Part 6 (1/2)

”I must go, my lord,” she said, trying to concentrate on tying the portfolio's ties together as her fingers inexplicably shook. ”Mi scusi, but I must go now.”

”You've nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Robin,” he said gallantly, misreading her decision. ”Those drawings are far better than anything for sale in your studio.”

”I am not ashamed, my lord captain,” she said, slinging her workbag over her arm and clutching the portfolio in both arms over her chest. ”This is Naples, my lord, not London. Here we do not waste our worries over shames or scandals, nor do I-”

But she broke off at the sound of the voices on the stairs. Lady Hamilton's laughter announced her return, her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she entered the room between the two most famous Englishmen in Naples. On one side was her husband Sir William Hamilton, his shoulders rounded with age and habitual scholars.h.i.+p, his half-smile as courtly as his impeccably powdered wig. On her ladys.h.i.+p's other side was Admiral Lord Nelson, a slight, hollow-eyed man whose wounds and scars-the empty sleeve that marked the amputated arm, the shade slanting over the half-blind eye, the fierce, raw scar on his forehead from the September battle at Aboukir Bay-still couldn't diminish the commanding vibrancy of his personality or his attention to Lady Hamilton.

Oh, there was no shame in Naples, thought Francesca wretchedly as she mumbled her farewells and excuses to Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons, no shame anywhere. But she fled without saying good-bye to Captain Ramsden, running down the palazzo's marble steps with her portfolio still clutched tight in both arms and her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn't until she was halfway home, alone in the dark of her ladys.h.i.+p's private chaise, that she realized she'd left her shawl behind, and with a forlorn sigh she leaned back against the soft leather squabs and closed her eyes.

Her head ached abominably, the throbbing punctuated by the horses' hooves clopping on the cobblestones. The murderous French army and the icy gray sanctuary of London, the tall captain's large hands so carefully holding her drawings and his chilly scorn as he'd judged her, Lady Hamilton smiling between her lover and her husband and the red sun sliding into the golden bay, all jumbled together in her aching head. As soon as she was home she'd ask Nanetta to make up one of her sleeping powders, and then to bed she'd go. Yes, yes: A good night's sleep and a fresh dawn would cure everything.

Everything but the odd little ache in her heart, that heart that she swore she'd keep for herself.

The chaise stopped before her house, and the door opened. Slowly she stepped outside, unaccustomed to the attention of one footman in sky-blue velvet livery steadying her hand, another holding a lantern to light her path.

But the illusion of luxury was short-lived. Even before she'd alighted, the door to her house flew open, and Nanetta, her housemaid and cook, flew sobbing down the steps to clutch at Francesca's skirts.

”Praise the Mother of G.o.d, at last you return! While you were gone, Mistress Francesca-such a shock, such a violation, I can hardly speak of it!”

Francesca caught at the old woman's arm, dragging her back to her feet. ”What happened, Nanetta? Tell me!”

”Thieves, signora, in the studio!” cried Nanetta, shaking her head as she wiped at her face with her ap.r.o.n. ”And oh, mistress, what the black-hearted devils have stolen from you!”

0=”3”3.

”You are most fortunate, Signora Robin,” said the constable as he tapped his gloved finger to the empty nail where, until last night, had hung a portrait of King Ferdinando. ”Your losses do not seem to me to be nearly as severe as you described.”

”Not severe, Signor Albani!” exclaimed Francesca. ”How can you look at this-this disaster and say my losses are not severe?”

Indignantly she swept her hand through the air to encompa.s.s the sorry state of her studio. She had ordered Nanetta not to clean until the constable came, and in the watery morning light the gaps among the pictures on the wall seemed sadly conspicuous. But at least the thieves had cared enough about those pictures to carry them off. A dozen or so others had been mutilated instead, the canvases slashed to jagged tatters that drooped forlornly from the frames, and all complete losses, beyond repair. Pottery vases had been smashed against the wall or on the floor, two chairs broken into sticks, and cinders from the grate tossed onto the wreckage. It was the wantonness of the destruction that angered-and frightened-Francesca the most, and when she looked at the ruined paintings she could almost feel the willful slash of the knife, an attack upon herself as much as upon the pictures.

But Signor Albani did not agree. ”And I say again, signora, that you are fortunate your losses are so slight.” He bowed slightly, his yellow-toothed smile anything but rea.s.suring. ”A beautiful young woman such as yourself, living alone-”

”I do not live here alone, signor,” she said haughtily, drawing herself straighter against the constable's insinuation. ”I have two trusted servants who live here with me, and have served in this household for many years. And if you mean to imply that this attack is somehow my fault, simply because I do not rely upon the protection of a husband to-”

”I imply nothing, lovely signora.” He smiled again, trying to soothe her, holding his black-gloved hands upward. ”I would never mean to show you any such grave disrespect.”

”Why didn't Signor Mazzetta come himself?” she asked pointedly, referring to the older, more senior constable. ”He has always come to my summons before. He perfectly understands my situation.”

”Ah, poor Signor Mazzetta.” The constable sighed, and shook his head. ”His health is not what it once was, you know, and at last he was persuaded to retire to the country in the care of his daughters. For his own good, you understand.”

”And you are his replacement?” Signor Mazzetta had been the model Neapolitan public servant, cheerfully corrupt and too lazy to be more than competent, who'd always treated Francesca like one more daughter.

”Times change, signora, and so must we.” The new constable bowed with a flourish. ”I am your servant, in all things.”

To Francesca, his insinuating manner carried the sour charm of a professional litigator, as did the affectation of his all-black clothes and black wig, and she suspected there'd be none of his predecessor's cheerful incompetence, either.

”Then how do you propose to catch these villains, signore?” she asked sharply. ”How will you protect my house so that this will not happen again?”

The black-gloved hands now became part of his shrug. ”Perhaps it is not so much what I can do, Signora Robin, as what you shall do to protect yourself. If the door to the street had been locked-”