The men were silhouetted in light that leaked from somewhere above, more holes in the ancient building. It was dawn, the night drawing to an end.
I was exhausted, sore, downcast, and very thirsty, but I let my famous temper overcome me at the sight of them. I roared, rushing at the men, no weapon handy but my own fists.
The men hesitated in sheer surprise, hardly expecting me to charge them. The yell from my throat was the same as when I’d ridden at the French lines, our screams meant to put fear into those hardened soldiers.
The assailants halted only a second or two, then came at me, ready to cut me down with wicked-looking knives. I dove under one’s reach, the aching shoulder I’d used to break down the door slamming into his rather softer body.
My knee was in agony as I pummeled him, but I knew that if I backed away, he’d stick his knife into me. I jabbed my hand at his throat, every desperate fighting method I’d learned rising without my mind consciously directing it. The second man hovered, trying to get in a blow, but I continued to swing around with the man I fought to confound the second man’s aim.
The contessa, not being a fool, used the opportunity to scurry away from the cell. I hoped she’d not encounter another tough before she discovered the way out and found help.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the contessa stop. She lifted a rock from the floor of the corridor, staggering under its weight, and brought it down on the neck of the second assailant.
He did not obligingly drop to the floor, but he howled and stumbled, leaving me only one man to fight. I could not bellow at the contessa to run as she lingered, as though trying to get in another blow, because I had no breath, and my throat was parched.
The second man, rubbing the back of his head, snarled an invective and started for the contessa, knife firmly in hand.
I threw the man I wrestled into him. I shoved the contessa away from the fray, but that was all I managed before both men closed on me, fists and boots landing blows. The blade came for my face.
The cry of a banshee—those wailing spirits that foretell a death—sailed down the corridor. A whirlwind followed, but it was truly a man, one who’d fought like a demon in the night near the ruins of Herculaneum, the only person I’d ever seen able to best the rock of Brewster.
The two men swung to face this new menace, but he gave them no chance to regroup. Whatever rage existed in Mr. Cockburn, from the taunts of boys when he’d been a youth to the loss of his beloved brother, poured from him now.
He spun and kicked, whirling a dagger in patterns that made me dizzy. I attempted to assist him by landing a roundhouse blow on one of my opponents, but then I had to back away and let him work.
Cockburn would have put the champion pugilists Jackson and Mendoza to shame. He quickly had both men groaning on the ground and holding various limbs, one weeping softly. Cockburn rapidly stripped them of their weapons, tucking them into various parts of his clothing.
“Thank you,” I said to him, my voice a rasp. “How did you know we were down here?”
Cockburn shook his head, pointing to his ear and waving at the air around us. I understood that he could not read my lips well in the semi-dark. I experienced a moment of chagrin for forgetting he was deaf but hid it by taking the contessa’s hand.
She was shaking all over, the rock she’d held now falling from her grasp and rattling on the ground. I gently tugged her to follow me, but I’d carry her if need be.
Cockburn was none the worse the wear after the fight, and he led us through the vaulted corridor. He took us unerringly to a set of steep stairs that the contessa could never climb—I had doubts about my ability as well. I lifted her slight body into my arms, ignoring her protests, and proceeded to carry her upward. My leg hurt like the devil, and I had to go slowly, but I gained the top and set her gently on her feet.
“My apologies for the indignity, madame,” I told her as she shook out her gown and shot me a glare. “But we must make haste.”
Cockburn, unwinded, took us once again through the maze of passageways, up another ramp past the newer brick walls, and finally out into the damp morning.
Brewster ran toward us, and behind him came Grenville. A carriage had halted beyond them, its gleaming coach lights cutting through the rain.
The congenial Grenville came for the contessa, assisting her to the carriage as though he’d arrived to convey her to a supper ball. I, the ragged soldier, limped heavily to it, with Brewster behind me to shove me in. I saw Cockburn watching anxiously, before he vanished behind the door Brewster slammed.
My ears buzzed as I landed on my seat, darkness dancing before my eyes. I was gone to a dreamlike place, scarcely noticing when the carriage jerked forward into the Roman dawn.
When I returned to myself, I was reclining in a comfortable chair next to a warm porcelain stove, rugs on my legs and a blanket around my shoulders. My wife reposed on a sofa near me, and the contessa, as upright as ever, sat next to her, her thin hand between Donata’s softer ones. We were alone in the room, no servants hovering.
I vaguely remembered arriving at Trevisan’s house, Brewster hauling me from the carriage like a sack of grain and trundling me inside. Various maids and footmen peered uncertainly at me, and at one point I thought I saw Proietti’s daughter, but she dissolved into mist. I had no idea how long I’d been here, but the sun was well up, I assumed on the same day.
I must have made some sound, because Donata was next to me, a cool hand on my face. Her lips pressed mine a moment later. I longed to be alone with her, to cradle her body next to me and kiss her hair, drowsing in her warmth, but she withdrew, leaving me bereft.
“I am alive,” I croaked, my throat still dry as a desert. “Barely. Is there any water?”
A clink and a trickle sounded and soon Donata handed me a blissfully cool glass beaded with moisture. I drank the cool Roman water that had poured through aqueducts for centuries, soothing my parched mouth and easing my throat.
The contessa looked weary but far better than I must. From her poise, she might have simply gone for a long ride in the country instead of being abducted and locked into a gladiator’s cell.
“Brewster did not perish, obviously,” I said to Donata as she returned to her place beside the contessa. “Is he unhurt?”
“He is faring far better than you. The contessa told me what happened, so do not strain yourself. She has been most worried about you, as have I. You were raving by the time you arrived here this morning and we felt you ought to remain until you were well. I had to explain who Mr. Cockburn was. Apparently, he was quite the rescuer.”
“He should go on the pugilists’ circuit with his technique,” I tried to speak lightly but my voice was scratchy. “I must put Pierce Egan on to him.” Egan was a journalist who loved all things boxing and wrote eloquently about it.
“Mr. Baldini has been arrested,” Donata said. “While you were pummeling your way out of the cell, Mr. Brewster encountered him. As you might imagine, Mr. Brewster was quite furious with him. Mr. Cockburn turned up and helped him subdue the man. The watchmen couldn’t ignore what was going on, and Brewster convinced them Mr. Baldini was a dangerous madman. The police hauled him away before Brewster could explain that he’d lost you in the dark, but Mr. Cockburn went searching. A mercy he did.”
“Poor Baldini,” I said. “I am not happy with him, but perhaps he should be looked after. Lent a solicitor if nothing else.”
The contessa’s eyes were flinty. “No. I’ll not forgive him for what he did to me—and to you—this night, trying to make my son bow to his wishes. He is mad. He murdered Conte de Luca, did he not?”
“No,” I said. In the cell and during the fight outside, my mind had showed me the incident in stark clarity. “You did.”
The room went silent, save for the steady pop of the fire inside the stove. Donata’s lips parted, but the contessa did not move.
“I began to realize it after the musicale,” I said when neither woman spoke. My throat was still parched, and I took another sip of the beautiful water. “When I listened to the soprano—one of the best I’ve ever heard, by the way—I was enraptured. All others could have vanished from the room, and I’d never have known until she finished.” I lifted my hand but barely had the strength to gesture. “You went with your son and Gisela to a concert at a church the night de Luca died. Proietti saw you there. He told me that you sat with friends. His eyes were for his daughter, and Gisela and your son were focused on the music, which I imagine was as fine as what we heard at your musicale. Neither Proietti nor the conte nor Gisela would have noticed you slip from that church—the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte. Conte de Luca’s house is just around the corner from it.”
The contessa closed her eyes once. When she opened them, her defiance had gone, and I saw only resignation.
“He conspired with Bonaparte,” she said. “For money. De Luca was always a greedy man. Yes, I went to speak with him. My son had asked him to give back what the Corsican stole, and de Luca refused him. Laughed. I went that night to beg him to reconsider, to tell him that my son would shame him to no end if he did not. He dismissed me. He said he’d sell the things on to the highest bidder. He even told me that he’d met you and Mr. Grenville, and that Mr. Grenville had the wealth to purchase whatever he wished. De Luca wanted my praise for being so clever as to find an English buyer for his stolen things.”
“You are a strong and courageous woman,” I said. “You had no qualms last night about picking up a stone and striking a man attacking me. De Luca would not have feared you—he’d have turned his back on you without worry. Did he admit you to the house himself?”
“He did. No one else was there—he answered my ring at the gate.”
“And saw no reason not to speak to you in one of his well-furnished rooms on the ground floor. Where there were many heavy vases standing at the ready.”
The contessa listened without blinking. “I did not know he would die.”
“You likely did not,” I agreed. “You were angry and wanted to hurt him. He refused to cooperate with your son, and you picked up a vase and hit him.”
The contessa smoothed her skirt. “So you say.”
Donata did not leap to her defense. She listened quietly, her face still.
“You are also cool-headed,” I went on. “You wiped your hands of any blood, laid down the vase, and walked out of the empty house, closing the door and gate behind you. You went back to the concert so you would be sitting in the enclosed pew with your acquaintances when it finished. I imagine you had some excuse for them for stepping out a few minutes, that you’d needed air shut up in the crowded church, or the like.”
“I am elderly,” the contessa said, pride in her voice. “Sitting for long periods is difficult for me.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” I said. “But now your son will have de Luca’s inventory—Grenville and I are happy to hand over his records, and Conte Trevisan may continue with his mission.”
The contessa studied me, not making any attempt to excuse her actions. “And me? Will you be pleased to give me to the police captain?”
I sank back into the chair, more weary than I’d been in a long while. “I do not work for them. But even if I did tell the captain the truth, I doubt you’d be convicted, or even arrested.”
The contessa was too well connected, Trevisan too respected. The law worked differently for aristocrats, and de Luca, after all, had been in coercion with Bonaparte.
The contessa rose. She was every inch a great lady and had experienced both joy and deep sorrow in her life.
“It will not matter,” she said to me. “I am an ill woman and will not live past six months. I know this because I watched the same thing happen to my mother. God will be my judge for my crime. Good day, Captain. Lady Donata.”
She gave us each a stiff nod, then she turned and stalked from the room. The door opened as a footman on the other side hastened to let her out. Her skirts swished, her heels clicked, and she was gone.
Donata let out her breath. “Well.” She rose and reached for my hand, but said nothing more.
“She and her son would suffer if I told the police captain what truly happened,” I said. “Even if I am right that she would never be convicted. I could not bring more tragedy into their lives.”
Donata brought my hot, cracked hand to her cool lips and kissed it. “No, of course you could not.” Her voice was soft, tender, and I recalled what the contessa had told me about the loss she’d seen in her eyes.
When she’d thought Peter had been taken from her a few months ago, Donata had been in deep anguish, followed by towering rage. I wondered if that was all that the contessa had sensed.
Now was not the time to pursue it. I tugged Donata closer until she sat on my lap, her head on my shoulder. I touched her cheek, soft as silk.
“Thank you,” I said, and then we spoke no more about it.
I had been correct when I’d mused that Rome was a place of fevers, because one took me. I was laid up for days in Grenville’s house while Bartholomew, Matthias, and Gautier ministered to me. I made Donata stay away from me, not wanting to risk contagion. She chafed but satisfied herself with giving me strict orders through Gautier, who delivered her instructions to rest, keep warm, and swallow Gautier’s concoctions with cool authority.
I was wretched for a while, my head pounding, my throat aching, congestion stuffing my head. Gautier’s potions, which I manfully drank while he stood over me, saved my life, I was certain of it.
Once I was able to rise from my bed and move about in a somewhat normal fashion, Mr. Cockburn came to visit.