by Juliana Gray
She could only hope that Somerton was taking Philip to Florence and not in the opposite direction. She could only repeat to herself, over and over, that Somerton was a brute but not a devil: that he loved Philip, in his way, and wouldn’t hurt him. Philip was his heir, after all. His future.
Just let him be all right. Just let Somerton be rational, be humane. Let him be just, and not blame Philip for his mother’s sins.
The track wound on through the hills, unrecognizable from her journey in March, now warm and verdant where they’d been dank and gray and sterile. She crossed a bridge and realized it was the same one bordering the inn where they’d stayed that fateful night. She caught a glimpse, as she trotted smartly past, of the long, red-roofed stable in which she and Roland had come together for no more than ten frenzied, tender, secret minutes, during which the baby now inside her had been conceived. Months ago, a lifetime ago. Then, she’d been rigid and proud and fearful; now she was brimming with love, with strength, with plans for the future.
In March, the ascent from Florence to the inn had taken all day in the rain and mud; descending now in fine summer weather, Lilibet cantered through the sun-soaked outskirts within a few hours, crossing the Ponte Vecchio as the clock tower in the Piazza della Signoria tolled noon.
The midday sun blazed against her shoulders; the horse beneath her nodded his head in weary resignation, waiting for her next command.
What that command might be, she had no idea.
She’d reached Florence. What the devil did she do now?
* * *
Roland had taken the road to Florence several times since arriving at the Castel sant’Agata. Every fortnight, he’d ridden into the city to meet with Beadle, discuss Bureau affairs, and update himself on any developments in the search for evidence of Somerton’s activities. There hadn’t been much to discuss on that count, so they’d soon moved on to wine and bistecca and gossip at some discreet trattoria near the Arno, and watched the sun climb down behind the round red globe of the Duomo.
He knew the road well, and he knew where to cut off from the main track to wind his way into the city using the back alleys. He pushed his horse to a drumbeat pace, crossed the Arno not long after Lilibet, and made his way straight to Beadle’s rooms near the Santa Croce.
“Penhallow! What the devil!” Beadle’s face split open in a punishing yawn through the crack in the door.
“Let me in, you fool!” Roland pushed the door wide enough to allow himself through. “We’re found out. Somerton came to the castle last night and took the boy.”
“The devil you say!” Sleep vanished from Beadle’s face. He tore off his nightcap and tossed it on a nearby table. “And his wife?”
“She was with me.” Roland said it without hesitation, without apology. Nothing about his liaison with Lilibet was dishonorable, and he’d kill the man who dared to suggest otherwise. “The maid woke her, and she slipped off after them. I saddled a horse as soon as I discovered them missing.”
Beadle dropped down to his desk and unlocked the drawer. He drew out a stack of papers and began riffling through them. “How far ahead were they?”
“As best I can judge, Somerton arrived about three-thirty in the morning, and Lady Somerton left shortly thereafter. She couldn’t have left earlier than four, as the moon was gone.” He paced to the window and drew aside the curtain. Outside, the ordinary life of Florence went on: street vendors, beggars, students, flocks of tourists with Baedekers clutched in their hands. A monk strode through the courtyard, toward the church, his brown robes fluttering with motion. Busy, teeming city: How the devil were they to locate Somerton? Had he even come this way at all? Roland turned back to Beadle. “We’ll start with the hotel, I suppose. Somerton’s hotel. See if he had the cheek to return, or if he’s gone straight to the railway station.”
Beadle shook his head. “If he’d left by rail, I’d have had a message by now. My contact’s sharp as the devil.”
“Then we’ll start at the hotel. Where’s he staying? The Grand, I expect?”
“Yes, of course the Grand. A ten-minute walk, I should think.” Beadle consulted his watch. “You’d better run along without me. I’ll dress and run by the Palazzo Vecchio, see if my contact’s heard anything. In the meantime, inquire for a desk clerk named Sartoli, and tell him you’re a friend of mine. He’ll know if Somerton’s been through or not.”
“Very good.” Roland sounded calm, matter-of-fact, even to his own ears. This was territory he knew, territory he owned. He knew how to run men to earth. “Barring further developments, I’ll meet you in the lobby at, say, two thirty. Can I leave a message with this Sartoli of yours, if I’m unable to make the rendezvous?”
Beadle rose from his chair. “Yes. I’ll do the same. Have you eaten?”
“Not since last night.”
Beadle moved to a small cupboard in the corner. “Here’s a bit of bread and cheese. Stale, I expect, but it should hold you over. There’s water in the pitcher. I’m off to make myself decent.” He disappeared through the doorway into the other room, with more swiftness than Roland could have imagined from his softened body.
Roland poured himself a glass of water, drained it, and poured another. He stuffed the bread and cheese in his pocket and ducked once more through the doorway, closing the old wood behind him with a confident thump.
TWENTY
The soaring lobby of the Grand Hotel strained its utmost to shield guests from the aesthetic infelicities of modern life, and Roland’s handsome face only just saved his unkempt body from being barred from the premises by a dubious doorman.
The desk clerk, however, looked ready to reach for a pistol.
“Good afternoon, my good man,” Roland said, in his most drawling upper-class manner. He extended a blinding grin. “Lord Roland Penhallow. I was hoping I might speak to a fellow named Sartoli, if he’s about.”
At the word Lord, the clerk’s sallow face relaxed a fraction of a degree. He paused a single telling instant, and said, in a voice nearly devoid of accent: “If his lordship will be pleased to wait a moment.”
“Of course.” Roland placed his worn tweed elbow on the polished marble counter and arranged his body into an aristocratic slant, feet crossed at the ankles. Only the most minute observer would have detected the keenness of his gaze as it passed over the room; to everyone else, he looked exactly like the negligent, laconic, wooden-headed Lord Roland Penhallow the world supposed him to be.
The ormolu clock above the sprawling marble mantel read one forty-five in the afternoon, and most of the hotel guests were enjoying luncheon in the splendor of the dining room. A pair of middle-aged ladies formed a white linen fortress at one end of a nearby sofa, heads conspiring over a Baedekers guidebook; at the other end of the room, three light-suited men sprawled across a set of armchairs, with a morning’s vigorous sun-soaked sightseeing written across their pink faces. Above their heads, the ceiling fans stroked a lazy rhythm, doing little to disturb the somnolent afternoon air.
No sign of Somerton’s large dark-haired figure; no hint of Lilibet.
“Sir.”
Roland turned his head to find a black-suited man behind the counter, his collar a spotless starched white against the dark tan of his neck. His eyes glittered with considerably more intelligence than the previous fellow. “Ah,” Roland said. “Sartoli, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. May I be of service?”
“I hope so. A dear friend of mine suggested I speak to you, regarding a matter of mutual interest to us. An English fellow, by the name of Beadle.”
“I know Mr. Beadle well.” The clerk folded his hands atop the counter. If the previous man’s accent had been slight, Sartoli’s was almost indistinguishable from the Queen’s own tongue. “What seems to be the matter?”
“You have, I believe, a guest on your books by the name of Somerton.”
&n
bsp; “The Earl of Somerton?” The skin beneath Sartoli’s eyes released a faint twitch. “I am sorry to report that Lord Somerton checked himself out of his rooms an hour ago.”
“Did he?” Roland spread the fingers of his left hand across the marble. “Was he alone, or did he have a companion?”
An instant’s hesitation. “He was alone, my lord, at the time.”
“At the time?”
Sartoli’s voice dropped discreetly. “He has had a companion in the rooms, sir. Another Englishman; his secretary, I believe.”
“And no sign of a woman? Or a young boy, of about five years?”
“No, sir.” Sartoli’s voice was firm and sure; his eyes did not betray any hint of deception. His fingers continued to rest on the counter, lean and brown against the russet marble.
“Very good. Thank you, Sartoli, for your trouble.” Roland lifted his palm from the counter long enough to reveal the gold coin hidden beneath it. “I was wondering, my good man, if I might perhaps be allowed a short visit to the rooms previously occupied by his lordship.”
Sartoli’s eyes flickered downward, and back up to meet Roland’s steady gaze. “I believe that can be arranged at once.”
“Another thing, Sartoli. If his lordship, or his secretary, or a five-year-old boy, or a young woman with blue eyes and dark hair—a beautiful woman, you’ll note her at once—should appear at any location in this hotel, I would most gratefully receive that information at your earliest convenience, either directly or through Mr. Beadle.” Roland slid his palm, with the coin underneath, two further inches in the direction of Sartoli’s closed hands.
Sartoli tilted his head and nodded. “I shall be more than happy to be of assistance, my lord.” His fingers extended to envelop the coin Roland had left behind. “If you will be so good as to step toward the lift, sir. His lordship’s rooms were on the sixth floor. I shall ensure you’re met there with a key.”
“Thank you. I shan’t be more than a few minutes,” Roland said. The blood raced through his veins, carrying this new information to every point in his body. Before he stepped away from the counter, he pressed a single finger into the cold stone. “I shall, I believe, require a hackney on my return to the lobby. And Sartoli?” He leaned inward.
“Yes, sir?”
“Perhaps, when you’re giving the doorman the instructions, you might inquire whether he has any knowledge of Lord Somerton’s destination. Do you understand me?”
Sartoli nodded and met his eyes. “With all possible haste.”
* * *
Roland moved swiftly through the well-appointed sitting room, scanning the gilt furniture and gleaming parquet floor for any sign of its previous occupant.
His instincts had been correct; Somerton hadn’t gone straight to the train station with Philip. The boy was merely a pawn to him, an object, of the same status as a diamond: valuable, investment-grade, even useful, but hardly human. No, he wasn’t simply going to whisk Philip back to England and raise him alone. He had to know that Lilibet would follow them, would do anything for her son. Somerton had other plans, larger plans.
And Roland was determined to find out what they were.
He hadn’t much time. Somerton had left the hotel an hour ago, alone. That meant he was keeping the boy somewhere else, with someone else. Had Lilibet found him already? Had Somerton already managed to threaten her into submission? Roland forced down the fury in his blood and aimed his concentration at the objects around him. Beadle was at the train station. Beadle would have them stopped if they tried to leave Florence.
Nothing seemed out of place. He checked the wastebaskets: empty. The desk drawers contained only blank hotel stationery; the blotter was clear of any marks. Roland hadn’t expected anything else; Somerton was an intelligence agent, after all. He knew how to cover his tracks.
Light flooded through the gap in the curtains; Roland went to the window and peered between them. The room faced south, toward the placid gray brown Arno and its succession of stone bridges reaching across to the hills beyond. Six floors below, a hackney pulled up to the front entrance, and the doorman stepped forward to meet its driver.
Time to go.
Roland turned away and walked to the door along the eastern wall, leading presumably to the bedroom. It was slightly ajar; he pushed the heavy wood and stepped forward.
The room was dark, the curtains tightly shut, and instantly Roland knew that someone was there. He could feel it in the air: the light pulse of breathing, the faint crackle of human energy, close and expectant.
Roland paused in the doorway, reviewing his options in a rapid fire of thought. He might turn the switch on the wall—the Grand Hotel had recently installed modern electric lighting, for the convenience of its well-heeled guests—but the occupant might just as easily turn it off again. Or he could, of course, simply wait in the stillness until his eyes adjusted.
The devil take it.
Roland strode to the window and swept aside the curtain. The room filled with afternoon sunlight.
“You must be Lord Roland Penhallow.”
The voice came from the opposite side of the room. A figure rose from a deep armchair in the corner, a man’s figure, slim, medium height. His hair, slicked back with pomade, shone a deep auburn in the diffuse light just beyond the reach of the shaft from the windows.
Roland leaned back against the broad windowsill, muscles coiled for action. “I am, sir. And whom, may I ask, do I have the honor of addressing?”
The man stepped forward. He was a handsome fellow, clean-shaven, startlingly young. Not more than twenty, Roland judged. “My name is Markham. I’m Lord Somerton’s private secretary.”
“I see.” Roland ran his gaze up and down the man’s slight, well-groomed figure, each button correctly fastened, each fold precisely ironed. A very pretty young man, in fact. Somerton’s private secretary, was he?
Roland smiled and folded his arms. “I expect you’re waiting for me, Mr. Markham.”
The young man cleared his throat. “I’ve been instructed to give you this letter, upon your arrival in town.”
“And you knew I would arrive here? In his lordship’s former suite?”
“I had been told it was likely.” Markham’s voice had a schooled quality, the voice of a young man who wishes to appear older than his years. Beneath those well-tailored clothes, a kind of adolescent gawkiness seemed to lurk, layered in padding and artifice. How old was he, really? What the devil were Somerton’s proclivities? A little eddy of alarm grew in Roland’s chest, quite apart from the general sense of urgency he’d felt since discovering Lilibet and Philip’s absence this morning.
“By Somerton, of course.”
Markham inclined his head and drew out a folded paper from his jacket pocket. He walked forward, holding it out before him like a shield.
“Thank you,” Roland said, in a silky voice. He took the note. It was folded in thirds and sealed with a large pool of black wax.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Markham.
Roland shrugged. “Generally speaking, I endeavor to read my correspondence in private, Mr. Markham.”
“I’ve been instructed to wait for a reply.”
“Hmm.” Roland ran his finger along the edge of the paper. The young man—boy, really—had a fine-boned face, an almost dewy cast to his skin, a slight blush staining the upper reaches of his cheekbones, but his eyes were old and brown and serious. A ripple of compassion went across Roland’s heart. “You’re a remarkably conscientious secretary, Mr. Markham.”
“I endeavor to give satisfaction, your lordship.” The blush on the boy’s cheekbones intensified, but his eyes remained steady.
“Yes, I expect you do. Very well. You may wait in the chair.”
Markham retreated to the chair in the corner with long coltish stride
s and sat, one slender leg crossed over the other. The shadows swallowed the dull fire of his auburn hair, leaving it an anonymous brown atop the pale skin of his face.
Roland broke the seal.
Your presence is cordially requested at the Palazzo Angelini, in the via Ducale, to decide the fate of the wife and son of the Earl of S.
His fingers clenched at the paper’s edges. A dizzy spiral wove through his brain, before he righted it with brute force.
He did not fear the threat implied in the letter. Whatever Somerton’s skills, Roland could outwit him; he had years of training at the feet of Sir Edward; he was strong and agile and clever, and he had justice on his side.
The location of the palazzo, on the outskirts of town, did not trouble him. The suburbs had tactical advantages; he could bend any circumstance to his need.
No, the facts of the letter, the bare sentence itself, left him unmoved. He’d received countless such instructions in the course of his career, and dealt with them summarily. What made his heart strike against his chest, what made alarm snake through his body, was the fact that the words on this particular page had been formed in the unmistakable curves and angles of Lilibet’s handwriting.
* * *
You do understand, my good fellow, what it is your employer has done?” Roland reached up one hand to the leather strap hanging from the roof of the hackney, as it swung around a corner with a particularly reckless lurch.
Markham did not flinch. “Yes, I do. He’s recovered his son, who was taken from the family home some months ago.”
“By his own mother.” The hackney lurched back into balance, but Roland kept his hand looped around the strap. The other hand he slipped into the folds of his jacket, where a small pistol lay concealed inside an inner pocket.
“Who gave Lord Somerton no forwarding address, no indication at all as to her direction, or even the country to which she had absconded.” Markham’s brown eyes didn’t waver from his own, didn’t betray so much as an atom less than total conviction.
