The lad would not tell me where he was taking me no matter how often I asked. I decided to save my breath, and also my strength, in case I needed it to fend off yet another attack.
We wound through the narrow streets of the village and out into open country. The moon had appeared tonight, glittering hard on the bay, its cold light contrasting to the warm glow of the boy’s small lantern.
I had to walk quickly to keep up with the lad, who occasionally slowed to wait impatiently for me.
“This way,” he’d urge.
He led me up a hill into which steps had been cut. At the top was a grove of trees, and among these trees a gate, which the boy easily wrenched open.
I had no idea where I was, though I could see lights far to the north of me, which I assumed was Napoli or other towns along the bay. The gate led to a gloomy path that I was reluctant to walk.
Again, the boy caught my sleeve and pulled me onward.
The lane was paved with brick and meandered through the trees, which cut out the moonlight. If the lad hadn’t kept his hold on me, I’d have lost my way or tripped in the darkness, despite the tiny glow of his lantern.
We emerged from the grove, moonlight illuminating all once more, and I halted in surprise.
I stood before a villa. Its tall, pale walls were punctuated with windows at irregular intervals, shutters covering any light that might leech from behind them. Urns bore plants that twined their way around the doorway and up to a balcony on the next floor.
The lad seized an iron knocker and banged on the door, paint chips flying to land in the gravel at our feet.
The door was yanked open by a tall retainer, the glow of candlelight spilling out around him. The lad indicated me with both hands then held out one palm imperiously. He jiggled impatiently from foot to foot until the retainer had dropped a coin to him. The boy instantly closed his fingers over it, spun away, and disappeared back under the trees, leaving me to my fate.
The man who’d opened the door spoke to me in Italian mixed with a local dialect and gestured me to follow.
As I did not know my way back to the inn and would be hard-pressed to find it in the dark, I had little choice but to go inside. The retainer slammed the door behind me, sliding home the bolt.
The thick doorway directed me to, not a foyer, but a garden. Even in winter, much grew in this enclosure that kept out the winds, and the scent of greenery and blossoms engulfed me. A fountain pattered in the middle, moonlight rendering the water droplets diamonds in the air.
The retainer guided me at a slow pace around the outer perimeter of this garden and opened another door. A flight of stairs awaited, and I bent my protesting knee to follow the man upward.
The stairs ended at a gallery much like the one in Grenville’s house in Napoli. The retainer took me partway along this and opened a door. Beyond that was warmth, a sitting room, carpet, and soft furnishings.
The chamber also held Grenville.
He sprang up from a chair when I entered. “My dear chap. I tried to return, and they would not let me.”
Grenville’s face bore faint bruises, but it had been washed, and his hair, which had been mussed by the wind and dust when I’d last seen him, was combed and neat. His suit bore rents from today’s ordeal, but it too had been brushed, as had his gleaming boots. From the look of him, the most exertion he’d done today might have been a stroll in the garden below.
I could only stare, my heart pounding in relief. Then irritation took its place.
“I see I worried for nothing.” I pretended to joke, but I heard the annoyance in my voice. “Brewster has been tended and put to bed, thank you. I was about to return and search the ruins for you.”
“Not a good idea, Captain Lacey.” A hearty and very English voice assailed me. “Pompeii is treacherous after dark. Not only holes to fall into, but thieves to rob you.”
The man I faced was tall and broad of torso and had a thick shock of blond hair going to gray. A military man, I surmised, from his bearing and the voice that was used to roaring commands.
“Lacey, this is Colonel Reynold Stanbridge,” Grenville intervened. “He and his wife fished me out of a very bad place indeed. Stanbridge, Captain Gabriel Lacey.”
Stanbridge laughed, the noise resounding through the room. He was an officer in the style of Colonel Brandon, very hearty with his friends, every inch the commander.
“He means that quite literally, Captain,” Stanbridge boomed at me. “Now, come in, come in. Fetch the man some wine.” This last was directed at a lackey, who bowed and moved to a sideboard to pour out.
“Do shut the door, Colonel,” a woman’s voice came from across the chamber. “I can’t see the captain from here. You gentlemen are blocking my view.”
Stanbridge laughed again and obliged. “Always keen to meet new neighbors, is my wife. Especially if they are fellow countrymen. And army men at that.”
Once my eyes adjusted to the candlelight, I found myself in a comfortable sitting room, with carpet on the tiled floor and a fire crackling on a hearth. The furniture was of heavy carved wood, but plenty of cushions and rugs softened every surface.
The lady who rose from a chair near the fire was plump and middle aged, her gray hair covered by a lacy cap. She wore a fashionably cut gown of a dark color I couldn’t make out in this light—brown or maroon possibly—enhanced with an embroidered jacket. Her face was round and pleasant, and she smiled amiably at me.
If Stanbridge was similar to Colonel Brandon, his wife was nothing like Louisa. Louisa Brandon was steely but delicate, while this lady exuded robustness.
“How do you do, Captain?” Mrs. Stanbridge extended a hand, and I bowed over it. “Mr. Grenville had fallen into a hole near one of the bathhouses. Possibly it was a well, or maybe another bath. The colonel found some rope, hooked him, and reeled him in.” She chortled.
“They very kindly brought me home and leant me a valet who helped me refresh myself.” Grenville’s tone was light, but I saw exasperation in his eyes. “Then they kept me prisoner, declaring I must take supper with them. Only great pleading allowed me to send word to you.”
“Isn’t he a one?” Mrs. Stanbridge crowed in delight. “As though tramping through the dark to a rough inn is preferable to a meal by our chef. He’s a wonderful cook, Captain Lacey, as you will see.”
“What about Baldini?” I asked Grenville. “The poor man is tramping all over Pompeii, searching for you.”
“No longer,” the colonel broke in. “I sent a chap to intercept the scholar and send him home. Baldini should know better—Pompeii is treacherous after dark.”
“You know Signor Baldini?” I asked.
“Everyone who is interested in Pompeii knows the man. He’s a foremost expert on the place, that and Herculaneum. The ruins in Rome too. He’s loaned me some literature to help me understand them. A pleasant young man.”
“I hear you gained the favor of his patron, Conte Trevisan.” Mrs. Stanbridge gave my arm a coquettish tap. “Lucky Captain Lacey. He is quite wealthy and well connected. Anyone in his favor will do very nicely, thank you.”
I could think of no reply, so I nodded politely. More who thought Trevisan a great man. It was curious. I wondered if Trevisan was as good a confidence trickster as Mr. Broadhurst had been.
There was nothing for it but that Grenville and I sat down to supper with Colonel and Mrs. Stanbridge.
The meal was quite good, the colonel’s wife not exaggerating about their cook’s talents. The chef sent up several meats, including sausage-stuffed veal, along with a flatbread coated with a sauce made from crushed tomatoes and a mild cheese melted over the top. I quite liked the flatbread, which I had seen vendors selling on the road from Napoli.
The conversation turned to our thoughts on Rome and the rest of the peninsula.
“There are those who like to say that things are back to the way they were,” the colonel remarked philosophically. “A foreign king again rules Napoli, the Austrians are administering in the north, and the pope has regained his Papal States. But it is different. The average man got a taste of life in a republic when Bonaparte was here. Mark my words, they won’t forget.”
“Any reforms from the past twenty years have utterly vanished,” Mrs. Stanbridge said. “I did not approve of Bonaparte marching all over the world to have his own way, but he did try to improve the lot of the ordinary man.”
“I believe he simply didn’t like anyone ruling but him,” the colonel said. “Better to kick out the old kings and popes and put his own people in place—he could control them, couldn’t he? The reforms were by the way.”
“I suppose that’s true, Colonel,” his wife said cheerfully. “I couldn’t help feeling sorry for poor Murat, though. A sad end to a brave man.”
“Well, he did betray Bonaparte after Leipzig,” Grenville pointed out. “Marshal Murat more wanted to be King of Napoli than anything else, in the end.”
“An excellent cavalryman, though,” I said. “I have experience of him,” I finished feelingly.
“Most excellent,” the colonel agreed. “Good thing for us on the Peninsula that he went to Russia, eh? One of the few who did return. Poor buggers.”
We discussed that ill-fated campaign for a time. While Grenville was the only one at the table who hadn’t been in the king’s army—Mrs. Stanbridge had followed her husband throughout his career—he knew much regarding what had happened in 1812, which had eventually led to Napoleon’s downfall, which in turn had brought about Murat’s.
“And Napoli has a Bourbon king again,” Mrs. Stanbridge said. “Though they share him with Sicily. Napoli and Sicily are known as ‘the Two Sicilys,’ and I do not believe the Neapolitans are happy with that.”
“What made you come here?” Grenville asked her in curiosity. “It is lovely, of course.”
Mrs. Stanbridge snorted a laugh. “England’s climate—what did you think? Winter on the bay can bring cold winds and rain, but not for long. Most of the time the sun shines, and the bay is so blue. We grew used to warm weather on the campaigns, didn’t we, Colonel? We debated returning to Spain but decided upon Napoli and its environs after a visit.”
“Not Rome?” Grenville went on. “So many Englishmen find themselves there.”
Mrs. Stanbridge waved this away. “I don’t like to stay overly long in Rome. Too many Catholics.”
Colonel Stanbridge brayed with laughter. “The pope does make his home there, my dear.”
“You can smell the incense whenever you walk down the street,” Mrs. Stanbridge said wearily. “We had business there a few days ago, and I nearly ran to reach the bay again. At least here the sea breezes carry all that incense away.”
Finished disparaging an entire faith, Mrs. Stanbridge cheerfully called for the footman to take away plates and bring the pudding. This was a concoction of sponge cake soaked in some kind of liqueur with sweet cream between the layers.
At supper’s end, the colonel and his wife declared it was far too late for us to walk back in the dark to our inn, and that we must spend the night. They had plenty of room, they insisted, and we’d each have a comfortable chamber.
We could not refuse. Prisoners indeed.
When Grenville and I retired, I learned another reason that the Stanbridges had made the Bay of Napoli their new home. Colonel Stanbridge had lost quite a bit of money in an investment that went sour, one headed by a Mr. Norris Broadhurst.
“Broadhurst swindled them?” I held a whispered conference with Grenville in his chamber. The rooms were indeed well-appointed and comfortable, and I could not be put out that we had been persuaded to stay.
“They had mentioned their loss before you arrived.” Grenville pulled off his boots with the aid of a boot jack, then stood them upright. “Though not the particulars. Whatever bonuses the colonel received when he came home from campaigning, he invested in Broadhurst’s schemes. When the bailiffs came for Stanbridges’ things, they decided that it was time to retire to a southern clime. Stanbridge did not say it, but I imagine debtor’s prison was a step away.”
“They’d be pleased if Broadhurst suffered, then,” I surmised.
We spoke softly, aware that any servant might overhear us and repeat the conversation to their masters.
“Possibly.” Grenville unbuttoned his coat and slid it from his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a stand provided by the colonel’s valet for the purpose. “The man swindled so many that I’m surprised an entire army wasn’t after him. No mystery why he decided to play dead. Still, I suppose we should not let anyone actually murder the fellow.”
I nodded. “If only to spare a would-be killer the noose. Trial for murder would only make things worse for a family that has already lost much because of Broadhurst.”
“The desire for vengeance often overrides sense,” Grenville said. “More to the point, are our hosts in league with the man attacking you? Or is he entirely separate from this business?”
“I suggest we lock our doors, in case,” I said bleakly. “And leave at first light.”
“Agreed.” Grenville gave me a nod, and I said my good nights, retreating to my own chamber.
As wary as I was, I dropped to sleep quickly and slept hard. The tour of the ruins plus hunting for Grenville, coupled with the relief that he was well, unwound my limbs and made slumber impossible to resist. I had asked the Stanbridges before we finished supper to send word of our whereabouts to Brewster at the inn, though I doubted he’d wake before morning.
I’d taken the precaution of locking my door and window and added the barrier of a writing table in front of the door. It was a small table, but if nothing else, the clatter of it falling over would wake me if anyone tried to force their way in. As it was, the table remained undisturbed in the morning. None had tried to intrude on either Grenville or me in the night.
The Stanbridges took breakfast with us—meat, bread, and cheeses of all kinds on offer—oblivious to the fact that they’d alarmed Grenville with the mention of Broadhurst the evening before.
“You mustn’t rush away,” Mrs. Stanbridge told me as we ate. “Signor Baldini will not have time for you today, I think—I hear he has had to head off on some errand for Conte Trevisan. You must visit with us, and we can arrange a guide if you insist on returning to the ruins. Or remain here and enjoy the views with us.”
“Indeed,” her husband chimed in. “This house was built to resemble the Roman villas of old. We even have an ambulatory—a columned walkway overlooking the sea. Do say you’ll stay.”
I shook my head, trying to show regret. “My man was hurt, and I must make certain he is well.”
“We can bring him here,” Mrs. Stanbridge said at once.
I imagined Brewster’s reaction to an enforced stay in a villa that might contain people who wanted to kill us.
“We are on a timetable,” Grenville said, also making a show of reluctance. “We begin the return journey to Rome tomorrow, stopping at Napoli along the way, then back to our ladies. They will be adamant that we do not linger.”
“What a pity.” Mrs. Stanbridge brought her hands together. “Such a treat for us to meet fellow Englishmen, especially those who were on the Peninsula with us.”
“Not the same regiment, of course, but that can’t be helped.” Stanbridge chuckled. “Now that you know where we are, you must return, Lacey, so we can reminisce until Mrs. Stanbridge and Mr. Grenville are at their wits’ end. Come back to the bay and bring your ladies with you.”
I had fully planned a second journey with Donata and family, but I only nodded noncommittally. The Stanbridges were very likely exactly what they seemed—a retired army couple lonely for company but making the best of their exile. Once I determined who was threatening Broadhurst, I could be more amenable to a visit.
After more protestations as well as thanks for their hospitality, Grenville and I at last took our leave.
We elected to walk back to our inn, as it was not far and neither of us wanted to wait for Stanbridge to order a coach or horses for us. It was a pleasant morning, the rain and wind gone, blue sky welcoming.
“They are either very friendly, salt-of-the-earth people, or very clever villains,” Grenville said. “I’d never suspect them of sending our attacker after you, but for the fact that the man knew exactly where to find us, and the Stanbridges were swindled by Broadhurst.”
“The man chasing us might have nothing to do with Broadhurst,” I said. “I have also offended Conte Trevisan, who many seem to think is a nonpareil. Perhaps our follower is bent on teaching me manners.”
“Farfetched.” Grenville adjusted his hat against the sun and scanned the fields on either side of this stretch of road. They were empty, fortunately, except for a trio of farmers digging on the far side. “This fellow is English, in any case. Why should he care about a Milanese conte?”
“There is another motive to consider—I have a commission to fulfill for Denis. Perhaps this man does not want me to get my hands on the forged statue. Is he the forger? And fears that Denis will discover his ruse?”
“Again, farfetched. We only have Conte de Luca’s word that it is a fake. Perhaps de Luca simply does not wish to sell it to Denis.”
I made a gesture of defeat. “I can think of no other reason this gentleman should throw knives at me or wrestle you into a hole in Pompeii.”
“The hole was my own fault.” Grenville reddened. “I had nearly caught up to the man when he turned to fight me. We exchanged a few blows, then I slipped and fell. He could have finished me off—I thought he would for a moment—but he fled. No matter how much I cried out, no one heard. I honestly thought I’d be another body found in Pompeii by excavators.” He shivered.
“There are enough people crawling over the ruins that you’d have been discovered eventually.” I tried to sound reassuring. “By us, certainly, if the Stanbridges hadn’t pulled you out. Baldini was conducting a thorough search.”
“Thank you, Lacey.” Grenville adjusted his hat again. “Kind of you to indulge me in my fears.”
“Pleased to assist you, my friend,” I said, keeping my tone light. Grenville sent me a tight smile, and we spoke of it no more.
We continued our walk, keeping sharp eyes out, and reached the inn without incident.
Brewster was up and in the common room, his left arm in a linen sling the surgeon had fashioned for him.
“Dining in the lap of luxury while I were laid low, were ye?” Brewster shoveled a large helping of chopped mutton and a round of thick bread into his mouth, an indication that his sprain hadn’t hindered his appetite.
“We hadn’t much choice,” I told him. “Safer to stay, wasn’t it?”
“That’s as may be.” Brewster mopped up the mutton’s juices with the last of his bread. “And they might have cut your throats in the night.”
“We thought of that.” I told Brewster what we’d learned of why the Stanbridges had moved to their villa, and he huffed, wiping his mouth on his hand.
“Lucky you walked out whole, weren’t it? An English bloke keeps trying to bash at you, and nice helpful people who’ve been swindled by the very man you’ve vowed to save offer you a bed for the night? You have an angel looking after you, guv.”
“Perhaps, when you are not available.” I allowed myself amusement at his exasperation. “Never mind. We are returning to Rome, as planned.”
Adhering to our schedule mollified Brewster somewhat, and he readied himself to depart.
I wrote to Baldini thanking him for his assistance and reassuring him that Grenville was well, to be delivered to him whenever he returned from Trevisan’s errand. I wondered what Trevisan was having him do, but I made no mention of my curiosity in the letter. I left the note with the landlord as we set off on horseback once more.
We kept the pace slow to accommodate Brewster, and later that afternoon we reached Napoli and Grenville’s comfortable, rented house.
While I had enjoyed our scramble over Pompeii and Herculaneum, I was happy to dine in the dim coolness of the Neapolitan abode. Gautier entered the dining room as Grenville and I lingered over wine, the entire meal served competently by Matthias, who encouraged the tale of our adventures.
“A letter for you, sir.” Gautier addressed me, not Grenville.
“Oh?” My brows went up. My first thought was that something had happened to any and all members of my family, but Gautier’s expression was wooden, disapproving. Even the stiff Gautier had sympathy in him when he conveyed unwelcome news.
“From Rome, sir. From Lord Matthew Roberts. It arrived the morning after you left for the ruins.”
Lord Matthew, Grenville’s ex-patriate friend. More puzzling. “He wrote to me?”
“Yes, sir.” Gautier seemed relieved I’d finally grasped the situation. He handed me a thick sheet of paper, folded and sealed.
Mystified, I broke the seal and opened the note. As I read the words, written in a slanting hand, my jaw went slack.
“What is it?” Grenville asked in alarm.
“The conte is dead.” I said the words stiffly, my lips barely able to move.
“Trevisan?” Grenville stared in as much shock. “Good Lord.”
“No.” I shoved the letter at him. “Not Trevisan. Conte de Luca. He’s been murdered.”