Amberley Chronicles Boxset II (Amberley Chronicles Box Sets Book 2)

by May Burnett

  “I would like to go home.” She was unable to hide her humiliation and annoyance. “This is not the kind of entertainment I enjoy.”

  “Not even the dancing?”

  “Until midnight it was pleasant enough, but since then…”

  “I know what you mean. I’ll suggest to Sir Conrad that we escort you ladies back to your abode.”

  Though he did so as soon as they were reunited, Margaret did not care to leave yet, and Sir Conrad declared that the night was still young. Realising they would not be budged, and that she could not go home alone or with a gentleman unrelated to her, Emily contented herself with their assurance not to leave her alone again. It fell to Wetherby to make good on that promise, as Margaret was quickly borne away to the dance by more admirers. Emily danced once more with each of the men in their party, but declined other invitations, citing fatigue.

  It was a little after two when they left the city hall. Nobody spoke much on the way back, though the gentlemen correctly thanked both sisters for the pleasure of their company.

  Once they were indoors and alone, Margaret rounded on Emily. “What a spoilsport you are! It was foolish to search for me, Emily; that only drew attention to my absence.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Never mind that. I don’t need to tell you every little detail.” Margaret sounded uncharacteristically pettish, even nervous.

  “I was accosted by a drunken lout of an officer. Mr Wetherby rescued me only just in time. That was not what I hoped for on my very first ball, Margaret.”

  There was a short silence. “I am sorry,” Margaret said at last. “I enjoyed myself so much that I did not pay enough attention to you. Do you think Sir Conrad has serious intentions?”

  “You want to be Lady Bolland, do you? A rich lady, with all the comforts and pin money you could desire?”

  “Wouldn’t you want that too, if you had the chance? He is smitten, that much is clear, but I am not yet sure of him. I want to be rich again, Emily. To regain the position our father so stupidly squandered. I deserve it.”

  “Well, good luck,” Emily said drily. “Were you trying to bring him up to scratch when you were both gone at the same time? Don’t you think Conrad will respect you better, if you play a little harder to get?”

  “No, that was not where I was. I am not such a fool as all that, but he is only planning to stay for a week.”

  “You probably don’t need to make him propose that fast, only to fascinate him enough so he postpones his departure.”

  “I could do that easily enough,” Margaret considered, “but for that annoyingly hard-headed friend of his. Wetherby does not admire me.” She said it wonderingly. “I suspect that he prefers you, in his phlegmatic English way. And you are welcome to his admiration, which will never amount to any tangible move.”

  “He noticed I wanted something lighter to drink, and ordered lemonade. He chased off that drunkard. He kept me from falling when I stepped wrong during my first waltz. That is tangible enough for me.” Emily’s annoyance with her sister’s supercilious dismissal rang through her voice.

  “Oh. Do be careful not to go too far in your admiration, Emily, Wetherby is not the type to propose and marry on a whim, and he is just passing through. In any case, despite what Conrad believes, what do we know of him and his background? Travelling around Asia for pleasure does not sound terribly respectable to me. He might be an adventurer, or even a gambler.”

  Their father had gambled; their current predicament was due in large part to this hateful vice. If Emily had the slightest reason to suspect Wetherby of gambling, she would never look at him again. But no, he had behaved as an honourable gentleman so far, and she had no reason to believe anything against him.

  “You are biased because he does not worship at your feet,” she retorted. “Until I receive information to the contrary, I shall give Mr Wetherby the benefit of the doubt. In any case, he will be gone soon, so this whole conversation is an exercise in futility. I am tired and would like to go to sleep.”

  They shared a room on the third floor of the mansion, though there were dozens of empty ones in the huge old house. Most of the time Emily did not mind, but on this night she listened to her sister’s breathing for upwards of an hour, troubled by inchoate worries. As though she did not have enough real problems to contend with! Armando’s ultimatum and forthcoming marriage, her mother’s poor health… it could not be good for a woman not to leave the house or her rooms for weeks on end, and shun the sunlight like a mole. If it had been in her power Emily would have taken Mrs Bellairs on a drive outside every day, and forced her to walk at least a little, so her muscles and soul would not quite atrophy. As it was, she had to watch helplessly as her parent turned more feeble and hopeless by the week.

  Just what had Margaret been up to at the ball? Did she have some secret admirer she was meeting in between dances? Emily hoped not, since Margaret was so clearly set on their cousin. Another admirer would only mean complications, especially if he was not rich and respectable enough to honourably offer for Margaret; and if he were, why had he not yet done so?

  Emily hoped that her suspicions were unfounded, and that Margaret would succeed in securely attaching Sir Conrad. From his behaviour this night, she was more than halfway there. A marriage between her sister and her rich cousin would also mean security for her mother and herself. Emily might still be a poor relation, but at least it would not be in a house where the heir was plotting to throw her out within months. As the sister of Lady Bolland she might more easily attract some modest gentleman of her own, and attain the security she craved.

  Why did she keep feeling that Margaret and she were fooling themselves, that things would not turn out as neatly as all that? That the prospect of a match between Conrad and Margaret sounded too good to be true?

  She still had not pinned down the reason for her unease when she finally succumbed to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  When trouble finds you, good friends become scarce.

  Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)

  “Have some coffee,” Anthony advised Sir Conrad. It was past eleven. Anthony had already returned from a brisk walk around town and ordered a late breakfast in their private parlour, before Sir Conrad emerged from his room. The baronet was yawning and half-awake, but then he had not returned to the inn with Anthony after delivering the young ladies to their home.

  “What did you do last night, Bolland? Invoke the spirits of Romeo and Juliet?”

  The young man shuddered. “Do you suppose it is something about Verona, the city itself? I am most horribly in love with Margaret. It came upon me suddenly, like a fever; and as I know from bitter experience, fevers are not to be trifled with.”

  “Not surprising, she is a beautiful and vivacious young woman. And far from having to fear her relatives’ enmity, if you offer for her, the family will fall around your neck, weeping with gratitude.” Anthony reconsidered. “Not Emily, she has too much countenance, but she will certainly support your courtship. I see only plain sailing ahead, if you are truly decided upon this course.” He kept his reservations to himself. Experience had taught Anthony that once a man in love passed a certain stage, reason and advice were utterly wasted on him. Sir Conrad had passed that threshold early the previous evening, if Anthony was not mistaken.

  “Thanks, old fellow, for keeping Emily occupied, and giving me a clear field with Margaret.”

  “No thanks are necessary. Miss Emily is a delightful young lady.” Should he mention the incident with the drunken officer? No, the least said about that, the better. “When I went out earlier, I dispatched flowers to the ladies, in both our names.”

  “Thanks again. How like you to think of it. My head is still woolly and half asleep. What kind of flowers?”

  “Pink and yellow roses.”

  “Ah. I would have sent red ones to Margaret. Maybe just as well not to tip my hand so early.”

  “We were only going to stay in
Verona for a week,” Anthony reminded his friend. “Have you decided what to do about your attraction to your cousin?”

  “It is too early to make firm plans, but I am determined not to leave here without trying my luck with Margaret. If I stay another week, as does seem likely, no need for you to linger.”

  Anthony nodded. He had neglected his estates and responsibilities for long enough, though a sheaf of reports and documents had caught up with him in Florence, and there was nothing urgent to deal with. Rather humbling, actually, how well his concerns seemed to be running in his long absence. Of course he had inherited and appointed able people, and his friend Rook was keeping a vigilant eye on his estates in case of any unforeseen catastrophes.

  Rook deserved relief from that burden, especially as Anna, his Marchioness, had presented him with a child in the interval. On the other hand, Rook had always had an over-abundance of energy. Would he be unchanged after more than two years? It was not reasonable to expect it, as Anthony himself had changed a great deal during his travels, though more inside, perhaps, in ways that might not be immediately visible to his friends and family.

  As Conrad sipped the fragrant coffee, Anthony ate brioches and scrambled eggs with fresh rolls. Breakfast on the Continent tended to be more modest than in England, but with his fluent Italian he had little trouble making his wishes known.

  The innkeeper entered their private parlour without knocking, out of breath. “There are soldiers looking for Sir Conrad Bolland.” He looked distinctly ill at ease. “I cannot keep them out, please understand my position.”

  Sir Conrad caught the gist of the man’s rapid Italian. “Let them in, fool.”

  There was no time for the innkeeper to obey; two officers, with an equal number of sergeants, came barging in, crowding the modestly sized room. Their grim faces, so unlike the holiday mood of last night’s dancers, made Anthony’s neck stiffen in sudden tension.

  “Signore Bolland?” The senior man, a captain, asked Anthony. His slow Italian had a strong Austrian accent.

  “I am Sir Conrad Bolland,” his friend said in a loud voice. “Just what do you want with me? It is hardly polite to interrupt a man’s breakfast.”

  “You are under arrest,” the Captain brusquely told Conrad.

  “What! Why?” Conrad looked dumbfounded.

  “Yes, why?” Anthony kept his voice quiet, reasonable. He had learned the hard way that it did not pay to offend petty authorities, but his thoughts raced. If Tsien were here, they might stand a chance against four men, especially if Sir Conrad distracted one or two. But Tsien was not present, and there was only the one door - resistance was not a viable option. He would end up a fugitive himself, in a strange country, far from the border. Besides, this might turn out to be less serious than it looked.

  “Never mind why - come with us now.” The captain nodded at the sergeants and they flanked Sir Conrad, ready to grasp him if he should try to flee, or bodily drag him out if necessary.

  “But where are you taking my friend? For what reason? We are peaceful travellers, just passing through the city.” At least they only seemed interested in Sir Conrad, and not in him. Why? Irrationally, Anthony felt almost insulted at being thus ignored.

  Conrad whipped off his napkin and dropped it on the table in irritation. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding. I shall come along, but be sure that the British Embassy in Vienna will hear of this.”

  “Just come along quietly,” the Captain said warily.

  “I’ll engage a lawyer on your behalf,” Anthony said quickly, in English. “Don’t worry, this will be sorted out soon enough.”

  “Be careful they don’t get you too,” Conrad said with a wry grimace over his shoulder, as he was marched out by the soldiers. “If I don’t make it back out, tell my family what happened.”

  Anthony pushed away the remains of his breakfast, his appetite thoroughly spoilt. He turned to the innkeeper. “Where are they taking my friend? Do you know?”

  “The Castelvecchio, Signore. Not many come out again.” The man was pale.

  What on earth had they stumbled into in this ancient, beautiful city? From his sightseeing, Anthony knew the “Castelvecchio or “old fortress” was a military barracks.

  “Speak plainly, man. Are all prisoners taken there? Will a lawyer be able to discover what this is all about?”

  “They use it only for political cases like rabble-rousers, spies or traitors, Sir. It is doubtful that a lawyer could help, though it may not hurt to engage one.” The man fearfully lowered his voice. “Better hurry if he is to do your friend any good. They say that interrogation methods in those cells are harsh.”

  “But why would they arrest my friend? I have spent almost all our time here with him, and can vouch for it that he has not engaged in any political activities. He does not even care for politics.”

  “Sometimes mistakes are made, I suppose,” the innkeeper said doubtfully. “Maybe he has been denounced by some enemy?”

  “What enemy? We are but newly arrived here, and know almost nobody.”

  The innkeeper shrugged, eloquently expressing his lack of ideas.

  “Send my servant to me.”

  Anthony quickly told Tsien about Sir Conrad’s arrest, and ordered him to have their own and Bolland’s effects ready for a quick departure. “Hide his purse and any private papers right away, before they think of searching or confiscating his property. Do your best to find out the charge. I shall do the same, through the people we have met since our arrival.” He remembered the conversation with Hauptmann Ehrenblatt, and the man’s card. “Hold. I have another job for you, once you have secured Sir Conrad’s luggage.”

  While Tsien hurried upstairs to do his bidding, Anthony quickly penned a letter to Ehrenblatt, in English, describing the inexplicable arrest of his friend, and asking for assistance in clearing up what could only be a misunderstanding. He signed the missive, sealed the envelope with his ring, and soon handed it to Tsien together with the officer’s calling card. “This is the address. Please deliver the letter to the man’s own hands, discreetly if possible. You will know him by his huge moustache.”

  Now it only remained to apprise Mrs Bellairs and her family of Sir Conrad’s mischance. The Contessa might have influential friends or connections that could help. According to Hauptmann Ehrenblatt, her sons were thick enough with the Austrian authorities. At the very least she might be able to recommend a good local solicitor, or barrister, whatever it took.

  Anthony hurried to the Casa Mardiglio, and was admitted to a depressingly dark downstairs drawing room he had not seen on his previous visit. After a few minutes Margaret and Emily Bellairs arrived, all smiles.

  “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, Mr Wetherby!” Margaret looked around questioningly. “Our cousin is not with you?”

  “He was arrested an hour ago, over breakfast, Miss Bellairs. I have not yet discovered the reason, but he is said to have been taken to the Castelvecchio.”

  She paled and swayed on her feet. At least she did seem to genuinely care for young Conrad. “What! But that makes no sense! How is it possible?”

  “What can be done?” Emily asked practically.

  “I was hoping your grandmother or her family might have connections to intercede in Sir Conrad’s favour, or at least recommend a first-rate lawyer.”

  “Not many local men of law will dare to oppose the Austrian soldiers,” Emily said gloomily. “They would risk their careers and livelihoods to go against the government authorities. One can hardly blame them, for even with a successful outcome, Sir Conrad would leave, while they would have to remain behind to face the repercussions.”

  “Surely there is at least one man in this city brave enough to help? It is not as though Conrad were some dangerous revolutionary. This whole thing is just a mistake.”

  “Indeed,” Margaret whispered, still pale as a wax figure.

  Where were the girls’ grandmother and mother? This household might be ancient and a
ristocratic, but it had very odd standards of chaperonage. “How is Mrs Bellairs today? Do you think the Contessa will receive me?”

  “She must and will.” Margaret looked more resolute than he had ever seen her. “Wait here, I shall go to her right away.” She fled the room.

  “Your sister seems strongly affected by this ill news,” he observed to Miss Emily, who was gnawing her lower lips in thought, but otherwise composed enough. “I am sorry to be the bearer of it.”

  “She usually is not quite so emotional. I am also concerned for my cousin, but as you say, since he is innocent, chances are that within days we can all laugh about this experience.”

  Anthony was not quite so sanguine, but did not contradict her. “How are you feeling today, after your first ball?”

  “Very grateful that nothing untoward happened - thanks to you, Mr Wetherby.”

  Her warm smile cheered him, despite the circumstances. “It was my pleasure, Miss Emily.”

  “If you find a lawyer willing to help Sir Conrad, who is to pay the man? It will be very expensive, I fear.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Between Sir Conrad and me, it should not be an issue.”

  “I believe the closest Consul is in Venice. Too bad we do not have one here in Verona.”

  “Your cousin threatened to involve the Embassy in Vienna, but with the distances involved, the soldiers who arrested him must have realized it was an empty threat.”

  Margaret Bellairs returned to announce that her Grandmother was willing to receive Anthony, and all three repaired to the old lady’s salon.

  “Contessa.” He bowed over the withered hand.

  “Mr Wetherby. What is all this about the girls’ cousin, Sir Conrad, being arrested? It sounds like some unlikely invention.”

  “If only it were, Ma’am.” He briefly recounted what had happened. “As you are a long-time resident of Verona, I appeal to your local knowledge. How can we best extricate my friend?”

  The old lady frowned. “I fear you overestimate my influence, Mr Wetherby. Nobody goes lightly against the political powers. I shall have to consult my husband and sons, who have a wide acquaintanceship among the Austrian administration and officer corps, but do not expect immediate results. Bolland would not have been arrested without strong reasons for suspicion.”