Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

by Lillian Marek

  They were in a tunnel, a common enough feature of the tombs they had visited. But as he moved ahead cautiously, he realized that this one was unusual. The floor seemed to have been swept clean. No crumbling bits of rubble lay about to trip the unwary. No broken walls narrowed the passage to make progress difficult. There was no need to tread cautiously. On the contrary, progress was so easy that he didn’t like it. Something about this worried him. He wished he could send Norrie back.

  He stopped so abruptly when the entrance tunnel opened into the central chamber that Norrie crashed right into him. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed that.

  “What on earth…?” She peered around him. “Oh.” It came out on a long, awed breath.

  Oh indeed. He took a deep breath himself and let it out slowly. The light of the lantern was enough to show a flat slab of stone serving as a table to display objects that glittered like gold.

  Only gold glittered like gold.

  They approached slowly, cautiously, stepping silently as if there were someone or something here that could be disturbed.

  The central object was something that looked like a breastplate, more than a foot wide, shaped to curve around the neck. The embossed designs were difficult to make out, but there seemed to be a variety of winged creatures as well as strips of spirals. They lit the extra candles, dripping wax onto the stone to set them in place.

  Brighter light did nothing to chase away his uneasiness, the feeling that something was wrong here. Very wrong. In other tombs he had sometimes felt awe at the age of the relics, even sadness at his inability to understand the inscriptions, but there had always been something almost welcoming. The Etruscans had filled their tombs with depictions of pleasure and happiness.

  Not here.

  Norrie reached out to touch a wide gold bracelet, its embossed figures of a woman surrounded by animals clearly visible. But she drew back. “Something is wrong here,” she said.

  So she felt it too. He stepped around the stone to take a better look and halted abruptly. There was another table, this one of wood, against the wall. On and around it were several oil lamps, enough to make that area as bright as day. It was apparently a work table. On it was a large red-figure jar depicting a sacrifice. That jar was complete, and the piece of beeswax next to it suggested that its luster was being improved. Another jar was in the process of restoration. Some of the pieces had already been glued together while others were arranged about it. Pots of glue, paint, and gesso were all at hand along with containers of brushes.

  Everything needed for the restoration of ancient pottery.

  On the ground were several small wooden chests, two of them nailed shut, one partly filled, and one empty but lined with straw. More straw lay in a pile to the side.

  Norrie came to join him, and her eyes widened. “Where did these things come from?”

  “My guess would be the tomb Prince Savelli just discovered, and perhaps from earlier discoveries.”

  “His Excellency said nothing about this,” she said.

  “I doubt His Excellency knew anything about this.”

  “Then who?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  They both turned back to contemplate the artifacts in silence.

  “If the prince were here, we could simply tell him about this,” Norrie said.

  “But he isn’t. He may not be back for days. Since the packing seems to be almost done, we can’t wait until he returns.”

  “We’ll have to move these things ourselves. But we’ll have to finish the packing before we can take them back to the villa.” Norrie picked up the breastplate and laid it carefully at the bottom of the open chest, covering it with straw. Harry grinned and went to help her.

  Packing didn’t stop him from thinking. By the time they finished he had come to a conclusion. “While I agree that we need to move these things, I think it unwise to take them back to the villa.”

  Norrie stopped and considered. “You think someone in the prince’s household is responsible? I cannot imagine the contessa or Armando actually soiling their hands.” She smiled and wiped her grubby hands on her equally grubby skirt.

  “Or someone among the servants. Or one of the workmen on the excavation. But it has to be someone closely connected to the prince. No one knew about the tomb before Savelli and your father told us.”

  She nodded slowly. “But where shall we put these things?”

  Harry grinned. “How many tombs do you suppose there are hereabouts? As long as we stay on Savelli’s land, we can take our pick. And imagine the thieves trying to figure out what happened to their treasure.”

  Fifteen

  By the time they returned to the villa, filthy and exhausted, shadows were lengthening and a breeze was carrying the evening chill. Reaching their rooms without attracting attention turned out to be surprisingly easy. All the servants were scurrying about taking care of the last-minute preparations for the ball, while the guests and members of the household were in their own rooms resting in preparation for the coming exertions.

  While Tunbury went off to tell Lord Penworth and Rycote about their discovery, Elinor made it into her room, closed her eyes, and leaned against the door in a combination of relief and weariness. She had never thought of herself as a pampered, fragile flower, but she had never before engaged in actual physical labor. Her arms and shoulders and legs and back all ached. She felt sweaty and grimy. She was certain that she absolutely stank.

  She heard a shriek.

  She opened her eyes and saw her maid looking at her in horror. Apparently she looked as awful as she felt. She managed a smile. “I would like a bath, Martha. Right away.”

  Martha put her hands on her hips and glowered. “Do not go anywhere near your dress. I just laid it out on the bed. Stay right where you are until we get those filthy…things…off you.” The maid opened the door enough to call out to a nearby footman and demand a bath and hot water subito! Right away. Martha had mastered that much Italian.

  In no time at all Elinor was soaking in a deep tub of steaming water, breathing in the perfume from the rose oil Martha had poured in with a lavish hand. Her head leaned back as the maid brushed her hair, muttering about foolish madcaps who get their hair all dusty and dirty when there’s no time to wash it before a ball.

  “We washed it just yesterday, Martha,” she murmured in mild protest.

  “And it was still damp this morning, wasn’t it?” Martha brushed harder. “You know how long it takes to dry.”

  Elinor smiled to herself. She had heard Martha bragging more than once about how nice and thick Lady Elinor’s hair was. The scoldings were so familiar, so normal after the afternoon’s upheavals. It was an exciting adventure, of course, to have discovered a theft, especially when she shared that adventure with Harry. It was also very nice that she and Harry could do something to repay their host for all his kindness. But still…there was something unpleasant about the thought that someone she knew, or at least someone she had seen, was a thief. She was not sure what the penalty for thieves was in Rome, but she doubted it was much more pleasant than the penalty in England.

  The realization was uncomfortable.

  She didn’t want to think about penalties and punishments. To wash the thought away, she lifted the sponge and wiped it over her face, and then wiped it again. She closed her eyes and thought about dancing. There would be waltzing this evening, she was sure of that. Balls were filled with waltzes and she had never waltzed with Harry. Would there also be mazurkas? Polkas? She loved to whirl with her partner in a polka. She began to hum a polka. That would surely drive all other thoughts from her mind.

  *

  Since no guests were invited to dinner before the ball, and since the duke had not returned from Rome, the contessa had decreed that all would be served a light meal in their rooms. Although such an arrangement had seemed decidedly odd to the English visitors, Elinor was grateful for it. It meant there had been time for a nap. That, in turn,
meant that by the time she was dressed she had completely recovered both her spirits and her energy.

  Her dress was one she had ordered in Paris. The ivory Pointe Duchesse lace on the wide bertha collar and trimming the sleeves was even more beautiful than she remembered, and the aquamarine silk played up the color of her eyes. Martha arranged a wreath of flowers and ribbon around the chignon of her hair, and three ringlets curled down to touch the nape of her neck. Her kid gloves were the precise ivory color of the lace, and her fan was an antique silk painted with a rococo design of shepherds and shepherdesses. The only jewelry she wore was a single strand of pearls.

  She felt beautiful. Harry could not fail to notice that she was a woman.

  She stood at the top of the stairs. Harry was standing below talking to Pip. It was funny, really. Pip looked so poetically handsome, with those curls that wouldn’t be kept down and those dark eyes like Papa’s. If you didn’t know he was such a stuffy old stick, you could imagine him as the hero of all sorts of dramatic adventures.

  Then there was Harry. His evening clothes—of the finest cut and cloth—fit him perfectly, but they could not disguise the fact that he was far more muscled than a gentleman should be. And dear though he was, no one would be likely to call him really dashing. Yet he was the one who had gone adventuring around the globe while Pip wanted nothing more than to stay at home and farm.

  And the mere sight of Harry made her heart stop.

  She waited, watching them from the corner of her eye, her hand at her wrist as if she were still buttoning her glove. Harry turned and saw her. She could see his eyes widen. She could almost hear the sharp intake of breath. She allowed herself a small smile.

  He had noticed.

  “There you are, Elinor,” Pip grumbled. “Come along. Mother and Father are already in the ballroom.” As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed her arm to shepherd her along. “Might as well get this over with.”

  The English party soon made a little island in the midst of the sea of gaily chattering Italians. The contessa, whose bodice was cut extremely low, presumably to allow room for the display of diamonds on her chest, greeted people as they arrived. However, she made no effort to introduce them to the English visitors, an omission that Lady Penworth clearly took amiss. That did not stop Elinor from insisting that her brother partner her for the opening quadrille—she was not going to ask Harry to dance with her—and their parents also joined in the dance.

  When they returned to their place by the wall where Harry awaited them, Landi immediately appeared with many flowery compliments and asked Lady Elinor to honor him with a waltz. Before the music began, other young men appeared to beg for an introduction and in equally flowery phrases expressed their enchantment with the beautiful English lady who spoke their language so delightfully. Before Elinor knew it, her dance card was full—and not one of the names written there was Harry.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. She loved to dance, and her partners were, almost without exception, excellent dancers. She whirled through waltzes, mazurkas, polkas, a varsouvienne, even a schottische, and flirted madly with handsome young men. If she occasionally caught a glimpse of Harry standing on the side and glaring at her, well, he had no right to do so. There had been nothing to stop him from putting his name on her dance card.

  She had seen Landi too, talking intently to one of the servants and then staring equally intently at Harry. When he arrived at her side to claim his waltz, before she had even returned to her family, there was a strange look about him, an almost hectic flush. It was not the result of dancing, for he had not danced the past few sets. She wondered if he had been drinking, but he did not smell of spirits. Only of his rather heavy perfume, which made her choke.

  Before she could recover her breath, he spun her into the waltz with abandon, whirling her about so wildly that she could barely keep on her feet. When at last he slowed down and released her, she staggered for a few dizzy steps before she realized that he had whirled her right out of the ballroom and into the small library. He turned to close the door behind them. It closed with a loud click, like the sound of a lock closing.

  Oh dear. This was beginning to look like an extremely tiresome end to a pleasant evening. She was not sure what he was planning, but she was quite sure it was not something she would like.

  Hoops and crinolines made it difficult to maneuver, and she had not thought it necessary to bring a hatpin. A quick look around showed that the room was sorely lacking in potential weapons. The ornaments were all of the delicate china variety—not a sturdy bronze among them. And her fan was not only a fragile antique but one of her favorites.

  Landi turned and smiled at her, holding out a hand. “Cara,” he said in that unctuously caressing tone of his. Her stomach churned unpleasantly.

  “This is a mistake, Cavaliere,” she said, slipping behind a settee.

  “No, cara, no mistake. You must know how much I admire you. I have never known anyone who could set my heart on fire as you do.” He held one hand over his heart and the other out to her, with what she presumed was supposed to be a lovesick look on his face. It gave her indigestion.

  She shook her head. “No, I am afraid you are definitely making a mistake.”

  He smiled again. Someone must have once told him that he had a charming smile, because he relied on it so much. “Bella, you are not cold like other English. I have seen you look at me. Together we will create such magic. You cannot imagine what magic.”

  “Really, I am afraid you are quite wrong. At the moment, magic does not interest me in the slightest, certainly none that we could make together. However, I would appreciate it to no end if you would open that door. At once.” She edged toward the vase of flowers on the end table. It seemed to be the only available weapon.

  “Do not be afraid, bella. My intentions are quite honorable. I seek nothing less than marriage.” He was prowling closer.

  “And I fear I cannot return your feelings and so must decline your proposal, Cavaliere.” If he came around one side of the settee, she might be able to make a dash around the other side and get to the door.

  He didn’t go around the settee. He lunged over it and grabbed hold of her, pulling her into his arms and bringing his mouth down on hers, rather painfully crushing her lips against her teeth. She had hold of the vase, however, and brought it down on him. Not very effectively. She didn’t have enough room for a good, hard swing. Still, she did manage to empty the water on him and she heard a surprisingly loud crash as the vase fell. That shocked him into giving her enough breathing space to pull back and throw a punch.

  It never connected.

  The crash she had heard had not been the vase falling but the door being kicked open. Harry came charging in and yanked Landi away before Elinor’s punch could land. Harry failed to notice that he had frustrated Elinor’s effort. He was too busy landing a few punches of his own. Quite a few.

  In no time at all, Landi was curled up on the floor, one arm curved to protect his face.

  “If you ever come anywhere near her again, I’ll break you into a million pieces,” Harry growled, not even breathing hard.

  Not a terribly original threat, thought Elinor, but Landi clearly considered it effective. He spat out something in Italian, something Elinor did not understand but Harry clearly did, and he took a step forward. Landi scuttled backward before getting to his feet, straightening his coat, which was rather soggy, and leaving with as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances.

  *

  She was shaking out her skirts as she came out from behind the settee and tending to the lace on her bodice. It had gotten torn, and there she was, tucking it into place, as if nothing had happened except a minor accident with her dress.

  “You little idiot.” He knew he shouldn’t yell at her, but he couldn’t help it. “Whatever possessed you to come in here with him?”

  She held herself stiffly and didn’t look at him. “I didn’t precisely come i
n here so much as end up in here. He was spinning me in the waltz so quickly that I didn’t realize we had left the ballroom. Besides, there was no need to make such a fuss. I had things perfectly under control.”

  “Under control,” he jeered. “That is no doubt why you were cowering behind the furniture.”

  “I wasn’t cowering! And I don’t see why it’s any concern of yours anyway. There is no need to act as if you are my brother. You can’t even bring yourself to dance with me, so I can’t believe you care who I kiss.”

  He was going to go mad. Oh God, there were tears starting in her eyes. She was upset with him now. She thought he didn’t want to dance with her? She was impossible, infuriating. She was—he didn’t know what to call her.

  He swore furiously, grabbed her, and pulled her into his arms. One kiss he would have at least, even if she would never speak to him again. One kiss.

  He pushed his hand into her hair to hold her head and brought his mouth down fiercely on hers. One kiss to last him a lifetime. For this moment at least, he would possess her. He coaxed her mouth open and slid his tongue in. He could feel her startled gasp, but he didn’t care. He needed to taste her. She tasted of lemonade. For the rest of his life, lemonade would bring back this moment.

  Her mouth had opened under his, and he slid his tongue in to explore her. She gave a little moan, and then her tongue tentatively tangled with his.

  He froze. Her tongue was…

  He slowly became aware of other oddities.

  She wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t pushing him away. In fact, her arms were around his neck and she was holding him almost as tightly as he was holding her.

  He lifted his head enough to look at her. “Norrie?” He whispered her name uncertainly.

  She smiled at him. Her eyes were dreamy and not quite focused, but she smiled up at him. He could see that.

  He crushed her to him then. He kissed her eyes, her hair, her neck—every part of her he could reach with his mouth while standing just outside a ballroom full of people and murmuring between kisses. “Oh Norrie, I love you…I’ve loved you so long…I love you…I love you…” A piece of him knew that he should say something more, something poetic, but he couldn’t think of anything. All he knew was that Norrie was in his arms and she was…