Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

by Lillian Marek

  “I just realized,” she said, coming to a sudden stop, “you have shaved off your moustache. Let me see.” She stood in front of him and put up a finger to turn his face first one way and then the other. “Yes, you are far more handsome this way. You have a most excellent mouth. Moustaches should be left to those with something to hide.”

  Rycote could feel himself turning red.

  “That was to pay you for calling out to me in the street and for thinking that I was a bad woman going to meet a lover.” She grinned at him. “But you are a beautiful man, and I think you must know it.”

  He could think of absolutely no reply to make to anything she had said. Nothing, at least, that wouldn’t make him sound like even more of an idiot than he already felt himself to be. So they proceeded with him walking in silence while she occasionally hummed a cheerful tune until they reached Del Falcone.

  As he held the door open for Lissandra, he looked around as if casually admiring the fountain in the middle of the piazza. A hooded figure that he was almost certain was Girard lurked in the shadows. He hoped the lieutenant was gnashing his teeth.

  Seated at a table—not by the window this time—and served with coffee, cakes, and suspicious glares by Amelia, he settled down to hear Lissandra’s story.

  It took her a while to get started. Amelia had placed three little jewel-like tarts in front of Lissandra, and she sat there poking them with a fork. First she arranged them one way on the plate and studied them. Apparently she disliked the arrangement, because then she set the tarts in a different order, studied them, and turned her attention to the coffee. After putting three spoonfuls of sugar in it, she stirred it carefully, took a sip, and made a face.

  “Donna Lissandra,” he said patiently.

  She looked across at him and her mouth quirked up at one side. “My brother is not always the most sensible of men.”

  There was a pause, so he nodded in what he hoped was an understanding, reassuring way.

  “He is full of—enthusiasm. He does not lack courage, you understand. He is very brave. But he is not always sensible.” She looked at him uncertainly, so he nodded again. “And he does not always see what will happen, the problems that will come. He lacks…”

  “Foresight?” he suggested.

  Her smile beamed at him. She should always smile that way. She should never be worried.

  “Foresight,” she repeated. “Yes, that is it. That is what he lacks. He admires Garibaldi, he believes in a united Italy. These are wonderful ideas, and many agree with him. But he never thought about what would happen to us when he fled Rome. Our father is old, he is ill, and he did not know how to deal with problems. French soldiers march into our home looking for Pietro, and Papa cannot say his son has run off. No, no, Papa is too proud. He must defy them, call them names, and so they smash things, they fine him, they confiscate things.” She shrugged.

  He hated to see the sadness in her eyes. “It seems to me that they are very much alike, your father and your brother.”

  “Alike? But no, they argue all the time. Or they did when Pietro was here.”

  “I don’t mean they have the same ideas. I mean that they both think they are right all the time and never consider how their actions will affect other people.”

  She stared at him in surprise, but slowly the surprise turned to admiration. “But you are right! That is precisely how they are. How very clever you are.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But you said you were going to meet him. Is he back in Rome?”

  “Yes, and that is the same sort of thing.” Her shoulders slumped and she leaned back. “He comes back to Rome thinking to discover the attitude of the people here now that Garibaldi has come back to Italy. But he forgets that Rome is full of people who know him, people who are his enemies. He cannot walk about the streets freely. Many people would be glad to sell him to the French, who would shoot him.”

  He raised a hand in protest, but she spoke vehemently. “Yes, yes, they would. That Lieutenant Girard would be only too happy to capture my brother, and we would never see him again. And the lieutenant must have some suspicion, he must have heard something. Why else would he be following me?”

  Was she really that foolish? All she had to do was look in a mirror to know why Girard would be following her. Rycote had deduced that the first time he saw the bounder. That presumptuous little Frenchman would do just about anything to get close to Donna Lissandra.

  “I cannot help thinking that it would be wiser for you to have taken a servant with you,” he said carefully.

  “No, no, no. Anyone I took with me would have to tell my parents, and they would have forbidden me to come.”

  Very wisely, to his way of thinking. “But how did you know your brother is in Rome?”

  “Eduardo brings a message with the pastries in the morning. But I have to wait until now, when everyone is resting, to be able to leave the house.”

  “But still you were followed.”

  She nodded. “It was good of you to warn me about Girard.” Then an idea struck her—he could almost see it arrive—and her brilliant smile returned. “And it is even better because he has already seen you. He will think that you are courting me, and that the reason I came out alone was to meet you.”

  “Yes, he will.” And he will be quite right that I am courting you, though you don’t seem to have realized it yet.

  “And so he will not be watching so carefully now. If I leave by the back, he will not see me, and I can go to meet Pietro.”

  Rycote, who had been watching her fondly, amused by her naïveté, looked at her in shock. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  Her smile vanished and she looked at him with a regal chill. “I do not recall asking your permission.”

  “It is not a question of my permission. It is a matter of common sense. I cannot believe that Rome is so different from London that it is considered acceptable for a young lady to wander about the streets on her own. If it were, you would not have needed to sneak out of the house.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he knew he shouldn’t have said that. It sounded pompous even to him. He didn’t need to see the look of outrage on her face.

  “What you think about it is a matter of indifference to me. I will do what I must do, and you have nothing to say about it.” She sat stiffly, looking somewhere over his shoulder.

  Rycote was feeling a bit stiff himself. “I cannot believe that your brother would wish you to go about by yourself at the mercy of blackguards like Girard.”

  She made a dismissive noise that sounded somehow sad. “My brother has far more to think about than the fate of one woman. He works for the future of all Italy.”

  The future of all Italy. Oh Lord, her brother was one of those idiots out to save the world. He probably planned assassinations and threw bombs instead of protecting the people he was supposed to protect. Like his sister.

  Rycote had to say something, do something, and obviously common sense and reason were not going to serve his purpose. This was like trying to argue with his sister when she wanted to do something outrageous. “Please, Donna Lissandra, do not be offended.” He thought that came out rather well. His voice sounded calm. “I know I have no right to tell you what to do. It is simply my concern for you. I would not be able to live with myself, were anything to happen to you while you were off on your own.” He tried to look plaintive.

  She tilted her head and looked at him now. Finally she smiled again, to his relief. But then she said, “Very well. I accept. You may accompany me. Come. We must hurry. Eduardo will let us leave through the back, just in case Girard is still watching.”

  She was on her feet and heading toward the kitchen before he could even begin to think of a reply. That was not at all what he had meant. Unfortunately he now had no choice but to hurry after her on her mad errand.

  They went through a maze of narrow streets. Rycote had absolutely no idea where they were,
or even in what direction they were heading. This was clearly an old part of Rome, the medieval city, where streets were laid out without rhyme or reason. All the buildings looked alike, drab and run-down, peeling stucco on the walls, and heavy shutters covering all the windows. They walked in silence. He had no idea why she did not speak, but he was too angry to frame a coherent sentence.

  At last they stopped before a door. How she knew it was the right one, he could not imagine. It looked exactly like a dozen doors they had already passed. She knocked in what he realized was an odd rhythm. That was all that was needed in this ridiculous melodrama—secret signals.

  The door opened a crack. Then a hand reached out and pulled Lissandra in. The door began to close, but Rycote slammed it open and pushed his way in.

  A young man was still holding Lissandra’s arm, but pushed her behind him and let loose a stream of utterly incomprehensible Italian. He was no doubt the brother. He had her delicate features, a bit too pretty on him, and light hair, though darker than hers. The idiot was wearing a red shirt with a scarf wrapped around his waist from which he pulled a dagger.

  More melodrama, thought Rycote in disgust. He bowed slightly and said, “Messer Pietro Crescenzi, I presume. I am Rycote.”

  The young man half stumbled as he was halted in his attack by Lissandra, who had grabbed hold of his arm and was pulling him back, her own stream of incomprehensible Italian mingling with his in some bizarre contrapuntal duet. Rycote could not help but smile.

  “He is a friend, Pietro, you idiot.” She finally switched to English so Rycote could understand her. “He came with me to protect me. He and his family are staying at the palazzo.”

  Pietro eyed him dubiously but put away the dagger before he spat out a few more sentences, less aggressive perhaps, but still incomprehensibly in Italian.

  “I’m afraid I do not speak Italian,” Rycote said.

  Pietro looked confused for a moment and then broke out in smiles. “Ah, English. You are a sympathizer, then.”

  “I’m afraid I have no interest whatsoever in your politics one way or another. I wanted to accompany Donna Lissandra for an entirely different reason. This.” He drew back his right fist and delivered a punch to the jaw that sent Pietro flying back to land on the floor.

  “Stop!” Lissandra jumped between them before Pietro recovered enough to pull out his knife again, but turned from one to the other, not certain which one required protection.

  Before Pietro could speak, Rycote said, “That was for putting your sister in danger.”

  “What danger?” Pietro looked confused.

  “You think it is safe for Donna Lissandra to go wandering around Rome by herself, with no protection?”

  “No, no, I thought…” He turned to his sister. “I know you could not tell our parents, but why did you not at least have a maid with you? Maria?”

  She looked at him in amazement. “Maria? Are you mad? The moment she so much as suspects that you are back in Rome, she will be running to the police or to the French.” She stopped, worry shadowing her face. “Perhaps she did suspect. Perhaps that is why Girard was watching.”

  “A gentleman protects his sister,” said Rycote stiffly. “He does not put her in a position where she is prey to creatures like Girard.”

  “Girard? Who is this Girard?”

  “He is nobody of importance, I am sure. He is a French lieutenant. He probably thinks that to capture someone like you would win him notice.” Lissandra gave a careless shrug. Too careless to be convincing.

  Rycote shook his head at her and turned to Pietro. “He may be interested in you, but I think he is far more interested in your sister. You simply provide him with an excuse to put pressure on her.”

  “Ah.” Pietro looked thoughtful and turned away from them to pace around the room. He stopped at one point to look at Rycote. “Your family stays at the palazzo? How is this?”

  Lissandra sighed and said, “Mr. Freeborn arranged it. You know we need the money. And Lord Rycote’s father is an English marchese, so Papa considers it hospitality and is not shamed.”

  Pietro looked at Rycote appraisingly. “A marchese. That is good.” He smiled. “Then you will be watching out for my sister. You are perfectly correct. She should not be involved in this.”

  “What do you mean, I should not be involved? Do I not get to decide such things?”

  “Such things are not for ladies,” said Pietro loftily. “I need to send a message, but there must be another way.”

  “You think me incapable of delivering a simple message?” Lissandra was sounding quite outraged.

  “Not this one. It is to a waiter at the Caffè Greco and it must be delivered there. You know they would never let you enter, and you can hardly stand around the door without attracting suspicion. But perhaps…” He looked at Rycote as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “Perhaps you could deliver it. No one would be surprised if you were to go there. All the English do. And there would be no need for Lissandra to endanger herself.” He smiled. It was not a particularly friendly smile.

  Rycote knew blackmail when he heard it. He smiled back with his teeth clenched. “I would be delighted to be of service in this small matter. Simply tell me which waiter.”

  “Of course. It is Giovanni. He is the small one, very young, with a nose that is crooked. He works during the day—they send him home at night. I am sure you will be able to recognize him with no difficulty.” He went over to a small table, scribbled out the note, and handed it to Rycote. Just before he let it go, he said, “And I am sure I can trust you to see that no danger befalls my sister, is that not so?”

  “It is most assuredly so. I have a sister of my own, so I know precisely how you must feel.”

  Lissandra stamped her foot. “Bah! You will stop talking over me as if I am some sort of imbecile. Both of you with your silly plots and protections, you are the infants.” She flung her scarf about her and headed for the door.

  Rycote and Pietro exchanged what was probably their first look of real understanding.

  *

  Lissandra marched down the street, not bothering to wait for Lord Rycote. She knew he would be following because that was what they did, these honorable gentlemen. That was what they thought courtesy meant—making certain that a woman did not take two steps unescorted. Did they ever stop to ask if the woman wished to be escorted? Did they bother to ask if the destination to which they took her was the destination she desired?

  Of course not!

  She would like to smash something over his head, the idiot. He was just like her brother. Because a woman was not strong enough to knock him down the way he had knocked Pietro down, she must be a mindless ninny, incapable of understanding anything.

  He had caught up with her and was walking beside her. She sneaked a sideways glance at him. He was looking straight ahead with a martyred air about him, as if he was the one who had been insulted back there. His mouth—his beautiful mouth—was set in a sulky pout.

  It was not fair for him to be so handsome. Everything about him, not just his face. He was tall and strong but not bulging with muscles. No, he was all lean grace, like a leopard. Why did he have to be stupid, like her brother?

  She sneaked another look at him. No, that was not fair. He was not entirely like her brother. Pietro sent her to run his errands because he thought she was too stupid to see the danger and refuse. Lord Rycote wanted to protect her because he thought she was too foolish to see the danger for herself.

  He was wrong, but it was not so terrible to have someone wanting to protect you. Not terrible at all. In fact, it gave her a warm feeling inside.

  She reached over and tucked her hand around his arm. He almost jumped, he was so startled, and looked down at her as if he could not quite believe it. She smiled, and he smiled back, not a courteous smile, but a glorious smile that lit up his face, a smile full of joy. He put his hand over hers to hold it in place, and they walked home in silence.

  There was no need to
say anything.

  *

  “We’ll be dining with Freeborn and his wife on Thursday,” Lord Penworth told his wife with a smile.

  She looked at him curiously. There were few people at whose homes Penworth actually enjoyed dining, and they were all either close friends or relations. “Is this some special occasion?”

  “Not precisely.” He looked a trifle embarrassed. “I asked Freeborn if he knew anyone conducting excavations who might be willing to let me observe. It seems there is a Prince Savelli who is an expert on the Etruscans. And not just an expert. He’s actually an experienced archaeologist himself. He and some friends are establishing an Etruscan museum here in Rome. In addition, he has what seems to be a large Etruscan necropolis on one of his estates and is in the process of excavating it. Freeborn knows him well and thought to introduce us.”

  “What an excellent idea.” She beamed at him. This trip had been a good idea. An interest in ancient tombs was far better for him than constantly worrying about the messes the fools in the government were creating.

  Ten

  The consul’s house, on the Via Condotti, was not as splendid at the Crescenzi palazzo. It lacked the centuries of history, the ancient frescoes. The chairs were upholstered in plush, not faded brocades. One did not walk through the rooms thinking that perhaps an assassin had hidden behind those tapestries, a lady had fled with her lover through that portal. It lacked, somehow, the romance that permeated the palazzo. However, as they were welcomed by the Freeborns in a most proper drawing room, Lady Elinor could not deny that it was all in much better condition.

  In fact, it was much like home. Penworth Castle might be centuries old, but it also had windows that fit properly, fireplaces that did not smoke, gas lighting, and proper plumbing. There were days when she would have traded the romance of Italy for a nice hot bath.

  The treacherous thought did not last long, because she truly was looking forward to meeting an Italian prince and his family. An Italian prince, or a Roman prince, was not the same as an English prince. He wasn’t a member of the royal family or anything like that. He was more like a duke, Papa had said. She hoped the prince would not be as old and dull as the dukes she knew in England. At least this one was interested in Etruscans. That was a major improvement over the last duke who had been her dinner partner. He had spent most of the evening telling her about his gout and the treatments he had tried, all of which had failed.