James Denis was indeed standing in the center of the downstairs reception room when Grenville and I entered, his gaze directed out the long windows to the narrow street. He wore a dark suit topped by a traveling cape, much like the one de Luca had sported, his hat and gloves in his hands. Gautier had not taken them, indicating the valet expected the meeting to be short.
“Good morning,” Grenville said with his usual politeness, though I heard the strain in his voice. “An unexpected visit.”
His civil greeting silenced my more perfunctory one. What the devil are you doing here?
“My travels had taken me to Florence,” Denis said, as though I ought to have known he’d embarked on a Continental journey. “I heard of the death of Conte de Luca, which brought me here.” He fixed me with a steely gaze. “Do you know what happened?”
“Not yet,” I said tersely. “We only heard of it a few days ago ourselves. We were traveling to Napoli when he was killed.”
“Yes, to explore the ruins of Pompeii.” Denis’s voice held disapproval. I should have bent all my efforts to preventing de Luca’s death, apparently.
Denis was about a dozen years younger than I was, his face smooth, his hair dark. His deep blue eyes held a soul far older than they ought.
I’d learned some of his history and understood that Denis had been forced to fight to survive from a very young age. He now controlled most of the underworld of London, and I was surprised he’d come to the Italian peninsula himself. He did not like to leave his demesne unattended.
“If you are worried about your statue, I have it.” I indicated the ceiling. “It is upstairs in my chamber, well hidden. Though I have been told it is a fake, so I doubt anyone will steal it.”
Denis met my gaze without a flicker. “Thank you for obtaining it for me. The price?”
“De Luca’s man, Gian—who is his son, actually—gave me the damned thing. Neither he nor de Luca could understand why anyone would want it.”
Denis did not seem to be interested in Gian’s or even de Luca’s opinions. “When you return to de Luca’s home, offer this Gian the equivalent in scudos of one hundred guineas. That should be enough to satisfy him. Have him give you a receipt.”
“When I return?” I asked in bafflement. “It is not likely anyone in that house will be receiving for a time.”
Denis regarded me with his usual coolness. He was nearly as tall as I was, but I could tell he did not like looking up the slight distance at me. Hence why he usually received me in his study in Curzon Street, he seated and icy.
Today I saw a brief flare of emotion in his eyes. Anger.
“You will invent a reason. I need to discover what happened to Conte de Luca and why. I am fortunate you are here and excellent at such matters.”
My perplexity continued. “You have much more effective means at obtaining answers. I have seen you and your men find out much, swiftly.”
“I do not wish to inform the world of my interest. But you have a reputation for inquisitiveness. Use it. It is important.”
“Is it?” Truth to tell, I was already greatly curious, as well as indignant, about de Luca’s death. I rarely saw Denis this adamant, however, though anyone else would never realize he was anything more than indifferent. “Why?”
Denis’s answer was quiet, ensuring no one outside the door would hear.
“De Luca was a connection between collectors and items. He could put anything into anyone’s hands—he was a great source of objects and also information. His death could have serious consequences.”
Both Grenville and I listened in some amazement. “He told me his father and grandfather had begun his collection,” I said. “And he simply picked up what he liked.”
“That might be true.” Denis gave me the barest hint of a nod. “But de Luca had the gift for knowing what was valuable. He not only obtained objects, but information about people—who wanted what and who dealt in what. You need to lay your hands on that information, if he indeed kept it in written form.”
“Good Lord,” I said, my interest growing by the moment. “Did he have a dossier on you?”
“Possibly. But more likely he had one on anyone who ever worked for me. As you know, I have agents in many places. They are my eyes and ears. Exposing them is not what I wish.”
I had encountered one of his agents in Egypt, much to my regret, and I knew he had men placed throughout the Continent and beyond to find things for him or commit deeds for him, or both.
“I believe I understand your worry,” I said.
“You cannot grasp it fully, but I am pleased you have an inkling. I will provide you any resources you need, as long as you find out who killed de Luca, why, and if he had lists of his contacts and mine. I want to know if the person who killed him absconded with the information.”
“I will have to write to my wife,” I said dryly. She would not be pleased with me, and she, for one, never had fear of taking Denis to task.
“I have already done so,” Denis said. “I imagine she will arrive soon.”
While I had a momentary flash of pleasure that Donata would join me, it did not come without trepidation. Donata preferred me to remain whole and hale, not beaten down by murderers and ruffians as happened whenever I decided to investigate a crime. If she’d decided to come, it would be to keep an eye on me. She’d trust no one else with that duty.
My hesitation also stemmed from the fact that my last investigation involving Denis had nearly meant the death of Donata’s son. She’d not quite forgiven either of us for that yet.
Denis had nothing more to tell us. He retained his cool demeanor when I asked how he found Florence.
“The city is a fine one. I suggest you add it to your travels. I am staying in Rome for now, so when you have information, bring it to the house next to the Palazzo Borghese. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
He glided out, opening the door himself. Gautier stood rigidly down the hall, watching Denis exit the house before he rather firmly shut the front door.
“Well.” Grenville watched out the window as Denis mounted a carriage and rolled away at an unhurried pace. “He has certainly set us a task.”
“He must be worried.” The carriage turned the corner, sunshine gleaming on its black top. “To cut short whatever business he had in Florence to race here and find out what happened to de Luca means he is indeed concerned.”
“You are right,” Grenville said. “Where do we begin?” He let out a breath. “If Denis is correct that Mrs. Lacey will soon join you—and I feel that my wife won’t be far behind—I must have Gautier see to decent accommodations for them. This is rather a bachelor’s house.”
I noted the pride in Grenville’s voice when he said my wife, but did not remark upon it.
“We’ll begin by paying another visit to Gian,” I decided. “If anyone knows where things were in that house, it is he.”
Grenville agreed, and after he’d spoken to Gautier about readying rooms for the ladies, we made to depart for de Luca’s home. Brewster joined us as we left the house, the dressing on his arm renewed.
“Your valet got to me,” he told Grenville when Grenville remarked upon it. “Bloke thinks he’s a surgeon.”
“He knows about wrapping limbs,” Grenville said. We trudged into a wind that blew from the north. “I’ve certainly given him practice, tumbling from horses and out of boats and off rocks I’d been adamant to climb.”
“Aye, he did a fair job,” Brewster admitted. “Cold fish, but competent.”
“I will pass on your thanks,” Grenville said as we walked on.
When we reached the lane that led to Conte de Luca’s abode, we found a large crowd gathered at the gate. Some were simply watching, but others had joined in the shouting that sounded within the courtyard.
Brewster managed to shoulder his way through until we stood at the open gate. Inside the courtyard, Gian protested using much gesticulation with a group of uniformed men, who were attempting to carry things from the house. The more unruly of the watchers had taken Gian’s side and were yelling and throwing hunks of mud at the police, or whoever they were.
“What the devil?” I demanded.
The crowd ignored me. When the commander of the troop swung about and made for me, I recognized the captain who’d previously tried to arrest me.
“You,” he snarled. “You have caused enough trouble. Go home.”
“Hardly.” Grenville gazed at him with the imperiousness only he could conjure. “We are friends of the deceased gentleman, as you will recall. Why are you looting his house?”
“It is he who has looted others. I have orders to take everything away and discover where it all belongs.” By his expression, the captain was not happy with his assigned task, but he would stoically try to do his job.
I would have hotly disputed his claim had not Denis’s visit put de Luca’s collection in a different light. Perhaps de Luca had conducted the same sort of business Denis did—to obtain things for people by fair means or foul.
I gestured at the pile with my walking stick. “These things now belong to Gian if he is correct about de Luca’s will. Plus, I am certain the next conte will have something to say about you tramping through his house.”
The captain gave me a curt nod. “I am aware of this, but the magistrate ordered me to empty the place of everything.”
Brewster, who had had turned away as soon as the captain approached, now quietly slipped into the house. Gian ceased his shouting and ducked in after him.
“I have no choice,” the captain continued in a hard voice.
I could see that the captain would dearly love to abandon his task and march his men out. Bystanders were still pelting mud, a few darting in and trying to overbalance two officers who were carrying out a gilded settee.
None tried to actually attack the policemen or attempt to take what they were absconding with, which meant the rabble were not risking getting themselves arrested. They’d be a nuisance until the captain chased them off. That he hadn’t also told me he disliked his assignment.
“Ah.” Grenville had turned at the sound of carriage wheels and now he nodded at the coach that slowed at the end of the lane. “See who has turned up.”
Two lackeys leapt from the coach and approached its door. One opened it while the other lowered steps and bent his back in a protracted bow.
The man who stepped out was tall and haughty, his coat a deep shade of blue. He removed his hat, revealing the graying hair of Conte Trevisan.
“It seems he travels as much as we do,” Grenville murmured to me, then gave the man a nod when he strode to the gate. “Conte. We meet again.”
Trevisan had no interest in us. He swept his freezing glare over the courtyard and the chaos there. I noted that no mud came his way.
He snapped his fingers. Another lackey appeared from the coach, this one dressed in a tailored suit, and joined Trevisan at the open gate.
The captain jerked around, peered at Trevisan and his man, and then took on a look of weary resignation, as though reflecting that this day could not possibly become worse.
As soon as the captain approached, the conte directed a stream of words at him that were full of fury. The captain listened with a scowl, attempting in vain to interject whenever Trevisan drew a breath.
Trevisan snapped his fingers again. The suited lackey produced a leather portmanteau, from which he withdrew a sheaf of papers. He thrust them at the captain, who cast his gaze over the top sheet.
With a growl, the captain turned and barked orders at his men. They looked around in surprise, and when the orders were repeated, they shrugged, set down whatever they were carrying, and began to file out of the courtyard. The men marched past the handcarts they’d already filled, abandoning them to disappear down the lane.
A small boy made to throw mud at one of the last soldiers, who turned and pointed at the lad. The boy dropped the mud and shrank back behind the rest of the crowd.
The abandoned furniture and carts sat forlornly in the courtyard, a few boxes overflowing with goods left on the seat of a finely upholstered chair.
Trevisan barked more orders, and his footmen, burly young men all, surged forward to move the goods back inside.
I signaled to Grenville then lifted a small box, hugging it in one arm, and lugged it to the house. Grenville picked up a graceful table and carried it, legs out, behind me.
Gian raked hands through sweaty hair but also ran out to hoist up an urn and a footstool. Brewster, in silence, passed us and returned with another small table held upright by his unhurt hand.
Between us and Trevisan’s footmen the courtyard was cleared in a few minutes. The bystanders, with nothing more entertaining to watch, faded away.
Conte Trevisan stalked through the downstairs hall as though assessing a palace he prepared to conquer. Grenville, at his most politic, met him at the bottom of the staircase.
“Conte.” Grenville gave him a smooth bow. “I trust your journey from Napoli was comfortable?”
“It was not.” Trevisan’s words were clipped. “Why are you here?”
“We were acquaintances of Conte de Luca. We heard the tragic news and came to see if we could assist. Just in time, I gather. When we arrived, the police were busily emptying the place.”
“They had no business. Everything must stay exactly where it is.”
“I agree,” Grenville said. “Were you friends with the conte?”
“No.” Trevisan was as chilly as ever. “He was, as you say in English, a mountebank.”
Grenville’s brows rose, and I stepped closer to listen. “Do you mean to say he wasn’t who he said he is?” Grenville asked.
“Oh, he is from an old family. The de Lucas have been in Rome for centuries. But how they obtained their wealth does not bear scrutiny. They take what they find and are in league with those who would gut all our lands.”
Trevisan pinched his mouth shut as though he hadn’t intended to say so much.
“That is quite an accusation,” I remarked.
“But the truth.” Trevisan bent his cold eye on me. “He was ever good at playing the buon amico, the good friend, the mate, as you might call it. To his own ends.”
I was realizing this, which was too bad. Conte de Luca had been larger than life, and I’d wanted to become better acquainted with him. I reflected that I might dismiss Trevisan’s claims as nothing more than his sour disposition had Denis not told us his convictions about de Luca this morning.
Trevisan’s gaze turned steely. “You, Captain Lacey, must find out who has killed him. I need to know.”
The second person today adamant that I solve de Luca’s murder. “May I ask why?” I said, somewhat ill-temperedly. “I am here on holiday.”
“I have heard of your reputation.” Trevisan adjusted his gloves. “You find things out. We must know whether a ruffian thief killed him or if this is … political.”
I did not like the thought that de Luca’s demise involved the tangled politics of the Italian states. Unrest simmered below the surface up and down the peninsula, which I’d felt since our arrival. Too many changes at once on top of the collapse of the Ancien Regime.
I could scoff that of course a thief had done this for de Luca’s great wealth, but I was no longer certain. A thief would have quickly helped himself to whatever goods he could carry before he’d realized that de Luca, alone in one room of this vast house, was even at home.
However, de Luca had been killed, and Denis’s worry was real. I would need to stay close, in any case, if I were to find out if de Luca did have the dangerous information Denis claimed he did.
Grenville watched me closely as I debated with myself. Finally I squared my shoulders and sent Trevisan a nod.
“Very well,” I said. “I will see what I can turn up.”