In a church. Of course. An impeccable alibi for a highly respectable aristocrat.
“You saw him?” I asked. “Is it your church as well? The Sant’Agnese in Piazza Navona?”
Proietti flushed. “They were at the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte, near the Piazza de Spagna. There was a concert that evening, choirs, and a few noted opera singers. All divine music, nothing entertaining, like Rossini,” he finished in disparagement.
“Ah, you went to attend the concert yourself.”
“Do not try to give me excuses, Captain. I was following them, as you well know, watching what Trevisan was up to. He sat like a stone, while glorious music in a beautiful basilica flowed over him. Dear Gisela was touched by it. As was I.”
“And the contessa? Was she moved by this splendor?”
“I do not know. She left Trevisan to sit with friends. As Trevisan is a foreigner in this city, he had seats away from the pews of the nobles, but the contessa managed to finagle her way into one of the enclosed pews, where she and her highborn friends can lounge in luxury.”
I imagined the contessa had been welcomed by some aristocratic lady who’d wanted to cultivate her favor.
“They remained for the entire concert?”
“Indeed. The music ended about midnight. Trevisan led Gisela and his mother out and into his carriage, which quite blocked the road. It is a very narrow street. They clopped off home, and I went to a tavern and became rather drunk.” His smile was rueful. “So you see, Trevisan has an alibi for that night, but I do not.”
I shrugged. “He could have slipped away from home once he reached it and gone to de Luca’s. Though I have to admit, I do not know why he should murder de Luca. They might have argued, but Trevisan is a very contained man. He’d more likely serve de Luca with a lawsuit than strike him while his back was turned.”
“Yes, in all aspects, except for my daughter, Trevisan is very honorable,” Proietti said bitterly. He lifted his glass. “Confusion to him.”
As a watchful footman had already swept away my wine glass, I could not drink to his toast, but I said, “Hear, hear.”
We watched Trevisan speak to the guests, coolly composed. He was well aware of the whispers, I could see, but he absorbed these without a qualm.
My wife was deep in conversation with the contessa, Gisela attending them both. If the other ladies felt snubbed by the contessa’s lack of attention, they put their annoyance aside to enjoy watching the tableau. Tales of this musicale would be all over Rome by morning.
The contessa at last left the divan to stand before the pianoforte. She clapped her hands for attention, and conversations tapered off.
Her voice, in its fluent Italian, held strength, though it was low and almost dulcet. From what I could understand, she thanked the guests for coming and spoke about the soprano, who had entered and stood a little way from the pianoforte. The pianist, a slim man, had quietly settled himself on the piano stool and sat waiting.
The contessa stood straight, no stooped posture for her, gestures calm and precise. She must have been a thoroughly beautiful woman in her youth, and I could still see that beauty in her.
The contessa ceased speaking, her audience applauded, and she glided back to her seat next to Donata. Gisela, who had taken an armless chair beside the contessa’s sofa, made certain she was comfortable.
The soprano stepped forth, the pianist gently touched his keys, and the woman launched into song.
I grew instantly enchanted. The soprano’s voice began in the softest of pianissimos, fluttering among the notes of the music. Then it began to swell, rising to the gilded arches of the ceiling, expanding to fill the room.
The audience was silent, entranced as I was. I could see nothing but the woman, hear nothing but her exquisite voice. She was rather plain, in fact, with golden brown hair straggling from pins around a sallow face. Her gown, while fashionable, did not fit her well, and one of her gloves sagged down her arm.
None of that mattered. Her voice transformed her into a goddess of beauty that could pierce the very soul. I would be a different man when I left this room, having been touched by this voice, this music.
The aria dipped in volume again then suddenly burst into fortissimo. The soprano sang on, her form becoming graceful and lithe, her arms lifting as the notes rose through the register, her hands outstretched in supplication.
I leaned forward in the chair I’d found at the edge of the crowd, Proietti next to me. The music swept into me, winding through my heart, my very fingers vibrating with it. I might have been alone in this salon, the others, even Donata, fading into swirls of color around me.
The soprano’s voice climbed, found the highest pitch I’d ever heard a human being make, and held it. I expected the woman to sag or collapse, but she continued with the note, supporting it effortlessly.
When I thought I would hear nothing but that pitch for the rest of my life, the soprano suddenly swept her arms down, her voice going with it, and finished with a strong note in the middle of the register.
She ended as the piano did, but instead of falling to the ground in an exhausted heap, she smiled at us, relaxing into an ordinary woman once more.
I leapt to my feet and joined the room in wild applause, my “Bravissima!” melding with the cries of “Brava! Brava! Voce bellissima!”
The woman waited patiently, as if used to such accolades. She gestured to the pianist, who bowed slightly, knowing the applause was all for the soprano. He returned his fingers to the keys and began another soft introduction.
The soprano gave us two more pieces, each more extraordinary than the last. I understood why Italian opera in Napoli and Rome had become the rage in the last century, as it was in the north of Italy now. This soprano was but one performer in a local operatic company, I thought I understood from the contessa’s introduction, not even a prima donna. And yet, her voice was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard.
At the end of the final aria, we were standing again, my hands tingling with my heavy applause. The soprano beamed at us and curtsied, hand to her heart, as though she was humbled by our admiration.
The pianist, who was quite good, also gained applause. I went to him as everyone streamed toward the soprano and shook his hand. I told him in fumbling Italian punctuated with English that I enjoyed his playing. Whether he understood me or not, he nodded and smiled, then departed quietly amidst the adulation for the soprano.
I knew I’d never get near the woman through the crowd, so I sought Donata, who stood next to the divan. The contessa remained in her seat, but by the small, satisfied smile she wore, she was pleased that her singer had been a success.
“If this is the sort of music one has in Rome, I will leave London and dwell here always,” I declared.
“Sometimes we can find musicians to charm us in Rome,” the contessa said dismissively. “I am a patron of La Fenice, which hosts the finest companies in the world.”
“La Fenice,” I repeated. “That is the opera house in Venice, is it not?”
“It is.” The contessa’s eyes flickered at my ignorance. “My son has many business affairs in Venice, as well as in Milan. His wife is Venetian, and I have adopted her city as my own.”
Any other person would simply mean they’d found Venice captivating, but I suspected the contessa had elbowed her way into social life there and taken over. She was the sort who’d tell the Doge—if they’d still had Doges—what to do.
The contessa did not speak of Trevisan’s wife as though she was on the verge of expiring. From the contessa’s challenging stare, she dared me to mention Trevisan’s wife at all.
“You seem to be fond of Signorina Proietti,” I ventured. Gisela had moved to her father, I saw to my surprise, the two conversing somewhat awkwardly together.
The contessa scowled at me. “Why should I not be? She is a sweet, well-bred young lady.”
Her eyes held steel. I decided, under Donata’s and the contessa’s steady gazes, that I should change the subject rather than pursue the matter.
“Thank you for allowing us to hear such exquisite music,” I said. “It was kind of you.”
The contessa nodded, nowhere near as humble in accepting praise as the soprano and the pianist had been. “It also gave you a chance to scrutinize us,” she said with withering perception. “I hope we have been satisfactory.”
With a sniff, she rose and stalked toward her guests, her walking stick tapping.
“She is an enigma,” I said softly to Donata.
“Perhaps.” Donata’s tone told me I’d missed something. She patted my arm then slipped into the fray, soon engulfed by ladies who were fascinated with her.
Grenville too was surrounded where he spoke animatedly with the soprano, and she with him, like two cronies catching up on gossip.
Proietti remained in the corner with his daughter, and Trevisan circulated among the gentlemen. The guests were polite to Trevisan and he to them, but the way they held themselves with him shouted that they considered him an outsider.
As I turned my steps to Proietti and Gisela, a hand landed on my elbow.
“Captain Lacey. How splendid to meet you again.”
I turned to see Signor Baldini, our guide through Herculaneum and Pompeii.
“Baldini,” I said with pleasure. “Well met.” I stuck out my hand and shook his. “I am sorry we left you so churlishly.”
“Not at all. I quite understood. Did you ever catch the fellow trying to injure you and your party?”
“We did indeed. He was a fellow Englishman, and I am happy to say it was a misunderstanding that we cleared up.”
Baldini’s eyes widened. “You are very forgiving. I’d have given him over to the police.”
“We settled the matter amongst ourselves.” I had no intention of elaborating on Mr. Cockburn’s troubles. Then a thought struck me. “You are an expert in antiquities, Signor Baldini. Perhaps you could help us with a problem.”
“I have some knowledge,” Baldini said modestly.
“I am going over the collection of the late Conte de Luca, but I do not always know what I am looking at. Perhaps you could see what we’ve turned up? We had questions about some of it—the history of the pieces, I mean.”
I did not like to say out loud among the aristocrats of Rome that we now believed de Luca had acquired much of his objects under not-so-legal circumstances.
Baldini flushed. “Yes, I heard of the conte’s death. Quite a tragedy. I will have to inquire of Conte Trevisan whether he can spare me, but I would be pleased to assist.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you could meet us at de Luca’s house in the morning, say at ten o’clock.”
Baldini obviously wanted to ask more about it, but he politely nodded and said that he would arrive punctually, depending on what Conte Trevisan required.
“Conte Trevisan summoned you here?” I asked, as though in idle curiosity. I recalled the Stanbridges telling me that Baldini had gone off on an errand for Trevisan, and no longer could lead us through the ruins.
“Yes, he wished me to acquire some books for him. Ones on history and art that a young lady might find instructive.” His mouth flattened in a thin line, his displeasure evident. It was clear that Trevisan had become involved with Gisela, and Baldini must have now realized his patron was not the paragon he’d believed.
To change the subject, I thanked him for his promise of help, and then we talked of Pompeii, Baldini relaxing enough to tell me bits of its history that intrigued me. He returned to the claim that his family could trace its line back to the Roman Republic, and I merely nodded. He could believe what he liked—Baldini did know quite a lot about Pompeii’s history. He speculated that the ruins we saw were only one layer of the complicated story of the site, and I would not be surprised if he was correct.
He and I chattered about our interest, ignoring those around us, until the hour grew late. I glanced around with a start when Grenville drifted toward me to tell me we were departing.
Many of the guests had gone, moving on to whatever further entertainments they’d scheduled for the night. Much as in London, one went from musicales to the theatre or opera and finished the night at a supper ball.
Proietti, who’d also lingered, was reluctant to depart. “Many are congratulating me on making a fine match for my daughter,” he told me as I broke away from Baldini to say good night to him. “They believe my wife and I should be pleased.” Proietti sighed. “I would be if I could be assured Trevisan would make Gisela happy. But I fear he will deceive her.”
From what I’d learned of Conte Trevisan, he might not simply toss Gisela to the pavement after he ruined her, but even so, I sympathized with Proietti’s position.
“Take heart,” I said. “We will discover what he is truly about, and if he does love your daughter deeply, then his guests might be right that she makes a good match.”
Proietti regarded me with skepticism. “No, you are correct that we do not know the entire story, but until we do, I will not trust him. Buona notte, Lacey, Grenville. And you, madame. I will arrive at Conte de Luca’s to assist you tomorrow. As you English like to say—all hands to the pump.”
He waved negligently and departed.
I told Grenville as we entered the hired carriage that Baldini had also agreed to assist us. Two men who spoke fluent Italian would be helpful in case we did find ledgers and papers at de Luca’s home.
“Excellent. He is an intelligent man, is Baldini.” Grenville sent me a pointed glance. “I know you like Proietti, Lacey, and he is a fellow soldier from the war and all, but I do wonder about his situation. A gentleman of somewhat reduced circumstances from what I can see, though his home is pleasant.”
“Doing his best with what he has, I imagine.” I recalled Proietti’s admission that he’d been driven to near bankruptcy during the war, which was why he’d sold precious items to de Luca. He’d claimed to have recovered, but I could not verify the fact. “Not all of us are wise with income, as I well know.” I cleared my throat as I finished. My own circumstances when I’d first met Grenville had been strained indeed.
“You were unlucky,” Grenville said as the carriage wound through the narrow streets. “And your family had nothing to leave you. Proietti seems a bit feckless, if you’ll forgive me. I do not say I trust Trevisan entirely, but Proietti is a bit obsessed.”
“He is adamant, I agree, but I still find myself taking his side.”
Grenville lifted an impeccably gloved hand. “I am not sneering at his objections to the arrangement, but he is rather letting his emotions run rampant.”
I shrugged. “We are English.”
“And therefore cold-blooded and stiff necked?” Grenville laughed. “People are people everywhere, Lacey, as you know. Some are cool like Trevisan, some hot-tempered like Proietti, and if you’ll forgive me, yourself. Perhaps we were raised to place importance on different things, but once those things are put aside, we are much the same across the world.”
“A true cosmopolitan, Grenville,” Donata said in approval. “And a man of good sense. Now then, I have to say I rather like the contessa. She is a bit warmer than her son.”
“Is she?” I hadn’t thought her warm at all—I’d decided that coldness ran in the family. “I grant that she has excellent taste in music.”
“Yes, I enjoyed the concert very much,” Donata agreed. “But she did tell me why she is so fond of Gisela, and why she did not object in the slightest when Trevisan decided to bring the young woman into the house.”
“Do enlighten us, dear lady,” Grenville said with interest as I came alert
Donata went somber. “The contessa has become attached to the girl for a sad reason, I am sorry to relate. Trevisan and his wife had a daughter. She died, the poor thing, when she was but eighteen. Gisela reminds the contessa of her, and she is filling a hollow in the contessa’s heart.”