Before Marianne could ask anything else, the coach stopped in front of a stone building festooned with wrought iron. At least four stories high, the smooth stuccoed structure appeared in far better shape than most of the buildings they had passed that day.
A slight jerk indicated David had stepped down from the driver’s seat, and a second told them Pietro had as well. Marianne was quick to depart, happy to stretch her legs and take in the historic buildings that surrounded the square. The familiar odor of the sea drifted past her on the breeze from the port.
“Mi scusi, but I should tell you of the time,” David said when James and Jasper had stepped out of the coach. “One o’clock is one hour after sunset.” He pointed west. The sun hadn’t yet touched the horizon but would do so in a few minutes. Then he pointed to a large public clock in the piazza that displayed the hours in a most peculiar fashion. “It’s nearly noon here,” he said.
James rolled his eyes, remembering the odd manner in which Sicilians kept track of time. “Which is our eighteenth hour,” he said.
“Six o’clock?” Marianne guessed, not exactly sure she understood
Grinning, Jasper gave her a nod. “Indeed. Let us get to our rooms and see if we can’t arrange a dinner.”
“You mean supper,” James reminded him.
Jasper frowned, realizing Signora Romano and her family had been keeping regular time on their behalf, rather than forcing them to rearrange the way in which they kept time and ate their usual meals.
Given most on the island didn’t even eat a breakfast but instead drank coffee and sometimes had bread, he had been happy when Aurora saw to cooking a decent meal for them before they made their way to their dig site every morning. Dinners on Sicily were supposed to be when a Brit would normally eat a luncheon, and suppers were served later. “Supper it is,” he agreed.
“Do you suppose there will be beef served here in Palermo?” Marianne asked as they made their way into the hotel. Aurora had only served a beef dish once since their arrival.
“There is beef, my lady, but it can be very expensive,” David warned when Jasper looked in his direction. “There are many British here now, so there are more cows.”
Marianne stopped short upon entering the hotel. She wasn’t sure why she was so surprised by the opulence on display. Large paintings lined the walls, and the furnishings were covered in beautiful fabrics. On the small tables, ancient Greek and Roman artifacts were displayed as if they had been purchased in a local decor shop.
“I think we shall be far more comfortable here than where we were last night,” Jasper whispered in awe.
David hurried up to the clerk and made the request for rooms. When he rejoined them, he mentioned the price for two nights, wincing as he did so.
“Does that include a room for Pietro?”
“A small one, yes,” David replied. “A small breakfast in the morning, and space in the stable for the mules.”
“Very good,” Jasper replied as he fished some piastras from his purse. “Could you ask if he knows the location of an oculist’s shop? Ricardo Ricciardini is the man’s name. And the museum?”
Nodding, David returned to the clerk and made the arrangements, returning with keys to three rooms and a paper on which two addresses were written. “We passed the museum on the way here, but they are closed for the day. He said the oculist’s shop is not far, but then nothing in Palermo is.”
“The entire city is but four miles,” James said when Jasper displayed a quizzical expression.
“Well, then we may not require the coach after we drop off the mosaics.”
“I’ve also requested water for bathing. He assures me it will be delivered within the hour,” David said. “I will see to the luggage.”
Marianne and Jasper made their way to their room, murmuring their appreciation of the finery on display. But when Jasper opened the door to their suite, the two burst out laughing.
The bed was as tall as the one in Jasper’s bedchamber.
Chapter 34
A Reunion is Clearly Required
Meanwhile, back in Girgenti
When her late husband’s coach disappeared in a cloud of dust, Chiara Romano allowed a sigh. She knew with Pietro at the reins and her son armed with a small pistol, the coach would make it to its destination.
Chiara wondered at the sense of loss she felt just then, though. Despite the difference in their ages and in their cultural backgrounds, she and Marianne Henley had become fast friends. The viscountess never put on airs or acted as if associating with Chiara was beneath her station. Perhaps the grandness of the villa, nestled into the hills with its shady trees and vantage of the sea helped in that regard.
Her concern that Marianne’s blurry vision might prevent the woman from enjoying the sights Chiara was intent on sharing with her was quickly replaced with appreciation for how the young woman reacted to everything she could see—as if her entire world was everything up-close, viewed in great detail and appreciated for the same reason.
David had only returned from Palermo a few weeks ago, so the household was back to the way it was when he was away at school—just she and Aurora, Tamara, and Angela. Chiara allowed a grin at the thought of how noisy her household could be with the addition of a single young man who teased his cousins mercilessly. Now that David was gone again, the three girls had left for the other villa with the intention of cleaning and doing the laundry.
Chiara had promised to inspect their work later that day.
At some point, marriages would have to be arranged for her nieces, but she bristled at the thought of any of them ending up with the available young men in Girgenti.
She couldn’t even imagine Aurora betrothed to the butcher’s son, and he probably had the best prospects of anyone in the town. Remembering again the comment Lord Henley had made about his cook in London, Chiara made a mental note to ask the viscount if he might hire Aurora for the position. Her prospects at finding a husband in England’s largest city—a good husband—were far better than on Sicily.
Struck by the sudden quiet, she wandered aimlessly from room to room, her mind’s eye replaying scenes of her life with Antony, of her son and how he played with his cousins when they visited, or played by himself when they weren’t there. She remembered how homesick she had been when she had first come to Sicily with her husband, and then how shocked she had felt when she learned she had married a man of more fortune than she had originally thought.
And she remembered why it was she had agreed to marry Antony.
As if her memories had conjured him into existence, Lord Darius appeared at her door, a cluster of pink oleanders clutched in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other.
A bottle of scotch that looked ever so familiar. She almost said something about it, but her attention was drawn to other, more important details. Such as how he was dressed.
She had never seen him look so formal.
Lord Darius was dressed far better than he had been at any time since his arrival on the island, his Nankeen breeches, red waistcoat, navy topcoat, and white shirt making him appear as aristocratic as he should, given he was the younger brother of a duke. She hadn’t heard a conveyance, but noted from the dust on his boots that he had probably walked at least part of the way from where he was staying.
Thinking she was frowning because of his dirty boots, Darius was quick to employ the boot brush next to the door.
“Buongiorno, mia signora,” he said as he afforded her a bow.
Why, he even looked handsome, although every year of the intervening twenty years was displayed in great detail on a face. Having worked outdoors for most of his career as an archaeologist, his coloring was closer to that of the natives of Sicily. Had she seen him dressed as he usually was down by the marina, she would have thought him a pirate.
Chiara angled her head, deciding she would at least hear what he had to say. She could always yell and curse and slap him across the face if he said something stupid.
Besides, she was intrigued by the bottle of scotch.
“Good morning, Lord Darius,” she replied in English, stepping aside. “Or should I address you as Dr. Jones?” The query came with an arched eyebrow, as if she was a bit miffed at having learned of his other moniker.
Darius was relieved and pleasantly surprised at her unspoken invitation to enter. It hadn’t been that long ago since she had punched him in the face, illustrating her displeasure with him in an unexpected manner. As a result, he had half-expected shouting, cursing, and perhaps—maybe—a slap across the face.
Wasn’t a slap across the face supposed to a be sign that a woman secretly loved the victim of her slap? He was sure he had heard of it at some point during his brief visits to London.
“Just Darius will do,” he replied, almost tempted to remind her of the endearment she used to use when they had known each other when they were in Rome.
Il mio uomo. My man.
Well, he had always been hers—from the moment he caught her watching him from the steps of the Forum and ignored protocol by introducing himself. As the son of a duke, he tended to ignore protocol when he traveled abroad. Back then, he hadn’t completed his studies at Cambridge. Hadn’t earned his title as a doctor of archaeology. But he had come to the attention of her father, a man who insisted the history of their culture would be lost unless those who dug up the past could help preserve it as well interpret their findings. And so Darius accepted Samuele Ferraro’s invitation to an archaeological conference in Rome, intending to stay for no more than a month to attend the conference and survey the sites Signore Ferraro claimed were in danger of destruction.
He stayed for over ten months.
Ten months that had him making friends with like-minded historians and wealthy patrons, like Antony Romano. Ten months that had him falling in love with Ferraro’s oldest daughter. Six months that proved his passion for Roman history and three months for Chiara Ferraro.
Darius glanced around the vestibule, realizing he had underestimated just how well the widow was living despite her husband having been dead for nearly four years. He wondered how Antony had died, but thought better than to ask just then. “I was hoping we could go for a walk. To talk,” he managed. He held out the oleanders, just then remembering he held them. “These are for you.”
Still suspicious of his motives, Chiara took the flowers, rather stunned by how many were in the cluster he offered. Why, he had probably picked all the blooms from two or three bushes. “Grazie. I should put these in water,” she said as she dipped a curtsy, her gaze going to the bottle. Had he brought it for courage? Or was it a gift? “Come. Join me. I shall only be a moment.”
Glancing about the plaster-walled central hall of the villa, Darius was impressed by the lavishness on display. Paintings framed in gilt were guarded by life-size statues, some probably originals from the nearby temples. Rich furnishings, some obviously antiques, gleamed as if they had been made yesterday. The painted ceiling reminded him of cathedrals in other parts of Italy. Antony Romano had continued to do well for himself, it seemed, despite the wars.
Darius was staring at a marble bust of a Roman general, fairly sure he had been the one to unearth it, when he realized Chiara had made her way to another room toward the back of the house.
Hurrying after her, he wondered at the quiet. At no point had he seen any servants, nor did he hear the three young women he knew had been living with her. “Where is everyone?” he asked as he followed her into the kitchen. She was filling a crystal vase with water from a pitcher next to a deep marble sink when she gave him a quelling glance, as if she thought he knew damn well where everyone was. Otherwise, why would he have come on this particular day? At this particular hour?
“My servants are on holiday, my nieces are seeing to the cleaning of the other villa, and my son has gone back to Palermo with my guests.”
“Cleaning?” he repeated. “I would think your servants could see to that,” he murmured.
Chiara gave him a quelling glance. “I am teaching them what they must know to be a good wife. They may not end up married to wealthy men.” Probably wouldn’t, given the economic status of so many on the island. The wars and the changing of the monarchies laying claim to the island had left most in a state of near-poverty.
Dipping his head, Darius chided himself for asking about the nieces. Having been on the island for a month, and in Rome for nearly a month before that, he had seen first-hand how things had changed in twenty years. “Did your son go to school in Palermo?” He knew Antony Romano would demand the best for his son.
“Sì, but he has finished his studies. In architecture. Probably not what Antony would have wanted, but a good second choice.”
Darius nodded. “Is there work for him in Palermo?”
Chiara gave a shrug. “Probably, but he did not go there for that. At least, not on this day. He is escorting my guests.”
If he hadn’t been invited to join them, Darius would have felt a bit left out, but learning his colleagues intended to be gone for a few days allowed him to arrange some time alone with their hostess, and so he had declined. “Did Lord Henley take one of the mosaics with him?” He had noticed the empty floor in the Greco-Roman ruin they had been excavating, the perfect rectangle of tiles dug out, transferred onto a large wooden sheet, and crated for transport.
“A few, I think. But I believe they are seeing to a pair of spectacles for the viscountess. Is there a reason you are not with them?”
Darius was about to tease her, thinking she hadn’t realized she had put voice to a pun. But her brilliant smile suddenly appeared, and he knew she had been intentional with her words. “I was invited,” he replied. “But I declined. That trip is bad in the best of conditions.”
Chiara’s nonchalant expression faltered a bit. “I made sure David had Antony’s gun,” she said, thinking he was referring to highwaymen rather than the poor road.
“Hopefully he won’t have to use it,” Darius replied, his gaze taking in the airy kitchen. Unlike most of the kitchens in townhouses in London, this one was large and bright, with marble counters that extended around to where a massive stove and oven filled half the adjacent wall. Everything was so clean, he had a thought it was never used. But he knew better. He knew how Italian women prided themselves on their spotless households. “Do you like the quiet?” he asked.
Not expecting the question, Chiara angled her head to one side as she made her way out of the kitchen and to the front parlor. She set the vase on the low table in front of a settee. “Sometimes,” she finally replied. “Do you always carry a bottle of scotch with you?”
Giving a start—he had forgotten he still carried the bottle from Slater’s distillery—Darius held it out to her. “It’s for you,” he said. “A... a peace offering, if it helps,” he added when she didn’t immediately reach for it. “Lady Henley’s father made it.”
Chiara remembered Marianne’s mention of her father’s avocation and just then realized the young woman had come from a wealthier background than she had first thought. “I haven’t yet had my morning coffee. Would you like a cup?” She took the bottle, an eyebrow arching when she saw that it really was the same scotch Lord Henley had given her the day of his arrival.
Relieved he wasn’t about to be forced out of the villa, Darius allowed a grin. “I would.”
“Then, I am going back to the kitchen. Have a seat, if—”
“I’ll join you,” he replied, offering an arm.
Chiara ignored it and made her way back the way she had come, her healed slippers tapping on the tiled floors, Darius directly behind her. Halfway to the kitchen, she suddenly whirled around. “Are you...?”
She was about to ask if he was watching her bottom as she walked when Darius said, “I have always admired the way you walk. You sway so perfectly,” he said, making sure there wasn’t a hint of a grin on his face. He caught her hand before it impacted his cheek, moving it to his lips so he could kiss her knuckles. “Yo
u always have.”
Staring at him for a moment, Chiara struggled with how to respond. She was still angry with him—she probably would be for the rest of her life—but because of him, she had been blessed with a son. A son and memories of being in love. “You would do well to keep your eyes in their sockets,” she said, wincing when she realized her choice of words might have him laughing at her.
But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he pulled on her hand, forcing her closer to him. Then his arms wrapped around her shoulders and he pulled her hard against his body. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply at the slight scent of gardenia. When she didn’t relax into his hold, he allowed a sigh of frustration. “I have missed you so much,” he said in a whisper. “Every day. Every day since I had to leave you in Rome. I go to sleep thinking of you, and I wake up thinking of you. I think of you when I am digging in the Roman forts by Hadrian’s Wall, and I think of you when I’m berating myself for having left you all those years ago.”
Chiara stepped back from his hold and regarded him with a furrowed brow. “Yet you wait until today to say these things?” she replied, obviously incensed.
“I wasn’t sure of where you were,” he argued. “Who you were... I mean, who you had become. Who you married.” He always hoped his bit of meddling would result in her becoming Antony Romano’s wife. If she couldn’t be his, then at least he wanted to be sure she ended up with an honorable man who could provide a life of privilege.
Frowning at the odd comment, Chiara’s hands went to her hips. “Then how did you find me here?” She had never written to him after his disappearance from her life. She didn’t have many dealings with other archaeologists who might know him. For a few years, she barely gave him a thought.
Until David canted his head just so, or displayed certain expressions, or his eyes caught hers in secret understanding. Then memories of Darius haunted her dreams, sometimes for weeks.
The Vision of a Viscountess Page 27