“With who?” She drew her brows together. “The pig?”
“No, Mr. Green.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Who is Mr. Green?”
“Emma and Nancy’s father.” He shook his head mournfully. “You weren’t paying attention.”
“Of course I was.” The corners of her lips quirked up just a bit as if she were trying not to smile. That was a point for his side in this game they played. “Disagree with him about what?”
“I think there’s much worth seeing in the world outside of England.” He smiled. “Thank you for showing me a part of it.”
“Goodness, James, I’ve scarcely shown you anything at all. There was no time in Paris and not substantially more here.” She drew a deep breath. “I should thank you as well for making it possible for me to see the world.”
“It was the least I could do.” He paused. “I am sorry, you know. About the incident.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course not.” The smile in her eyes belied her words. It was indeed a very good day.
Late in the afternoon, they returned briefly to Lady Fenton’s as Violet insisted this unveiling was an important event and she wanted to be properly attired. It simply would not do to wear the same thing she’d worn all day. She pointed out he could probably use some freshening up, as well. They missed Marcus and Mrs. Ryland, who had stopped by earlier in the day but left a note saying they would join them at the unveiling. Lady Fenton said she had a number of things to attend to before the event but she too would see them there. It did seem a great deal of fuss about a new painting in a city filled with masterpieces but it scarcely mattered. If Violet wanted to attend the debut of a new work of art, he would happily be by her side.
The unveiling was in a gallery not far from Lady Fenton’s, no more than a leisurely walk. They paused in the Piazza della Signoria to admire the Palazzo Vecchio, a castle-like building with a tall, narrow clock tower, the seat of political power in Florence since the fourteenth century. An empty spot near the front entry marked where the statue of David had stood until moved to the Accademia some fifteen years ago. James really had looked at Emma’s guidebook.
Next to the palazzo was the Loggia dei Lanzi, a huge public gallery dating back five hundred years. Some three or four stories high, the building was open on three sides. Massive columns framed three arches in the front and one on each end. The interior soared to vaulted ceilings, echoing the lines of the arches. It really was remarkable. Violet explained it was originally built for public meetings, ceremonies and the like but was now primarily for the display of some of Florence’s greatest sculptures.
“Do you know who designed it?” he asked.
“Not offhand. I could look at Miss Green’s guidebook if you’d like.” She nodded toward the gallery. “There have been sculptures here for the last three hundred years.”
While he could admire the skill of the creators of the assorted works, it did seem to him that they all looked very much alike—naked warriors in death throes or triumph, the fall of comrades, the kidnapping of women, that sort of thing. And, aside from a couple of bronzes, they were all white marble.
“Are all the statues in Florence naked?” he asked casually.
“Not all. There’s a bit of draping here and there.” Violet pointed to a sculpture of four figures entwined, depicting some ancient legend. “That figure even has a helmet on.” She glanced at him. “I thought you liked nudity.”
“It rather depends on who is nude,” he said mildly.
“Stop it, James.” She huffed. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Rubbish, Violet.” He shot her a grin, and she blushed, which obviously annoyed her. There was nothing more enjoyable than making Violet blush. “It’s always the time.”
She ignored him. “That particular sculpture was only carved some twenty years ago. Even today, Florence has a thriving art community. That work was a commission and it made the artist’s reputation and his fortune.”
“It’s very nice.”
“You don’t like sculpture, either?”
“I am a peasant, aren’t I?”
“No.” She sighed. “You’re a man of privilege who has ignored the opportunities of his position.”
It wasn’t a rousing endorsement, but it could have been so much worse.
“The gallery is in this direction.” They turned onto a narrow street off the piazza. “Lady Fenton is a patron of artists she likes and she’s quite fond of Rinaldo Lazzari—the artist whose work is being unveiled.”
James had never heard of him but it would have been shocking if he had.
“He’s quite good. He won the commission for this work. If it’s well received, it will lead to additional commissions and the sale of other of his works. Even in Florence, it’s not easy to be an artist. Penelope contributes to his support.” She paused. “As do I.”
“I see.” Yet another cause of hers. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. It was one thing to give to women in need, quite another to support struggling artists. Still, while he supplied her allowance, there were no restrictions on how she spent her funds.
Violet stopped in front of a building similar in appearance to Lady Fenton’s palazzo.
“We’re a bit early, but we should go in. The gallery is on the ground floor.” A warning note sounded in her voice. “A lot of these people are good friends, James. I expect you to use that considerable charm of yours. As you did in Paris.”
He chuckled. “I do know how to behave in polite company, Violet.”
“Of course you do.” She reached out and straightened his tie. “I’m not quite sure why I’m nervous about this but I am. Introducing you to my friends as my husband—”
“Which I am.”
“Letting people think we’re reconciled.”
“Well, we’re not at war.” He caught her hand, pulled it to his lips and placing a kiss in her palm. He gazed into her eyes. “Are we?”
Her eyes widened slightly as if just realizing—or perhaps accepting—it herself. “No, I suppose we’re not.”
“I promise to be on my very best behavior.”
“Good. This could be awkward,” she added more to herself than to him and turned to the door, speaking a few words of Italian to the doorman, who promptly allowed them to enter. They stepped into an open colonnade surrounding a courtyard. Fashionably dressed and obviously wealthy art lovers chatted in small clusters scattered throughout the courtyard. Liveried waiters carrying trays of champagne and delicate finger foods wound their way through the rapidly filling area.
“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.
“Several,” she said absently, scanning the gathering. “And you?”
“One.” He paused. “I do know a few words of Latin.”
Her brow rose. “Carpe diem?”
“That would be it.” He glanced around. There were no paintings on the walls, only a large, fabric-covered something in the center of the courtyard. At once he realized his mistake. “I thought this was the unveiling of a painting.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know,” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended. “This is for a sculpture, isn’t it?”
She met his gaze and smiled pleasantly. “Why, yes, James, it is.”
“Violetta!” A voice called and they turned. A man about James’s age and height standing near the covered sculpture said a few words to his companions then hurried toward them, a broad smile on his face.
“Rinaldo!” A brilliant smile creased Violet’s lips, and she moved toward him, James right at her heel.
“Violetta!” The Italian pulled her into his arms and off her feet. Violet laughed and responded. In Italian.
“I be
g your pardon,” James said without thinking and stepped forward. They ignored him.
Rinaldo set her on her feet and she stepped back, but her hands remained in his. They immediately burst into an animated discussion. Again, in Italian.
Oh, he didn’t like this one bit. Not least of all because he didn’t understand a single word. Regardless, there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t cause undue attention. And he did promise to be on his best behavior. He was fairly certain the indignant ravings of a jealous husband did not fall under the category of best behavior.
Jealous husband?
Well... Yes. He squared his shoulders. That was exactly what he was. And what man wouldn’t be to see his wife greeted with unabashed affection by a stranger? A male stranger—one of her friends no doubt—and a shockingly attractive friend at that. In fact, the Italian bore a distinct resemblance to the statue of David with dark curly hair and a long, somewhat flat nose, broad shoulders, a muscular physique and large hands. James refused to even speculate on what other features this Rinaldo shared with David.
James forced an unconcerned expression as if it was every day his wife was greeted with unbridled enthusiasm by an entirely too handsome Italian. Although being completely ignored was annoying and unquestionably rude. Violet hated to be rude. The least he could do was stop her. He cleared his throat.
Violet leaned closer to the Italian and said something obviously amusing as the man laughed in response. Finally she turned to James.
“James, this is my dear friend, Signore Lazzari,” she said in English. “Rinaldo, allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Ellsworth.”
Rinaldo Lazzari? This was the artist? This was the Italian sculptor?
Lazzari frowned. “This is the husband? Quindi voi due avete riconciliato le vostre differenze?” he said to Violet.
She hesitated then cast him a brilliant smile. “Sì.”
“Meraviglioso!” He grabbed James by the shoulders and before James could say a word, kissed him on both cheeks. “I am so pleased to meet you at last,” he said in heavily accented English. “And you have come to see my masterpiece.”
“I look forward to it,” James said slowly.
“Rinaldo’s commission was to create a sculpture of Minerva—goddess of the arts, industry, commerce and war,” Violet explained. “His work will represent Florence at an exhibit in connection with next year’s world exposition in Paris.”
“I hope you will not be disappointed,” Lazzari said with a smile that clearly said such disappointment was impossible. And Violet thought James was arrogant. The artist turned his attention back to Violet. “We understood you would not be here. Francesca will be so pleased. Tonight we celebrate. You will join us, no?”
She shot a quick glance at James, then beamed at the artist. “We would be delighted.”
James was fairly certain he wouldn’t be the least bit delighted, but he smiled cordially nonetheless.
“Eccellente!” Lazzari clapped James on the back. “Scusa, per favore, I should speak to the others.” He flashed Violet a knowing grin. “It is true that the artist who conveys as much charm as talent gets many more commissions, no?”
She laughed. Lazzari nodded at James then moved off to greet other guests.
“Was that necessary?” James asked the moment Lazzari was out of hearing. “The way he greeted you was a bit excessive, wasn’t it?”
“The man’s Italian, James.” She waved off the question. “An overabundance of enthusiasm is to be expected.”
“I’d prefer he be somewhat less enthusiastic when it comes to my wife.”
“Rinaldo has always been enthusiastic, especially when it comes to women.” Her gaze returned to the covered sculpture. “And I have always been your wife.”
“What did he say to you?” James’s brow furrowed. “When you introduced us.”
“If you want to know what people are saying, perhaps you need to learn the language.”
“Perhaps. However, at the moment—”
“He asked if we had reconciled. I said yes.”
“I do understand yes in any number of languages, but thank you for the translation.” He narrowed his eyes. “Lazzari is the artist, isn’t he? The Italian sculptor?”
“He’s an Italian sculptor.” She waved off his question. “I’m not sure you can call him the Italian sculptor. There are any number of Italian sculptors. Why, you can hardly throw a chisel, or a brush for that matter, without hitting an artist of some kind in Florence.”
He scowled. “You know what I’m asking.”
“Of course I do.” She peered around him. “Oh, good, I was wondering when they’d arrive.”
“Violet!”
“Not now, James.” She waved to someone behind him.
He clenched his teeth. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I really?” She smiled in an innocent manner. “I can’t imagine why.” Violet stepped forward to greet Marcus and Mrs. Ryland. A moment later, she pointed out Lady Fenton speaking to people they hadn’t seen since their last visit and insisted they simply had to say hello. She took Mrs. Ryland’s arm and steered her toward a group on the far side of the courtyard.
“And good day to you, too.” Marcus grabbed two glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to James. “What was that all about?”
“She was making her escape,” James said darkly and sipped his champagne.
“From?”
“Me.”
“Dare I ask why?”
“She’s avoiding my questions.” He grit his teeth. “About the Italian sculptor.”
Marcus’s brow furrowed. “The Italian—” He expression cleared. “Ah, yes, the Italian sculptor. The subject of rumors about her.” He paused. “From what Cleo has said, Florence is full of sculptors and artists and writers—foreign and Italian. Are you sure this sculptor is the sculptor?”
“Given the way he greeted her, they are exceptionally close.”
Marcus studied him curiously. “Jealous?”
“Apparently.”
Marcus grinned. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“I’ve never felt this way before.” He sipped his champagne, his gaze never leaving Violet. “And she is my wife.”
“I thought you said you had agreed to leave the past behind.”
“More or less.”
“Then what difference does it make if that is the sculptor or not?”
“I really hate it when you make sense.”
Marcus chuckled. “It’s my job.”
“You’re right.” As much as he did hate to admit it. “If I expect her to forgive me, I need to forgive her.”
“Of course in your case, there is much to forgive,” Marcus said mildly. “In her case, I’m not so sure.”
“Neither am I.” He drew a deep breath. It didn’t help. “The thing to do is ignore it.” Not bloody likely. “It was my idea to put the past behind us.” Of course, it was his past he was concerned about. In spite of the rumors, he really wasn’t sure there was any particular untoward behavior in Violet’s past. “It’s the sort of thing one does with a...” He closed his eyes and prayed for tolerance. “Partner, an equal partner.”
Marcus coughed, a failed attempt to hide his amusement.
“Are you enjoying Florence?” James asked, preferring to talk about anything else. “Is the delightful Mrs. Ryland showing you the sights of the city?”
“She is delightful and I like her. I like her a lot.” Marcus met his gaze firmly. “Learn to like her, James. She’s your wife’s dearest friend.” His gaze drifted to Mrs. Ryland and Violet. “And I plan on having her in my life for a long time.”
James frowned. “That sounds serious.”
Marcus smiled. “I understand we’re heading to Greece tomorrow.”
One more person changing the
subject. Did everyone have secrets but him? “Unfortunately. I was hoping for a few more days to recover. And I rather like Florence.”
“As do I. I always have.” Marcus nodded. “Are you going to take those sleeping powders again?”
“It’s that or travel with my head in a bucket.”
“Ah, well, obvious choice then.”
A distinguished-looking gentleman announced something in Italian and the crowd gathered around the sculpture. James traded his empty glass to a waiter for a new one. Violet and Mrs. Ryland appeared out of the milling assembly to join them.
Once the group quieted, the gentleman who had called them to order began speaking. Obviously this was a speech about how talented and extraordinary Lazzari was, given the way the speaker gestured at him and the way the sculptor smiled modestly.
“Do you want me to translate for you?” Violet said in an aside to James.
“Is it interesting?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I am blissful in my ignorance.”
She choked back a laugh and returned her attention to the speaker still extolling Lazzari’s talents.
That James made Violet laugh was certainly to his credit. Regardless of what else might have passed between them, he’d wager the Italian didn’t make her laugh. It was entirely possible that Lazzari wasn’t the sculptor. And possible as well that the rumors about Violet had little or no basis in fact. Indeed, there might not be a sculptor at all. At least not one who was a lover. And James had, after all, been wrong about the count.
It scarcely mattered, really. If he wanted her to overlook his past, he had to overlook hers. No matter how difficult it might be.
After an endlessly long speech—which might not have seemed so endless if he understood the language although he doubted it—the speaker signaled to Lazzari. The artist stepped up and said a few words—no doubt how pleased he was to have received this commission and how he did hope he lived up to expectations and so on and so forth. Then, with a grand flourish, he yanked the cover off the sculpture.
The Lady Travelers Guide to Happily Ever After Page 26
