weekly salons for debate and discussion on topics ranging from art to literature to politics for those countrymen now living in Florence.

  “American?” James asked.

  Violet nodded. “She married Lord Fenton a dozen years ago or so. Unfortunately, he died and she had no real attachment to London so she decided to travel and ended up here.”

&nb
sp; “Then when she said she wanted to hear about London what she meant was that she really wanted to hear about you and me?”

  “Of course that’s what she meant. Naturally she’s curious about the two of us being together.”

  “She knows everything about us?”

  “Everything up until a few months ago, yes.” Violet paused. “She’s become quite a good friend and while I do adore her, she can’t keep a secret to save her soul. If I told her you and I were together because of the terms of Uncle Richard’s will, it would only be a matter of time before everyone in London knew. Florence has a large community of English and Americans.”

  “So...” James aimed a pointed look at the bed and grinned.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Violet nodded at the sofa. “That’s where you’ll sleep.”

  “I never thought otherwise,” he said in a firm tone, but laughter shone in his eyes.

  Violet pulled a few blankets and a pillow from a chest at the foot of the bed and dropped them on the sofa. “I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable.”

  “No doubt.” His smile faded. “Quite frankly, Violet, while it’s entirely too early to retire for the night, I wouldn’t mind lying down for a bit.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.” She studied him for a moment. “You look better than you did, but you still don’t look at all well.”

  “The price one pays for travel,” he muttered, and moved toward the sofa.

  “Adventure always has a price, James. Eating something that disagrees with you is a common problem.” She frowned. “Although I would think you would have felt better by now. I wonder if you might have a touch of food poisoning.”

  “No doubt.” He sat down on the sofa.

  It was obvious that the delicate antique, with its carved walnut back and cabriole legs, while long enough was entirely too narrow for comfort. If he’d been feeling up to snuff, she wouldn’t have given his well-being a second thought. As it was, a distinct sense of guilt washed through her. Poor man was hiding it, but it was obvious he still hadn’t quite recovered.