When I opened my eyes, pain at the base of my skull consumed me. Something felt as if it were oozing, but when I went to reach up to see if I was bleeding, I found that my hands had been bound behind my back and my ankles tied. I was somewhere in the ruins, on the ground next to the wall of what remained of a semicircular space. Above me, there was no longer any trace of sunset left in the sky, only the moon, now fighting with clouds, and darkness. Wriggling, I managed to sit up and assess my situation. By kicking, I was able to loosen the rope around my ankles enough to free my feet. This gave me better control over my posture, and I compensated for the awkwardness of the position of my hands. Much though I struggled, I could not make any headway toward releasing them. My eyes, well adjusted to the low light, could make out scattered rock over the ground, and the bruises I could feel developing over my body told me that I had been flung into this pit.
When I stood, I discovered it was not a pit, just what was left of an ancient room, now without a ceiling and in possession of walls that stood only a few feet taller than I. My shoulders aching from the position into which they had been wrenched, I started to search for a stone, or brick, or bit of column that had an edge rough enough to work its way through the twine around my wrists. The action was more than awkward, as I could not see what I was doing with my arms behind my back. I rubbed and rubbed, hoping I was making progress.
The repetitive motion seemed to be taking more of a toll on my hands and wrists than on the rope, but eventually I felt it start to give, and I applied myself to the task with an increased vigor. When the bonds fell away, my hands were raw and battered, and my arms cramped. I shook them to throw off the pain and stretched as best I could before trying to get a sense of my bearings.
Because I had not before been in the ruins, I had little way of taking stock of the situation. The moon was much higher in the sky than it had been, so some considerable amount of time had passed. I did know, as well, that the site was not enormous, and I hoped it would be easy enough to find my way out. The chamber, for lack of a better word, into which I had been thrown, had neither door nor window, but I used the bricks that formed the walls as a makeshift ladder, and climbed to the top. This effort put me above a longer passage that, so far as I could see—which was not far, given the darkness of the night now that the moon was partially covered with clouds—had on its far end a doorwaylike opening. I tried to lower myself from my perch, but my hands were too shredded to hold my weight while I tried to find a purchase for my boots, and I slipped, down to the bottom of the wall.
At least I landed, more or less, on my feet. I wished I had a candle or something that might illuminate my progress, but even as the thought entered my mind, it occurred to me that I did not know if I was alone in the ruins. Was my captor lingering somewhere nearby? If so, light would give away the route of my escape. I moved ahead slowly, careful to avoid tripping over any debris strewn in my path. Knowing what little I did from having read about the site, it consisted of thermal baths, some sort of an early Christian church (my Baedeker’s described it as a Temple of Apollo; perhaps the precise details of the structure was a subject of some debate), and an amphitheater. All of these would have been discovered well below the street level of our present day, so I would have to somehow climb my way up and out when, if ever, I reached the end of what was beginning to feel like a never-ending maze.
I could see a wall in front of me now, and I felt my way to an opening in it. It wasn’t a door, as it did not go all the way to the ground, so rather than directly climbing through it, I inspected the room to see if there was a door somewhere else. There was not, so I swung my leg through what appeared to be a window and heaved myself to the other side. The clouds were moving above me, and I stopped to watch them, hoping the moon would reappear and better illuminate my efforts. It did, which was helpful, but as soon as the silvery light fell on the stones, creating an eerie contrast with the dark shadows, I heard a sound, something like footsteps, but not quite. I froze and pressed myself flat against the nearest wall, my heart pounding.
It came again, this time accompanied by the rattle of scattering stone, as if someone had dropped a handful of pebbles. I held my breath, listening. Whoever it was, I wanted to be ready. I squatted on the ground, feeling around for something I could use as a makeshift weapon, settling upon a broken brick whose sharp edge, as well as its solid weight, recommended it.
The sound was moving closer, and whoever was making it seemed to be picking up speed. I braced myself and raised the brick above my head, ready for anything. That is, almost anything. Anything, in fact other than the appearance of a sleek cat, whose silvery fur was spotted almost like a leopard’s. It leapt off the wall, landing directly in front of me, gave me a look of feline disdain and meowed loudly before pawing at my boots. I looked back at it sternly and continued to make my way carefully through the ruins. The creature followed me for a while, until, apparently frustrated by my lack of progress, it raced ahead and out of sight. I had never before then had much of an opinion one way or another about cats, but I found now that I wished it had stayed with me. Its presence, oddly enough, had been reassuring.
Eventually, I reached a room that had no ready exit. The walls were tall—a good four or five feet above my head—but I saw no option other than to attempt to scale them. I tore strips from my petticoat and wrapped them around my palms to protect them, then dug the toe of my boot into a convenient space between bricks, pulling myself up as I went. When I reached the top, the moonlight revealed my surroundings to me. I was two-thirds of the way through a large complex of ruins. To my left were the passages from which I had just emerged. To my right, below me, the space was more open. The remains of standing columns suggested a courtyard or atrium of some sort, beyond which stood a much taller wall than the one I was currently sitting atop, so high that it must have been the edifice of a building with more than a single story. The walls were dotted with a series of archways and a considerable number of windows. The height made visible more features of the walls, which had been fashioned from white stones and bands of narrow red bricks.
I heard the cat again, meowing, but then something else. This time there could be no question: it was footsteps, and the low rumbling of voices, coming from the far end of the site, the direction from whence I had emerged, and, I surmised, most likely toward the gate through which I had entered. If my abductor had returned for me, he would soon discover my absence, and the current spot which I occupied, on the top of a wall, did not strike me as a decent hiding place. The height would have made for a dangerous drop, so I scrambled to climb down, straining my ears in an attempt to determine whether one or more persons were speaking.
The fabric from my petticoat served its purpose well, and I was able to cling to the wall until I had found a spot into which I could wedge the toe of one of my boots. I made my way down slowly and deliberately, careful to be as quiet as the circumstances allowed. One of the voices was louder now, closer, and I could identify it: Jeremy was carrying on what sounded like an ordinary conversation.
Amity remained alone on a bench after Jeremy left, watching the path of the balloon that carried her friends high above the white-capped waters of the Mediterranean. Their ride over, they tumbled out of the balloon’s basket, while Amity, who had walked over to greet them, applauded and threw at them flowers she had purchased from a vendor.
“How I wish I were as brave as the rest of you,” she said. “Now that it is over and you are back safely, I am regretting my cowardice.”
“You were not a coward,” Christabel said. “It was terrifying. I spent the entire time clinging to the basket and wishing I was safe on the ground with you.”
“But the view must have been incomparable,” Amity said, noticing that Mr. Fairchild had helped Christabel descend from the basket.
“It was,” Jack said. “Next time, Amity, you are coming.” Amity smiled. Was he now playing at Christabel’s game? Flirting to make her jealous? Foolish boy.
“Count on it,” she said, and let him take her arm, bestowing on him her loveliest smile.
“Where is Jeremy?” Margaret asked.
“A message was delivered, summoning him,” Amity said.
“Where?” Madame du Lac asked. “And by whom?”
“He did not say. It appeared to be a matter of some urgency.”
“He rushed off, without so much as a word about the content of the message?” Colin asked, his brow creasing. He stepped closer to Amity.
“Yes,” she said. “I did not like to press him for details. He looked rather upset.”
“He did not tell you whom the message was from?” Margaret asked.
“He did not.” A stricken look clouded Amity’s pretty face. “You all think I am very foolish, don’t you? I should have asked more questions. I can tell by your response you think something is wrong.”
“Non, Mademoiselle Wells,” Madame du Lac said. “Bainbridge is not much of a mystery. I should not be surprised in the least if this concerned some part of his costume for tomorrow night. I heard him saying that he would not wear a toga and was trying to find a Roman general’s uniform instead.” This coaxed a weak smile from Amity. “You must promise to act surprised.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“We had no fixed plan for dinner, did we?” Christabel asked. Jack glared angrily at Mr. Fairchild, who hadn’t left her side from the moment they stepped onto the balloon.
“We did not,” Mr. Fairchild said. “Why don’t we see if we can get a table at the West End Hotel? It is a short walk along the promenade and I understand has a decent reputation.”
“I am going to the casino,” Augustus said. “Not hungry.” Without waiting for a response, he gave his sister a quick kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.
“He cannot abide any of us, can he?” Margaret asked.
Amity laughed. “Augustus has always been a man unto himself, even when he was a little boy. Do not take the slight personally. Do you really believe I ought not worry about Jeremy, Margaret?”
“I am positively certain,” Margaret said and took her by the hand, pulling her in the direction of the West End, one of a long row of fashionable hotels that lined the Promenade des Anglais, offering their guests unparalleled views of the sea. Amity tolerated this for a short while, then freed her hand and let Colin take her arm, after which she slowed her pace so that the others pulled ahead.
“May I ask you a terrible question?” She looked up at him through her long, thick lashes.
“I can hardly refuse,” Colin said, “terrible though it may be.”
“It is only that … well … you are the only other person on earth who might understand what I am feeling. Emily is not with us because she got invited to dinner, correct? Just this morning, at breakfast, she told us all that Monsieur Guérin was leaving Nice tomorrow. That is why he would not be able to show us the ruins himself.”
“Yes.”
“But then this unexpected invitation comes, and she abandons us tonight. Are we really to believe he is hosting a dinner party just before leaving town?”
“It would not be wholly unusual,” Colin said. He was dreadfully handsome. The wind had picked up again and was tousling his thick hair. His hat was in his hand. “And at any rate, his wife will have made all the arrangements, not him. She may not be leaving town tomorrow. He seemed wholly unconcerned with the plan when he called on us at the hotel. Why is this troubling you?”
“It is troubling me, Colin, because only a short while after she deserted us…” Her voice trailed, and she looked up at him again, now with tears pooling in her eyes. Colin handed her his handkerchief without a word. “Thank you,” she said, pressing it daintily to her face. “Jeremy gets a mysterious summons and flies off without a word of explanation. I can hardly say what I suspect.”
“Emily did not summon Jeremy,” Colin said. His voice, firm and decisive, ought to have inspired confidence in Amity, but she found she could not believe quite so readily as he.
“You trust her so very much.”
“I would never doubt her.”
“Where else could he have gone?” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief. “I know there is no one else with the power to induce him to do whatever she needs. And I am not so naïve as to believe that he received an urgent message about a costume for a Roman banquet.”
“You are falling prey to vicious gossip promulgated by your own mother.”
“Can you really tell me, hand on heart, that my fiancé is not in love with your wife?” Amity stopped walking and stood squarely in front of him, her little hands clenched in hard fists.
Colin did not reply immediately. He looked at Amity, her trembling lips, her tear-stained cheeks, and he did the only thing a gentleman could in such a circumstance. He lied.
“I can, Miss Wells,” he said. “Bainbridge is not in love with my wife. Come now, we have almost lost sight of the others. What you need is a nice meal and some lively conversation to restore your spirits. If you would like, I shall send word to the Excelsior telling them to alert Bainbridge to our location, so that he will know where to come meet us should he wind up back at the hotel.”
“You are very kind,” Amity said, “but I fear I am in no state for social discourse. Would you be so good as to find me a cab? I should like to return to the hotel and rest for a while.”
“I shall take you there myself.”
“No, please, Colin. I can hardly criticize my own fiancé for flirting if I am willing to be seen entering and exiting a cab with someone else’s husband. It would not be appropriate, and I think it is time I begin to give more consideration to my actions.”
As a gentleman, there was no way Colin could argue with that.