The chaotic Miss Crispino

by Kasey Michaels

  Something was bothering Valerian. “Max, exactly how did Bernardo learn that Allegra was bound for Brighton?”

  Murphy made himself very busy rearranging his remaining bouquets. “And what am I to be now, boyo, a mind reader? Unless I had a little slip of the tongue when I sat sipping wine with the lad in a local caffè, trying to discover what he planned.”

  He turned to Allegra. “It’s on the water wagon I’ve been since the morning after you left, m’darlin’, but I confess I took a most terrible tumble from it the day you and sweet Louisa sailed away—and you as well, Valerian. I’m that sorry, that I am, and not just because Candie read me one of her memorable scolds just while my head was pounding like to make me believe someone was doin’ a jig behind my eyes.”

  “Oh, Uncail Max,” Allegra all but groaned, shaking her head. “But I forgive you, for you must have been sorely tried to lose your Louisa. You forgive him as well, don’t you, Valerian? Valerian?”

  “Hmm?” Inspiration had struck Valerian with a force so hard he almost reeled under its onslaught, so that he hadn’t really been listening. Could he do it? Would he be able to pull it off? And if he did do it, would it last? He looked at Max, his expression purposely blank. “I suppose—and this may be just what you were thinking yourself, Max—we could defuse Bernardo’s ardor by telling him that Allegra and I are betrothed.”

  “Betrothed! What can you be thinking?” Allegra exploded, causing two female passersby to peer at her intently and then move on, their heads pressed together as they giggled and whispered to each other.

  Valerian looked down at her, seeing her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes. “Is it so inconceivable?” he asked as Max continued to busy himself with the basket of violets. “Am I so old and undesirable that Bernardo wouldn’t believe you could ever marry me?”

  “Don’t be so silly, for you are not old at all, even with your angel wings.” Allegra sighed, reluctant to explain the obvious, for she had just told Max that Valerian was brilliant. “But only think, Valerian, if an ocean couldn’t stop Bernardo, how do you suppose a betrothal could do what the ocean could not? No, he will only bring out his silver mallet and tap-tap on your head as he did on Erberto’s, and then the chase will be on once more. No, I think, Valerian, that you shall just have to kill Bernardo for me. There simply is no other way.”

  Max threw back his head and laughed aloud, nearly dislodging his wig. “Kill him! Oh, boyo, she’s a colleen after me own heart! You talk of marriage and she talks of murder. Either way, as I see it, my friend, you’re a dead man.”

  “Max—” Valerian began warningly.

  “Well, I must be going,” the wily Irishman broke in quickly, for a lifetime of living by his wits had given him a fine sense of timing when it came to calling it a day. “I’ll be around, checking the dock and the stagecoaches just so I can let you know when our love-bedazzled, shoemaker reaches Brighton—if he doesn’t get lost and end by landing in Cornwall.”

  “Where are you staying?” Valerian called after him, reluctant to see Max leave, though why he should feel that way he was at a loss to explain, even to himself. “I might want to reach you.”

  But Max just kept on moving, disappearing into a nearby alleyway so quickly that Valerian realized it would be impossible to give chase to the man without deserting Allegra in the middle of the flagway.

  “Damn the man!” he swore under his breath, then turned to his companion, thoroughly out of charity with her. “Kill him, Allegra? How do you propose for me to go about it, hmm? A knife? A pistol? Or perhaps a heavy brick applied to the back of his head in a darkened alleyway might do the trick. And will you come watch me hang, or would that prove too upsetting, even for your bloodthirsty Italian sensibilities?”

  Allegra saw the pain in Valerian’s eyes and longed to throw her arms around him, begging his forgiveness. She wanted nothing more from life than to hear his proposal, but not this way, and not for the reason he had given. But he was not to know that. She would die a thousand terrible deaths before she would let him know that!

  “Oh, Valerian,” she said, turning to retrace their steps to her grandfather’s house, her hand tucked tightly around his arm. “Why are you Englishmen so carelessly brave? Bernardo would not think twice before tapping on your head.”

  Valerian sought to find solace where he could. “So you have turned down my suggestion of a betrothal purely to protect me? It had nothing to do with whether or not you could ever consider a betrothal between the two of us?”

  She looked up at him, wishing with all her might that she could believe he truly cared how she answered his last question. “If—if you were to really mean it, Valerian, I suppose I should not be offended by your proposal,” she answered at last, trying to be very English about the thing while her Italian blood urged her to tell him exactly what was on her mind. “Would—would you consider asking me for my hand if it weren’t for Bernardo?”

  Valerian didn’t know how to answer. To tell the truth would end his misery once and for all, for he was not so blind as to be unaware that Allegra looked upon him favorably. And there were their shared kisses at the Pavilion to give him hope as well. But he had already decided that she should experience more of life in England before tying herself to a promise she might live to regret.

  “Ah, imp,” he said, seeing Lord Halsey—and temporary rescue—approaching from the opposite direction. “There are some questions well-behaved young misses just do not ask. Now smile, Allegra, for unless I miss my guess, his lordship is about to compliment you on your performance last night, and as you and Duggy are promised to him for this evening, I suggest you be polite.”

  ALLEGRA SAT ALONE in the Dugdale drawing room, nursing her dark mood. Who did Valerian Fitzhugh think he was, to lecture her on proper deportment as if she were some simple-witted dolt? Who did he think he was talking to, a silly schoolroom chit who had never sung for the Bishop of Bologna? And how dared he tease her about quite the most serious question she had ever asked in her life?

  She had all but bared her soul to him, right there on the street, and he had laughed at her, then quickly changed the subject, just as if her question had been of no importance. She had been nonplussed by his action, completely at a loss as to how to go on, and could not remember a word Lord Halsey had said to her. Only now, once Valerian had deposited her back at Number 23 Royal Crescent Terrace and run off like the hounds of Hell were after him, could she think of what she should have done.

  She should have turned to him, right there on the street, and asked in a very loud, very carrying voice, “But, Valerian, why then did you take me to a private parlor in the Pavilion—with the Regent in residence and my grandfather in the building as well—and kiss me on the mouth, not once, but twice? I do not know all your English rules of propriety, but in Italy you could not do such a thing without either proposing marriage or being prepared to face my grandfather’s vengeance. Isn’t that right, Lord Halsey?”

  Allegra took a large bite of the pastry Betty had filched from the kitchens for her and nodded emphatically. Yes, that’s precisely what she should have said. After all, Valerian had compromised her last night. Even Uncail Max had said as much. But all Valerian had done today was to parade her about the town like some prize pullet and then weakly offer his proposal only as a way to thwart Bernardo.

  Hadn’t the man even considered punching the persistent shoemaker on his perfectly sculpted nose and sending the man back to Napoli on the next ship to leave port? Hadn’t he given so much as a moment’s thought to protecting her in some other way than by offering her a pretend engagement? And if he had really meant his words, why hadn’t he repeated them, telling her the truth?

  Her head ached with all this civilization. It was so much easier in Italy. People told you what was on their minds—screamed it at you, actually—so that there could be no doubt as to how they felt. Here, in Brighton, everyone merely danced about, saying things that only implied what they meant, only hinted at the thou
ghts behind the words. Well, she decided, taking another savage bite of the tart, she could be devious too—even more devious than any Englishman—for she had Italian blood in her veins!

  “Ah, there you are, cousin,” Gideon said, breaking into her thoughts as he entered the drawing room, closing the doors on the empty hallway behind him. “I was just in the morning room with my dearest mama, lamenting to her how I have not seen you above a few precious moments since your great triumph last night at the Pavilion. We are all very proud of our little Italian cousin, you know.”

  Allegra glared at him. Gideon was a prime example of what she had been thinking. He never said what he meant, and his mocking tone proved it. He didn’t care two sticks about her “great triumph” at the Pavilion. And he wasn’t proud of her—none of the Kittredges were proud of her. They merely wanted her inheritance. That’s why Gideon had sought her out, and that’s why he had closed the doors to the hallway as he entered, so that they would not be interrupted. As a matter of fact, if Betty had been correct, the man was probably about to propose to her.

  She felt her temper rising. Two insincere proposals in one short day were just too much. Valerian Fitzhugh might not be here for her to vent her spleen on but Gideon was. She sat back, prepared to make him pay for what he was about to do. It was time she showed these English amateurs what the word devious really meant!

  “Good afternoon, Gideon,” Allegra began, smiling brightly even as her stomach did a small sick flip, for it was not really in her nature to be cruel. She laid the half-eaten strawberry tart back on the plate, her appetite gone, and went on the attack. “Are you here to propose to me, cugino?”

  “What?” Gideon threw back his handsome head and laughed aloud. “Whatever gave you that idea, cousin?” he asked, slipping his body close beside hers on the settee. “Oh, dear. Has my dearest sister been tattling? I suppose I have been caught out. She heard me baring my soul to Mama yesterday, I suppose, telling her of my deep affection for you, and my hopes for the future. How terrible of Isobel to betray me, not that I should be surprised. She lives to make me suffer for her own well-deserved unhappiness.”

  He had recovered from his shock so swiftly, lied so smoothly, that Allegra was forced to admire him. “And are you suffering very badly with this great love you bear me, Gideon?” she asked, picking at the tart once more, for her appetite had reappeared as quickly as it had gone into hiding. “Please, you must tell me everything.”

  Gideon needed no encouragement, his arm snaking out to rest lightly against her spine. This was going to be even easier than he could have hoped. It was his handsome face, he was sure. His handsome face, and his brilliant tailor.

  “I was struck by your great beauty the day Fitzhugh and Uncle Denny dropped you into our laps, my fiery darling, but I knew I had to wait before I could dare to speak of my love.”

  “And I was much struck by you, Gideon,” Allegra answered truthfully, gazing down at her hands, which she had demurely folded in her lap. She had been struck—by his arrogance and total lack of human feeling, not that she was about to tell him that.

  Gideon took courage from Allegra’s admission and pressed on. “Mama, bless her generous heart, has already given us her blessing, saying that nothing could be more fitting than to have her only niece’s child and her own child united in marriage. Tell me, Allegra—dare I hope?”

  Allegra knew she was being naughty, but she was also thoroughly out of charity with all men at the moment, and banished any lingering doubt as to what she would do. “Hope, Gideon? You are daring to hope?” She studiously removed his hand from her waist. “I think, cugino, you are daring many things. Have you approached my nonno and asked his blessing?”

  “Uncle Denny?” Gideon leaned back, crossing one well-tailored leg over the other. “Actually, my sweet, I had hoped you might do that for me. You know how Uncle Denny feels about me. He might just cut up stiff if I were to ask him. But he likes you, don’t he? He’d accept our engagement, coming from you.”

  Now she had him. Gideon had swallowed the bait and all that was left was to reel him in. Allegra hid a smile by taking another bite of her snack. “But, dearest,” she said, blinking rapidly, “I could not do that. Nonno must hear the question from your mouth.” She pressed her fingertips against his lips as he tried to protest. “No, no, do not say anything else. Not another word. I cannot promise my hand, I cannot even promise to listen to your proposal—which you have not yet presented—until you have gained permission from Nonno to court me.”

  Gideon leapt to his feet, his eyes haunted. “But he’ll skin me alive! He’ll throw me out of the house! Think, Allegra! Could you bear for that to happen to the man you love?”

  Her furious blinks had done their job, and she produced a single sparkling tear. “Ah, Gideon, you break my heart!” she exclaimed in her best tragic voice. “If you cannot fight for me—” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her handkerchief.

  Gideon stood very still, considering his options. He wouldn’t fight for Allegra—or anyone, for that matter—if it were his only means to Heaven. However, for a plum, and for the rest of the Dugdale fortune (which would be his the moment he deposited his mother and sister in some far-off cottage in the north of England), he would consider walking through fire in his stockinged feet. Of course—being Gideon—more than anything else, he would consider lying to get what he wanted!

  Dropping to one knee in front of her, he vowed fervently, “I will do as you say. I’ll promise him that I will never set foot in a gaming house again. I’ll give up my friends, the ones he says are leading me to rack and ruin. I’ll never lay another wager on a horse race, no matter what the odds. Anything! I’ll promise him anything. Only please, Allegra, promise me that your answer will be yes!”

  “Really, Gideon? You would do this? You would do this for me?”

  Gideon swallowed hard. “I will do this!”

  Her grandfather was going to enjoy the coming conversation, Allegra consoled herself, picturing Gideon on his knees in front of his uncle, promising to mend his wicked ways.

  She turned her head to one side, the handkerchief now clutched dramatically against her breast as she struck a theatrical pose. “No! I cannot! This is wonderful, but I cannot say another word of what lies in my heart, dear Gideon, until you have returned from Nonno with his blessing. Please—I beg you—do not ask me again!”

  She held out her hand for his kiss, and continued to hold it out until he belatedly grasped it and pressed his lips to her palm, an action that set her teeth on edge. “I will do as you ask, Allegra, but you must give me time. A few days? A week?”

  “I shall not smile again, nor even breathe, until it is done,” she vowed earnestly, stealing a line from a very bad play she had once seen in Rome. “Now go,” she added, remembering another line from the play, “before my tortured emotions betray me.”

  Gideon rose, unable to resist the need to brush off the knee of his new fawn breeches. “Thank you, Allegra. Thank you for making me the happiest of men,” he declared, turning on his heel and heading, shoulders back, head erect, for the door.

  Once she was alone again, Allegra gave way to a fit of the giggles. “I so love Italian opera, even as it is done by silly Englishmen,” she said aloud, taking another bite of her strawberry tart just as Isobel—who had seen her brother in the hall and said something nasty to him, only to have him ignore her—entered the room, looking perplexed.

  “Was my brother just in here, Allegra?” she asked, taking up a chair on the other side of the small table that sat in front of the settee.

  “Yes, indeed, my cousin was here,” Allegra answered, still trying to control her happiness, for she was feeling quite pleased with herself, and rather vindicated. “And now you are here. It is so nice to have so many visitors. Will my zia Agnes be joining us, do you think? No? Ah, well. Would you like one of these strawberry tarts, cugina? Betty got them for me from the kitchens when the cook turned her back. They are very good.”r />
  Isobel primly denied the offer. “Perhaps if you did not love food so much, cousin, you would not have so many unseemly bulges in your gowns,” she suggested, eyeing Allegra’s ample breasts while ignoring the evidence of the other girl’s slim waist. “But I am not here to remind you of your faults, dear girl. I am here to congratulate you on your triumph at the Pavilion. Uncle Denny has told us all about it, and I have seen myself the multitude of invitations that have already been stacked high on the mantel. You must be feeling rather smug.”

  Allegra, who was in fact feeling very smug indeed, only smiled, waving her hands as if dismissing the fuss that her singing had caused. “You are too kind, Isobel. But it is true enough, I suppose. Everyone wants me to sing for them now.” Isobel’s insults she would ignore, for she could not bring herself to care what the other girl thought.

  Isobel, her eyes narrowing, leaned forward, saying, “Yes, they do, don’t they? I think it is so unfair of them, to ask you to sing for your supper—to give your talents away for nothing—when you were so celebrated in Italy. That is why,” she continued, sneaking a quick look toward the hallway, “I have come to you—to suggest a way you can make them all pay for such shabby treatment.”

  Allegra frowned, taken off her guard. Isobel acted as if the fashionable people of Brighton had insulted her and she—her loving English cousin—resented it. “But, Isobel, Nonno didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. Nor did Valerian. Besides, I have no need of money anymore.”

  Isobel shook her head. “I know that. They are only men, and see no more than the obvious. But just think, Allegra. There are still so many poor soldiers, back from the war all these years, and still without the payment promised them by that fat old man in the Pavilion. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could do something to ease their pain? Valerian would be greatly pleased, for I have heard him speak so eloquently about the horrors suffered by those wretched men. Valerian has many of them in his employ, you know—men without eyes, men who have lost limbs.”