by Juliana Gray
“Game, sir? You have me at a loss.”
“This is the Castel sant’Agata! You can’t deny it!”
“Why, so it is,” she replied, running her thumb around the rim of the riding crop, quite slowly, so the gesture wouldn’t betray her anxiety. “The Castel sant’Agata. You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course I bloody well have!”
“Such language, Mr. Burke!”
“You know very well,” he went on, his voice constrained, as if he were leashing his words tightly, “what the Castel sant’Agata means to us. How, I imagine, did you find out? Did you rifle through our belongings, perhaps? Bribe our driver?”
“Really, Burke!” Lord Roland’s words snapped out with unaccustomed sharpness.
Mr. Burke turned in his direction. “I suppose you think it’s all a dreadful misunderstanding, do you, Penhallow?”
Alexandra felt a pressure begin to collect between her eyes, a gathering sense of foreboding. “I don’t understand you at all, sir. What’s the castle to you?”
He returned to her, arms folded across his chest, eyes glinting narrowly. His ginger hair seemed to have stiffened about his head, the way a dog’s might, when faced by an unexpected threat. “It’s only our home, Lady Morley, for the next year. Only that.”
She let out a relieved laugh. “Your home! Oh, you’re quite mistaken, sir. The Castel sant’Agata is our home. We’ve taken it for a year from the owner, a very nice fellow named . . . oh, Rossini. Or Paganini. Something like that.”
“Rosseti,” said Abigail, in a low voice.
“Yes! Rosseti! That’s it exactly.” She patted her coat pocket. “I have his letter and directions right here. A very nice fellow indeed, most accommodating. Though his command of English is not perhaps as exact as one could wish.”
Mr. Burke reached into his inside coat pocket. “The same Signore Rosseti, I suppose,” he said grimly, drawing out a folded paper, “who sent me this letter, confirming receipt of payment for a year’s lease of the Castel sant’Agata, in the district of Arezzo, in the province of Toscana, Italy?”
Alexandra’s breath sucked into her body. “No! It’s not possible! I demand to see your letter!”
“I demand to see yours!”
Wallingford’s voice intruded in a thunderous ducal boom, amplified by four centuries of blood authority. “Look here, the two of you! Enough of this squabbling. Give your letters to me.”
There was no question of disobeying him. Alexandra, with a subdued flourish, delivered the paper into his outstretched hand; Burke handed his over in a defiant slap.
Wallingford unfolded both papers and held them before him, side by side, studying each one by turns.
As if sensing the tension in the air, the horses began to step about, mouths straining against bridles, leather creaking and metal clinking. A cold breeze rolled against them from the north, ruffling the papers in the duke’s hands before continuing on to beat against the castle walls, a quarter mile ahead. Alexandra turned her head to watch the line of cypress shiver in the wind, and it seemed to her that the trees were laughing at her. She looked back at Wallingford, just as his own gaze lifted and met hers.
He began with a ritual clearing of his throat, which didn’t bode well. “Well. Rather awkward. It appears Signore Rosseti is either a senile fool or . . . well, or a scoundrel.” He held up both papers with his two hands. “The letters are nearly identical, except that the ladies appear to have negotiated a better price for the year’s lease than you have, Burke.”
“I was told,” Burke said tightly, “there was no room for negotiation.”
Alexandra laughed. “Oh, rubbish, Mr. Burke. Merely tactics, as anyone knows.”
He shot her an angry look. “We have paid for a year’s lease on the castle, and we intend to take it.”
Alexandra returned his look squarely, and then glanced at Wallingford, who was frowning in deep lines, rearranging his face into his best magistrate’s scowl and girding himself for a lengthy battle of legalities and technicalities.
God, no. Anything but that.
Not after a week of hellish heaving seas in the Bay of Biscay, of long days rattling along in damp provincial train carriages, of hours trudging along the unkempt Italian roads.
Not after all the rain and mud and discomfort, the constant fear of discovery by Somerton or one of his lackeys, the precious coins spent irretrievably away.
Not now, with the damned castle, the long-sought haven, in sight at last.
There was only one thing to do. She wheeled her horse about—Burke’s horse, of course, what beautiful irony—and galloped down the drive toward the castle, hearing with pleasure the outraged masculine shouts chasing her along.
Possession, after all, was nine-tenths of the law.
FOUR
She might have saved herself the trouble of knocking. Urgent seconds ticked along and the door remained immobile, as heavy and silent as the castle itself.
“Is anyone there?” called Abigail, trotting up the drive behind her, as eager as she.
Alexandra could hear the voices and footfalls growing in strength behind her. “I don’t know.” She tossed the reins to her sister, leaned her shoulder into the ancient wood, and pushed.
It swung open easily, too easily: She staggered through the doorway like a drunkard, only just saving herself from falling to her knees.
“Are you all right?” demanded Abigail. “What’s there?”
Alexandra forced herself upright. “Yes, quite all right,” she said, with an unconscious brush at her coat, which was still crusted with mud. She looked about in bemusement. What had she expected? Well, a castle: a great hall lined with medieval statuary; an imposing staircase leading to a minstrel’s gallery; tapestries hanging about, rampant with unicorns and whatnot. That sort of thing.
Apparently the Italians had a different notion of castles.
She stood in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway, lined with bare stone walls so cold and damp she could have sworn she felt an arctic draught wafting off them against her cheeks. Or perhaps it came from the rather forbidding metal grating a few yards ahead, which effectively blocked her passage and no doubt accounted for the lack of any lock on the outer door.
Alexandra walked a few steps forward and wrapped her fingers around the flat metal bars. “Hello! Buon . . . er . . . giorno!” she called out, craning her neck to see within. It seemed to be some sort of paved courtyard, with a dry stone fountain in the middle and a patch of heavy sky above, and no sign whatsoever of human habitation, other than the faintest trace of woodsmoke in the air.
“What’s there?” Abigail’s words echoed from the walls.
“Nothing at all,” said Alexandra, and at that instant the metal grate gave way with a groan of its elderly hinges. “Hello!” she called again. The sound bounced uselessly about the courtyard.
Mr. Burke’s voice exploded in the air behind her. “Look here, you can’t possibly try to charm your way into our legally leased house . . .”
She stepped forward and looked about the courtyard. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nobody here.”
She heard him ranging up behind her. His boots clacked decisively on the paving stones, the murmurings and footfalls of the others blurring together in the distant background, beyond the gate. “What’s that? Nobody’s here?”
He came to a stop just behind her left shoulder, in a little gust of wet wool and clean rain-washed skin and laundry starch. She thought she could feel his warm breath just reaching the tip of her ear. “It’s deserted,” she said, and walked briskly to the fountain and peered into the bowl, making a great show of studying it, like a detective in a play. “Lichen. Hasn’t been used in ages, I think.”
He didn’t reply.
She looked up just in time to catch his gaze, before he turned away in a swish of black coat to study the courtyard walls. In the shadowed light, his hair lost its vividness, a low bronze fringe beneath the weight of his hat. “Perhaps the owner’s a
hermit,” he said offhandedly.
“I suppose you know all about that,” she said. “Being a hermit, I mean.” Strange, that with the others so near, just the other side of the wall, she should feel so alone with him. The cool still air in the courtyard seemed to hold them in place, to enclose them, the rest of the world going on behind an invisible curtain.
He began to walk the perimeter, eyes scanning the stone as if searching for weakness. “I see you know all about me.”
“Aren’t you, though? A hermit?” she pressed. Where was everybody? Wallingford should have come storming in by now, demanding answers, shattering this odd, unbearable tautness in the space between them.
He turned to her at last. “I am not. Where’s the owner, do you think? Shall I go in and have a look?” He nodded to the doorway on the opposite wall.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said quickly, moving in that direction. “I won’t have you reaching him first and prejudicing him. We have just as fair a claim as you do.”
“And neither will I allow you to . . .”
Wallingford’s boots crashed down the entryway at last. “What the devil are you about, Lady Morley? And you, Burke. Christ, the pair of you.” He stopped and cast about, hands secured to his hips. “Well? Where’s the owner, then?”
Mr. Burke started off in the direction of the doorway. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”
“I’ll go with you,” Alexandra said, making a move to follow him.
Wallingford threw up his hands. “I might as well be talking to the trees! Burke, what’s the damned situation here? What did the agent say, back in London?”
Burke turned to face them both, his hand on the large iron ring on the door. “He said nothing at all. Only forwarded the executed lease with a note.”
“What did the note say?”
“Oh, the usual rubbish. Very happy and so on. That the owner was quite pleased, and that he was certain . . . let me see . . . that he was certain the castle was exactly what we needed.”
Alexandra felt an odd wobble at the base of her spine, a wobble she had felt only once before, at the reading of her husband’s will. She heard her own voice in the air, thin and wavering. “Those were his exact words?”
“Yes, more or less.” He paused. “Are you quite all right, Lady Morley?”
She smiled wanly. “Quite all right. Only, if I’m not mistaken, those were the man’s exact words to me.”
* * *
What a splendid adventure,” Abigail said cheerfully, as she brushed aside a mildewed curtain and peered out the window. “Such delicious grime! I daresay it hasn’t been washed in years. Do you suppose there’s ghosts?”
“Of course not,” Alexandra snapped. “The very idea.”
“I expect there’s dozens of them,” said Abigail. “An old pile like this. And Italians! Always poisoning one another and so on. I shall be very much disappointed if I don’t discover a ghost in every corridor.”
Alexandra sighed. “Really, it’s the wonder of the world you haven’t found a husband yet.”
“I never wanted one. Come, let’s explore.” She reached for Philip’s little hand and strode across the great hall, her long legs eating up the flagstones with unladylike greed.
“Slow! Slow!” said Philip, laughing.
“Hurry, hurry!” Abigail tugged on his hand, and he moved into a spirited trot, his sturdy legs churning next to hers.
“Oh, wait!” called Lilibet, preparing to dash after them, but before she’d taken more than a few steps she was brought to a skidding halt by the appearance of a figure in the opposite doorway. “Abigail!”
Abigail looked up and stopped. “Hello there!”
The figure stepped forward: a woman, wearing a long woolen dress, a neat white apron at her waist, and a white headscarf over her hair. “Buon giorno,” she said warily.
Alexandra stepped up. “Buon giorno. Are you the owner?”
The woman smiled and shook her head. “No, no. I am the . . . what is the word? I keep the house. You are the English party?”
“Yes,” Alexandra said. “Yes, we are. You’re expecting us?”
“Oh yes. We have much pleasure to see you. Though I think you are a day before? We are expecting you tomorrow. You like the castle?” She spread her arm with pride across the barren length of the great hall, free of any such inconvenient encumbrances as furniture, its tall windows set deep into hard-seated alcoves.
“Who could resist such an inviting scene?” said Alexandra. She received a sharp elbow from Lilibet at her side.
The woman shrugged. “Is so long when the family is live here. Is only me to keep the house.”
“Haven’t you any help?” Alexandra asked, astonished.
“Oh, the maids, they stay in the village. They are not staying here, when there is no master. Is so lonely. Giacomo, he keeps the . . .” Her forehead wrinkled with thought. “The earth?”
“The grounds. He’s the groundskeeper. Very well. And what is your name, my good woman?” Alexandra pressed.
“I am called Signorina Morini.” The woman made a little curtsy. She spoke well, neither too timid nor too forward, friendly but not familiar. A handsome woman, not far past forty and carrying the years gracefully, her cheeks still round and her jaw firm. Her hair, where it slipped out behind the headscarf, was full and black, without a single gray strand.
“Oh, what a lovely name. I do so like Italian names,” Abigail said. “I’m Miss Harewood, signorina, and I think your castle is perfectly magnificent. Could you perhaps show us about?” She made a little wave toward the staircase at the far side of the hall. “Are our rooms upstairs?”
“But yes, they are upstairs.” She seemed to hesitate and looked around the hall. “But . . . the gentlemen? Where are the gentlemen?”
“The gentlemen? What about them?” asked Alexandra coolly.
“Do you mean you were expecting us both?” demanded Abigail. “Signore Rosseti did it on purpose?”
Signorina Morini spread her hands before her. “I only know there come three ladies, three gentlemen. They are not your husbands?”
“I should say not!” Alexandra’s hands went to her hips.
“Your brothers?”
Abigail laughed. “Oh no. Not at all.”
Morini’s eyebrows lifted.
“No, no,” said Lilibet in haste. “It was all a great mistake. We understood . . . we thought we had taken out a year’s lease, but it appears the three gentlemen made a similar arrangement, and . . . perhaps you can find Signore Rosseti, and he can explain . . .”
“I see, I see.” Morini cocked her head to one side, the thoughtful frown returning. “Is very strange. The master, he is very careful, very particular. Is very strange mistake.” She straightened and clapped her hands. “But is good! Six English is very good! We have talk, laughter. The castle will be . . . transform. Buon. I will find your rooms.”
Alexandra stared in astonishment as the woman turned, a brusque, cheerful movement, and motioned them along behind her. “But, my good woman! What about servants? Has the place been readied for our arrival? Is there dinner?”
Signorina Morini turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “We are expecting you tomorrow. The servants, they arrive in the morning, from the village.”
“In the morning? Do you mean there’s no dinner? Is nothing ready?” asked Alexandra, chasing after the woman, who moved with singularly nimble speed across the hall.
“Where is Rosseti?” said Abigail.
“He is not here. I make all arrange. Come, come. Is growing late!”
The woman hurried up the stairs, without bothering to look back and make sure they were following.
* * *
The man appeared almost out of nowhere, blocking the entrance to the stables with his hands planted forbiddingly on his hips.
“Oh, I say!” Lord Roland’s voice rang out with its customary cheer. “Signs of life at last!”
The man let loose a torrent
of Italian.
“See here,” Finn said, “we’re looking for a chap named Rosseti. Your master, I daresay. Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Rosseti!” The word spat from the man’s lips. “Rosseti! Always he make the trouble! Now English!”
Finn had had enough. “Yes, English. Three of us, to be precise . . .”
“Six,” said Lord Roland.
“. . . and we shall need stabling for our horses at once. Our baggage should be along shortly, if it hasn’t got stuck in the mud again, and . . .”
“Enough!” The man held up a weather-beaten hand. “I am not with the horses. I keep the grounds. Horses, I do not know.”
“Summon a stableboy, then,” Finn said, feeling his impatience rise.
“Is none, signore.”
“Good God,” exploded Wallingford, “is no one expecting us at all? I’ve a good mind to find this fool Rosseti and show him exactly where he can put his damned unending sunshine . . .”
Finn was about to add his own objections, but Lord Roland made a quelling movement with his hand. “Look here, my good man,” he said kindly, “what’s your name?”
The man’s mouth formed a surly curl. “Giacomo, I am called.”
“Giacomo, then. Are you not expecting us? Has no one told you of our arrival?”
“No one.” Giacomo’s eyes shifted to the castle behind them and narrowed into a malicious squint. “No one tells me. She make arrange, and the visitors, they appear, and it is all begin again . . .” He threw up his hands and looked back at the three Englishmen. “Is not your fault,” he said, voice softening.
“Thanks very much,” Finn grumbled.
“Who’s she?” asked Lord Roland.
Giacomo ignored him. “And the women?” he went on, behind a resigned sigh. “They are in the castle now?”
“The women?” Finn demanded. “How did you know about them?”
“The women, they are always there.” Giacomo nodded his head at the horses. “We have the hay and the oats. Come, I show you.” He turned and ducked back inside the stable doorway.
“Wait just a moment!” Finn darted forward to follow him. “Do you mean to say we’re to fodder our own horses? What about the damned baggage carts?”
