Part 23 (1/2)

”For now you'll be with me on board the Centaur,” he said with a forced heartiness that sounded hollow even to his own ears. ”There was a cutter came this morning, and I'd wager my eyeteeth that she's brought orders from the admiralty for us all. That's why we've been summoned at this time of day, la.s.s. Mark my words. Within the hour we'll have our sailing orders, and be done with La Cala Bay and Palermo.”

Her eyes filled, not with reproach but disappointment, and pointedly she turned once again toward the window and away from him, her fingers curled into a tight fist pressed against the gla.s.s.

”Yes, Edward,” she said, so softly that he almost didn't hear her. ”I suppose we shall.”

”Aye, aye, we shall, we shall,” he repeated, sounding like the greatest braying jacka.s.s in Palermo. d.a.m.nation, she'd practically handed him the chance to win her, and instead he'd as much as tossed it back in her face by saying exactly, exactly the wrong thing. ”Ah, here's the amba.s.sador's villa now. Let's hope Her Ladys.h.i.+p has some hot tea or chocolate to warm you.”

The carriage rumbled through the villa's gates and came to halt before the curving stone stairway. Built as a summer retreat for its t.i.tled owners, the yellow and red stone villa with its fanciful dome now looked shabby and forlorn, and on this chilly December day the writhing, life-size stone satyrs that supported the porch seemed more silly than picturesque.

Because the villa was serving as a temporary emba.s.sy and naval headquarters as well as Sir William's home, the courtyard was bustling with officers and sailors, merchants and servants, horses and dogs, stranded English gentlemen with pet.i.tions for the amba.s.sador, French ladies come to call upon his wife, and opera singers and playwrights seeking patronage from them both.

Two footmen that Edward recognized from the Palazzo Sessa hurried forward, red-faced from the cold, one to open the door and the second with a small step stool for Francesca. Edward climbed out first, holding his hand out for Francesca. But instead of taking it, she slipped from the carriage and past him to the paving stones as if he weren't there, avoiding both his offered hand and his gaze as she smoothed the fur-lined hood of her cloak around her face.

”Do you wish me to address the driver, Edward?” she asked, staring past his shoulder somewhere into middle s.p.a.ce. ”As I recall, his English was nearly as disreputable as your Italian.”

”That is hardly necessary, Francesca,” he said, irritated that she'd even make such a suggestion regardless of how practical it might be. ”I shall handle this myself, and join you directly.”

If they couldn't manage a more civil relations.h.i.+p than this, then their visit to the villa was going to be a trying one indeed, and with a grumbled oath directed entirely at himself, Edward turned to pay the driver of the carriage. As he'd expected, the man wished to haggle in the garbled English that Francesca had predicted, all Sicilians regarding this as the best of boom-times and license to overcharge for everything. By the time Edward was finally able to return to Francesca, she'd seemingly vanished.

More concerned than he wished to admit, Edward's gaze swept around the crowded courtyard until, at last, he spotted the green of her cloak bright against last summer's vines on a stone wall. To his surprise, she was speaking, or rather listening, to a Neapolitan man with an ill-fitting wig, dressed completely in black to his gloves and his stockings, and though Edward couldn't see Francesca's face, he could tell from the rigid set of her back and the way her hands were clasped before her, almost as if she were pleading with the man, that this conversation was not a pleasant one.

Which was, as far as Edward was concerned, reason enough for him to interrupt.

But for Francesca, he'd already waited too long.

She still didn't know how Signor Albani had crossed from Naples to Palermo, whether he'd purposefully followed her or if their paths had crossed here now by accident alone. Yet when the constable had suddenly appeared before her from a shadowy arch on the edge of the courtyard, bowing low over his spindly leg in its black stocking, her shock and dismay had made her gasp loud enough that others had turned to look.

”Good day, my lady,” he said with another flourish of his black-gloved hand. He wore the same black horsehair wig she remembered, the same dark suit, as unadorned as a cleric's except for the small white linen ruffle at his throat and wrists. Yet clearly he was among the Neapolitan refugees crowded into squalid lodgings, for those black clothes were rumpled from being slept in, and the white linen was filmed with a grimy line around his neck. ”May I congratulate you, my lady, on your recent marriage to His Lords.h.i.+p?”

”Thank you, signor,” she said, concentrating on not letting her true feelings toward him show. She must remember that she'd done nothing wrong, certainly nothing that would merit him following her to Sicily. Hadn't she been the one who'd been robbed, her studio vandalized?

Yet meeting Signor Albani here, just as she'd stepped away from Edward, seemed beyond coincidence. She hadn't forgotten the way the constable had somehow twisted her loss into treason, her fear into guilt, and even now her heart was pounding while he wished her well.

”And to wed an English lord, a captain, a gentleman of such power and influence!” continued the constable, his hands raised in wonder. ”Who would have guessed you would rise so far, so fast? And to think, my lady, how only a fortnight ago you were sitting in your old kitchen, your eyes bright with excitement while you listened so avidly to that villain Carlo Brigatti, planning for the new day of Neapolitan liberty and freedom!”

Francesca shook her head in vehement denial. ”That is not true, Signor Albani, not one treasonous word of it!” she cried. ”Carlo is a weak-minded anarchist, a meaningless fool. When I found him in my house, I ordered him to leave at once!”

”My lady!” The constable winced, turning his head slightly to one side. ”I would never call my lady a liar, but I would venture that she has misremembered the facts. Carlo Briggati may be mad, but he is also dangerous, a villain to the crown but a hero to the people in the streets. He was among the leaders who stormed the palazzos of those n.o.blemen who chose not to flee. He slit their throats himself, my lady, too impatient for the guillotine to arrive, and washed his hands in their blood after he had raped and murdered their ladies. He is a demon, the worst and most evil enemy of us who remain loyal to the crown.”

Francesca was trembling, her stomach lurching at the bloodletting Albani described. She didn't doubt it was true. Palermo was bubbling with rumors of what was happening in Naples since the king and his followers had fled. Murderous retribution, torture, and rape, and looting and burning palazzos and churches were all being credited to a resentful, terrified mob who felt they'd been abandoned by their leaders. In the middle of such chaos, Carlo and his friends could do this and more in the name of their twisted liberty, and be richly rewarded as soon as the French swept down the peninsula.

”But perhaps my lady has her reasons for forgetting Carlo's place in your own household,” continued the constable. ”The nephew of your housekeeper, welcomed to your hearth whenever he pleased, who even now is making good use of your house and studio with his friends now that you have left it to him.”

”But I haven't! I left with his lords.h.i.+p suddenly, without planning or warning, without seeing or speaking to anyone!” She hated the idea of Carlo and his wicked friends living in her house, carelessly using what they pleased and destroying the rest for amus.e.m.e.nt, eating her food and drinking her wine and even lolling with their slatterns in her rosepainted bed. ”I would never have left my house in the keeping of such a man!”

”That is not what your Nanetta told me,” said the constable with a smile that hinted that the housekeeper had told him this and a great deal more besides. ”But what can this matter to you now? His Lords.h.i.+p understands your weakness for this evil young man, my lady, doesn't he? There are no secrets between newlyweds. Surely you have made your confessions to him, and he has forgiven his sweet little bride, who is worth the trouble and the scandals her past companions could make for his glorious career.”

But Francesca hadn't told Edward any of this, not only because it wasn't true, but because she hadn't thought it mattered. Who would have guessed the world would turn so upside down that a madman like Carlo would become a hero? But for her to go to Edward now that they were wed would seem as if she'd purposefully neglected doing so earlier, as if she'd truly been hiding Carlo in her past. Any denials would only make it seem worse-especially now after that awful, confusing conversation in the carriage.

Her desperation growing, she turned back quickly to look toward Edward, who was still trying to settle the fare with the carriage driver. He was frowning as he listened, his mouth set in a grimly perplexed line as he labored to decipher the man's argument in Italian. His hands were clasped behind his waist and his legs spread slightly apart, the way he stood on his own quarterdeck. His cloak fluttered gently from his broad shoulders against the back of his legs and the ends of his blond queue curled below the black ribbon with an orneriness that he hated but she'd always found boyishly endearing.