I woke, groaning, in a cell. This one was lit by several ancient-style oil lamps, and it was occupied.
Trevisan’s mother sat on a stone bench that had once been a gladiator’s bed. Her wrists and ankles were bound, and there were bruises on her face, but her eyes were open and sparkling with fury.
I fumbled my way toward the shut door, my knee protesting. Baldini had taken my bag of helpful items and my walking stick, though I was not very surprised about that.
“Locked,” Contessa Trevisan informed me in her imperious manner.
I pressed on the door, which had no handle, and confirmed her statement. It was a fairly new wooden door—all the ancient ones had long since rotted away or been taken for their parts. The lamps, which I guessed were in fact from the ancient world, flickered over the rough walls, bathing us with the faint odor of olive oil.
“Is he mad?” I asked in general.
“He told me he believes he descends from Scipio Africanus,” the contessa said in clipped tones.
“The general who defeated the Carthaginians,” I finished. I gestured to the thick ceiling above me. Baldini had liked to go on about his family’s ties to the ancients, but I’d first thought him merely fanciful and perhaps teasing foreign tourists. “And this is the palace of the people.”
“Bread and circuses.” The contessa settled her mantle as though she were in her drawing room at home. “Those in charge should give the masses food and entertainment.”
“And art?” I asked, thinking of Baldini’s anger that princes and kings would have their artwork returned, instead of scholars being able to study it.
“Certainly, that too. Conte de Luca amassed quite a lot of it.”
“It was not his to amass,” I said. “I know that.”
“Good.” The contessa gave me a nod. “Then you understand.”
I thought I did. Some bits of the puzzle I did not like, but I knew de Luca had been audacious. I wondered if he’d agreed to the plan in order to save his own skin, or because he, like Baldini, cared about where the artworks would end up. Most likely, my cynical self told me, he’d been promised a lot of money.
A man who lived these days with only a few servants was either a bachelor without many needs, a man who practiced simple living, or a man in straitened circumstances. I guessed the latter in de Luca’s case. I imagined the promised money had made him willingly hide the treasures.
Any rumination was cut short by the door grinding open. I straightened, ready to fight, though I was aching and tired. My head throbbed.
Baldini stood in the doorway. Behind him was a large man, one of the ruffians who’d attacked Brewster and me.
“You didn’t bring the trunk,” Baldini said accusingly.
I leaned on one hand against the wall, trying to behave as though I was in no pain whatsoever. “We could hardly deliver a thing like that, Signor Baldini. But this lady should go home and rest. You have me, and I presume Mr. Brewster. Grenville will negotiate for our release.”
“And let Conte Trevisan do as he pleases?” Baldini spluttered. “He has betrayed me. He has betrayed us all.”
The lamp Baldini held was also an ancient sort, a bowl with a protruding spout, rather like a teapot without a handle. The oil went into the bowl, and the wick in the spout gave off the light. De Luca had showed us some in which the spout was the shape of a man’s penis, but this lamp was more decorous.
“How has he betrayed you?” I asked. “Trevisan’s goal is to return all the things Bonaparte stole to their rightful owners, is it not?”
Baldini’s eyes widened as though he’d thought me, all this time, an ignorant lout of an Englishman.
“How do you know about that?”
“It is quite obvious.” It was nothing of the sort, but I mimicked Grenville’s trick of behaving as though one had more knowledge than whomever one addressed. “De Luca was storing the items for Bonaparte, which were destined for the Louvre in Paris. Nothing as large as the horses of St. Mark’s in Venice, but smaller pieces that were not as obvious.”
“Yes.” Baldini’s scowl was dark. “Conte de Luca was a traitor.”
“An opportunist, rather.” De Luca had told Grenville and me that Bonaparte had called on him and threatened to take everything in his house. De Luca had put him off, he’d declared, promising that Bonaparte could return once he was done conquering half the world and have what he liked.
Perhaps their association indeed had begun that way. But more and more artwork turned up in de Luca’s house as Bonaparte fought his way south and French agents helped themselves to paintings, sculptures, tapestries—all the great art from monasteries, cathedrals, and palaces. Bonaparte, as Brewster might say, was a dab hand at nicking.
I’d started to realize what some of the codes meant. PVI could mean Pius the VI, the name of a pope; V, the Vatican, and 04, 1804, the year the item was taken. UVII, could be Urban the VII, though I wasn’t certain what PBar was. Palazzo something, perhaps.
“De Luca likely had no choice but to let his home be turned into a storeroom for the pieces that fit into it,” I finished. “Maybe that was the price he paid for keeping his own collection from Bonaparte’s hands.”
“And then the Corsican was defeated.” Baldini stated this with great satisfaction.
“He was defeated, and artwork began to be sent back to where it belonged. But no one came for de Luca’s store, at least not right away. He managed to keep the secret of what was hidden there.”
“He wanted to sell it all.” The contessa’s clear voice cut through our discussion, her words holding derision. “He had no interest in provenances and the value each piece had for its owner, just in the money he could make from them.”
“Because he had little money of his own,” I said. He might have lost his fortune, like Proietti had, when the French took over, or perhaps de Luca’s family, like mine, had spent all their money before de Luca had come into the title. “His own heirlooms he possibly could not or did not want to sell,” I went on, “but the extra loot Bonaparte’s agents had left—that was fair game. A friend told me that de Luca had been acting as an agent to procure art for others, which can be a lucrative business, especially as he now had a storeroom of art at home.”
“No one forgot about anything.” Baldini’s eyes flashed rage in the dim light. “All the princes and archbishops knew their pieces were still missing and wanted them back. They sent—”
“Conte Trevisan,” I finished. “He came to Rome to pick over de Luca’s collection and return the things to their rightful owners. Everything. Which is why he insisted nothing be moved from de Luca’s house. Whether Trevisan means to give those who might have already bought stolen pieces a fair price or simply browbeat them into returning them, I do not know.”
Had Trevisan confronted de Luca? And had de Luca declared he would not relinquish what he had? What had Trevisan done then? He was a cold man, but even cool men could lose their tempers. And when they did …
“How do you know all this, Captain?” the countess asked.
Again, I was struck with how poised she was, but concluded this was simply her character.
“I did not for a long time.” I cleared my throat, the damp air making it sore. “But your son, Contessa, if you’ll forgive me, seemed to be several different men, which confounded me. Was he a libertine who coerced a young lady to live with him while making plans to put his wife aside? Or a devoted husband kind to a young woman simply because she reminded him of his lost daughter? He seemed determined to find the truth of de Luca’s death, which tells me he’s a man who wishes rules to be followed. Then he was adamant that no one entered the house but me and those I trusted. We had no stake in this game, you see. I should be flattered he had faith in me, but I rather think he counted on my ignorance.”
I finished this speech and drew a breath, longing for a drink of water.
Baldini’s lips had parted while I’d spoken. “You have the right of it, Captain.” His voice was quiet in the muffled room. “Conte Trevisan is now determined to return all the stolen art to their owners.”
“Why does this upset you?” I asked. “You have no love for Bonaparte and the manner in which he took over your world.”
Baldini shook his head. “The monasteries, churches, and kings robbed us all through the centuries,” he said with conviction. “They had the power, the wealth, and the art, hidden away for themselves to enjoy. Finally, we have a chance to make it ours. What Bonaparte stole and de Luca kept should be ours. For scholars to study and others to view. And Trevisan, a man I thought was civilized, who promised me he wanted to do what is right—he wants to give it all back to them.”
“And you must stop him,” I said as though in understanding.
“This is why you will give me the lists of the stolen artwork, Captain, and keep them from Conte Trevisan’s hands. If he lets me give those artworks to those who deserve them, then I will return the contessa to him.”
“How do you intend to find those who deserve them?” I asked. “Start your own museum for scholars and charge pennies for admission?”
“You mock me.” Baldini’s rage returned. “I thought you of all people, a poor man dependent on his wealthy friends, would see. They will be available to anyone who will treasure and study them.”
Any man down-at-heel given a miniature by Holbein would likely sell it quickly for food to fill his belly, not prop it on his mantelpiece and admire it. I supposed Baldini meant they’d go to scholars as he’d mentioned before, who would lock the things away to study them as earnestly as the despised popes and kings.
Baldini was a dreamer. The pieces had been stolen from men powerful enough to end his lofty ideas and simply take what they wanted, arresting Baldini for kidnapping the contessa into the bargain.
“Is this why you killed de Luca?” I asked. “Because he sought to profit from his luck?”
Baldini’s dark eyes widened. “You think I committed murder? I never laid a hand on Conte de Luca. I am not a man of violence.”
Yet he held us captive here with a hired tough ready to beat us down if we tried to flee. The guard was a mountain of muscle, rather like the man in Denis’s house, with a knife held in a competent hand.
“Perhaps de Luca’s refusal to see your side of things infuriated you so much that you struck out,” I suggested. “Not meaning to kill, but that was the consequence.”
I saw the contessa flinch, her hands tighten on her mantle. I wanted to reassure her I’d let no such thing happen to her, but I had to keep my gaze on Baldini and the man behind him.
“No.” Baldini’s adamance made me start to believe him. “I would never kill another.” He wet his lips. “Besides, I met you in Herculaneum two mornings after Conte de Luca meet his death. I could not have traveled from Rome to Herculaneum so quickly.”
I did not have to ask how he knew exactly which day de Luca had been killed—Trevisan would have told him if it had not already been common knowledge.
“It could be done,” I said.
“Not by me.” Baldini began to splutter. “I am not a skilled rider, nor do I have the stamina to ride so quickly.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will concede the point. But what will you, a man who does not like violence, do now? I have no intention of letting you steal that which was already stolen. Also, you are endangering the contessa’s life.” I adopted the tones of the stern commander I once was. “Let her go home.”
“I cannot.” Baldini sounded both sorrowful and desperate. “I must keep Trevisan from those lists.”
“Your idea is laudable,” I said. “I would like to see such beautiful things in a museum for all to admire and available for historians to study. But you have not planned well. Even if I do have Grenville hand you the lists, you will have to flee a long way from here, and the items themselves are locked into de Luca’s house, the keys with the police. You’ll have no way to carry out your scheme.”
“I will if great men help me.”
I was skeptical about what great men would come to Baldini’s aid. I thought about Grenville’s friends in Rome—well-connected, well-traveled, well-read, somewhat reformist minded if their conversation was anything to go by—as well as the Stanbridges, living in Napoli for its beauty, dependent on that country for allowing them to stay.
These ex-patriates would, I think, happily return the stolen items to their rightful owners, believing themselves honorable for thwarting Bonaparte’s plans to take the best art on the Continent for himself.
I did not tell Baldini my speculations. I had no intention of letting him coerce me into returning the lists, even if I partly agreed with him that the wealthy of Europe would simply shut the artworks away into their private homes, never to be seen again. James Denis had once told me that all art was in fact stolen—the artists themselves were often cheated of their fees.
In truth, I was conflicted in the matter, but as Baldini had locked the contessa and me into this cell, I wasn’t very sympathetic to him at the moment.
“The contessa is ill,” I stated. She was wan and shaking, and I had no wish to see her harmed by this encounter.
Baldini drew himself up. “She will return home when the artwork is safely dispersed, away from Count Trevisan—and you.”
He stepped back into the corridor, and the tough slammed the door. I threw my weight against it, trying to shove it open, but the man outside was strong. I heard an iron bolt slide into a slot, and then the grating of a piece of stone moved to block the door.
The flickering lamps were feeble against the blackness. When the oil burned out, we would be in darkness itself.
“Do not worry,” I told the contessa. “I have dug my way out of such places before. I once even set fire to a door to get out of a locked room.”
“Let it not come to that,” the contessa said severely.
I admired her bravery. She ought to be terrified, but instead, she sat in ice-cold rage.
I refused to give way to despair. Brewster would prevail and find us. Trevisan would give up trying to be discreet and scour the city for his mother. And if he did not, Donata would.
As soon as I could no longer hear footsteps in the distance, I studied the door. I wondered if Baldini had caused it to be made, or perhaps someone had stored something down here, and Baldini, exploring, had found it and decided to use it to his advantage.
The door was by no means a masterwork of carpentry. Wood easily rots and molds, and this door wasn’t reinforced by any metal. I hurled myself into it, shoulder first, but that, unfortunately, did little but hurt my shoulder.
“A board is loose on this end.” The contessa pointed to where the edge of the door met the wall on the bolt end. “I pried at it, but it was too much for me.”
My admiration for her increased. She’d not only weathered her abduction but had tried to work her way out.
I found the board she indicated, braced myself on the wall, and began to kick it. The wood bowed a little, but did not break.
“You are courageous, contessa,” I said, continuing my assault on the board. “You remind me of my wife.”
“Ah, the Lady Donata,” the contessa said. “She is a woman of much sadness, I think.”
I paused to glance at her. “Did she say that?” I asked in surprise.
“She did not, but I saw it in her. She has suffered loss. She was a widow, was she not?”
“Yes, but her husband wasn’t much of a catch. Donata had no love for him.”
“She was young when she married, she told me. I imagine she was in love, as ridiculously as one can love at such an age. Her husband broke her heart.”
My boot on the door told the room what I thought of the late Lord Breckenridge. “He did cause her pain. I haven’t forgiven him for that.”
“Has she lost a child?”
“She nearly did.” I recalled the horrible night when Donata lay in great pain trying to bring in Anne, and I’d known with certainly she would die. Only the surgeon, the strange man employed by Denis, had saved her life. “Our daughter Anne is right as rain, thank God, but Donata can bear no more children.”
“Perhaps that is it. She has the look of one whose hope was taken from her. I have seen it on my own face.” The contessa smoothed her skirt, fingers trembling. “I did manage to bear two healthy children in the end. Vittore, my son, and Paolina, my daughter. She married an Austrian.” Her lip curled. “But she is happy, and I do not begrudge her.”
I continued thumping on the door. “My wife told me about your granddaughter. I was sorry to hear it. A terrible thing.”
“It was.” The contessa’s voice grew subdued. “She was a beautiful child, with a full life before her. Taken because a clumsy Frenchman could not control his horses. Bonaparte has much to answer for in her death.”
I reflected that the Corsican should bless his luck that he was safe on Saint Helena and out of the contessa’s reach.
“I did not mean that your wife is unhappy now,” the contessa went on as I renewed my determination to beat my way out of here. “She has a contentedness about her. She has learned to shut out pain and embrace life once again. I envy her this.”
I halted my battering, first to catch my breath and secondly to send her a look of compassion. “Perhaps one day, you will too.”
The contessa gave me a faint smile. “No, Captain. That will not happen.”
She said nothing more, and I went back to work, unable to think of words to comfort her. Perhaps there were none, only platitudes to half patch the wound that would never close.
The board finally gave. I pulled it off, nails groaning as they popped out and clinked onto the wall, dangerously close to my face. On the other side of the hole I’d made, the bolt held the door firmly. I wriggled my fingers through the gap, but the opening was too small for me to grasp the bolt.
“Contessa,” I said. “Might I borrow your hand a moment?”
She gracefully rose without question and joined me at the door. The contessa’s hand did fit through the gap, but the bolt was stiff.
However, her resolution could have brought an army to a halt. The contessa pried and jiggled the piece of iron until finally, long after I’d have given up, the bolt slipped free of its setting and the door creaked open.
It was stopped, of course, by the chunk of stone the ruffian had shoved in front of it. The block was large, and I was running short of energy, but I threw myself at the door once again.
The light of the oil lamps behind us flared in one dying gasp, and then went out, both of them together, enclosing us in darkness. The stone slid agonizingly back inch by inch, until there was enough of an opening to admit my body—that is, if I went sideways, didn’t breathe, and left many of the threads of my coat and trousers behind.
The contessa, a far slimmer person than I, slipped through when I reached for her without even rending her mantle.
We were free. I took her hand to lead her on, when two of the ruffians stepped out in front of us.