Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

by Lillian Marek

  Whatever that look meant, it caused Landi to flush. “If you will excuse me, I will see if my mother is in need of anything.”

  His departing footsteps echoed in the uncomfortable silence.

  “I apologize if my question ruffled feelings,” said Penworth. “I did not intend to provoke. I was simply curious.”

  “That is quite all right, my friend. You see, my young cousin is somewhat embarrassed by the knowledge that he joined himself with the Garibaldini during the early days of the Roman Republic.”

  “And you disapproved?”

  “No, I would not say I disapproved,” Savelli said slowly. “I was surprised, I confess it, but rather pleased to think that he had some ideals, however foolish they might be. Unfortunately, he drew back as soon as it appeared that the Republic might be crushed. It seems he was as self-seeking as I always suspected. I would have preferred to be wrong.”

  There was not much one could say to that, so Lady Penworth turned to examine a statue of a reclining couple. “This pair looks remarkably cheerful,” she said.

  “Indeed,” said Savelli, smiling once more. “I believe that is why the Etruscans give me so much pleasure. They are, to our eyes, most remarkably cheerful. They were defeated by the Romans, their cities destroyed, their language lost. All we have left of them are their tombs, and yet what we find in those tombs is a testament to the joy of life. Look at these two, carved for their sarcophagus. They look at each other and smile. They hold hands. Who they are, what they did, we do not know. But we can see the love and happiness they shared, and that is enough.”

  Nodding in agreement, Penworth said, “We know the Etruscans must have been great warriors. They held off the Romans for centuries, after all. They probably worried about war and politics, affairs of state, just as we do. Their great gift to us, however, is their recognition that joy and happiness, music and feasting—these things deserve celebration. We may know nothing else about them, but that is enough.”

  Tunbury had left Elinor to examine a beautifully chased bronze mirror and was circling a black-figured amphora. “What we don’t know is perhaps part of the appeal,” he said. “We can use our imaginations.” He turned back to the sarcophagus. “That pair over there. Was he a warrior? A merchant? Did he bring home this amphora to please his wife, or did she choose it? Did she bring that mirror with her when they were married, or was it his gift to her?”

  Elinor looked at him in surprise. She had never thought of him as so imaginative, so romantic. The realization made her happy, and she smiled.

  “That is part of both the appeal and the problem,” said Savelli, also giving Tunbury a smile of approval. “In the case of these three items, they are of the same period, but from the same tomb? It is possible, but we can never know because I purchased all of them from antiquities dealers, and they rarely even know where the things they sell were discovered.”

  “But isn’t that foolish?” asked Penworth. “Aside from the importance for scholars of knowing about what things belong together, would the items not be more valuable if their origin were known?”

  Savelli shrugged. “More valuable to scholars, certainly, but more valuable to the finders? That depends. If a shepherd tumbles into a tomb and discovers that mirror there, he can tell his master, who thanks him and gives him a few baiocchi, a few coins. If instead he takes the mirror, he can sell it to a merchant, who gives him a bit more, perhaps a few scudi, more than he earns in a year. Then the merchant takes it to an antiquities dealer, who gives him a few hundred scudi. Then the dealer sells it to me for a few thousand scudi.”

  “Thousands?” Rycote sounded shocked.

  “Oh, yes indeed. And if that shepherd is enterprising, he will discover where the merchant sells the mirror. Then he goes back to the tomb and gradually empties it out, selling to the antiquities dealer for enough to buy himself a house in town and spend the rest of his life sitting in a caffè. It is a sore temptation for a poor man. That is why we rarely find an untouched tomb. Even on my own estates, tomb robbers and thieves are a constant problem.”

  “The temptation must be great,” said Elinor, looking again at the mirror. The back of it had an engraved picture of a woman with a winged boy—Cupid, perhaps? It was quite lovely.

  She turned to Savelli. “May I touch it?”

  He smiled with delight. “Certainly. After being buried for thousands of years, it will no doubt appreciate the touch of a lovely woman.”

  She held it out at arm’s length and discovered that she could see herself in the polished bronze surface. “Oh, goodness!” She turned to Tunbury, smiling with delight. “I can see myself in a mirror that belonged to a woman thousands of years ago. Thousands of years. Can you believe it?”

  He smiled back, and she knew he understood exactly how she felt.

  She was having a wonderful time. She had been having a wonderful time for weeks now, for months even. Ever since Harry came back. He was the only man she knew, outside her family, who didn’t assume she was an idiot, who didn’t expect her to be an idiot. He was never surprised when she was interested in something or even knew about something that was generally considered the sort of thing only a man could understand. He gave her such an incredible sense of freedom.

  That’s what love was, she realized. The freedom to be yourself.

  *

  Tunbury drifted back to the sarcophagus. The couple haunted him. The woman was smiling up at the man, and he was looking tenderly at her. His arm rested on her shoulder protectively. They seemed complete, in and of themselves. They needed no one else. Love, trust, faith, certainty—these were all there in this one carving.

  He closed his eyes. He must be going mad. Here he was feeling jealous of a couple who had died more than two thousand years ago.

  But he longed for the happiness they had had, the happiness he feared he could never have. He wanted Norrie to smile up at him that way, with a smile full of love and trust. He wanted to be able to put his arm around her. He wanted to be the one to protect her. He wanted her in his arms, melting with passion.

  He wanted… God, how he wanted!

  *

  Rycote settled into the blue chair across from Marchese Crescenzi. He was beginning to think of it as his chair, since he had been sitting in it practically every day for the past two weeks. They were, as always, in the marchese’s hot, stuffy room, surrounded by little tables covered with miniatures, while Crescenzi ancestors glowered at them from the dark portraits on the walls. The marchese had greeted him with what he now knew were the accustomed courteous phrases, and he had responded with the equally courteous phrases Lissandra had taught him.

  It was strange, really. He had always hated trying to speak French because he knew his pronunciation was all wrong and he felt like such a fool. But he didn’t mind at all that Lissandra was teaching him Italian. He didn’t even mind when she laughed at his pronunciation. He sometimes mispronounced things just to hear her laugh.

  He loved her laugh. If he could, he would see to it that she always laughed, that she never had to worry about her parents or her fool of a brother. If she allowed it, he would protect her always.

  The formalities completed, the marchese began one of his stories about Rome, or rather, one of his stories about the importance of the Crescenzi family in Rome. Rycote didn’t mind. The stories were interesting enough and Lissandra sat on a low stool beside her father to translate. That meant Rycote could feast his eyes on her without seeming in the least rude or impertinent.

  This story sounded a bit familiar, however. He was reasonably certain that he had been told once before how, four hundred years ago, a Crescenzi, Ser Rinaldo, got the better of an Orsini, Ser Bruno, a member of another important Roman family. He looked quizzically at Lissandra, who gave an amused shrug.

  He made admiring comments whenever a pause seemed to indicate that they were needed. Then Lissandra began making her own interpolations. Ser Rinaldo hatched his plan in the marchese’s tale. “Of course, it wa
s not really his plan, for everyone knew Ser Rinaldo was a fool,” she said. “It was the plan of his clever daughter.”

  Ser Bruno fell right into the trap, according to the marchese.

  “Which would never have happened had he not been as big a fool as Ser Rinaldo, and a greedy fool as well,” Lissandra added, maintaining an innocent look.

  He thought he was going to choke. She seemed determined to make him laugh, and he was equally determined to school his features to the serious interest her father expected. Fortunately for him, the marchese was more fatigued than usual today and sent them off early to join Donna Lucia for refreshments.

  Rycote managed to last until the door had closed behind them before he collapsed in helpless laughter. “Oh, that was too bad of you,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “You should not tease so. You know I would not want to insult your father.”

  “You looked so very proper and stuffy that I could not resist.”

  She was laughing like a happy child. He did not mind in the least if she made him feel foolish so long as she had that happy look. It meant she felt safe.

  He wanted to think that his presence was making her feel safe.

  Unfortunately, he was about to be absent.

  “Donna Lissandra,” he began, and he could see the formality of his tone drive the laughter from her face. He tried again. “Donna Lissandra, my family has received an invitation to visit Prince Savelli at his estate north of Rome. He is conducting excavations there, and my father is eager to see them.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, that is easy to understand. I know that your father is greatly interested in the Etruscans. I am sure my parents join me in wishing you well.” She held herself stiffly and did not look at him.

  The sudden frost was alarming. “No, you don’t understand. We are going for a week or so. It’s just a short visit. Then we will be back.”

  She did look at him then, though uncertainly.

  “I was worried—I am worried—about leaving you here with Girard around and your brother.” He probably looked as flustered as he felt. “I want you to know that you must send for me if there are any problems. It’s only a few hours away. I can be back in no time. If you want me to come, of course. If you need me.”

  “Ah, my gallant knight.” The frost was gone, and she was beaming her smile at him again. “Thank you. You need not worry about Girard. He cannot harm me.”

  He was not so sure about that, but he had to be satisfied with her promise to call on him if she needed help, and the conversation degenerated into various indirect assurances that each would miss the other and looked forward to his return.

  Returning to his family’s apartments, he consoled himself that at least he had paid another visit to Pietro, this time without Lissandra. The numskull had finally gotten it through his head that a gentleman did not put his sister in danger, especially for his political games. It simply was not done. More than that, it was dishonorable, even cowardly. A man should protect, not endanger, a woman. He had made Pietro understand.

  At least, he hoped he had made him understand.

  Twelve

  The carriage left the flat, rather uninteresting wheat fields on the plain along the coast and followed a road that wound through woodlands, rising gradually. The shade of the oak and chestnut trees was a pleasant respite from the harsh glare of the noonday sun on the plain, but that did not seem to make a significant impact on the uneasy spirits of the travelers.

  Lord Penworth was the only one who seemed to be looking forward to the visit to Savelli’s villa with complete enthusiasm. His wife was enjoying his cheerful anticipation of viewing and even taking part in tomb excavations, but she wished Italian roads were a bit smoother. A particularly deep rut in the road sent her up in the air to land with a thud on the hard seat, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from saying something that would distress her husband.

  Rycote worried that he should have remained in Rome. He was not convinced that, despite his assurances, Pietro would not get his sister involved in his schemes. And they all seemed to underestimate Girard. The Frenchman looked the sort to make himself a serious nuisance. Lissandra, and her parents as well, needed someone to protect them. He wished he were back in Rome.

  Tunbury also looked worried. He would have been looking forward to seeing the excavations with as much enthusiasm as Penworth if he thought it could be done in the absence of Cavaliere Landi. Unfortunately, he was almost certain the bounder would be there, drooling over Norrie. He had been calling on her in Rome far too frequently, and if he was staying at Savelli’s villa too… Tunbury couldn’t understand why Norrie kept encouraging him. She was intelligent enough to see what a snake the fellow was. Nor was he particularly happy about the way the prince was always flattering Norrie. She might laugh and say it was just the way old men enjoyed flirting with their granddaughters’ friends, but Savelli wasn’t that old.

  Lady Elinor was uncertain about the trip. She was always pleased at the thought of seeing something new, and she was looking forward to the Castello Savelli. An Italian castle sounded very Gothic and ought to come complete with haunted towers and dungeons. The tombs, she supposed, were probably interesting too. But then there was Armando Landi. He was handsome, of course, and she should probably think it pleasant to be treated with such flattering admiration.

  Much more pleasant than having Harry blowing hot and cold all the time, one minute so close that they seemed to have one mind between them and then pulling back and glaring at her for no reason at all. It was maddening. She had been trying to lead him gently into greater intimacy, but he would never take that step over the border of friendliness. She’d tried using the cavaliere to prod Harry with a bit of jealousy, but all that had produced so far was a mixture of glares and scoldings. What was she to do? She was beginning to think that he really wasn’t interested in her except in a brotherly fashion.

  In addition, Landi’s attentions were just a bit too smooth, and he had begun pressing a bit too hard. When she tried to be politely discouraging, he didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps it was just the difference between English manners and Italian manners. Whatever it was, he made her uncomfortable, and the discomfort was getting worse.

  It was not long before they came out of the shade onto a graveled drive that led past a trim lawn to the porte cochere of a large and elegant neoclassical building of pristine white trimmed with beige. Servants materialized to usher them into the guest wing, where there were bedchambers, bathing rooms, sitting rooms, rooms for their servants, and a library, with huge bowls of flowers and trays of tea and fruit juices delivered without even a request.

  But no towers for ghosts. And no dungeons.

  It was all lovely but, Elinor couldn’t deny, just a bit of a disappointment.

  *

  A few hours later, Elinor stepped out of the French doors in her sitting room onto a wide terrace overlooking a formal garden. This, at least, was no disappointment. Stone urns at regular intervals along the wall held blossoming lemon trees. She had recognized the scent the moment she opened the windows, which, for some unknown reason, Italians kept closed all the time. The contrast of the thick white blossoms, the glossy leaves, and the rough urns was irresistible, and her fingers slipped lightly over each element.

  “What a lovely picture you make, my lady. Bellissima.” Landi appeared beside her, caught her hand, and bent over to kiss it. “Do you steal the perfume of the lemon blossoms, or do you lend your perfume to them?”

  “There is no need to be quite so poetic, Cavaliere.” She gave a tug to try and free her hand, which he was holding far too long, to her way of thinking.

  “Cavaliere?” He smiled at her, wrapping her hand in both of his. “Will you not call me Armando?”

  “I do not think that would be at all proper.” She gave her hand a firm pull and succeeded in freeing it at last.

  “How so? You call Lord Tunbury Harry, do you not? Why not the same kindness for me?” He placed a
hand over his heart and looked plaintive.

  “I have known Harry since we were children. It is not at all the same thing.”

  “No, I do not wish it to be the same thing. He is like a brother, you said. I do not desire to be a brother to you.” He was close enough to her now to be breathing in her ear. “I think you know this. I think you understand that my desires are very different.”

  Elinor backed up as far as she could and found herself against the wall. This was getting awkward. “Please, Cavaliere…”

  His hands slammed against the wall on either side of her, trapping her. “Armando,” he whispered. “My name is Armando.”

  His mouth was descending toward hers. Oh dear, he did not seem willing to take no for an answer. She was going to have to do something unpleasant, and they had only just arrived. How awkward.

  She ducked away from him and, to her enormous relief, saw Prince Savelli approaching. “Good afternoon, Your Excellency,” she called out. “I was just admiring your lemon trees. The terrace, the gardens—it is all so lovely.”

  Landi stepped away from her with a mutter that sounded very much like a curse.

  The prince approached, smiling. “No, Lady Elinor, it is you who bring loveliness to the scene.” He also bowed to kiss her hand, but from him the gesture seemed pleasantly gallant, not suggestive. “Armando, the men are crating up the fragments we found last week. Make sure they don’t lose any of the pieces and that they know where to take them. And you might remind your mother that we have guests. She will not wish to sleep through dinner.”

  “Certainly, cousin.” Landi spoke with offended formality. “You will excuse me, Lady Elinor.”

  Savelli watched him stride off and shook his head with a sigh. Then he smiled at Elinor. “I see you have quite recovered from the rigors of the journey. Will you permit me to show you my garden? There is a fountain of which I am very fond.”