“Well that was certainly worth getting out of bed for,” Gabriel quipped, once the door closed behind the exiting Duke. “Murder plots and continental spies.”
“Know of any suspicious Italians?” Sebastian asked sarcastically; he clearly felt that the Duke was searching for a needle in a haystack.
“Not one,” Gabe replied glumly, standing, and stretching, before adding casually; “Bar Lydia’s new paramour of course…”
“Lydia? Paramour?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows in question for they were not two words frequently put together in a sentence.
“Some Count Zitelli or some such nonsense,” Gabriel murmured nonchalant, hoping he wasn’t affecting too casual an air, but not wishing to openly accuse the Count of any misdeeds. “They danced together last night at Lady Jersey’s, and I must say the chap looked smitten.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, while Gabe affected an interest in a book on the shelf. His friend had never openly suggested that the Marquess might be in possession of certain feelings for his cousin, but the time the pair spent together had not gone unnoticed it seemed.
“I’m sure that if this Zitelli is the spy,” Sebastian said after a pregnant pause, in which the Marquess blushed, actually blushed like a debutant. “That Lydia is deadlier a threat to his wellbeing than either you or me. I have never known a woman to reduce quite so many men into quivering wrecks, with just a few words.”
Gabe sighed: that was true. The crux of the problem was, however, that Lady Lydia Beaufort had not seemed in anyway inclined to verbally bruise Zitelli, she had rather looked quite smitten herself.
“What do you say to a late breakfast at Brookes?” Gabriel ventured, wishing to change the subject. Life was much easier to deal with when your stomach was full.
Chapter Eight
“You are going nowhere.”
The usually relaxed Dowager Duchess stood baring the front door of her Mayfair home, preventing a rather perplexed Lydia from leaving. Her beautiful face was set, resolute on some purpose that Lydia could not fathom.
“But I wish to call on Aurelia,” Lydia responded slowly, wondering why her Aunt was so determined to keep her at home. Tibby was forever trying to cajole her into being more sociable, and now that she had decided to make a morning call, her way was barred.
“You may call on Mrs Black tomorrow,” the Duchess said firmly, placing an arm around Lydia’s shoulders and steering her back toward the elegant drawing room. “Today we will wait and see if anybody calls on you.”
“Oh.”
The penny suddenly dropped; her aunt thought that Count Zitelli would pay a visit after their dance together the night before. The rules of courtship were vague in her memory, having only heard them second hand and never having experienced being wooed herself, but as far as Lydia could recall, a morning visit from a gentleman was tantamount to declaring war on her spinsterhood.
“Oh dear,” she whispered distractedly as Tibby went to fetch a maid to have tea sent down, she had no interest in the Count. Even if his eyes were other-worldly, tempting, dangerous… The sad fact was that however lovely the Count’s eyes were, they were not the gold speckled, tawny eyes of the Marquess of Sutherland. Zitelli had not looked at her like Gabe always did; amused and gently teasing. In fact, the penetrating gaze of the Count had started to irritate her as the night wore on. It was fair enough to adopt an air of passion when quoting Byron, or even speaking of death, but the man had offered her an hors d'oeuvres with such soulful intensity that Lydia had taken a fit of the giggles. An act which had sent the Count into a bit of a sulky huff.
The tea arrived, along with Marguerite who was still not speaking to her mistress, and Lydia and Tibby sat sipping on the pale brew in silence.
“Is this all we do Aunt?” Lydia ventured after a half an hour of idleness. Is this what all young women do every morning, she thought to herself with surprise, wait around for hours for a beau to call and lift them from their boredom? How unhappy a life most young women must lead?
This flash of realization perked her no end, for sometimes in the dark hours, when sleep evaded her, Lydia often pondered if there was something drastically wrong with her that made her so unlike the other ladies of the ton. Why had she no interest in dance cards, and men with titles or playing the marriage game?
Because the marriage game is exceedingly dull, she thought happily to herself, while her Aunt struggled to formulate an answer.
“We are spending an enjoyable morning together,” Tibby eventually responded, though her tone insinuated that she too was finding the waiting rather tiresome. A knock at the front door sent the Dowager Duchess to her feet, and she scurried to the drawing room door to peer out into the hallway.
“I feel sick,” Lydia whispered.
“Eet is the anticipation,” Marguerite responded dreamily, “Of love.”
“No really, it’s just nausea,” Lydia replied blithely, she would not have anyone thinking that Count Zitelli made her nervous, though any nerves she may have had were displaced, for it was not the Count who had called at all.
“The servant who left it did not say who had sent the package your Grace,” Jives, the elderly butler wheezed as he handed Tabitha a small parcel.
“It’s addressed to you Lydia!” Tabitha said, with no little excitement, “Open it dear, and see what it is.”
Lydia took the package from Jives, and carefully undid the gold bow which held the paper together. Inside was a small jewellery box, and inside of that was a beautiful, decorative hair-comb inlaid with diamonds, pearls, and a purple stone that Lydia could not name.
“Eeet is beautiful,” Marguerite whispered, standing over Lydia’s shoulder and eyeing the comb appreciatively. “It does not look like an Eeenglish piece, eet looks -”
“Italian,” Tabitha whispered, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Oh Lydia, how I wish that an Italian Count had sent me something as beautiful when I was young.”
Her aunt’s eyes looked wistful, and Lydia thought on all that she knew of the late Duke of Blackmore, which was rather little bar the fact that he had been sixty years Tabitha’s senior when they wed.
I suppose Zitelli is a more palatable suitor than a septuagenarian, Lydia thought wryly, though Tabitha seemed to have missed the point that Lydia was not searching for a suitor at all.
“Try it on,” Tibby whispered, taking the piece from its box.
And so, when Count Zitelli actually made his arrival, he went unnoticed for a moment as Marguerite and the Dowager Duchess were clucking around Lydia, trying to work out how best to place the comb.
“Ahem,” the Count cleared his throat loudly, and all three women turned to stare.
“Count Zitelli.”
Tabitha was the first to react, and she welcomed Zitelli the continental way, allowing him to kiss both cheeks. Lydia was not quite so forthcoming, and as the Count approached she stuck out her hand for him to shake.
“When in Rome,” she quipped, as the Italian’s face fell momentarily, though he regrouped quite quickly, taking her hand, and turning it over, so that he could place a wet kiss upon the back of it.
“We were just admiring Lydia’s new comb,” Tabitha trilled, once the introductions were over.
“Ah?” Zitelli asked happily, stepping forward to peer at the item.
“Oh,” he cried, as he took in the unusual stones, “Why I saw this same comb just yesterday in the Pantheon Bazaar.”
“I’m sure you did,” Tabitha replied, and Lydia was sure that if she hadn’t been a Duchess that her Aunt would have winked. Actually winked.
Zitelli was a mighty fine actor, for the expression on his face was one of pure surprise, as if it was not he who had sent the gift at all. His showact of modesty seemed to make the Dowager Duchess even happier, and she bade the Count to sit while she rang for more tea.
Under her admiration the Count blossomed, and holding Tibby’s reverent gaze - and midst much supping of tea wit
h lemon - he told the tale of his banishment from Italy. The war had left Lombardy under the rule of the Austrians and Zitelli had lost his family and his ancestral home in Venice.
“Though not my fortune,” he assured an aghast Tabitha.
“Oh, you poor man,” Tibby said, reaching over to squeeze the Count’s arm sympathetically.
“There are others who suffered more than I your Grace,” Zitelli replied, waving away her sympathy and turning to Lydia - who he seemed to have completely forgotten about until his tale came to an end.
“And I think that in England,” the Count whispered throatily, his eyes traversing the length of Lydia’s body. “That my heart might find a place to call ‘ome once more.”
Tabitha looked as though she might swoon, though Lydia once again felt a rising wave of nausea at Zitelli’s sickly sweet profusions.
“Isn’t that darling Lydia?” Tibby said, elbowing her so sharply in the ribs that Lydia was momentarily winded.
“I can only hope that the Count’s heart finds a home, somewhere,” she responded diplomatically, whilst thinking she hoped it would find a home somewhere very far away from her.
A beaming Zitelli stood, and took the Duchess’ hand, which he kissed before repeating the same gesture with Lydia.
“Ladies it has been my pleasure,” he said with another elaborate bow, “And I can only hope that I will see you tonight at Lady Jersey’s Masquerade?”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tibby breathed, despite having nursed a long running enmity with the Lady Jersey that had literally stretched over decades.
“Wonderful,” Zitelli smiled, “A fra poco, as we say at home.”
He left with a swish of his tailcoats, leaving a starry-eyed Duchess and a mulish looking Lydia in his wake.
“I thought you said that Masquerades were dens of licentious depravity?” Lydia whispered once she was sure that the Count had left the building.
“Did I?” Tabitha looked bemused. “I don’t recall my ever having said anything so stuffy.”
“No stuffy is the word that you usually reserve to describe Lady Jersey,” Lydia replied archly though Tibby didn’t even blink.
“Oh hush, I said no such thing,” Tabitha said, patting her hair to make sure it was still in place. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to arrange a costume for you for tonight.”
Lydia watched as her Aunt rose gracefully, and exited the room with more dignity than a woman that was lying through her teeth had a right to display.
“Mademoiselle,” Marguerite hissed, once the door closed after the Duchess. “That man, the Count, he ees Italian.”
“I know,” Lydia replied wearily, did the girl think her so stupid that she hadn’t realised the momentous coincidence? “And I know what Carmen said yesterday, but I’ve thought about it Marguerite and I truly believe that it’s just a coincidence.”
“Non,” Marguerite shook her head and blessed herself simultaneously, “Eet is no coincidence, eet is a curse.”
“A curse?”
“Oui mademoiselle,” the French girl whispered, “Eee is no good. Eee gives me a shiver down my spine.”
“Why so?” Lydia asked curiously; Marguerite usually adored most men, especially titled ones.
The blonde girl wrinkled her dainty nose as she tried to formulate in English what it was about the Count that upset her so.
“Ee ees too pretty,” she finally declared.
“You can’t hold that against him,” Lydia laughed at her dramatic statement.
“Oh no mademoiselle,” Marguerite shook her head, her face scandalized, “A man cannot be prettier than you, for ee will make you look less pretty. I think this when I watch you sit beside him, that man makes mademoiselle look haggard.”
“Oh,” Lydia, who was not usually prone to vanity, felt herself deflate slightly.
“Now the Marquess, ee makes you look radiant,” Marguerite continued, in her matter of fact way. “ Where is ee?”
“Who, Sutherland?”
“Oui.”
“I don’t know,” Lydia whispered; she had hoped to see him last night at Lady Jersey’s ball, but the grinning Gabriel had not surfaced. And he had not called midmorning, as he was sometimes prone to do, he appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth just like her portrait.
“Marguerite,” Lydia asked, shocked that it had left her mind, “Have you seen the small portrait that I keep in my reticule anywhere? It seems to have disappeared.”
“The one of…?” Marguerite asked, her eyes wide.
“Yes, yes, that one,” Lydia responded, “It seems to have vanished completely. I had it in my reticule when we visited Covent Garden, but I haven’t seen it since.”
“Oh no,” Marguerite shook her head and blessed herself again, “It is a bad sign mademoiselle. I told you we should not have gone to see zat woman.”
Lydia remained mute, for if she opened her mouth she would have agreed with Marguerite: visiting Carmen had brought nothing but bad omens.
Chapter Nine
Gabriel was rather enjoying this spying business, or at least that’s what he thought as he sat in the bow window of White’s, watching the world pass by on St. James’ Street while he sipped happily on a coffee.
“Not on the brandy then Sutherland?” a voice called, a voice vaguely familiar to him from a few nights previously.
“Amberford,” Gabriel smile easily, as the slight barrister sat down in the vacant seat opposite him. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you again how you are, because I’m deuced if I can remember if you told me the other night.”
The dark haired young man gave a wide smile at this.
“That was a rough night, even by my standards,” Amberford said, signalling to the hovering waiter that he, like the Marquess, wanted a coffee.
“I’m abstaining as well,” Amberford said, dropping a hefty pile of papers on the table with a wince, “Your brother in law is still able to crack the whip and he’s not even in the country. It’s quite a feat.”
Amberford was the third son of a country Baron, and as such had to work for his keep. Unlike most young men of his ilk, he had a brain, and didn’t engage in fortune hunting but rather law, another reason why Gabe liked the young fellow so much.
“I admire your work ethic old man,” the Marquess said, lifting his cup of coffee up in a toast. “What’s Bernard got you slaving away on now?”
“Just dusty old notes from the treaty talks,” Amberford said with a shrug, “It’s not very interesting. People think the War Office is all murder and intrigue, when really it’s just paper work and then some more paperwork for added measure.”
Gabe’s eyebrows raised at the mention of intrigue; did Amberford know about the plot to assassinate the viceroy of Venice?”
“What?” Amberford asked irritated, for the Marquess had been regarding him suspiciously, and had patently been staring at him for longer than polite manners allowed. “Do I have something on my chin?”
“No, but give it a few years and I’m sure you’ll manage to grow something,” Gabe quipped, before leaning forward earnestly. “Have you ever heard of a chap called Zitelli?”
“Zitelli,” the solicitor said thoughtfully, scratching his smooth chin. “An Italian, obviously?”
Gabe nodded.
“Why do you ask?” Amberford’s expression was suddenly suspicious, and Gabe suppressed a smile, perhaps the solicitor thought that he was a possible suspect.
“I’ve been asked to keep an eye out for any Italians who might look like they’re up to no good…” Gabe said delicately, hoping that the younger man would pick up on his train of thought. Amberford regarded him thoughtfully, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you know,” he said in a low voice, leaning toward the Marquess so that he would not be overheard, “I’ve been asked the very same thing. This Zitelli chap, where did you meet him?”
“Well,” Gabriel cleared his throat, delighted to have a
n ear for his suspicions. “I haven’t been formally introduced, but there’s something fishy about him.”
“I agree,” Amberford said grimly, “I met him just yesterday, at Lady Jersey’s ball. He arrived on English soil last week, spouting some nonsense about losing his ancestral home. I’d keep an eye on him Sutherland.”
Gabriel nodded, delighted that the intellectual young man had had the same reaction to Zitelli as he’d had. It’s not just jealousy, he thought to himself, there’s something very strange about that man.
“Is your sister looking forward to her husband’s return?”
The tone was innocuous enough, but Gabriel had a feeling that the young man was rather interested in his reply. Gossip about Caroline and Bernard's unhappy separation must have spread to the office.
“I dare say the old girl is,” Gabriel replied smoothly, adopting a blithe attitude to deter any more questioning. “He’s a good sort, Bernard.”
“Oh, he is,” Amberford nodded in agreement, “And while the situation with the brat is rather unfortunate, it all happened years before they married. He’s not the type to dip his biscuit elsewhere, these days.”
The brat?
His biscuit?
Gabriel gave a shudder at the mention of his brother in law’s biscuit dipping habits, and focused instead on the other piece of information that Amberford had shared.
“The brat?” Gabe raised his eyebrows and the younger man flushed.
“I assumed you knew…” Amberford replied, his eyes not quite meeting the Marquess’.
“Well, I didn’t,” Gabriel replied softly, his amicable mood now replaced with burning anger. “So, you’ll have to fill me in.”
The young man opposite him pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and licked his lips nervously. His face, which was usually sallow had turned the same white as the curtains that hung at the window.
“I apologize for my indiscretion,” Amberford replied delicately, “I know little of what transpired, except what the clerks told me - they are prone to gossip, as you know.”
Gabe nodded, Bernard Gives was one of the more influential politicians in the Cabinet, and he knew that any kind of a scandal surrounding him would have caused excitement.
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