He fingered along a group that were not bound at all. Thin and small, these were pamphlets that his mother had owned. He pulled them out, fanned them on the floor, and tipped the lamp over their titles.
He saw the one he wanted. It was a radical essay arguing against marriage, written thirty years ago by a famous bluestocking. The author had gone on to live her beliefs. She had even refused the married state when she found herself with child by her lifelong lover, Richard Drury.
He carried the pamphlet and the lamp to the shelf where Easterbrook stored the recent additions to the library. He slipped out a mythological dissertation still smelling of fresh leather.
He took both texts back to his chamber. He began reading, to prepare himself for dealing with Phaedra Blair.
CHAPTER
TWO
Signora, I do not think I should have to pay for these chambers when I do not even want to be using them.”
Phaedra cobbled her objection out of Latin and the few words of the Neapolitan language that she had learned. She hoped her tone would communicate her displeasure regarding Signora Cirillo’s bill in ways that her words might fail to accomplish.
She received a long, angry response, rattled off in a tone that was equally eloquent. Signora Cirillo did not care if Phaedra remained in the chambers against her will. Nor did she like the implications of the royal guardsman stationed outside her modest but respectable hostel. She wanted to be paid, and had boldly added a supplement to account for the intrusion of the guard’s presence on her other guests.
Tempted sorely to tell this woman to take her bill to the king, Phaedra nonetheless went to her bedchamber and brought back the coins.
It had been a mistake to dally in this city even a week before heading down to the ruins. If her confinement lasted much longer she would not have the money to buy passage back to England, let alone continue her mission here. This was intended to be a fairly short journey abroad. She had not come as a tourist, after all. She was here for a reason, and had pressing matters to address back home upon her return.
Mollified for another week, Signora Cirillo left. Phaedra returned to her baggage and weighed her situation. She dug into her portmanteau and retrieved a black shawl. She picked at the knot tied at one end, releasing the object snugly stored inside it.
A large gem fell onto her lap, its hues gleaming in the shadowed light of the chamber. Exquisitely carved tiny figures rose in pearly white relief against their dark red background. They depicted a mythological scene of the god Bacchus and his entourage.
This cameo had been the most valuable item bequeathed by her mother, and added to the will in her mother’s own handwritten codicil. To ensure my daughter’s future, I leave her my only item of value, my agate cameo, an antiquity from Pompeii.
Phaedra had never thought twice about that codicil in the six years since her mother’s death. She had treasured the cameo as she did all reminders of the unusual and brilliant Artemis Blair. Its value had reassured her about her financial future, that was true, but she hoped she would never have to sell it. Now, however, that beautifully penned sentence raised questions that demanded answers.
She tied the cameo back into its home, tucked it away, and returned to the sitting room. She opened the interior shutters of the long window facing west. The bay appeared very blue in the distance, and the island of Ischia could be glimpsed in the far haze.
A salty scent fluttered in, blowing a few tendrils of her hair. The voice of her guardsman drifted in too. She leaned out her third story window to see with whom he conversed.
She saw a dark-haired head positioned in front of the guardsman’s metal helmet and dramatic scabbard. The fashionably cut, romantically breeze-swept hair belonged to a man much taller than the guard. His broad shoulders appeared to be garbed in an expensive frock coat. The boots were the kind seen on the best feet in London. The other man down there was English, and a gentleman from the looks of his garments.
She strained to hear their conversation. The presence of her countryman gave her surprising comfort, even if he only requested directions out of the back streets of the Spanish Quarter.
She debated calling down and begging him for help. She was not even sure that the English people here in Naples knew she had been imprisoned. Of course, she also doubted that they would care if they did know. Those who knew her did not approve of her or want her company. Normally she did not want theirs either, but her inability to penetrate English society here had created problems even before her unexpected incarceration.
It was not going well for the Englishman. The guardsman’s gestures made a pantomime of deferential regret. I have my duty. I would accommodate you if I could, but…
The Englishman moved away. He strolled to the other side of the street and paused. He looked up with a slightly furrowed, perfect brow. His alert, dark eyes scanned the facade of the building.
Phaedra’s heart lightened, and not only because he possessed the sort of face that would raise any woman’s pulse. She knew this man. That was the famous historian, Lord Elliot Rothwell, down there. Alexia had said he was going to visit Naples this autumn but it appeared he had come sooner.
She leaned out the window and waved. Lord Elliot barely nodded his greetings. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to the guardsman. Then she gestured in her own pantomime, asking him to make his way to the back of the building.
Lord Elliot strolled away like a man studying the architecture along the street. Phaedra closed the shutters and hurried to the other side of her apartment. She opened the window that looked out on the small garden in the back.
It took Lord Elliot some time to get there. Finally she saw him enter at the far end, through the door that gave out onto a fetid alley that separated the properties. His movements lacked any furtive hesitation. He walked toward her, tall and confident, like a man accustomed to doing as he pleased. Even without the angular face that nature had so blessed with beauty, his relaxed carriage and assured demeanor demanded that one be impressed.
She was so happy to see someone from home that she did not mind the critical glint in his dark eyes when he saw her. She had seen a similar flicker above Lord Elliot’s slow smile when they met at Alexia’s wedding. It was the reaction of a man who thought her vaguely amusing even though he disapproved of her appearance, her beliefs, her history, her family, her…everything.
“Miss Blair, I am relieved to see you in good health and spirits.” Another of those slow smiles accompanied the greeting.
“And I am relieved to see you, Lord Elliot.”
“Alexia gave me the name of your hostel and asked I look in on you, to make sure you needed nothing.”
“That was kind of her. I regret that I cannot receive you properly now that you have called.”
“It appears that you cannot receive me at all.”
So much for him allowing a few pleasantries first. “No doubt you find my imprisonment surprising, even shocking.”
“I am a man rarely shocked and seldom surprised. I will admit some curiosity, however. You have only been in Naples a few weeks. It would take most people at least a year to amass sufficient crimes to deserve such punishment.”
Was he enjoying this? Under the circumstances she found his flair for clever conversation inappropriate. “There have been no crimes, just a small misunderstanding.”
“Small? Miss Blair, that is a member of the king’s guard in front of your door.”
“I am not convinced the king put him there. One of the court functionaries has done this to me. He is a loathsome little man with too much power and a small intelligence.”
Lord Elliot crossed his arms, which made him look judgmental and powerful. She really hated it when men took that stance with her. It personified all that was wrong with their half of humanity.
“The guard spoke of a duel,” Lord Elliot said.
“How was I to know that these men are so possessive that they try to kill each other if women so much as speak with—”
“Swords and daggers. Blood was drawn, the guard said.”
“Marsilio is a young artist. A mere boy. Headstrong but very sweet. I had no idea that he had misinterpreted our friendship to the point where he would challenge Pietro simply because I strolled along the bay with him.”
“Regrettably for you, Marsilio the headstrong, sweet boy is the king’s relative. He came out of that duel almost dead. Fortunately for you, the guard says he will live.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Although they do exaggerate here. As I understand it he was not badly hurt, even though any wound would be serious in such a climate. I am most contrite about the whole matter. I said so. I expressed my regrets and apologies in very slow English and also in Latin so I would be understood, but that officious, odious, stupid little man would not listen to me. He even accused me of being a prostitute, which was beyond the pale. I explained that I have never taken a penny from any man.”
“Did you protest your virtue and honor, or did you tell the odious, stupid little man that you think women should give themselves freely?”
She did not like the deep, knowing look in his eyes when he spoke his bald insinuation. If she were not in such a ridiculous situation she would let him know that she might be unconventional but that did not give him permission to be rude. Right now, however, diplomacy was required.
“I explained my belief in free love, which is not the same as giving oneself away freely, Lord Elliot. I tried to educate him. I would be glad to do the same for you, should we ever have a more opportune meeting.”
“What a tempting offer, Miss Blair. However, I expect the philosophical niceties were lost on your gaoler. Better if you had declared yourself a courtesan. They know all about that here. Radical concepts of free love, on the other hand—well…”
His offhand gesture said it all. What do you expect, woman? You live outside the rules and even your appearance invites misunderstandings.
She swallowed her instinctive reaction once more. Arguing would only drive him away, and she really wanted him to stay awhile longer. She had not realized how lonely this apartment was, and how sad the isolation had become. Just hearing her own language was a comfort.
“Do you think that they will release me soon?”
Again that offhand gesture, only now it substituted for a shrug. “There is no constitution here. No sense of precedent as in England either. No codified rights. It is an old-fashioned monarchy. You could be released tomorrow, or sent back to England, or brought to trial, or you might remain in those chambers for years at the pleasure of the king.”
“Years! That is uncivilized.”
“I do not think it will come to that. However, it could be some months before your odious, stupid little man loses interest.” He glanced across the face of the building, then to the garden door. “Miss Blair, I cannot lurk in this garden much longer or I may find myself a guest of the king’s guards along with you. I will arrange to have some food delivered to you, and leave a sum for the hire of that apartment, which no doubt you still must pay. I will also ask the British envoy here to have someone check on you periodically.”
Good heavens, he was leaving! She might grow old in these few rooms, eventually starving to death when the money ran out.
She was not a woman who depended on men for support or protection. Lord Elliot’s side of this conversation had not endeared him to her either. The ambiguity of her future helped her overcome her natural aversion to asking this particular man for assistance, however.
“Lord Elliot,” she said, stopping him after he took three steps toward the garden door. “Lord Elliot, my situation and my station do not interest diplomats. I don’t suppose you would consider interceding on my behalf. I am sure the odious little man would be impressed by your family connections and your fame as a historian. If you spoke for me, perhaps it would help.”
His expression was sympathetic but not encouraging. “I am a younger son. My station is much diminished here, and my fame of little account. Nor does this court have reason to grant me any favors.”
“I am sure you will get a better hearing than I ever will. At least you know their language. I saw you conversing with the guard.”
“I am hardly fluent enough in this dialect to present your case well.”
“I would be grateful for whatever you attempt.” What happened to chivalry? She did not believe in such sentiments, but his kind did. She was a damsel in distress and this gentleman should jump to help her, not stand in the garden looking like he wished he had never noticed her at the window above the guard.
He pondered her request. She felt her smile tighten into a beseeching grimace.
“This is not England, Miss Blair. If I am successful on your behalf you may not like the conditions they place on you in return for your freedom.”
“I will force myself to accommodate any conditions, although I pray that you try to keep them from shipping me back to England at once. I came all this way and I really need—I want to visit the excavations at Pompeii before I leave. It is a dream of mine.”
He thought it over an inordinate amount of time. His visible sigh communicated that his decision went against some better judgment. “I promised Alexia that I would see to your welfare, so I will do what I can. Finding the man whose order confined you may be difficult. Do you know his name? I would prefer not to ask around the court for the odious, stupid little man. He might hear the description, which would not help my mission, and it probably applies to far too many court functionaries in any case.”
He had capitulated out of resignation to his sense of duty, not a genuine desire to assist her. She was too desperate to be particular about his motives. “His name is Gentile Sansoni. Why do you look like that? Do you know him?”
“I know of him. Your self-defense fell on deaf ears, Miss Blair. Sansoni does not speak English or even Latin. And he is Neapolitan through and through, which is not good news.”
Leave it to Phaedra Blair to come to the attention of Gentile Sansoni, a captain in the king’s secret police. Of course, with her long red hair streaming down in the sun, undressed and uncovered, she had probably come to the attention of all of Naples.
Elliot had learned about Miss Blair’s persecutor during his last visit to Naples three years ago. Sansoni’s boat had floated in on a tide of blood in 1820, when a brief republican government in this land had been viciously defeated and the monarchy reinstated.
Sansoni had a reputation for arranging the unexpected disappearance of Carbonari, or constitutionalists, but he liked to abuse his unspecified authority in less political ways too. Sansoni was not the kind of man to be impressed by an English gentleman, and Elliot doubted he would take kindly to an attempt to circumvent his decision by appealing to his superiors.
Since Elliot could not deal with Miss Blair while she remained under house arrest, he accepted at once that he had to try to free her. He had only feigned hesitation in the garden to put her in his debt.
He had also yielded to the ignoble temptation to make this outspoken proponent of feminine independence beg for a man’s assistance. Miss Blair managed to challenge a man merely by existing, and his instincts had reacted accordingly.
Duty called, however, and the next day he set about doing what he could for her. Sansoni would not be impressed by English gentlemen, but there was a chance he would at least listen to an English naval captain. The court of Naples still revered the memory of Nelson, and Elliot suspected that Sansoni would think of Nelson as a spiritual brother. The great English hero had once helped suppress another, earlier attempt at republican government here.
There were always British ships in Naples’s port, and Elliot visited one whose captain he knew. Two days after seeing Miss Blair, he accompanied a superbly uniformed Captain Augustus Cornell through miles of palace corridors as they made their way to Gentile Sansoni’s lair.
As appropriate for a court functionary who worked in the shadows, Sansoni was far in the back of the building and so far
down that the stairs changed from fine marble to travertine as they descended. Despite his location, Sansoni had brought in enough opulent furniture to appear important. He had procured a space appropriately large for his ambitions but its low ceiling and lack of windows made it cavernous.
“I will do the talking,” Cornell said. His soft, pale face wore the severe formality common to men of his military standing. “I have had some dealings with him, and one must be careful.”
“Do you know the language?” Neapolitan was significantly different from the language spoken in Rome or Florence. Even with its heavy derivations from Latin, Elliot was at a disadvantage with it.
“Well enough, let us hope. You stay back here. I will act as go-between, physically and symbolically.”
Elliot stayed near the door as commanded. Cornell paced down the length of the room and approached the little, swarthy man who sat at the big desk at the other end. Miss Blair’s description of Sansoni had been apt. He did appear loathsome and odious, and right now very suspicious. His black eyebrows hovered low over the almond-shaped eagle eyes so common in this city.
Wine was offered, toasts made, and a conversation held. Eventually Cornell paced back to him.
“There is a complication,” he said quietly. “This friend of Miss Blair’s—Marsilio, the one who got the worst of it in that duel—is a distant relative of the king, but favored by the royal family because of his artistic abilities. He is also a young man to whom I think Sansoni there hopes to marry one of his own relatives, thus cementing his own position. That outcome is unlikely given Sansoni’s poor blood, but Sansoni has made the young man’s welfare his personal mission.” He tipped his head closer and spoke more lowly yet. “I also believe that the king is none the wiser about that duel. I kept dropping your brother’s title, and I suspect he only listens to me because he fears an English marquess could have ways to bring the matter directly to the king.”
A marquess probably could, but it would take months. “Can you arrange Miss Blair’s release?”
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