Both Grenville and I blinked at him. De Luca continued to laugh at us, as though enjoying our dumbfounded expressions. Gian was less amused, but he also clearly believed us—and our buyer—simpletons.
I immediately thought that de Luca and Gian must be mistaken. Denis would not want an artwork that had been faked, unless he was interested in it for the artistry of the forger. He relished finding the most skilled of the criminal classes. But most likely, Gian and the conte did not know what they had.
“Did you realize the statue was a forgery when you acquired it?” I asked. “Or did someone tell you it was fake later?”
De Luca stopped laughing at last. “It belonged to my father. He told me it was not real. Chuckled when he said it. A family joke.”
Then the forger was likely dead and gone. Yet, Denis was never wrong about artwork. He had more skill in distinguishing the valuable from the dross than even Grenville. Perhaps Denis knew the piece was authentic and also knew de Luca believed it a forgery. Such conviction on de Luca’s part might bring down the price.
“Nonetheless.” I shot de Luca a faint smile. “My friend would like to have the statue. A whim, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” De Luca scanned the room again as though trying to remember what was where. “Well, if we can turn it up, I’ll sell him the thing. As long as you tell him without hesitation that it’s false. I wouldn’t want him taking me to court for cheating him.”
“I will tell him.” Denis researched his purchases well, but de Luca’s conviction was true. I had to wonder.
“Take your journey to Napoli, and Gian and I will toss through my things until we find it,” de Luca said jovially. “Now, we should have some wine. Real wine, not the weak stuff served in an Englishman’s home. Surrounded by vineyards, and they bring out inferior vintages and ruin it with water and sugar.” He shook his head, aggrieved. “Gian, bring the cups.”
We spent a pleasant evening in that room, surrounded by astonishing things, while the friendly Gian kept our glasses topped with thick red wine. I asked Gian to serve some to Brewster, waiting downstairs, and Gian snorted. He said something to de Luca, who told us with merriment that Brewster had already refused the wine, regarding it with distaste, and asking if there was any ale.
De Luca was a born raconteur. Grenville would touch an object, and de Luca would bound out with a tale of where it had come from, or what its original purpose had been. Many things he had from Ancient Rome were bawdy—lamps in the shape of a phallus; a small hermaphrodite lying nude on a sofa; a brazier stand in the form of three fauns with arms lifted, their penises prominently erect. De Luca found the things delightful, pleased that the Ancients were fond of bodily pleasures.
“I’m too old for all that now,” de Luca said. “But in my youth, gentlemen, I was quite the one for the ladies.” He conveyed a faraway wistfulness.
“You have been fortunate,” Grenville said, his speech slightly slurred by the wine. “When Bonaparte charged through the peninsula, absconding with art right and left, it is a miracle all this escaped. Is that why you’ve hidden much of your collection up here in the attic?”
De Luca’s brows rose, and he was off in merriment again. “It’s here because it won’t fit into the rest of the house. Again, we must blame my grandfather and then my father, and then me for steadily adding to it. But Emperor Bonaparte, he’d heard of my collection, and he came calling.”
“Good heavens,” I said in surprise. “How did you fend him off?” Bonaparte, like Denis, had not liked the answer No.
“I did not.” De Luca took a noisy sip of wine. “I promised him the entire lot. I did ask that my things reside here until he had conquered the rest of the Continent and was happily ensconced in his palace in Paris. Then he could send agents around to collect it all. I even signed a document stating so.”
“He agreed to that?” I asked in amazement.
De Luca’s eyes twinkled. “I think, Captain, that he was put off by the chore of sorting through it. His chosen lackeys could do that later.” De Luca spread his hands. “And then …”
“He was defeated,” I finished. “Rendering your document null and void.”
“I made certain the promise applied only if he remained in power. Ah well. As your poet says, The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft aglee.” He delivered the line by Mr. Burns in fine Scots.
Conte de Luca had certainly proved to be an interesting man. I’d been reluctant to run Denis’s errand, but I softened to the task because it let me meet de Luca, who I could count as a very intriguing acquaintance.
We finally made our excuses to de Luca—Grenville had other obligations that night as well as our early start—and we dragged ourselves away, the sky now dark. De Luca made us promise to visit the moment we returned from Napoli, and we agreed with enthusiasm. He again stated he and Gian would comb the rooms for the Cupid statue, and we departed.
We returned to Grenville’s abode and dressed for the evening, then I followed Grenville to a soiree hosted by another Englishman. The ladies there were likewise disappointed my wife was not in attendance, and also made do with asking me questions about her.
Those I met this evening were similar to Lord Matthew Roberts and his circle—ladies and gentlemen related to aristocrats, or retired army and naval officers who had found nothing to do with themselves now that the long war was finished.
Mentions of Broadhurst were met with shrugs and indifference, except one brother of a baron asking, “Wasn’t he the chap who vanished with everyone’s money? No, that was his partner. This chap died, didn’t he? Hard luck. Well, if he was a swindler, he got his comeuppance.”
That was the extent of knowledge about Broadhurst. If the letter-writer was among these people he kept himself very quiet.
We departed after Grenville had decided we’d stayed the requisite amount of time. Brewster met us outside, he emitting a small belch.
“They have a chef here,” he said. “Fellow from Sicily. He decided I should taste all the dishes he’s cooking tonight. Apparently, those upstairs have no idea what’s good and what’s not. He’s not happy, but the pay is too much to chuck.” Brewster wiped his mouth with the backs of his fingers. “He’s a dab hand, I must say. When one of the lackeys told him I worked for Mr. Grenville, he came over all eager and shoved food into me.”
Brewster did not, in fact, work for Grenville, but neither of us admonished him for not correcting the chef. Likely the man hoped Brewster would convey his skill to Grenville, who might be looking for another cook someday.
“He spoke English?” Most of the servants I’d encountered so far had little English, and many spoke the dialect of their region, rarely using even the Italian that I recognized.
“Not as such. But we managed to get our meaning across. Mostly it was me eating. Even the ale he found me weren’t bad.”
High praise from Brewster. “You can stay if you like.” I gestured to the door that led to the servants’ area. “We’ll call for you in the morning.”
Brewster sent me a dark look. “Very amusing. Happen I also found out where that fellow, Proietti, has his lodgings. One of the maids in this house is acquainted with one of the maids in his. In case you wanted to visit him and explain how we were nearly arrested for storming into the house of that ice-cold bloke.”
“He might have been threatened as well,” I said, though the police captain had made no mention of Proietti. “I ought to see whether he is all right.”
“Perhaps Trevisan blamed you so the father of his beloved wouldn’t be dragged to prison,” Grenville suggested.
“Saw that on the stage.” Brewster’s sniff was derogatory. “It’s like we’ve landed in one of them operas.”
“Rome is where they all began,” Grenville tried to joke. “Though I doubt Conte Trevisan would do anything so dramatic. From what you said of him, he seemed a cold fish.”
“We shall ask Proietti,” I decided. “We will not have another chance to visit him until we return from Napoli, and I feel I should make certain he is well.”
Grenville agreed, and we followed Brewster, who had not agreed but not argued, into the streets.
That Brewster had pried out the information of exactly where Proietti lived and knew how to reach the house did not surprise me. He’d had plenty of time to speak to locals today while Grenville and I took our time visiting expatriates. I remembered him gesticulating with the shoe boy in the square—no doubt he’d recruited helpers in this city already who’d told him exactly what was where.
We tramped down the hill and followed the river south toward the Piazza Navona, passing the mausoleum of Augustus along the way. Any other time, I’d want to linger at the crumbling building and have a look at it, but Brewster hurried us on. Darkness coated the city, and predators roved the night.
Where the river bent to the west, Brewster took us into a warren of streets, pitch dark and packed with houses. A taverna would open abruptly from a corner, the room inside filled with a glow of warmth and voices.
“Here we are, guv.” Brewster stopped before a black-painted door that looked no different from the others in the lane through which he’d led us.
There was nothing to say who lived in this dark house, but cracks of light shone from an upstairs window behind the shutters of chipped green paint. Brewster, without compunction, pounded on the door.
After a moment, a bolt scraped back, and flickering candlelight revealed the suspicious countenance of a thin man, not Proietti. He stared at us without recognition and barked a question.
Grenville tipped his hat and spoke in Italian. As the name Captain Lacey slid from his tongue, the man became suddenly deferential.
“Ah, si, si, si. Il capitano inglese. Mi segua, por favor.” The manservant gestured us in, his candle waving wildly, and slammed the solid portal once we were inside.
The floor beneath our feet was hard stone, but the staircase that rose at the end of the entrance had polished wooden steps. The servant led us upward without waiting, and we had to hurry to keep within the glow of the candle.
The staircase was steep, and I ascended into darkness a few paces behind Grenville, Brewster’s tread heavy behind me. For once, Brewster did not immediately find the servants’ hall, he not trusting there would be no danger above.
The upper floor was as gloomy as below. The manservant’s candlelight fell on chairs here and there and the occasional table with curved legs, all positioned on red-and-white checkered tile. The servant halted at a double door in the middle of this passageway, pushed it open, and waved us in with enthusiasm.
I stepped into a surprisingly pleasant room, which was well furnished and bright. Proietti rose with a start from a table near a large porcelain stove, its warmth penetrating the chill of the evening. The table held a jug of wine, a glass, and a half-empty plate of food.
The rest of the chamber was cozy, inviting. A sofa strewn with cushions with a long shawl draped over one arm spoke of a place where a lady could comfortably curl up and read. Books filled another shelf, and carpets warmed the tile floor. Paintings graced the walls, nothing brilliant, but colorful pictures of soft landscapes that one could enjoy gazing at.
“I beg your pardon, Proietti,” I said quickly. “We did not mean to disturb you at your repast.”
Proietti came toward me, hand outstretched. “No, my dear Captain, it is of no matter. But you must stay, partake.” He waved at the man who’d admitted us and spoke rapidly in Italian.
“We should not presume.” Grenville said, ever polite.
The servant instantly rushed away to obey Proietti, and Brewster, without a word, departed behind him.
“Of course, you should presume, sir.” Proietti favored us with a bow. “You honor my house, though I am sorry to show it to you so sparse. My wife has left me on my own, you see. She has gone to her sister, most upset.”
His daughter’s flight had unsettled the entire household.
“My sympathies,” I said. “I find your home most pleasant.” I spoke the truth. I preferred this chamber to the overly cool houses of Grenville’s friends and that of Trevisan, and even to the chaotic splendor of Conte de Luca’s grand villa.
“You are kind. Please.” Proietti gestured to comfortable chairs drawn up to the table. He seized glasses from a sideboard and sloshed blood-red wine from the jug into them.
Grenville and I exchanged a glance, and decided, without words, to join him. We seated ourselves at the table, which reposed near a green-shuttered window. This was where I’d seen the light from below.
Proietti returned to his chair, and we drank. The wine was glorious, a perfect vintage that tasted of air, earth, and a bite of spice. Grenville always stocked the best wines, and the one de Luca had served us had been fine, but this one, which Proietti kept casually in a jug, outdid them all.
Grenville, the connoisseur, raised his brows and studied the wine in approval. “Excellent, Signor. I thank you for sharing it with us.”
Proietti sent him a quick look, then was mollified to find genuine admiration in Grenville’s demeanor.
“Pardon my manners,” I broke in. “This is my friend and traveling companion Lucius Grenville. I am here on the Continent as his guest. Grenville, Colonel Alessandro Proietti.”
“Delighted to meet you.” Grenville shook his hand across the table, knowing how to bend etiquette to the moment.
Proietti, likewise, had a comfortable informality about him. Gentlemen on the Continent, I'd found on my travels, could be even more sticklers about protocol than Englishmen. Conte Trevisan, for example, would likely insist on references from a host of those he trusted before he’d let me through his doorway—had I not charged through it on my own. Even Conte de Luca had issued his casual invitation because he knew Grenville’s reputation and was well acquainted with Grenville’s friends in Rome.
I lifted my glass once more to savor the wine and reminded myself why we were here.
Grenville broached the subject before I could. “You will think me terribly rude, good sir, but the captain nearly came to grief from your adventure this morning. The constables—or whatever you call them in Rome—wanted to arrest Captain Lacey for having a go at your Conte Trevisan. Naturally, as he is my guest, I am concerned.”