The chaotic Miss Crispino

by Kasey Michaels

  He would have to fling himself into the cold, dark sea. He would have to end it all, a broken-hearted shell of a man who could not find anything left in all the world to give him hope. He would—“Che cosa?” Bernardo’s head snapped up. What was it the tall man with the silver wings in his hair had said? Conte Timoteo? Who was Conte Timoteo?

  Bernardo straightened in the chair and began to listen very carefully to what Valerian was telling the skinny, flour-white-skinned man who had admired his boots.

  “…and so you see, Gideon, Allegra’s cousin, the Conte, had no choice but to apply to his only remaining relative for assistance. His house and grounds lost to him in a debt of honor—surely you of all people can understand the Conte’s need to satisfy his gaming debts—he spent his last penny, even sold his wardrobe, to procure passage for his loyal servant, Max, and himself to come to Brighton.”

  Max growled low in his throat, but Valerian silenced him with a look.

  “To continue,” Valerian said firmly, redirecting his attention to Gideon, a young man in whom the light of knowledge did not, thankfully, burn brightly. “Not wishing to embarrass his cousin by showing up at the Baron’s door in his shabby clothes, he sent Max to bring Allegra to him. It is all quite simple, really, when you think about it. Oh, yes, the only thing the Conte could not bear to part with was his magnificent boots,” he added as an afterthought. “It seems we men, too, can be vain.”

  Kittredge scratched at the side of his head, looking toward Allegra, who was at that moment whispering into Bernardo’s ear—a far happier Bernardo than the shoemaker had been a few moments earlier.

  Clearly Gideon had misunderstood the situation. Everything was still all right. He could still approach his uncle Denny for Allegra’s money—no! He gave a slight shake to his head, making a mental erasure. He could approach him for Allegra’s hand—he must remember to ask for her hand! It would appear he had some more work to do on the speech he had been preparing with Georgie Watson at the coffeehouse.

  “Yes, yes, I think I understand now,” Gideon mumbled at last, just as Max, who had been growing impatient with Kittredge’s excruciatingly slow mental processes, had been about to explode in frustration. “But I still don’t understand what you’re doing here, Valerian.”

  As Valerian hesitated—for he had not taken his plan far enough to consider what he would say if they were caught out here at the inn—Allegra, whose father had often praised her for her ability to cover beautifully for another singer who suffered a mental lapse on stage, stepped forward to effect a rescue.

  “Max—Cugino Bernardo’s valet—summoned Valerian before he came for me. My cugino and Valerian had met in Milano, you see, at the Palazzo dell’Ambrosiana, and it was he, my cugino, who helped him to locate me in Firenze in the first place. Capisce? Do you understand now, Gideon?”

  This overabundance of Italian proved to be too much for Gideon, who only nodded, saying, “Yes, I see. I see—I think.”

  Allegra, flushed with her success, continued. “And that is why I was hugging dear Valerian when you came in, Gideon. Valerian, being such a dear, dear friend, had just offered to house Bernardo and clothe him until such time as his so-very-sickly uncle passes away—an uncle on his mother’s side, so that I, unfortunately, cannot share in the bounty—and Bernardo inherits the man’s fortune and can return to his own estates. It is all quite simple, yes?”

  Valerian, who had, halfway through Allegra’s speech, turned to her in mingled astonishment and dismay, belatedly found his voice. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, “So if you don’t mind keeping our secret until the Conte is better outfitted to meet the Baron, perhaps we can get on with it. I would like to quit this room as soon as possible. Can I trust you to escort your cousin home, Gideon?”

  By now Bernardo understood as much as he, with his already remarked-upon limited brain-power, would probably ever understand. He had lost his beloved Allegra. But he had gained a title, and new clothes, and something to eat besides the moldy bit of cheese that was all he had left in his pocket, and could even look forward to having a roof to cover his head that night. Wasn’t he a lucky shoemaker? Wasn’t this England wonderful?

  His smile bright, Bernardo exuberantly dashed about hugging everyone and soundly kissing them on both cheeks—including a thoroughly disgusted Gideon, who made short work of extricating both Allegra and himself from the room.

  As Valerian stood looking at the door that had just closed behind Allegra’s back, Max walked up to him, rested a hand on his shoulder, and said, “That little girl can spout lies that would shame a tinker, Lord love her. Now, boyo, my master has need of at least three suits of clothes, excluding his evening dress, and all of the other bits and pieces that go with them. I’ll have the shops send the bills round to you, but I shall be needin’ a bit of the ready to tide me over, don’t you know.”

  Valerian looked down at the pudgy Irishman and the hand the man was holding out to him and saw the gleam in the man’s eyes. “We’ll do this shopping together. Much as you might think my brains have been addled by all that has gone on here, Max, I’m not so confused as to give you carte blanche with my money.

  “But first,” he said, picking up his cloak and motioning for the still grinning Bernardo to follow him, “I think we might stop downstairs and split a few bottles. Perhaps I am just getting old, but I am suddenly very much in need of a drink.”

  “A cup of the creature wouldn’t do any of us harm, I’m thinkin’,” Max agreed readily, turning to Bernardo. “Vino, you paper-skulled Adonis?”

  Bernardo nodded emphatically, tossing his tattered cloak and small worn satchel into Max’s arms just as if he had lived his entire life surrounded by servants. He lifted his head imperiously and brushed past Valerian, to be the first through the doorway. “Vino, sì! Vino for Bernardo—Conte Timoteo!”

  Valerian laughed out loud. “Taking his heart-break rather well, isn’t he, Max?” he suggested, following the shoemaker.

  Bringing up the rear, loaded down with Bernardo’s belongings, Maximilien Murphy launched himself into a string of Irish curses that could have blasted a hole in an iron pot.

  “ODDS FISH! Say that again, boy! I don’t believe I’m hearing this!”

  Baron Dugdale’s incredulous roar could be heard throughout the house, and everyone within earshot raced to discover what had happened, each harboring her own fears—and even hopes—as to precisely what had launched the Baron into the boughs.

  Isobel had been sitting alone in the drawing room, still carefully composing the impassioned plea she would employ to convince her uncle that Allegra should perform for money, while still letting him know that the inspiration behind this glorious idea came from something her mother had said—just in case Uncle Denny should cut up stiff at the idea.

  Her arguments, already three days in the making, were starting to sound feasible even to her, so that Isobel was beginning to harbor serious doubts that a charity performance by Allegra would have the expected result—that of forever disgracing her cousin in Valerian’s eyes.

  But what other choice did she have open to her? Allegra had already told her that she would never accept a proposal from Gideon—who was even now closeted with her uncle—because she expected to receive an offer from Valerian. And Isobel would die, simply die, if that were ever to happen.

  But if Isobel were to approach her uncle with the idea of a charity performance, and if that stupid Prince Regent should give it his blessing, the whole thing could end with Valerian being even more in charity with Allegra than he was at this moment. In which case—and this was the point that bothered Isobel most of all—why should her mother get the credit for thinking of such a wonderful idea in the first place while she, Isobel, the true genius, received no recognition at all?

  The Baron’s bellow had interrupted these tortured thoughts and Isobel had run into the hallway, only to cannon into her mother, who had just dashed from the morning room, twin dots of color giving life to her o
therwise sallow face.

  “Look out, you little idiot!” Agnes screeched, hastily pushing her daughter to one side, so that Isobel was forced to pick up her skirts and run behind her mother, each of them fighting to be in the lead.

  Agnes, who had been mentally redecorating the morning room with some of the plum that would come to her the day Gideon and Allegra were wed, and who knew that her beloved son was with her brother at that moment, immediately thought the worst—which, she supposed, grinning, might just as easily turn out to be the best!

  Obviously, Agnes told herself as she and Isobel (now side by side, as youth and speed had little difficulty overcoming age and greed) ran toward the study door, Denny had exploded in wrath at the mere idea of Gideon marrying his granddaughter. That was most probably to be expected, she knew, although still depressingly ignorant of the man. Why couldn’t her brother bring himself to see the obvious—that her son was the most wonderful, lovable creature on earth, and his precious Allegra should thank her lucky stars that he should deign to toss his cap her way.

  But if the worst were to happen and the Baron denied the suit, the strain of screaming at her son caused by her brother’s inevitable anger might prove to be too much for the man’s heart. Why, even now her dearest Denny could be prostrate on the floor, breathing his last. A plum was lovely, but to gain the entire inheritance in one blow was even lovelier!

  Unless, of course, as Gideon had supposed, the dratted man had summoned his solicitor again and already changed his will! That chilling thought lent wings to Agnes’s steps, and it was only with some difficulty that Allegra, who had been descending the staircase at the moment her grandfather had called out—Betty having told her that Gideon was meeting with the man, and eager to listen at the door while her nonno tore a verbal strip off the younger man’s hide—was able to be the one to throw open the door to the study.

  The trio of women took two steps inside and skidded to a halt to survey the damage.

  The Baron was not either clutching his chest in pain or collapsed in his chair, which greatly depressed Agnes’s hopes for recovering the morning room chairs in the lovely gold brocade material she had seen in that little shop on Dean Street.

  Gideon, it would seem, however, hadn’t fared nearly so well as his still upright uncle, for he was on his knees in front of the fireplace, his forearms pressed protectively against the top of his head.

  Isobel, who had come to a halt just behind Allegra, twisted up her mouth in disgust, not as disappointed by her brother’s failure to gain permission to woo Allegra as she was by her own momentary hope that the simpleton might have somehow pulled it off and Allegra, who seemed to place so much faith in her grandfather’s judgment, would then agree to go along with the engagement.

  Lastly, there was Allegra, the architect of the scene that was even now playing itself out in the Dugdale study. She, if anyone were to apply to her at the moment for her thoughts, would have announced herself greatly pleased with the sight of Gideon groveling on the hearth.

  Even if she hadn’t already wished her arrogant cousin at the opposite end of the earth, his actions of the past three days—days that had dragged along interminably, as neither Valerian nor Bernardo had yet to present themselves at Number 23—had proved to her that no punishment that befell Gideon could be too terrible.

  For Gideon had been making her life a misery ever since discovering her at the inn with Bernardo, plaguing her with questions about “her cousin the Conte” for which she had no answers. How rich would the Conte be when his sick uncle died? And if the Conte were to die—perish at sea or some such thing on his way back to Italy—would his money then go to her, Gideon’s wife? And then there was this palace of the Conte’s to consider. Were there many servants? How many bedrooms did it have? It was the outside of enough! Gideon, she was sure, was so greedy he must have heard the coins jingling in his mother’s pockets before he was born!

  The Baron belatedly became aware of his feminine audience, bowed, and pointed to his kneeling nephew with the tip of his cane. “Come to see the show, have you, eh? It seems everybody but me was privy to what this ignorant puppy was about, yipping around my heels with his blasted proposals. Here, now, boy,” he said, prodding at Gideon’s shoulder with the cane, “let’s hear that last part again, so that everyone can see how low you can sink.”

  Gideon turned his head to see his mother, sister, and cousin standing just behind him. He looked up at his uncle, his eyes silently pleading with the man not to put him through this torture. He had tried and failed. He had lost a fortune, and most probably his mother’s good graces. Wasn’t that enough? Did he have to be made a figure of fun in front of his sister, who looked to be enjoying every second of his disgrace?

  Taking refuge in the tried-and-true, Gideon put a hand to his mouth and coughed.

  “Oh, never mind!” the Baron growled in disgust, lifting the cane so that Gideon could rise. “Tell a lie once and it lives forever, I say. There’s no need to hear all that drivel again. You, Aggie—you’re the one who’s behind this anyway, unless I miss my guess. He don’t have the wit to think up such nonsense by himself. Did you really think I’d believe this worthless scamp could ever stop his gaming and be a good husband to my granddaughter here? I’d as soon believe Prinny will send word to Calais tomorrow to fetch Brummell back for another go at being his bosom beau! Now get out of here—the lot of you. Except you, Allegra. I want to talk to you.”

  “Perhaps you’d best consider a repairing lease at Papa’s cousin Bertrand’s in Wolverhampton, Gideon, until your creditors forget you,” Isobel suggested happily as her brother brushed past her, coughing into his hand. Agnes quickly followed him out of the room, mumbling something about having Betty fetch the lad’s restorative tonic.

  “You’re a cruel, unnatural child, Isobel,” her mother took the time to declare feeling, which only served to make Isobel laugh out loud as she closed the door.

  Once everyone was gone Allegra turned to her grandfather, smiling. “Does your toe pain you, Nonno?” she asked, waiting until he sat down before settling herself on the footstool at his feet.

  “My toe?” the Baron questioned blankly, looking down at his bandaged foot. “Why, bless me, I do believe it’s healed. And to think I didn’t even notice, being so busy yelling at that idiot. Imagine him thinking I’d give you over into his keeping! Daft fool! That boy isn’t fit to mind mice at a crossroad. Haven’t enjoyed anything half so much as seeing him on his knees, though, telling me how he loved you and how he would never go gaming again.” He peered intently at his granddaughter. “How did you know the gout was gone?”

  Allegra shrugged, smiling in real pleasure. “The cherries helped, I suppose, but I also remembered something my father once told me, Nonno. He said that a happy man, a laughing man, has no room inside him for pain. You see, the proposal was not all Zia Agnes’s idea, for I allowed Gideon to hope I would agree to a match between us if he came first to you.”

  “Eh? And why would you do a thing like that, child? You couldn’t want him.”

  “Never! I only thought having Gideon ask for my hand might amuse you—although I must not lie. I am also a little naughty, Nonno, and wished for you to bellow at Gideon, for I do not much care for him, even if he is your nephew. I did tell you that I am not always nice. You are pleased?”

  The Baron, who was not so old that he could not recognize the fine hand of a woman’s revenge, threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Odds fish, but that’s good! I always thought you I-talians were downy ones. Tell me, child, do you have any plans for that scheming Aggie—or that die-away daughter of hers? You never know when the gout might be back, eh?”

  Allegra, who had begun to feel some small remorse for her meanness now that the deed was done, was saved from answering as the butler entered the room, cleared his throat audibly, and announced: “The Conte Timoteo and Mister Fitzhugh to see you, my lord.”

  THE FOLLOWING TWO HOURS remained mostly a blur in Allegra’s
memory.

  Valerian had handled the introductions brilliantly, beginning with his greeting, which had included the words “Look, dear Allegra, at the surprise I have brought you.” Taking her cue from him, she had pretended to be astonished by Bernardo’s arrival in Brighton, although her astonishment at Bernardo’s appearance as he stood in her grandfather’s study was not feigned, for Valerian had surely wrought a miracle.

  The shoemaker, always handsome, had been transformed into a heavenly vision whose brilliance almost hurt her eyes. His unruly blond locks had been tamed and styled so that they surrounded his face like a gilt picture frame, with a few of the golden ringlets dropping carelessly onto his smooth forehead.

  Bernardo’s fine body—long, powerful legs and muscular upper torso—had been poured into a modish suit of clothes that, if it were possible for mere fabric to speak, would doubtless thank all the angels and the saints for the opportunity to serve such a glorious purpose.

  Perhaps his memory of polite behavior had been prodded by recollecting his years spent as a “companion” to a lonely English lady in Italy, or perhaps it was just that all Italians seem to have a flair for performing—but Bernardo himself had been wonderful.

  Saying little, and employing much of his mother tongue, the shoemaker had dazzled the Baron and the Kittredges as well—except, perhaps, for Gideon, who had crept back into the room to stand at a distance and eye Bernardo’s expensive tailoring with open envy.