Two girls stood giggling beside a stern older woman dressed in black, a bit of iron-gray hair visible under her cap. “Signora Albani,” she introduced herself, and all three of them curtsied. “Se permetti.” She waved them further on.
Freeborn looked questioningly at Lord and Lady Penworth, who exchanged an amused glance. “Mr. Freeborn, you need have no worries about the apartments. I assure you my wife and I find them more than adequate. I can only be grateful that you achieved such perfection for total strangers.”
A slight blush stained Freeborn’s cheeks. “In that case, if you do not object, I will stop by tomorrow to introduce you to the Crescenzis?”
“We would be delighted,” said Lady Penworth. “I don’t know about the young people, but I think I will need the morning to recover myself. Shall we say about two tomorrow?”
“I am entirely at your service, my lady.” Freeborn gave an elegant bow and departed.
Seven
With great solemnity, the elderly servitor ushered the Penworth party into the salon where the Marchese di Crescenzi and his family waited. Lady Elinor wasn’t quite sure what position the servitor held. He was not dressed in black, like a butler, but in some elaborate costume of a previous century, and he carried a staff a good ten feet long that was elaborately carved and painted and—she stole another glance at it—entwined with ribbons. Was he perhaps a majordomo? That did not seem quite important enough. There was surely a title from some medieval office that would be more appropriate.
The solemnity continued in the salon, a room whose dark green walls were covered with portraits from the past five centuries. The marchese himself was sitting as still as any portrait in a throne-like chair of carved and gilded wood. His stiff posture may have been caused by the carving. It looked to Lady Elinor to be an extremely uncomfortable chair. Then again, Mr. Freeborn had said that the marchese was an invalid, so the lines of pain on his face may have been etched there by illness.
To his right stood a lady—his wife, to judge by the richness of her black velvet gown—whose expression of welcome seemed tempered by worry. On his left was a very beautiful girl of about Lady Elinor’s own age. She had golden curls, brown eyes, and fair skin that made her look more English than the English visitors. She looked at them with a frank interest that, Lady Elinor realized, was probably the mirror image of her own. They smiled at each other.
Mr. Freeborn, dressed formally in a black morning coat with striped trousers, stood slightly to the side and, in excellent Italian, presented the Marquess of Penworth to the Marchese di Crescenzi.
Penworth bowed.
The marchese bowed his head in acknowledgment and spoke in Italian, pausing to allow Freeborn to translate. “You must forgive me for not rising to greet you, but old age and illness have conspired against me.”
“Not at all,” replied Penworth. “You are graciousness itself in welcoming me and my family into your home.”
The marchese waved a hand. “My family has always prided itself on its traditions of liberality and hospitality. I consider it only fitting to open my home to a nobleman such as yourself.”
Lady Elinor and Tunbury shared an amused glance over all this formality, but when she turned to include her brother in the joke, she was startled to see him staring poleaxed at the marchese’s daughter, who was in turn looking down, blushing, and twisting her fingers. This sight so delighted Lady Elinor that she missed some of the exchange of courtesies. When she returned to the conversation, her father was speaking.
“You are all kindness,” Penworth said.
“Not at all. When I myself was a young man, I visited London and was welcomed into the homes of some of your most noble families. Perhaps you were acquainted with the late Earl of Flyte?”
Penworth blinked, and then smiled. “I fear I never met the late earl, though I have often heard him spoken of. I am, of course, acquainted with the current holder of the title.”
“A noble family.” The marchese smiled his approval.
Lady Elinor’s eyes widened at that. She had met Lord Flyte. Then she had the misfortune to catch Tunbury’s eye, and they both promptly looked down and stared at the floor in an effort to maintain their composure. Lord Flyte was known to all as Lord Flighty for his inability to hold a thought in his head for more than ten seconds.
Finally introductions were made—Lady Penworth, Lady Elinor, Viscount Rycote, and Viscount Tunbury on the one hand, Donna Lucia Crescenzi and Donna Lissandra on the other—and bows and curtsies were exchanged. The marchese’s son, Messer Pietro Crescenzi, was unfortunately traveling out of the country at the moment. Since by now the marchese was looking visibly tired, Donna Lucia invited the visitors to partake of some refreshments in the other room while the marchese excused himself.
Once they had reached the next room, the atmosphere lightened considerably. Donna Lucia, leaning in apparent relief on Mr. Freeborn’s arm, offered them a genuine smile of welcome, along with coffee, tea, and wine. Donna Lissandra, still blushing, explained that, unlike her parents, she spoke some English. As both Lady Elinor and Tunbury spoke Italian, communication among the young people was greatly facilitated, and friendship seemed likely to bloom.
Her initial shyness vanishing rapidly, Donna Lissandra was eager to show the visitors her city. Donna Lucia had difficulty refusing, insisting only that Lissandra’s maid accompany them. A carriage was sent for and, in a flurry of capes and gloves, they were soon out the door.
*
It was an elderly carriage, practically an antique. Rycote scowled at it. A creature as ethereally beautiful as Donna Lissandra should ride in a coach of gold, drawn by snow-white horses. Well, that was idiotically fanciful. But she certainly deserved something better than this. He opened the door of the landau and frowned at the faded fabric of the seats. The nap had been worn almost entirely off the brown velvet and the cushions were none too plump. It suited the witch-like maid scuttling behind her, but not the smiling goddess who was allowing him to hand her into the carriage.
With a few words of rapid Italian, Donna Lissandra dispatched the scowling maid to sit beside the driver and collapsed next to Lady Elinor with a delighted laugh. The others looked at her with a bit of confusion, so she made an apologetic face. “You must forgive me. It is just that I do not often go anywhere simply for pleasure these days. My father, well, you could see, he is not well these days, and my mother does not like to leave him, even to pay calls.” She gave a shrug.
“And, of course, the daughter of the marchese cannot possibly go for a walk by herself. Oh, no, no, no! Not even with my dragon Maria glowering at me every moment.” She gestured at the maid, enveloped in black, who seemed to radiate disapproval even while sitting with her back to the young people. “And we must speak only English, because she does not understand.”
“We are, of course, delighted to be of service to you,” said Rycote with as much of a bow as he could manage while seated in a landau. She smiled at him. He wished he had read more poetry. If he had, he might have been able to describe that smile and the way it turned his insides into mush.
“The avoidance of dragon-like chaperones is a particular specialty of mine,” said his sister. She grinned at Lissandra.
Lissandra grinned back. “Ah, I knew the moment I saw you that we would be friends.”
“That’s what we need. Two of them,” Tunbury said to Rycote in an undertone.
“As if anyone had ever been able to make my sister behave. But it’s really too bad of her to be trying to lead a young lady like Donna Lissandra astray.” He scowled at Elinor.
“Now, I have told the driver first to take us to the quarter where all the English go,” said Lissandra.
Elinor looked disappointed. “But we did not come to Italy to see Englishmen.”
That won raised eyebrows from Lissandra. “Ah, that is what all the English say. But sooner or later they all go to the Caffè Greco and talk and talk. All the artists and the poets, that is where they go.” She loo
ked at Rycote intently, then turned to Elinor. “Your brother, he is a poet?”
Rycote felt himself turned red while the other two burst out laughing.
“Heavens, no,” said Elinor when she could talk again. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Lissandra was still looking at Rycote. She lifted a shoulder. “He has the air that all the young men who fancy themselves poets attempt. Like your Lord Byron. Only your brother is more handsome, no?”
While his sister went off into further gales of laughter, Rycote turned to glare at a grinning Tunbury. “The least you could do is stop enjoying this!”
Getting himself under control, Tunbury said, “Alas, Donna Lissandra, I fear that when Rycote has that distant look in his eye, he is not contemplating a new epic. He is merely considering crop rotation or thinking of ways to improve his dairy herd.”
“Ah, a farmer. Bene. That is good.” Lissandra looked at him with genuine approval. “Farmers are always needed. They do some good in this world instead of always making trouble. There are far too many useless dreamers in this world, dreamers who do nothing but sit in their caffès and talk all night.”
They rode past several caffès in addition to the famous Greco, and Lady Elinor looked at them wistfully. “Could we go to one, do you suppose?”
“Hah! The men in the caffès, they talk of important things.” Lissandra held up a hand and shook her dangling fingers. “They cannot allow women to enter. They might hear some sense!”
“Sorry, Norrie,” said Tunbury. “They’re just like the clubs in London. And probably just as dull and stuffy.”
Lady Elinor did not look convinced.
Lissandra, on the other hand, looked pensive. “We cannot go to a caffè, you understand, but perhaps…perhaps you would like to go to a trattoria? It is like a restaurant, only not elegant, not for fine ladies and gentlemen. But we could have coffee and talk, and pretend we are in a caffè.”
Rycote frowned slightly. “Are you sure this place is quite proper?”
“Do you never do anything but frown, Signor Viscount? Del Falcone is most assuredly ‘proper’! My old nurse and her husband, who was once our chef, it is they who run this trattoria. My father and my mother, they have themselves visited and even dined there. Bah!” She sat back, folded her arms, and scowled at Rycote.
He flushed with embarrassment. “I do beg your pardon most sincerely, Donna Lissandra. I should never have questioned your judgment. It is only that in my ignorance of the customs here…”
At this point Elinor broke in with a laugh. “I fear it is only that my brother is accustomed to my fits and starts. I am always wanting to do something that he thinks is ‘not proper,’ so now he is worried about anything new. And as you can see,” she said with a wave, “it requires two of them to keep me in my place.”
“To keep you even a little bit safe, you mean.” Tunbury was half laughing, half frowning.
Lissandra looked at both young men, then smiled at Elinor. “Brothers. They are always so concerned that we be proper, until they get themselves into trouble. Then they want us to get them out of trouble, and there is no thought of the trouble they make for us, eh?” She reached over to prod the driver with her parasol and gave him an order in Italian too rapid for the others to follow. Nor could they understand the words—in an unfamiliar dialect—that followed when the maid turned around with an angry scowl and began to scold her mistress, who ordered her to be silent. The old woman subsided, but not until she had sent angry glares at the Englishmen.
With an apologetic smile, Lissandra said, “I must beg you to excuse her. She trusts no one but the priests, and thinks I should be locked up behind convent walls.” She shrugged. “What is there to do? She is old, and she lost a brother and a nephew in the fighting.”
“The fighting?” Rycote came to attention. “What fighting?”
“When the French came to drive out Mazzini and Garibaldi. You did not know of it?”
“Yes, of course. But that was years ago.”
She smiled sadly. “Not so many years ago for us in Rome.”
Rycote flushed again. “I apologize. I seem to keep speaking without thinking. It must have been quite terrifying for you.”
That won him another of her shrugs.
He tried again. “Your maid is a republican, then.”
“Maria?” Her eyes widened in mock horror. “Never say such blasphemy! Her brother and uncle were fighting with the French against the impious devils who dared raise a hand against the Holy Father.”
Rycote looked thoroughly confused. “But I thought Mr. Freeborn said that your brother…”
“Very true. My brother was one of those impious devils. It is most terrible for poor Maria. She has always been with our family and now, when she would like to pile coals of scorn on our heads, she has nowhere else to go.” She sighed. “Poor Maria.”
Just then the carriage entered the Piazza Navona, where the late-afternoon sun struck the three fountains, casting dramatic shadows across the wide space. Elinor’s gasp of pure delight startled Lissandra, who looked around at her surroundings, cocked her head, and smiled.
“Yes, it is good, is it not? One forgets to see the place where one lives sometimes. But look. We have arrived.” She gestured at the building that proclaimed Del Falcone in red script on a green background. Behind the windows, baskets of bread and platters of sausage were displayed to entice passersby.
Lissandra led the way, with Elinor and Tunbury close behind and Rycote still looking uncertain. The rear was brought up by Maria, muttering angrily. Once inside, Lissandra was promptly greeted with cries of enthusiasm by a middle-aged couple, both of them plump, rosy-cheeked, and enveloped in aprons. Introductions revealed them to be Amelia and Eduardo Falcone, who proclaimed themselves ecstatic to welcome the English visitors and ushered the party upstairs to a table where they could look out onto the piazza.
As Amelia led the way, chatting enthusiastically to Elinor and Tunbury, Rycote was far enough behind to notice that Eduardo had drawn Lissandra apart to say something to her that seemed to distress her. He also noticed that Maria seemed to be edging over in an effort to overhear, so he stumbled into the old woman and began to apologize loudly.
Lissandra spun about, startled, and took in the scene. With a murmur to Eduardo, she went over to Rycote and took his arm. “I see you are a gallant knight, my lord. I thank you.” She directed a glacial frown at the maid, who retreated, muttering to herself yet again.
Rycote started to lead Lissandra to join the others, and she gave him one of her brilliant smiles. This time, however, it did not seem to reach her eyes. “Something seems to be worrying you,” he said abruptly. “If there is anything I can do, you need only ask.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes. “No, no, my lord. Eduardo wanted only to tell me about someone from his village. It is nothing.”
Rycote nodded as if satisfied. He could hardly accuse her of lying, and after all, why should she confide in him? He was a stranger.
By the time they were all seated by the window and supplied with small cups of bitter coffee, she had recovered her aplomb. Eduardo and Amelia covered the table with plates of pastries, bread, sausages, and cheeses, and Lissandra entertained them all with a stream of comments about the people in the piazza, spinning fantastic histories for them.
Her gaiety seemed to drop from her when a group of French officers came into sight. She muttered something in Italian, almost certainly a curse from her tone of voice, and pulled back, but not before one of them caught sight of her.
At the sight of Lissandra’s pale face, Elinor reached over to her and asked what was wrong. Lissandra just shook her head, but was still clutching Elinor’s hand when one of the Frenchmen strode into the room. He was reasonably tall for a Frenchman, and his uniform fit him well. All that gold braid and tassels would look impressive onstage. The fellow had a moustache, twirling up at the ends, and probably thought himself quite the ladies’ man. Rycote scowled at him
.
The officer swept off his plumed shako, clicked his heels, bowed, and spoke in French. “Donna Lissandra, I would not have expected to find you in such humble surroundings. Had I realized your parents were now permitting such outings, I would have offered to escort you myself.”
Lissandra held up a hand to her companions to tell them to remain seated and looked somewhere off to the side of the officer. “Any such offer would be refused, as you have doubtless surmised.” Her voice dripped ice.
A flush of anger crossed his face, and he glared at the others. “You will perhaps introduce me to your companions?”
Her lips tightened, but she relented and waved a hand in his direction as she turned to her companions. “This is Lieutenant Girard. He is one of the French troops here to protect us, they tell us.”
When it appeared she intended to say nothing more, he ground out, “And your friends?” He made the word sound like an insult.
Rycote stood up, towering several inches over Girard, and smiled thinly. His French was adequate to understand Lissandra’s exchange with the Frenchman, but he preferred to speak English himself. “Allow me, Lieutenant. I am Viscount Rycote. This is my sister, Lady Elinor Tremaine, and our friend, Viscount Tunbury. We and my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Penworth, are staying with the Crescenzis. Her parents consider us acceptable companions for Donna Lissandra. I trust you have no objection?” He was pleased to see that the lieutenant looked taken aback.
“I assure you, no insult was intended.” Girard clicked his heels again. “But as you are English, you may not realize that the protection Donna Lissandra dismisses so casually is indeed needed.” A slight stiffening of his posture was the only indication that he heard the contemptuous noise Lissandra made. “The rabble who were driven out of Rome only by the arrival of the French troops have begun to creep back. We are ever vigilant and will root out all these rebels, even the misguided fools who are betraying their noble families.” He shot a venomous glare at Lissandra with that last comment.
Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures Page 6
