Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

by Lillian Marek

  “Colonel Labouche, it is good of you to come so promptly.” Penworth held out a hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the colonel took it with a firm clasp. “Your message implied that the problem is serious.”

  “Yes. Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Penworth, my son, Lord Rycote, and his fiancée, Signorina Crescenzi.”

  Labouche nodded to them abruptly but looked at Penworth in inquiry.

  “They are all concerned in this,” he explained, a touch of apology in his tone. “You see, one of your officers, Lieutenant Girard, has been pursuing Signorina Crescenzi to an extent that has caused her considerable distress. Then today he came into this palazzo and assaulted her.”

  They all looked at her, and she turned her face so that Labouche saw for the first time the bruise darkening her cheek and eye. He drew a sharp breath and turned back to Penworth.

  The marquess continued, “Rycote came to her rescue, of course, but Girard was—I don’t quite know how to describe his behavior. He was acting like a madman. My son was forced to knock him down, and in falling, Girard broke his arm.”

  Maintaining impassivity, Labouche asked where Girard was at present.

  Lady Penworth fluttered a bit, waving a lavender-scented handkerchief, as she explained that she had felt they couldn’t, of course, leave the young man in such pain, so she had had his arm set and dosed him with laudanum. “He is just waking up now, if you would care to see him.”

  Lady Penworth took the colonel’s arm to lead him into the small sitting room where Lieutenant Girard lay on a velvet settee, his bandaged arm and sling looking very white against the scarlet velvet. He raised his head groggily and fixed his eyes on Lissandra. He burst out in fury, “You! Your brother is a dead man! I will be avenged!”

  “Such a foolish young man.” Lady Penworth shook her head pityingly.

  “Ah, Colonel, you see? Always he threatens to harm my brother.” Lissandra raised her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “My poor brother who had to flee from Rome six long years ago.” She turned away to lean on Rycote’s arm.

  Girard managed to focus his eyes enough to see that his commanding officer was present. He struggled to sit up. “Sir, Pietro Crescenzi is one of Garibaldi’s aides. He has been in Rome these past two months, and now these English are hiding him.”

  “Months? You have known that there is a Garibaldi spy in Rome for months? How is it that I have heard nothing of this?” demanded Labouche coldly.

  Still half drugged, Girard failed to notice the icy note in his commander’s voice and persisted. “He is here. The English are hiding him in their apartments. I know it.”

  Lady Penworth shook her head sadly. “He must be a madman. He has this bee in his bonnet about Miss Crescenzi’s brother.”

  “I assure you, Colonel Labouche, that so far as I know, Pietro Crescenzi is not even in Rome. Neither he nor any other revolutionary is hiding in our apartments.” Lord Penworth gave a small smile. “If it will make your mind easier, you have my leave to look anywhere you choose.”

  The colonel, who was scowling at his young officer, shook his head. “That would be absurd. I am hardly going to question the word of a man who dines with my emperor.” He turned to give Penworth a wry smile. “We are notified when important visitors come to Rome, you see.”

  Penworth touched him lightly on the sleeve. “Then, if I might have a word?” The two men drew apart, and Penworth spoke softly. “My son was very angry at the insult to Miss Crescenzi, and I fear he wishes to challenge the lieutenant. I may not be able to dissuade him, and I know that a French officer would never refuse a challenge. Quite apart from the potential for tragedy, such a duel could be extremely embarrassing for me, for my country, and for yours as well when the incident that brought it on became known. And it would become known, as such things do.”

  Labouche looked at him consideringly. “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Obviously, no challenge can be offered while Lieutenant Girard is suffering from a broken arm. Is there any possibility that he might be sent elsewhere to recover?”

  “Oh yes.” The colonel’s smile was grim. “He will indeed be sent elsewhere to recover. Algeria, most likely. I do not think you need worry yourself about him any longer. I will have him removed from here immediately.”

  The concord was sealed with handshakes, bows, and curtsies. The colonel departed and a guard of four men led Lieutenant Girard away in his wake. Rycote and Lissandra withdrew to converse, or perhaps to communicate in some other way, leaving Lord and Lady Penworth alone. She took his arm and said happily, “And I don’t think we even had to tell any lies.”

  *

  It had grown dark by the time the borrowed carriage arrived at the customs house in Civita Vecchia, but the steamer could be seen pulling up at the dock. The coachman had taken to heart the order to travel with speed, and the passengers had been flung about mercilessly as the coach bounced about on the rutted roads.

  “Tomorrow there will be bruises covering every inch of me,” said Elinor, shifting uncomfortably. “I feared on occasion that we would be sending Mr. Freeborn’s carriage back to him as a pile of splinters.”

  “I will treat you to a massage as soon as we reach our cabin,” her husband promised with a grin. He lifted her onto the ground, holding her just a little longer than necessary.

  She grinned back and then dropped the black veil Lissandra insisted she wear. Elinor had protested that only widows wore such veils, but Lissandra said that in Italy people would be most solicitous of a woman wearing one even for a father-in-law. Harry scowled at it, but did not protest.

  Entering into the customs house, Doncaster looked about him scornfully and spoke in his best aristocratic drawl. “Good heavens, my dear, what a madhouse. Is there no order anywhere in this country?” He waved a hand at Pietro. “Go find out who is in charge here, if anyone is. We will wait outside where the air is at least fresher.”

  Pietro, throwing himself into his part, even gave his forelock a tug. Crouched over, he scurried off saying, “Subito, subito, immediately.”

  Elinor kept her hand on her husband’s arm as he led her back outside, still peering down his nose at their surroundings. “You look supremely arrogant,” she whispered. “How do you manage to keep a straight face?”

  “Practice, my dear, practice. This is the way the rest of the world expects English gentlemen to act. Thoroughly pompous, self-important, and a bit stupid.” He let his eyes roam over the crowd, apparently casual, but missing nothing, and moved his wife out of the path of the urchin who might be simply an urchin but was more likely a pickpocket. “Hush now. I think an officer is coming this way with Pietro.”

  She turned and saw a nervous-looking young customs agent accompanying an equally perturbed Pietro.

  “My lord, I have explained to these officious fools that you are an English nobleman of the highest rank, returning home under circumstances of the most tragic, but they seem unable to comprehend.” Pietro could not entirely subdue his usual dramatic flair, but his upper lip displayed a slight hint of moisture.

  Doncaster looked at the officer wearily and spoke in fluent but atrociously pronounced Italian. “What is it now? Another series of stamps required?”

  The agent, who could not be more than eighteen years old, whipped off his cap and jerked a bow. “Excellency, a thousand apologies, but my commander has received warning that a dangerous revolutionary may be in Rome. We must be on guard lest he try to escape this way.”

  “What has that to do with us?” Doncaster looked at the young man in amazement. “Do I look like a revolutionary? Does my wife?”

  “Forgive me, Excellency, but…” He licked his lips and tried again. “My commander, he insists that he must interview you. Only, you understand, so that he can assure himself no one has imposed on you by inserting himself into your party.”

  Doncaster turned to his wife with an exaggerated sigh and spoke loudly in English. “So tiresome, these foreigner
s, my dear. But if this is what we must do in order to get home, this is what we must do.” He put his hand over hers and gave it a warning squeeze.

  The warning had not really been needed. Elinor had been startled by his play-acting at first, but was now ready to throw herself into the role of brainless ninny. She clutched a black-bordered handkerchief in her hand and pressed it to her breast with a sob. “This is really too much. But whatever you say, Doncaster. I am sure you know best.”

  She hung weakly on his arm as he ushered her through the crowd of people to the office at the rear of the building. Pietro and Martha followed behind, along with the young agent. Pietro attempted to look servile, but Martha marched forward militantly.

  The commander of the post proved to be a weary fellow, perhaps fifty years old. His moustache drooped, his shoulders drooped, and his unbuttoned tunic revealed that his stomach drooped as well. Lifting his eyes from the paper he had been studying, he regarded them mournfully and then heaved himself to his feet. “Milord.” He dipped his head in greeting.

  “Ah, yes, Commander, is it?”

  That produced a weary nod. “Commander will do,” he said in heavily accented but perfectly clear English.

  “Excellent.” Doncaster beamed approval at him. “You speak English. Then we can get this nonsense over with quickly.”

  Elinor lifted her handkerchief to her mouth and made a sound that might have been a stifled sob. Or giggle. Doncaster patted her hand.

  “Yes, of course. Quickly.” The commander looked down at the paper before him. “You must understand my problem. I have been warned that a dangerous revolutionary, one of Garibaldi’s trusted lieutenants, has been in Rome and is trying to escape.”

  Doncaster laughed lightly. “I assure you that I am not a dangerous revolutionary, nor do I associate with such creatures.”

  “Yes, of course, but I have this problem. Your manservant appears to fit the description I have been given. A young man, of average height, slim, with dark hair and eyes.” The commander shrugged his shoulders.

  Doncaster looked at Pietro. “Yes, he does fit that description, doesn’t he?” He turned and looked at the young customs agent. “But so does your assistant here and, I dare say, half the young men in Rome.”

  The commander nodded acknowledgment of the point. “However, my assistant has been my assistant for over a year now, and what is more, his parents have been known to me for many, many years. May I assume you have known your manservant for no more than a few months?”

  Doncaster tilted his head in apparent thought. “Yes, yes, a few months more or less.”

  “Then, you see, he could be my revolutionary, having wormed his way into your service as a way of escaping from Rome.”

  By way of reply, Doncaster burst out laughing. “Leporello?” He laughed some more. “Leporello a revolutionary? Oh my dear commander, the fellow is afraid of spiders!”

  Pietro turned beet red as everyone turned to look at him.

  The commander said, “Yes, but…”

  “This is too, too dreadful,” declaimed Elinor. “I cannot bear it, my love. In our time of sorrow, when we have so recently received word of your father’s death, along comes this dreadful man”—she waved her handkerchief at the commander, who stepped back as if struck—“and his idiotic suggestion that Leporello—Leporello, of all people—is a revolutionary. When we must hurry to return to England…these dreadful delays… Oh…” With her hand to her forehead, she collapsed gracefully into Doncaster’s arms.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” Martha scolded the commander. “You’ve gone and upset my lady when it took me half the trip here to get her calmed down.” She fished around in her handbag. “I’ll need her smelling salts. Leporello, you go and make sure the baggage is all in my lady’s cabin, and my lord and I will get her on board so she can lie down.”

  Pietro hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow. “Right away, miss, right away.” He scurried off.

  “And you!” Martha turned back to the commander. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Upsetting my poor lady with your nonsense. As if we’d have anything to do with any of your nasty revolutionaries.”

  “I think that is quite enough, Commander. I trust you have no objection to my taking my wife on board now?” Turning his back to the flustered officer, Harry put an arm around Elinor’s shoulders as she revived enough to stand. “Come, my dear, I will help you to our cabin and then you can lie down. There will be no more interference from these gentlemen.” He glared at them and they nodded quickly.

  Elinor sobbed noisily into her handkerchief as he led her out of the office. She continued to sob, more quietly, as he led her up the gangplank and onto the steamer. By the time they had reached their cabin, the sobs had degenerated into giggles.

  There Pietro awaited them. “Spiders?” he said in outrage. “I am afraid of spiders?”

  As he stormed out of the cabin, they collapsed on the bed in laughter.

  *

  A few days later, in the cells of the Castel Sant’Angelo, a guard was coming off duty. “Know anything about that Italian fellow who keeps complaining?” he asked his relief.

  The newcomer shook his head. “All I know is, Lieutenant Girard said to keep him here until he said to let him go.”

  “Girard? Didn’t he just get sent to Algeria?”

  That produced a laugh. “Then I guess that complaining Italian will be here for a while.”

  Twenty-six

  They laughed in Marseilles when they read Pietro’s note saying that he had gone to Nice to join Garibaldi.

  They laughed in Lyon when they went to visit the little priest who showed visitors the clock. He remembered them and laughed with them.

  They laughed in Paris when Mr. Worth tried to maintain a solemn mien while Elinor ordered a dozen stylish gowns in mourning colors. They laughed even more at the look on Mr. Worth’s face when Doncaster ordered a scarlet corset. And a scarlet petticoat. And scarlet garters.

  The journey took much longer than might be expected. They stopped at each town on their route early in the afternoon and departed late the next day, looking blissfully contented. It was, after all, their wedding trip.

  Their laughter slowed as they neared London. Messages had gone back and forth across the Channel, so that when they landed in Dover, the Doncaster carriage was there to meet them. Harry conferred with the coachman while Norrie settled herself into the well-padded plush interior and admired the little cut-glass vases by the windows, each one holding a small posy of rosebuds. It was the sort of detail her mother would have considered ostentatious, but she found it rather charming. But foolish. It was to be hoped that the carriage was well sprung. Too severe a bump would spill the water from the vase onto her dress. It might not harm the black poplin, but it would spot the velvet trim.

  She took a deep breath. Harry was taking a long time with the coachman, and she was running out of trivialities to keep the worry at bay. Would they have to confront his mother today? Even in Paris they had heard whispers about her. It was not that Elinor doubted her ability to handle her new motherin-law. She had seen Lady Penworth manage—or rout—everyone from the queen down to a recalcitrant servant, and what her mother did, she could do. It was tempting to get the confrontation over and done with, but it would be best to have a bit more information first. Her biggest worry was that Lady Doncaster, the Dowager Lady Doncaster, would make life difficult for Harry.

  She was not going to allow that. His parents had done enough—too much—to torment Harry. His father was gone, so he could do no more harm. If his mother tried to do anything that would make Harry unhappy, she would discover that she now had Elinor to contend with. And no one was going to make Harry unhappy if Elinor had anything to say about it. No one.

  The door opened, he climbed in, and the carriage slid smoothly into motion. Harry did not look too upset. At least there was no increase in the tension that had been growing in him since they left Paris. She took his hand, and h
e smiled and squeezed it back.

  “We can safely go to Belgrave Square,” he said. “My mother is at the Abbey. So I will be able to deal with the lawyers and all that sort of thing before I have to face her.”

  That was a relief, since it was obviously a relief to Harry. She did not doubt his ability to quickly grasp the essentials about the management of the estate, and that would ease his mind. There remained one question. “Are your sisters with her?” she asked.

  “No, they are with Aunt Georgina in Richmond.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Norrie frowned. “Is she unkind?”

  He gave a short laugh. “She isn’t even present. She is one of the family’s ancient relics. The last time I saw her, she was waiting impatiently for this nonsense in France to be over so she could once more visit her friend Marie Antoinette. She thought I was some chevalier or other. Lord knows who she thinks the girls are.”

  “In that case, it sounds as if there will be no difficulty when we go to fetch your sisters tomorrow.”

  *

  There were difficulties, of course. The first occurred at Doncaster House. Harry knew where it was, but he couldn’t remember if he had ever actually been inside it before. He certainly didn’t know any of the servants. He didn’t even know where the bedrooms were. He covered his uncertainty by maintaining a frosty visage.

  Elinor had no difficulty in matching his expression. She did not care for the fawning look of the butler and housekeeper, and she certainly did not care for the decoration of the house. She sincerely hoped that the estate was in healthy enough condition to bear the cost of new furnishings.

  Advance warning of their arrival ensured that the rooms of the earl and countess were prepared, but nothing had been done about rooms for Harry’s sisters. “Rooms for the young ladies?” a startled housekeeper said. “They’ve never been here these ten years or more, and then they were in the nursery. Always in the country they were.”