After his sleepless night of acute anxiety, Roger was very tired, but this new and immediate danger spurred his brain to fresh activity.
“I might have guessed it!” he cried bitterly. “De Roubec was present when this other that I spoke of mentioned your relationship to the Frescobaldi; and ’twas too golden an opportunity to attempt blackmail for such a scoundrel to ignore. What answer did you make him?”
“To keep him quiet till nine o’clock, I said I would do my best to raise the money,” Isabella sighed. “Yet with so malicious a man, did we produce the gold, I greatly doubt if he would keep his bargain.”
“I judge you right in that. His animosity to myself is such that to give him the thousand ducats he demands would be as useless as to cast them down a drain. He will betray us in any case.”
She nodded, and choked back a sob. “Through this ill chance I fear our danger is extreme. Unless you would have me forcibly taken from you, we must fly instantly.”
“His avarice may save us yet!” Roger said in an attempt to reassure her. “It is not yet seven o’clock. He’ll give you a quarter of an hour’s grace at least, so ’tis unlikely that he will get to the Frescobaldi Palace before half-past nine. Even if the Contessa has him admitted to her presence without delay it will be ten o’clock by the time she takes any action. If we pack at once, we should get away with the best part of three hours’ start.”
“We are packed already,” Isabella replied. “I have been up all night, half crazy with anxiety about you. Maria did my packing soon after de Roubec left, and before dawn I sent her to rouse Pedro with orders to do yours. I will send her now to order the coach. That also is in readiness; so we can leave as soon as it comes round and you have settled our reckoning.”
As Maria left the room Roger took Isabella in his arms, kissed her fondly and murmured: “Blessings upon you, my love, for keeping your beautiful head and showing such forethought. Your family shall not snatch you from me. Have no fear of that. I would rather die than lose you to them.”
“But whither shall we go?” she asked. “And what of the Queen’s letter? From what you tell me I take it you have the original concealed in your belongings somewhere. If so you are still pledged to deliver it.”
Roger had told Isabella nothing of his secret activities on behalf of Mr. Pitt, and he loved her so much that he could not help flushing as he answered with a swift prevarication: “I thought the original too difficult to hide on account of its bulk, so I disposed of it. But before doing so I made the transcript of which I have told you and took a tracing of that. The former was the same bulk as the original, and I made it as a precaution against just such an emergency as has occurred, the latter I have ever since carried sewn up in the buckram lining of my coat-collar. I must, as you say, somehow contrive that it reaches its proper destination safely; and on that account I fear we must part company for a while.”
“No! No!” Isabella protested.
“Nay, this time it is yes, my love,” he said firmly. “ ’Twill not be for long, and our only chance of later securing a lifetime of happiness together. De Roubec’s blackguardly attempt to blackmail you has no more than hastened by a few hours the steps we should have been compelled to take in any case, on its becoming known that you are in Florence. I thought the whole matter out in the night; but we have not long together, so listen carefully.”
He told her then, as briefly as he could, of the attack upon him and of his abduction; of the hooded men and of what had passed at their tribunal. When he came to the episode which concerned her personally he repeated the actual words, as far as he could remember them, that he had used in explaining why she had come with him to Florence instead of sailing direct to Naples; then he went on:
“So, you see, if what I said is reported to the Contessa Frescobaldi she will have no grounds for supposing that you are running away with me. And if, as I said we intended to do, we part company this morning, it will further confirm her in the belief that there is nothing between us. There is even a fair chance that such lies as de Roubec may tell will be discounted; and should your aunt still fear that I may have seduced you, but is led to believe that I have left you for good, what action can she take that would in any way benefit you or your family? If she thinks that of your own free will you are proceeding on your way to Naples to get married, it would be pointless to send in pursuit of you and haul you back to Florence. More, if she is a woman of any sense she will realise that the less attention that is drawn to your brief stay here and possible lapse from virtue, the better. So I have hopes that she will threaten de Roubec with the wrath of the Frescobaldi unless he holds his tongue, and as far as we are concerned let sleeping dogs lie.”
Isabella nodded. “There is much shrewdness in your reasoning, my clever one. Very well then; I will do as you wish. But when and where will you rejoin me?”
Much relieved by her acquiescence, Roger proceeded with the unfolding of his plan. “The road to Naples goes inland from Florence, and only turns south when it has rounded the mountains to the east of the city. About ten miles along it lies a small township called Pontassieve. Go thither at a normal pace and take rooms there. I shall remain here for a few hours, as I intend to buy riding horses on which we will later make our way back by a circuitous route to Leghorn. But I hope to rejoin you soon after midday, and we will then discuss our further plans in detail.”
At the thought that he would be with her again so soon, she brightened. Then, after a moment, she said: “To purchase horses you will require money.”
He nodded. “It would not come amiss; as to buy good ones, and the pack-mules we shall require as well, the outlay will be considerable.”
Kneeling down she unlocked her money-chest again, and took from it a hundred of the big gold pieces. He protested that it was far too much, and that he still had considerable funds of his own. But she insisted on his taking the full hundred in case, while separated from her, he needed a large sum for some unforeseen emergency.
She had scarcely relocked the chest when Maria returned to say that the coach was below, and a few moments later Pedro and Hernando came in to carry down the baggage.
While they were about it Signor Pisani appeared on the scene, still in his chamber-robe and much agitated by these signs of unannounced departure. But the fat landlord was soon pacified by Roger explaining matters on the grounds that Madame Jules had had news by a messenger who had knocked her up in the middle of the night that her husband was seriously ill in Naples, and she naturally wished to get to his bedside at the earliest possible moment. He added that as his own business in Florence was not yet completed he would be staying on for another night or more; after which he would be returning to France via Leghorn. Then he produced a few of Isabella’s Spanish gold pieces and asked Pisani to change them for him, deduct the amount of the bill, and let him have it with the balance in Tuscan money when he returned in the course of an hour or so.
When Pisani left them to get the money changed, and the servants had gone downstairs with the last of the baggage, Roger and Isabella snatched a quick embrace. He made her repeat the name of the township where she was to wait for him, told her that to conform to his plan she should take rooms there in her own name, and swore that nothing should prevent him rejoining her at latest by the afternoon. Then he accompanied her to her coach. In the presence of Pisani’s people he took leave of her in a manner suited to either a brother-in-law or close friend, shook hands with Quetzal, and said good-bye to her servants as though he did not expect to see them again.
As soon as the coach was out of sight he set off down the street. After a few enquiries he found a man who understood him sufficiently to direct him to a horse-dealer. There, after a short delay, an apothecary who could speak a little French was fetched from a nearby shop to act as interpreter; and with his aid Roger looked over the dealer’s stock. For himself he settled on a grey gelding with strong shoulders and an easy pace, for Isabella a brown mare that he felt confident would please her; and, feeling certain that she would refuse to leave Quetzal behind with her servants, he bought a fat little pony for the boy. Having added two sleek mules to his string, he then got the apothecary to take him round to a saddler’s, where he purchased all the necessary equipment for his animals, including two pairs of panniers for the mules.
Not wishing to let the apothecary know too much of his business, after arranging for the saddlery to be sent round to the horse-dealer’s, he thanked and left him; then he found his own way back to the Lungarno Corsini, where the best shops were situated.
There, he hired a porter with a barrow to follow him and collect his purchases as he made them. With Isabella’s slim figure and Quetzal’s small one in his eye he bought two complete outfits of boys’ clothing. Then he set about choosing a new hat, cloak and coat for himself. The first two were easy, as his only requirement was that they should be a different shape and colour from those he had been wearing; but the selection of the last called for a certain niceness of judgment. It had to be a garment in which he would appear suitably dressed to pay a social call in the evening, yet at the same time one which was not too ornate for him to wear in the daytime. Fortunately the Italian sunshine lent itself far better to such a compromise than the uncertain weather of northern Europe would have done; and he settled on a long-skirted coat of rich red brocade. When he had done, with the porter behind him, he made his way back to Pisani’s.
It still lacked a few minutes to nine; but, all the same, he now approached del Sarte Inglesi with some trepidation. He had little fear that de Roubec had as yet set the Frescobaldi on to him, but felt that at any time he might be in fresh danger from the Grand Orient.
When he made the copy of Madame Marie Antoinette’s letter with the jumbled cypher in Paris he had had in mind the possibility of its being stolen from him, and no attempt being made to decipher it until it reached His Highness of Orléans, perhaps many days later. But it seemed a fair assumption that any such secret society as that of the hooded men would be sufficiently curious to learn what the Queen had written to her brother to investigate the contents of the despatch before handing it over to d’Orléans’ agent. And Roger felt there was an unpleasant possibility that, when they found they could not read it, they might endeavour to get him into their clutches again in the hope that he might know the cypher, and could be forced to interpret it for them. It was fear of this that had caused him to devote so much time during the night to a fruitless endeavour to devise a way of getting out of their hands without surrendering any document at all, instead of deciding right away to fob them off with the one in which he had altered the cypher.
While he thought it unlikely that he would be attacked in open daylight in the street, there was at least a possibility that the little walleyed assassin and his men had returned by now to del Sarte Inglesi, menaced Pisani into silence, and were waiting upstairs in their late captive’s room ready to pounce on him when he got back. Therefore, instead of going into the house, he remained outside it and sent the porter to fetch Pisani. When the landlord appeared Roger said to him:
“This morning I have had a great stroke of good luck. Ten minutes ago I ran into the very man who can settle my business for me. I am to meet him again to conclude matters in half an hour’s time, so I shall be able to set off at midday by post-chaise to Leghorn. I am going round to the post-house to order a conveyance now, and as I have this porter at my disposal he might as well wheel my baggage round there at once and be done with it. My things are already packed, as in the excitement this morning my sister-in-law’s servants made the error of thinking that I should be going south with her. Would you be good enough to have them brought down to me?”
The Tuscan scratched one of his large ears, expressed regret that he was losing his lodger so soon, and went back into the house. A few minutes later Roger’s things were carried out and piled on to the barrow, and Pisani returned with his bill and the change from the money that had been given him. Only then could Roger be sure that his fears of a second ambush already having been laid for him were groundless; but, all the same, he felt that he had been wise to take precautions.
After leaving a generous donation for the servants and bidding Pisani a warm farewell, Roger signed to his porter to follow him down the street; but instead of going to the post-house he led the way back to the horse-dealer’s. There, he had his valise and purchases loaded into the panniers of one of his mules, mounted his grey, and taking the long rein on which he had had the other four animals strung together rode out of the dealer’s yard. At a walking pace he led his string cautiously through the narrow and now crowded streets until he reached the Arno, then he took the road that Isabella’s coach had followed earlier that morning, and by it left the city.
His way lay along the north bank of the river, and as he proceeded at a gentle trot he suddenly realised with delight where the early Florentine painters had found their landscapes. Florence now lay behind him set in her bowl of hills, and before his eyes were the very river, green meadows, occasional trees and castle-topped slopes that they had used for the backgrounds of their Madonnas.
At once his thoughts turned to the picture that Isabella had bought for him, and from it to her. He had taken every precaution he could think of to cover their projected disappearance, but he knew that his measures had not been altogether watertight. Pisani and his servants could only inform an enquirer that she had left early that morning in her coach for Naples, and that he had departed a few hours later by post-chaise for Leghorn; but if the enquirer pursued his investigations at the post-house he would learn that no one whose description tallied with that of Roger had been booked out. It was also possible that the horse-dealer, the apothecary or the porter might talk of the foreign gentleman with whom they had had dealings that morning; but even if they did, he thought it unlikely that the sleuths of either the Grand Orient or the Frescobaldi would pick up and co-ordinate such scraps of casual gossip in so large a city as Florence.
One thing it had been impossible to cover up was the fact that Isabella had lodged at del Sarte Inglesi as Madame Jules de Breuc, and he now realised that when the Frescobaldi learned that it would lend colour to de Roubec’s allegation of her fall from virtue. Another was that Isabella and he had left Florence within a few hours of one another, although ostensibly in different directions; so her relatives might suspect the truth—that their separation was nothing but a ruse, and that later they meant to reunite at some prearranged rendezvous.
If they did suspect, it was possible that they might follow her, thinking that they would catch her with her seducer. But Roger had already made allowances for such a pursuit and felt that he had ample time to prevent it leading to disaster; as, once he had arranged matters with Isabella, he meant to take adequate precautions against their being surprised together. And if the Frescobaldi found her alone he thought it highly improbable that they would prevent her going on to Naples.
So, although he was not altogether free from anxiety, he was no longer seriously perturbed about the future, and considered his chances excellent of getting Isabella safely to Leghorn and so to England.
Although, during their month together, he had told her a great deal about his home and country they had never gone into the actual details of the life they meant to live there. Somehow there had always seemed so many pleasant or urgent things to occupy his immediate attention that he had never given it serious thought.
As he began to do so now, he realised with a pang that marriage might mean his having to give up his work for Mr. Pitt. To forgo the travel and excitement that had already become second nature to him would be a sad blow, but he could not see himself being content to leave Isabella behind in England for many months at a stretch while he was abroad on secret missions. However, by marriage Isabella would become an Englishwoman. She was intelligent, gifted, high-born and entirely trustworthy; so, if given the opportunity, could be of the most valuable assistance to him in such work. But would the aloof, woman-shy Prime Minister agree to his engaging her in it? That was the rub. If he did they could have a marvellous life together. They would move in the best society of the European capitals and meet all the most interesting people; yet remain immune from becoming bored by the idle round owing to their fascinating task of uncovering State secrets.
But what if Mr. Pitt could not be persuaded to agree to such a programme? Well, there was the possibility of going into Parliament. Only a few months previously his father had suggested that he should do so, and had offered to put up the necessary funds out of the big prize-money that had come to him as a result of the last war. Mr. Pitt would, he felt confident, find him a good constituency to contest at the next election, and having married the daughter of a Prime Minister and Grandee of Spain would add greatly to his social prestige.
The prospect now seemed rather a thrilling one. He knew himself to be a fluent speaker and began to make mental pictures of Mr. Roger Brook, M.P., swaying the House in some important debate, so that he saved a Government measure by a few votes, and in this new role earned the thanks of the master he so much admired. After such a triumph what fun it would be to come home and give Isabella a designedly modest account of the matter, then witness her surprise and delight when she read eulogies of her husband’s great performance in the news-sheets next day.
They would live in London, of course, but they must have a house with a garden. In spite of his love of gaiety and city lights Roger was a countryman at heart. And a garden would be nice for the children to play in. He felt sure that Isabella would want children, and although, having no young brothers, sisters, nephews or nieces, he had had little to do with children himself, he regarded them as the best means of ensuring a happy married life.
He wondered for how long he would be faithful to Isabella, and judged that it would not be much over a year. In his day, age and station it was a great exception for a man to remain a “Benedict” longer, and few wives expected more of their husbands. But such affairs could be conducted either with brutal openness or in the manner of the French, with courtesy and discretion. Isabella, he knew, was very prone to jealousy, so he would take every possible precaution to protect her from unhappiness. There would probably be the very devil of a row when she first found out that he had been unfaithful to her, but if he was firm about it that should clear the air for good. And he certainly meant to be, as he had been brought up in the tradition that man is polygamous by nature and therefore enjoys special rights. Like other women she would soon come to accept that, and after a few trying weeks of tears and complaints they would settle down into enduring contentment together.
But why anticipate the inevitable reaction of satiated passion when the passion itself was still to come? They had only the two days’ journey to Leghorn, then they would be out of all danger. With any luck they should reach England before the end of the month. No doubt Isabella and his mother would insist on a week or two in which to make preparations for a proper wedding. Those extra weeks would be a sore trial, as he was already boiling over with suppression; but he would manage to get through them somehow. Then at last would come the fulfilment of the rosy dreams which had been tormenting him ever since Isabella had kissed him in the coach. While still dwelling on the joys of being separated from his beloved neither by day nor night, he approached Pontassieve. But he did not enter it.
The fields in that part of Italy were not separated by hedges, as in England, but only low ditches, so it was easy for him to leave the road and lead his string of animals across to the river. There, he let them have a drink, then when they had done led them along the bank, through the fields again, and so back to the road some way beyond the town.
Continuing along it for a little, he examined such scattered buildings as came in view with a critical eye until, on rounding a bend in the road, he saw just the sort of place for which he was looking. It was a good-sized farmhouse with a yard and some big barns, set well off the highway. Riding up to the door, he shouted: “Hello there!” several times, until a middle-aged woman came round from the back of the house to him.
Dismounting, he smiled at her, and putting his hand in his fob pocket produced a gold half-sequin. He knew that neither of them would be able to understand one word the other said, but he also knew that his smiles and his money were worth a mint of talk. She returned his smile, then her eyes swiftly focused on the small piece of gold in his palm.
Without more ado he gave it to her, hitched his grey to a post near the door, then beckoned her to follow him, and led the way with the rest of his string round to the yard. A man was working there and at a word from the woman he took over the animals. Roger watched him stable them, then he unloaded the panniers of the mule, and the two of them carried his various packages round to the house door for him.
Inside, it was, as he had expected, a poor place, but the beaten earth floor of the living-room was moderately clean; and, undoing his sleeping-roll, he laid it out in one corner, indicating by gestures that he meant to sleep there. Next, he unpacked his new suit, and by the same means conveyed that he was about to change into it; upon which, with nods and smiles of understanding, the couple left him.
When he had put on clean linen, he redressed his hair with the aid of his travelling-mirror, then wriggled into the red brocade coat; but before repacking his old one he slit the end of its stiff collar and drew out the tracing paper with the involved cypher into which he had transcribed the Queen’s letter.
Calling the couple in he took out his watch, pointed to the figure ten upon it, shrugged his shoulders, and moved his finger-tip in a circle nearly twice round the dial to finish on seven. He meant to indicate that he would be back either that night or the following morning, but from their blank faces he concluded that they did not know how to tell the time by a watch. However, he thought it probable that they had made occasional visits to Florence, as the city lay within ten miles of the farm, so would have seen the clocks in the buildings there, and realise that he meant to return in the fairly near future. He then showed them two more half-sequins, put them back in his pocket, mounted his grey and, with a friendly wave of the hand, rode off towards Pontassieve.
He had told Isabella not to expect him before midday, so that she should not be worried if his arrangements took him longer than he anticipated; but everything had gone so smoothly that when he dismounted in front of the solitary inn it was still a few minutes before eleven.
Tired as she was from her sleepless night, her anxiety had kept her from going to bed until he rejoined her, and she was sitting in a chair dozing at an upper window. The sound of his horse’s hoofs roused her at once, and with a cry of delight she ran downstairs to welcome him.
After he had assured her that all had gone well, and handed his grey over to the ostler, he accompanied her inside, and said:
“My love, you look sadly in need of sleep, but I fear I must keep you up for yet a while, as I have much to say, and much to do before the day is out; so it is best that we should settle on our final plans without delay.”
“In spite of the fine new coat you are wearing, you, too, look near exhausted,” she said solicitously. “Have you yet eaten, or shall I order something to be prepared for you?”
“Nay. I pray you do not bother them to cook a roast for me; but I could do with a light repast if it be handy.”
She took his arm. “Come up to my room then. There is a bowl of fresh fruit there and you can eat some of it while we talk.”
When they reached her chamber Quetzal was playing there, but except for smiling at Roger he took no notice of them, and they settled themselves in chairs near the window.
“What is the meaning of your new suit and your hair being done differently?” she asked, as she handed him the bowl of fruit.
He smiled. “The coat does not fit me as well as I could wish, but ’tis a fine, rich piece of stuff. With my old one I put off my French identity and have become again Mr. Roger Brook. When compelled to play such a game as we are at the moment, ’tis a considerable asset to be able to pass at will for a man of either nationality.”
“What do you hope to gain by this sudden metamorphosis?”
Roger sighed; then on his old principle of taking the worst hurdle first, he said: “Should I chance to come into view of anyone who knows me, I hope to escape recognition unless they see me at close quarters. You see, my love, within the hour I have to return to Florence.”
Isabella dropped her reticule with a thud; her heavy eyebrows drew together and tears started to her big brown eyes, but he hurried on:
“You must surely realize that as yet I have had no opportunity to deliver this letter of the Queen’s that is proving such a millstone round our necks. And from your attitude this morning I know the last thing you would suggest is that I should abandon all attempt to do so.”
She nodded unhappily, and he continued:
“This, then, is what I propose to do. On our first arrival in Florence Pisani told me that the Grand Duke sups with the opera singer Donna Livia most nights of the week except Fridays and Sundays. As today is Thursday, and his religious scruples will cause him to observe tomorrow’s fast in his amours, as well as other matters, the odds are all upon him seeking the embraces of his favourite mistress tonight. By hook or by crook I mean to gain admission to her presence, disclose to her the secret reason for my journey to Florence, and beg her aid in delivering the letter.”
“How long, think you, will it be before you can get back?” Isabella asked, with an effort to keep out of her voice her distress at the thought of him leaving her again.
“It depends upon the hour at which His Highness goes to Donna Livia’s house. Now that we are in the long days of the year he may do so before sunset. If that proves the case I may be able to get back tonight. But I greatly doubt it. ’Tis hardly likely that he would sup with her till eight o’clock, and the gates of the city are closed at sundown; so ’tis much more probable that I shall be compelled to remain within its walls till morning. If so, I shall leave at dawn and should be back soon after seven. But either way my plan precludes my seeing you again until tomorrow.”
“Why so, if you get back tonight?” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Because on my return I do not propose to come to the inn. I mean to go to the lemon-coloured farmhouse with the red roof, that lies to the right of the road some half mile further on after having passed through Pontassieve. You may have noticed that I arrived from that direction.”
“I did; and wondered at it.”
“Well, I have already made certain arrangements with the owners of the place. If my business in Florence is concluded before sundown I shall sleep at the farm tonight. If not they will give me breakfast when I arrive in the morning. Then, at let us say half-past eight, I want you to join me there.”
“I do not yet see the object of all this mystification.”
Roger bit into his second plum. “Believe me, dear one, our best chance of escaping further trouble lies in our playing out our piece in this way. I should not have come here at all today had you not had to leave Florence so hurriedly, thus denying us the opportunity for a full concerting of our plans. If de Roubec has told his story to your aunt, by this time she will believe me to be your lover. The odds are that she is now enquiring about us in the city. We dare not ignore the possibility that she may send someone after you. ’Tis for that reason I must make myself scarce as soon as possible.”
Isabella gave him a scared glance. “Think you then that she will have me pursued?”
He took her hand and pressed it reassuringly. “I am in hopes that, believing you to be on your way to Naples, she will think it pointless to do so; but she may wish to assure herself that I have not rejoined you,”
“If she despatches riders along the road to Naples, ’tis certain they will enquire here, learn that I am within, and also that you have been with me.”
“I know it, and am not unduly perturbed at such a possibility. For me to have snatched this apparently last chance of being with you for a few hours is quite understandable. The important thing is that if they do make enquiries here they should also learn that I have returned to Florence. If they find you alone they can have no excuse for making trouble, and I feel that we can count on them returning to your aunt with a report that she no longer has cause to be concerned for your reputation. But, lest some spy is left to loiter near this inn, I think it essential to the completion of the deception that you should give the appearance of resuming your journey to Naples tomorrow morning.”
“I shall be awaiting you at the farmhouse. There I already have a horse for you, a pony for Quetzal and two baggage-mules to carry your treasure-chests and other most valuable possessions. I also bought a lad’s clothes for you and a boy’s for Quetzal. When you have changed into them, we will send your coach on its way and ourselves, by a devious route so as to avoid Florence, ride to Leghorn.”
“But Rojé!” she gasped. “Do you mean that I must part with all my servants?”
He had overlooked the possibility that, never having been without several people to do her bidding, she might take the loss of her retinue hard; but he restrained his impatience and said gently:
“My love. Your coach cannot go by bridle-paths or across fields as can mules and horses; so since it must remain on the road there is no alternative to its going forward. Were it to turn back and any agent of either your aunt or the Grand Orient chance to see it and your liveried servants passing through Florence, that would give away the fact that you are not on the road to Naples after all; just as surely as it would if anyone who knows Quetzal to be your page saw him with us in his Indian costume. Besides, as I have told you, when we are married we shall not be able to afford to keep several men-servants, so it would be no bad thing if you begin to accustom yourself to doing without them now. I pray you, in order to make more certain our escape to happiness, to give them each a handsome present tomorrow morning and send them back to your father.”
“I’ll do so with the men, since you desire it,” she said after a moment. “But I must keep Maria. I could not even dress myself without her.”
Again he had to restrain his impatience. But, having on numerous occasions indulged in the fascinating pastime of assisting young women to undress themselves, he knew quite a lot about the complicated systems of hooks and eyes that fastened their dresses at the back, and of the efforts required to tight-lace them again into their corsets. So he said:
“Take her if you must, then; but it will mean the sacrifice of a certain amount of your baggage, as she will have to ride on one of the mules.”
For a further twenty minutes they discussed details of their projected journey to Leghorn; then he went to the stairs and called for his horse. While it was being saddled they took another fond but temporary farewell of one another. After urging her to go to bed and get some of the sleep that she needed so badly, he went down to the street, mounted his grey and set off back to Florence.
In spite of his fatigue, now that he no longer had a string to lead he made better time than he had on the outward journey; and at a quarter-past one he pulled up outside Meggot’s English hotel.
The porter there said that he did not think they had a room vacant, but that if Roger would be pleased to wait for a moment he would find out from Mr. Meggot.
Having arrived unattended by a servant, Roger had expected some such reception, as he had learned in casual conversation with Pisani that Mr. Meggot always had rooms to spare, but was the greatest snob on earth, and kept them empty rather than admit to his hotel anyone who was not of the first quality. He had even been known to turn away a Countess, because she had been divorced. But Roger felt quite capable of dealing with such a situation; so he threw the reins of his grey to a groom, told the porter to take his valise, and followed him inside.
The portly Mr. Meggot emerged from a small office, cast a swift eye over Roger, noted the imperfect fit of his coat, and said coldly: “I fear that we are very full just now, sir; but my porter omitted to tell me your name.”
“My name is Brook,” replied Roger with extreme hauteur.
“Brook,” repeated Mr. Meggot a little dubiously; but, evidently impressed by Roger’s manner, he added: “Would you by chance happen to be one of the Shropshire Brooks?”
“No,” said Roger, assuming a tone of bored indifference. “I am of the Hampshire branch. My father is Admiral Brook, and my mother, Lady Marie, is sister to the Earl of Kildonan. Since his lordship travels much in Italy it is possible that he has honoured your establishment from time to time. But why do you ask?”
Immediately Mr. Meggot became all smiles and obsequiousness, “Only, sir, because I feel it my duty to have a care who mingles with my other guests. Our Ambassador, Lord Hervey, does me the honour to dine here quite frequently, and I should not like to put His Excellency in the position of having to meet anyone who—er—well, anyone who was not quite—you understand. At the moment we have with us the Earl Fitzwilliam, who is no doubt known to you, Lord Hume and his charming sister the Honourable Mrs.…”
“Quite, quite!” Roger interrupted. “But have you a room for me?”
“Of course, Mr. Brook. Of course. Come this way, if you please. I know your uncle well. He often spent a night here on his way to attend King James in Rome. He was not truly King, of course; but many of the Scots nobility like your uncle continued to regard him as such until his death last year. I always found Lord Kildonan a most gracious nobleman—most gracious. He once said to me_________”
Again Roger cut the garrulous Mr. Meggot short. “In the last twenty-four hours I have ridden far, and I have to wait upon His Highness the Grand Duke this evening. So I wish to go to bed at once and be called at five this afternoon. Kindly arrange for that.”
“Certainly, Mr. Brook, certainly. No doubt, then, you would like a bath. I will have the maids bring you up cans of hot water while you undress.”
For Roger that lovely English touch outweighed all Mr. Meggot’s pomposity, and dropping his curt, supercilious manner he accepted the offer with alacrity. Half an hour later, still rosy from his warm ablutions, he slipped between a pair of Mr. Meggot’s fine Irish linen sheets, and almost instantly was sound asleep.
When he was called he got up reluctantly, but nevertheless felt much refreshed. While he had slept one of the hotel valets had made some slight alterations to his new coat, so that it should fit better, and now came to assist him to dress. He put on white silk stockings and his best silk breeches, had his hair freshly dressed and powdered, scented himself lavishly, stuck a beauty patch on his cheek and hung his quizzing glass round his neck. So when he went downstairs at six o’clock with his hat under his arm he presented a sight guaranteed to gladden the heart of any young woman, and received a glance of deferential approval from Mr. Meggot.
Having asked that worthy for writing materials he then sat down and wrote the following note in careful copperplate, so that the English in which it was written should be easily legible to a foreigner who might know only a little of that language:
Mr. Gilbert Courtnay, director of His Majesty’s Opera House, Haymarket, London, presents his compliments to the Lady Livia Gallichini.
To Mr. Courtnay’s regret his present journey permits him to stay for only one night in Florence, but, even on passing through this illustrious city, he cannot deny himself the pleasure of laying his homage at the feet of the talented lady who now, more than any other, perpetuates its ancient lustre.
If the Lady Livia would deign to receive Mr. Courtnay for a few moments he would count that the most distinguished honour of his passage through Italy.
On his ten-mile ride back from Pontassieve earlier in the day Roger had given his whole mind to the problem of how he might most easily gain swift access to Donna Livia, and the note he had just written was the result of his cogitations. He thought it very unlikely that the prima donna would refuse to receive a director of the London Opera, and that even if the Grand Duke were already with her she would ask his permission to have such a visitor sent up.
All the same, he was by no means happy about the identity he had decided to assume. For one thing, while it was not uncommon for men of his age to be Members of Parliament or hold field-officer’s rank in the Army, he greatly doubted if anyone as young as himself had ever been the director of a Royal Opera Company. For another, although like every educated person of his time he spent a fair portion of his leisure listening to music, it had never been a passion with him, and he knew practically nothing of its technicalities. If he found Donna Livia alone that would not matter, but if circumstances compelled him to put up a bluff that he was conversant with the works of all the leading composers, it might prove extremely awkward. But, with his usual optimism, he thrust such misgivings into the back of his mind, had a carozza summoned, and drove in it to Donna Livia’s house.
As he knew that one of the fashionable recreations of Florentine ladies was holding conversazioni, he thought it quite possible that he would find her so engaged. But, on enquiring, he learned that she was not receiving, so he gave his note and a silver ducat to the footman who had answered the door to him.
For a few minutes he waited in a hall floored with chequered squares of black and white marble; then the footman returned and ushered him through a pair of fine wrought-iron gates, beyond which were heavily brocaded curtains, into a spacious salon.
There were five people in it, but there was no mistaking which one of them was Donna Livia. She was reclining on a lion-headed day-bed in a loose white robe with a silver, key pattern border, and in the first glance Roger decided that he had rarely seen a more beautiful woman. Evidently she was proud of her luxuriant Titian hair, as she wore it unpowdered. Her cheeks and jowl were just a shade on the heavy side, but her green eyes were magnificent, her forehead broad, her nose straight, her mouth a full-lipped cupid’s bow and her teeth, as she smiled a welcome at him, two perfectly even rows of dazzling whiteness.
Her companions were two middle-aged ladies of aristocratic mien, a very old one who sat dozing in a rocking-chair in a far corner of the room, and an elderly cherub-faced man. The latter was holding Roger’s note and immediately addressed him in indifferent English.
“The Lady Livia say verri much pleasure you come, sir. But she no speek Inglish. She have only Italian an’ German. You speek some per’aps?”
Roger was much relieved, as he spoke fairly fluent German; and, having kissed the plump hand that Donna Livia extended to him, he thanked her in that language for receiving him.
She then introduced the two ladies, whom he gathered were both Marchesas, although he did not catch their names, and the plump man as Signor Babaroni, master of the Grand Duke’s ballet. The old woman she ignored. Having made his bows, Roger was given a chair and, as he had feared would be the case if he found Donna Livia with company, the conversation at once turned to opera.
Fortunately for him, Signor Babaroni spoke no German and only one of the ladies understood it; the other spoke some English, and asked him if he talked French; but he promptly denied all knowledge of it, so was able to confine himself to two languages and thus be open to his remarks being challenged by no more than two of them at one time.
On Donna Livia asking him what operas were now being performed in London, he said that at the time of his leaving they were giving Bianchi’s La Villanella Rapita; as it so happened that he had taken Isabella to see that piece while they were in Marseilles.
She then enquired his opinion of Bianchi and he replied that he considered La Villanella Rapita by no means that composer’s best work.
It was a shot in the dark and, apparently, not a very good one, as Donna Livia gave him a slightly surprised look. Moreover, it immediately produced the question: “Then to which of his operas, Miester Courtnay, would you give the palm?”
This completely bowled him out, as before his visit to Marseilles he had never heard of the composer. But for the moment he saved himself from exposure by his wits; although he flushed to the eyebrows as he said: “To whichever one you might lift from the rut by singing in it, gracious lady.…”
Pleased by the compliment she smilingly repeated it to her friends in Italian. Then she asked him where he had heard her sing, and in what part.
This was infinitely worse than anything he had expected, and he had all he could do to hide his dismay; but he punted for Milan, that being the safest bet he could think of, and for Scarlatti’s Telemaco as a classic in which she must have played on many occasions.
Again he seemed to have saved his bacon, as she did not declare that he could never have done so; but remarked that he must have travelled in Italy when he was scarcely more than a boy, as His Highness had not allowed her to leave Tuscany since her first season in Florence.
To that he promptly replied: “My lady; people are often deceived at a first meeting by my youthful appearance; but I vow that I could give you two years for every year you are over twenty.”
As it seemed impossible that he could be anywhere near thirty the remark inferred that she could hardly be more than twenty-four, and as in fact she was twenty-eight, he had succeeded in paying her another pretty compliment.
Acutely anxious now to avoid further questions on the subject of music, he hardly gave her time to smile before rushing into a panegyric on the beauties of Florence and its art treasures.
Here he was on safer ground, but after he had been speaking with glowing enthusiasm for a few moments on the masterpieces in the Pitti, she said:
“But I thought, Miester Courtnay, that you were only passing through Florence? You speak as though you had been here several days, and if that is so, I take it ill of you that you should have waited almost till the moment of your departure before coming to see me.”
Hastily he bridged the pitfall he had inadvertently dug for himself, by assuring her that his sight-seeing had been limited to a few hours during that afternoon. But the statement cut the safe ground from under his feet; as, after it, he dared not develop the conversation as he had intended, by talking of the Duomo, the Badia, the house in which Bianca Capella had lived, and other places of interest in the city.
Signor Babaroni seized Roger’s pause to say in his halting English that as a young man he had visited London and heard the great Françesea de l’Epine sing at Drury Lane.
Roger showed suitable awe although he had never heard of this long-dead prima donna. The ballet master then revealed that his father had done much to ease the last years of her equally famous English rival, Mrs. Katherine Tofts, who had eventually gone mad and died in Venice. As he translated his remarks for the benefit of the ladies the conversation was soon back to opera and the individual triumphs of great artists past and present.
Gamely Roger strove to keep his end up, by putting in a remark here and there that he could only hope was suitable. He was now heartily cursing himself for his folly in having adopted his new role; but as one of the Marchesas spoke German he dared not tell Donna Livia that he had got in to her on false pretences and was anxious to talk to her on a private matter. Yet every moment he feared that he would make some hopeless gaffe that would reveal him beyond all question as an impostor.
At length his hostess provided him with a welcome respite, by saying: “No doubt, Miester Courtnay, like so many Englishmen you are interested in gardens. Would you care to see mine?”
With almost indecent haste, he jumped at the proposal; so, languidly rising from her couch, she signed to the others to remain where they were, and led him to the far end of the room.
It gave on to a verandah of beautifully scrolled ironwork from which sprouted gilded lilies, the outer edge of its roof being supported by a row of slender rose-coloured pillars of Verona marble, crowned with arcanthus-leaf capitols carved in white stone. Beyond it lay the garden, which was actually no more than a big yard enclosed by high walls; but it contained a lovely fountain surrounded by small Cyprus trees, an arbour, stone seats of delicate design, camellia and magnolia bushes, and many delightful rock plants in the interstices of its stone paving.
As they were descending the steps from the verandah she said softly: “For the director of a Royal Opera Company you know singularly little about music, Miester Courtnay; and I thought it best to take you away from them before you made some fatal slip.”
Her friendly, conspiratorial air made him sigh with relief, and he replied with a smile: “I will confess, my lady, that I was on tenterhooks, as I did not seek admittance to your presence to talk of opera, but of a very different subject.”
In a glance her magnificent green eyes swept him from head to foot, then came to rest upon his deep-blue ones. She did not seek to conceal her appreciation of his handsome looks and fine bearing; and with a wicked little smile, she said:
“Few women could fail to be flattered by the attentions of such a beau as yourself; but you are a very rash young man. None of my Florentine admirers would dare to practise such an imposture. They would be much too frightened that discovery of it would land them in prison, as the victims of His Highness’s wrath.”
Instantly Roger was seized with a new apprehension. He saw that he had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire. Clearly the beautiful Donna Livia now thought that he was so desperately in love with her that he had risked imprisonment for the chance of pouring out his passion at her feet. How was she going to take it when he confessed that he had come to see her only on a matter of business? But without waiting for a reply, she turned back towards the house, and said:
“Such audacious gallantry reminds one of an old romance, and is worthy of at least some reward. I am inclined to give it to you, so I will get rid of these people and you shall tell me about your real self.”
More worried than ever by the turn matters had taken, Roger followed her inside. There she spoke to her other guests in Italian, and as they took their leave Signor Babaroni said to him:
“I doubts verri much eef ’is ’ighness consent to a London season for ’is company. But I much like to veesit London again; so I wish you most well.”
Quick to realise the excuse Donna Livia had made to talk with him alone, Roger thanked the ballet master politely and said that he had good hopes of arranging matters, but had naturally felt it proper to ascertain the inclinations of the prima donna before proceeding further.
When they had gone the beautiful Tuscan resumed her indolent pose on the day-bed and beckoned Roger to a seat beside her. Knowing that, sooner or later, he must show himself in his true colours, he decided that he had better do so before she had any further opportunity to give proof of the favour with which she evidently regarded him, and so spare her an increased embarrassment when he disclosed that he was not in love with her. Approaching the thorny subject as tactfully as possible, he said:
“Gracious lady; first I must tell you that my real name is Roger Brook, and that I come not from England but from France. While there I had the honour to be entrusted with a commission by Queen Marie Antoinette, and it is that which has brought me to Florence. I bear a secret despatch from Her Majesty to His Highness, and certain of Her Majesty’s enemies have resorted to most desperate measures in the hope of preventing its delivery. I beg that you will not think too hardly of me when I admit that it was to seek your aid in completing my mission that I resorted to my recent imposture.”
For a moment her green eyes narrowed and her arched brows drew together; then she laughed.
“After such a blow to my pride I suppose I ought to show a sad confusion, or by a cold detachment endeavour to pretend that the thoughts to which I so recently gave expression had never entered my head. But having admitted that your looks pleased me, why should I now deny it? Call me a bold, forward creature if you will; but whatever the reason for your coming, I am glad you came.”
On such a handsome admission Roger could do no less than his best to restore her amour propre, so he smiled at her and murmured: “I count it my misfortune now that my entry here was not inspired by sentiments more delicate than the delivering of a letter to another. For I have never seen a lady to gain whose favours I would more willingly risk a prison.”
“I thank you, Miester Brook. Your manners match your looks. But a truce to compliments. In what way can I serve you?”
“ ’Tis said that His Highness sups here several times a week. If he proposes to do so tonight, and you would do me the great kindness to present me to him on his coming, I could then deliver this letter to him personally.”
She nodded. “That I will do with pleasure, but he will not arrive before ten o’clock, and ’tis as yet not seven.”
“I am indeed grateful, Donna Livia. May I take it then that I have your permission to return at ten?”
For a moment she considered the matter, then her eyes became mischievous. “Why should you not remain here till he comes? You can have no idea what a pleasant change it is for me to talk with a personable man alone.”
“Is His Highness so jealous, then?” Roger asked with a smile.
“Jealous!” She threw up her hands, and the draperies of her robe fell away from her beautifully rounded arms. “He treats me like a nun. Whenever I appear in Opera I am escorted to the theatre and back by a posse of his servants who spy upon my every movement. At my conversazioni no man under fifty dare talk with me for more than two minutes together without incurring the royal displeasure. And even when in the company of ladies, as you found me tonight, I am allowed to receive only elderly pussy-cats like Babaroni. Had they not been here, and your excuse for asking an interview been both so good and so pressing, I would never have risked permitting you to enter.”
“Then, will not His Highness be much annoyed at finding me here?”
“This secret letter that you carry should prove your passport to immunity from that. Moreover, as you have never before seen me and are leaving Florence at once he will have no grounds for suspecting that our being together is the result of an assignation. But at times he is unpredictable; so I guarantee nothing. The choice is yours, and you are free to go if you prefer not to risk it.”
It was the sort of dare that Roger had never been able to resist, and he replied without hesitation: “Provided my remaining brings no trouble to yourself the prospect of angering all the crowned heads in Europe would not drive me from you.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “For that I like you better than ever, Miester Brook. And now I will set your mind at rest. Some little time before His Highness is due to arrive here I shall put you to wait in a room apart. So you need be in no apprehension that he will think naughty thoughts about us.”
“He is said to be an intelligent man,” Roger remarked. “If so, no doubt you find his company a compensation for his monopoly of you.”
She pouted. “He is well enough, and would be a pleasant companion were he not so atrociously suspicious that everyone is for ever hiding something from him. Even his own brother, the Emperor Joseph, once wrote to him: ’Let people deceive you sometimes rather than torment yourself constantly and vainly.’ Yet he will not take such advice, and undoes the effects of his natural kindness by his unremitting itch to pry into everything.”
“Far from putting a check upon deception, contact with such a nature usually irritates others into practising it.”
No sooner had Roger uttered the truism than he regretted having done so; as Donna Livia gave him a swift glance, and replied: “I can imagine circumstances in which I might well be tempted to amuse myself at his expense.”
Roger found her glance perturbing, but before he could turn the conversation she went on smoothly: “At one time or another he has suspected me of wanting to have an affaire with practically every presentable man in Florence; but there is not one of them who could keep a still tongue in his head afterwards, and I am not quite such a fool as to wish to be deprived of my jewels, and a secure old age on a handsome pension, for the sake of a few hours’ pleasure. Yet were there a man I liked enough—and one whom I might regard as gone out of my life for good, tomorrow—then, the very fact of deceiving my royal lover under his nose would lend zest to such an adventure.”
“I can well understand your feeling,” Roger nodded; but he hastily continued: “I wonder if he ever suspects his Grand Duchess; though from what I hear the poor creature is so plain that he can have little cause to do so.”
“You are right in that,” Donna Livia smiled. “And she is a model wife. She has had sixteen children by him—the same number as the brood of which he was one himself—and despite his infidelities she still dotes upon him. But even she and I in combination are not sufficient to hold his entire interest. He often lies to me about it, but I know quite well that whenever he fails to come here, apart from Fridays and Sundays, it is because he is supping with some young thing who has caught his eye.”
For the best part of an hour they talked on in the same intimate vein. Donna Livia was making the most of this unforeseen opportunity to unburden herself to a sympathetic and attractive stranger; and Roger, both intrigued by the extraordinary situation in which he found himself and fascinated by her beauty, had not given a single thought to Isabella. Neither of them sought to disguise from themselves that they were physically attracted to the other.
Several times they got on to dangerous ground when one word too much would have proved the spark to ignite them; but somehow, one or the other always turned the conversation just in time, and the electric current that threatened to flash between them was checked by a transfer of the subject from the personal to the general.
At length she asked him if he would like a glass of wine. On his accepting she stood up, and he followed her to a low, curtained doorway at one side of the room. The old woman who had been there when he arrived was still dozing in her corner. With a casual glance in her direction Donna Livia said:
“Do not concern yourself about old Pippa. She was His Highness’s nurse, and is the one person he trusts; but I have long since bought her. Besides, she was once young herself, and knows that occasionally I must have a little recreation.”
As Roger passed through the curtains, he swallowed hard, for he saw that she had brought him into a small room that he presumed few people except the Grand Duke were permitted to enter. It was obviously a chambre d’ amour. The whole of its ceiling was made of mirrors; the walls were decorated with frescoes depicting the metamorphosis of Jupiter into a Bull, a Swan, and a Shower of Gold, while in the act of seducing various ladies in these disguises. The only furniture in the room consisted of a huge divan with a small table to either side of it, and one cabinet having a bookcase for its upper part and a cupboard below.
From the cupboard Donna Livia produced a bottle of champagne and glasses. While Roger opened the bottle and poured the wine, she took a thin folio volume from one of the shelves and began idly to turn its pages.
“What have you there?” he asked, his voice coming a little unsteadily.
“ ’Tis one of His Highness’s favourites,” she replied quietly. “This folio contains a set of beautifully executed paintings to illustrate the works of Pietro Aretino the Divine. Since this is His Highness’s room and you are in it, perhaps it would amuse you to look through them with me.”
Roger was already conversant with the writings of that extraordinary man who had been the boon companion of Titian and Sansovino three centuries earlier in Venice. With his heart pounding in his chest he took a pace forward and looked over her shoulder. The book was at that date the greatest treatise on the art of love that had ever been written, and the illustrations of the height of human rapture were the work of a great artist. Yet none of the women portrayed in them were more beautiful than Donna Livia.
Roger’s arm slid round her waist. Beneath her flowing robe she wore no corsets. She turned and her big green eyes, now languorous with desire, met his. Suddenly she dropped the book, pressed her warm body against him and whispered:
“I would that I could prolong this moment. But we have little enough time. Let us make the most of it.”