“Aflame?” Mrs. Tarbottom seemed to be trying to sound shocked at such a carry-on, but there was no disguising a certain light that danced in her eyes. Not victory, no, but a flicker of desire. “I confess we heard his imprecations when he arrived at this house—a very, shall we say, passionate man, is he not?”
Oh.
She couldn’t possibly, not the Godfearing, crucifix-clutching Mrs. Tarbottom… Could she?
It wouldn’t be the first time, Orsini knew. One only had to visit the right houses in Rome to discover that the priests with the biggest crosses were often the ones with the biggest appetites too.
And their housekeepers can be even worse…one always has to know where the exits are.
And Amadeo Orsini, handsome, flamboyant, charismatic, was no stranger to interest from ladies of rank, bored with their husbands and their respectability and in search of a little continental fire. How amusing it had been to realize that Cosima’s noble male suitors offered her love and devotion whereas Amadeo’s noble ladies and gentlemen wanted a quick bit of fun in the shrubbery.
But Orsini had never had an interest in ladies.
“He is,” Orsini told Mrs. Tarbottom, glancing to Harriet to see if there was anything other than malice in her eyes. “And, Mrs. Tarbottom, he has no right to chastise Captain Pendleton for following his own passions, for Amadeo is certainly no stranger to such heated desires. Why, he lives for passion and romance. How dare he denounce the capitano for doing the same? I believe Amadeo taught the captain all he knows about women and I can tell you, I believe he knows a lot.”
Mrs. Tarbottom’s artfully pale face turned red under its layer of makeup. Her neat hair appeared to be pinging out from its pins, the curls she had created by what must have been an uncomfortable night in curling rags were unraveling as if subjected to a humid afternoon. Which was no doubt what was playing out in her mind at that moment. An afternoon with a passionate Italian who knew a lot about women.
“Really, Contessina, you might move in laid-back circles, but in front of my innocent daughter—pray, keep your counsel.” Mrs. Tarbottom’s tone did not ring true. She spoke for effect in front of her daughter, because what mother would wish her child to run to Papa with news of Mama’s latest fascination?
“Mama, I do not understand what she speaks of, really, I do not.” Harriet smiled with pert conceit.
“Oh, to be so innocent,” Orsini lamented, stroking his stomach.
Mrs. Tarbottom patted her daughter’s hand in distracted fashion. “Yes, yes, she is quite the innocent, my darling Harriet.”
“Oh, I thought I could hear voices!” Mrs. Pendleton had introduced her cheery face through the gap in the door. “Good morning, dear Cosima. I do hope you’re feeling better—given the…ah…circumstances.”
She turned the most wooden smile Orsini had ever seen on the visiting Tarbottoms.
“Signora Pendleton, come in. I trust Pagolo did not keep you awake with his chatter?” Never was a woman more welcome than this one was now. Such a warm lady, one with whom Orsini could happily spend long hours dispensing the very best gossip.
She swept in, her smile genuine now as it fell on Cosima. “I did not sleep well, my dear, but it had naught to do with Pagolo. He slept all night on the back of my chaise longue! Are you recovered from your swoon?”
Mrs. Pendleton perched on the edge of the bed and rested the back of her hand against Orsini’s brow. It would come away dusted in powder, he realized, but that could not be helped. Besides, what young lady wouldn’t make herself halfway presentable when faced with the women who had bested her?
“I near swooned again when I heard my brother raising hell,” Orsini said apologetically. “I am so very sorry. He should not behave so.”
“Hush, now, Cosima, there’s no need to apologize. He’s only doing his duty to you as your brother.” Mrs. Pendleton’s smile wavered as she glanced across at the Tarbottoms. “You should’ve seen my brother when—Mrs. Tarbottom, Miss…perhaps you might be good enough to leave Cosima be for now. She shall be perfectly well in my company.”
“Contessina?” Mrs. Tarbottom and her daughter rose from the sofa in one synchronized movement, as if they had been practicing. “Do you wish to dismiss us?”
“Dismissed,” Pagolo decided as he strutted through the door. “Addio, addio!”
It was all Orsini could do not to laugh and he could only follow the parrot’s lead and say, “Thank you for looking in on me but please, you have spent enough of this beautiful morning with me. Go and enjoy the day.”
“Addio,” said Pagolo again as he hopped onto the bed frame, cocking his head to watch the two women.
The two Tarbottoms inclined their heads and left, the door banging loudly behind them.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Pendleton told Cosima. “The walls and doors of this house are tolerably thick. They shan’t hear a word unless we’re shouting! Now where was I? Oh yes…”
She giggled as if she had been transported back to a young miss again. “My brother did just the same to Barnaby—my husband, that is—when he found out that I was with child! ‘You’ll marry my sister, you cur, or I’ll thrash you!’ Imagine that! And Barnaby did right and we were wed. I only wish he would allow his own son to do the same.”
“Has your husband told you that—” Orsini shook his head, his sadness suddenly real, for father and son were at daggers drawn now, there was no pretense in that. “Last night, the decision was taken. My captain is to marry Miss Tarbottom, to protect the business agreement.”
“My husband came to my bedchamber last night and told me what had been decided, and I told him—never mind that.” Mrs. Pendleton took her lace-edged hanky from her sleeve as if she were about to cry. “I told him he was a hypocrite. Though it isn’t easy for poor Barnaby…it’s not only business that’s on his mind, my girl.”
Something about Mrs. Pendleton told Orsini that this was an ally, a sister in arms. He could do anything with the love of Ambrose Pendleton but with the support of his mother added to that heady brew, miracles might become possible.
“I saw Pen last night, signora,” Orsini admitted. “And we are truly in love, there is no fancy, no silly romance born out of our Italian summer. But we have lied to you already, and I cannot have you think your son…”
Orsini fell silent for a moment, then went on, “We thought that if your father and my brother believed us already intimate, your husband would have no choice but to give us his blessing. In truth, the capitano has been a gentleman toward me. We have not…how to say it politely? Just, we have not.”
Mrs. Pendleton giggled again, as if she and Cosima were fond, girlish friends. “Then you are better behaved than Barnaby and I! But I do not blame you for your subterfuge. I only wish there was something I could do, but Barnaby is so very set on this course of action. And he is not well disposed toward theatricals, not after… Oh, it is all so long ago, but his grudge lingers yet.”
“At least it is not Italians he despises.” Orsini managed a smile, but it felt a little weak. He reached out and took the lady’s hand softly. “Why does he dislike theatricals so, when even your princes have such a liking for our kind?”
Mrs. Pendleton glanced over her shoulder at the parrot, who nodded as if promising not to repeat what she was about to say. “This goes no further, mind. It was his father. Fond fool that he was. Barnaby was only a little thing, and his father abandoned him and his mother and the Pendleton brood and pursued a theatrical, for he couldn’t ignore her pretty ankle.”
And the pieces fell into place with a resounding thud. This was not some heartless man of money and ambition—it was yet another who saw Pandora, Eve and Lilith combined in any woman who called herself an actress, no matter what activities that description covered, from boards to bedroom. A little boy, abandoned for a woman of the stage.
It would not end happily, he knew, even as he asked, “Does Pen know, signora?”
“No, Barnaby does not want such a history
known far and wide. But maybe the time has come to tell Amby about his grandfather.” Mrs. Pendleton sighed. “I took the boys to the theater once, when they were small. Barnaby was off looking at some mines somewhere, and Amby was enchanted! Like his grandfather, I suppose. Must be in the Pendleton blood, though Barnaby won’t thank me for saying so.”
“I shall not tell him without your permission,” Orsini promised, squeezing her hand. “Theater is in the Pendleton blood, Mamma, for your son has written the most marvelous play and one of your finest producers is desperate to put it on in London, but—what can we do? I love Pen, but he cannot be at odds with his own father!”
“Has he really!” Mrs. Pendleton gasped with delight. “He’s forever scribbling, and he had a poem printed in the newspaper—I’m sure he told you that. I was so proud of him, but Barnaby was not pleased. I should love to read this play of his—nay, I should love, more than anything, to see it performed! And would you be in it, Cosima? He surely wrote a part for you, did he not?”
Her grin faded and she shook her head. “But what would Barnaby say to all that? It’ll sound like naught but dreams and nonsense if I tell him. Who is this producer you speak of?”
“Tonight, after dinner, perhaps I might perform a comic song from the play? A duet, and Pagolo knows the male part!” Orsini exclaimed. “We shall not tell your husband who wrote it, and see how much he will laugh and applaud? The producer is Viscount Hartington. There is no man with more influence in all of London theater!”
“Now that name sounds familiar! And a viscount no less—Barnaby couldn’t help but be impressed by that. You don’t suppose—” Mrs. Pendleton had turned rather pink with excitement. “—no, it’s silly, but would the viscount come to the ball? Is he an acquaintance of yourself and your brother? If he were to appear in person, Barnaby would be hard put to ignore that Amby’s quite capable of making his own way in the world. There’s no need for him to be packed off with those Americans.”
“Would you like me to write to him?” Orsini asked, wondering if this might not be an opportunity to lift the peer’s unhappy mother from her sadness too. What better to cheer a lady than a ball? “His mother was robbed of her wedding jewels this spring and has been left heartbroken by it. She is a sweet and gentle lady, one of Pagolo’s favorites. Might we invite the dowager too?”
As if to add his support to the request, Pagolo hopped onto Mrs. Pendleton’s shoulder and pressed his face to her hair like a kitten. Orsini knew there and then that the bird had found his retirement home and felt a pang of sadness, and a great swell of happiness too, for he could not have chosen better. Mrs. Pendleton giggled again and stroked the parrot’s iridescent feathers.
“Well…I think you should, my dear. Barnaby has given me free rein to invite whomsoever I choose, and I think a viscount and his dowager mother would be wonderful guests for the ball.” Mrs. Pendleton shoved her handkerchief back up her sleeve. “Now—have you paper and ink?”
“I do! Do you think your husband will tell Pen of his father?” Because Orsini couldn’t, he had made his promise to the woman whom he hoped one day to call Mother. “For he should know, shouldn’t he?”
“He should.” Mrs. Pendleton kissed Cosima’s brow, then rose from the bed with Pagolo still perched on her shoulder. “You write your letter to the viscount, and I shall look in on my Amby. And I’ll tell him about his grandfather. All is not lost.”
“I believe Amadeo intends to show his best behavior today after his sorry performance last night.” Cosima smiled. The day was going to take some planning if brother and sister weren’t to be expected in the same place at the same time, but he was sure he could do it if anyone could. “I will rest a while longer but by supper, I will be ready to perform for your husband.”
For now, I’ll just be performing for everyone else.
Chapter Thirteen
The morning was half done by the time Amadeo Orsini emerged from his room in a haze of rose scent, clad in his favorite summer suit of emerald green. Today the embroidery was floral, vivid reds and yellow blossoms that clustered on his waistcoat, and the colors were picked out again in the rubies he wore on his fingers and in his stock pin. Yet it all felt so very restrictive after Cosima’s muslin dresses and loose hair, and on a day as warm as this, he longed to be dressed in her airy gowns and soft shoes.
How delightful to have the choice!
The heat in Mrs. Tarbottom’s eyes was hotter than any summer sun though and he was sure now that there might be something in that of use. More than saintliness lurked behind her pious smile, Orsini knew.
He knocked at Ambrose’s door, only to be informed by the young maid within, her arms filled with linens, that the gentleman was already off about his day. Of course he was, Orsini thought warmly, for he was a man of action.
Only now, as he trotted through the halls and past the portraits of horses and landscapes, the shelves heaving with rich leather-bound books, did he think of the future they had planned. Could they really dare to wed, this hero and his pretend contessina? Would their future truly be as they had planned, Ambrose and Cosima, happy together through the long years?
“Si,” Orsini told a painting of a fine white steed that stood resplendent before the portico of Pendleton Hall. An English horse, he reminded himself, as he added, “Wait and see, Signore Cavallo!”
He descended the stairs and skipped through the entrance hall, past closed doors and even the occasional maid, each one of whom he greeted with a low bow in return for an amused giggle. One of the girls pointed their flamboyant visitor toward the morning room and he paused outside, hearing the hum of voices within. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
“Good morning, Orsini!” Mrs. Pendleton nodded as he entered. She was sitting beside Ambrose, who was somewhat pale in the face, but he smiled at Orsini nonetheless. She had told him about his profligate grandfather, Orsini was sure of it.
“Good morning, my friend.” Ambrose rose to his feet and bowed neatly. “I hope we might be on better terms this morning than we were yesterday. My mother tells me that your sister improves.”
“Buongiorno.” Orsini bowed to Ambrose and his mother. For good measure, he offered a nod to Pagolo too, who was watching the garden beyond the window. “Madame, sir, I must apologize for how I comported myself last night. It was unforgivable.”
He put his hand on Ambrose’s arm, the gesture one of friendship, but as Ambrose would know, something far deeper than that too.
“For the sake of appearances, let our American adversaries believe us still at odds.” Orsini offered Mrs. Pendleton and her son a smile. “For the sake of love and Cosima, let us be friends and allies.”
“I forgive you, Orsini. It is quite understandable, really.” Mrs. Pendleton returned his smile.
Ambrose blinked at him, then stiffened his posture and smiled too. For a second he touched Orsini’s hand. “We none of us asked to be swept into this situation, but we are here and we are resolved to fight.”
“And have a picnic!” Mrs. Pendleton grinned. Ambrose hid his mouth behind his hand, clearly trying not to laugh.
“A picnic?” A lance of panic shot through Orsini. Would Cosima’s presence be required in addition to his own? A hundred scenarios charged through his imagination, each worse than the last and each resulting in discovery. Surely a picnic wouldn’t be their undoing.
“Mrs. Tarbottom wished that we should all go on a picnic,” Mrs. Pendleton explained. “To enjoy our beautiful English weather! I for one can think of nothing nicer than sitting out on the damp grass while swarms of wasps attack us, but if it keeps Mrs. Tarbottom happy, then we may as well.”
“And she wishes for you to attend, Orsini, you lucky fellow!” Ambrose clapped his hand against Orsini’s shoulder.
“Me?” He grimaced. Oh for a return to last summer, with its deluges and chills, when no thin-lipped American could force one off to a picnic. Last year Ambrose had still been in the service of his
country though, still risking his life and limbs, and Orsini remembered those days too clearly. He had no wish to feel such weight of worry ever again. “Nothing is better than a day beneath the summer sun, but can I not decline on this occasion?”
“I should very much appreciate it if you would attend.” Mrs. Pendleton glanced from Orsini to her son. “I realize you must be worried about Cosima, but…she will be with us in spirit, if not in person.”
Ambrose glanced at Orsini, his brow furrowed. “Erm…of course, Mother. Orsini—think not of the Tarbottoms, but of you and I and our picnics in Italy! Though, alas, that we cannot finish it with a spirited swim.”
“Whyever can we not?” The thought of it sent a thrill of excitement through his blood, though, of course, he knew Ambrose was right. “I shall endure the picnic, for the sake of my good captain and his mother.”
Chapter Fourteen
The sun was bright as the little party of five strolled through the gardens toward the shaded hills beyond. At the head of the group, Orsini and Ambrose carried a generous hamper each, the air between them crackling with manufactured tension as the supposed seducer and his supposed enemy did their best to remain civil. Behind them strolled the ladies, one with a parrot on her shoulder, one with her face unreadable and the youngest dressed as though she were about to enjoy an audience with the queen herself. Harriet was relishing her triumph and her diamonds were almost as fine as Orsini’s rubies. She knew it too—he’d seen it in the way her eyes had widened when the group met to begin their promenade.
Harriet Tarbottom had an eye for jewels, just as her mother had one for Italians.
“And in your country, Orsini, do you take picnics?” Mrs. Tarbottom’s voice rang across the gardens.
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 13
