Meanwhile, at the Port of Valencia
Although he hadn’t planned to be part of an entourage when it came to paying a call at the palatial villa where the Conde of Albacete had set up residence the year prior, Captain St. John agreed to allow both Marcus Higgins and Frank Turnbridge to join him. Meanwhile, Sinclair and Hornsby set off with the cook, promising to help Watson haul his purchases back to the ship in exchange for a tour of the town.
Forgoing the uniform he usually wore at sea, St. John had opted to wear the clothes he did when he was acting as an operative for the Foreign Office. Dressed in leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and a navy wool top coat, he appeared as any European gentleman might. In place of a tricorn, he wore a short top hat. Tasseled black boots and black leather gloves completed his look.
The three made their way to the center of town, easily negotiating the cobbled streets once they had regained their land legs.
Upon reaching the villa, Marcus gave a start. “From what you described yesterday, this is better than what I expected,” he remarked, his gaze following the ornate plasterwork decorating the tops of the arches along the front of the building. St. John had told them during dinner that he thought the conde’s residence was a perfect example of “elegant rot,” a building that might have at one time been a masterpiece of architecture and decorative arts but was now barely livable.
“Looks can be deceiving,” St. John warned. “If we’re allowed in, you’ll see what I mean.”
Frank and Marcus exchanged curious glances at the same moment a liveried footman opened the tall front doors.
“Captain John St. John to see the Lady Maria Paloma Silvestri y Arístegui de Benavides,” he said in perfect Spanish, handing a card to the servant.
The footman waved them into the large foyer. From the marble floors beneath their feet to the gilded ornamentation on the walls to the chandelier dripping with crystals above them, no expense had been spared in the original decoration. A wide marble staircase led to the first floor. However, a closer examination of the plastered walls showed cracks, and the drapes outlining the windows appeared faded, the velvet threads bare from sun rot.
“I think I see what you mean,” Frank said in a hoarse whisper, his gaze taking in the painted ceiling. In this part of the villa, the high ceiling went all the way to the top, and from the water stains scattered about one corner, it was apparent the roof leaked.
As his gaze wandered down to one of the walls—the evidence of water damage was most apparent along an especially prominent crack—an argument in Spanish could be heard somewhere near the top of the stairs.
“The lady is in residence,” St. John murmured. “And she is not happy.”
Marcus dared a glance at the top of the stairs. “But she is a beautiful woman, if that is indeed her,” he whispered. A young lady garbed in a black gown stood near the top step, waving her hands about in a frantic display of frustration. Her hair, wrapped in an elegant chignon and secured with a jeweled comb, was nearly as black as the bombazine gown she wore.
“That’s her,” St. John said, inhaling deeply. “Far thinner than when I last saw her, though,” he added in worry. “She thinks we are someone else,” he murmured, his brows furrowing as he tried to overhear whatever she was saying to the footman. At no point had she directed her attention on the three of them.
“Who?” Frank asked.
“Whoever owns this villa,” the captain said, his gaze indicating he was still listening to the woman’s angry tirade. “Apparently, she is no longer welcome to live here.”
“What about her father?” Marcus asked in a whisper. “Doesn’t she live here with him?”
“Good question,” St. John murmured. He straightened when Maria finally halted her angry words and directed her attention on him.
“Hola, dama Maria,” St. John said, bowing deeply.
Frank and Marcus exchanged quick glances before they, too, bowed.
“Captain St. John?” she said in English. She grabbed the bannister and quickly descended the majestic staircase, her slippered feet on display as she held up her slim gown with her free hand.
“I would be heartbroken if you hadn’t recognized me,” the captain said, moving to intercept her at the bottom of the stairs so he could take her hand to his lips. He pretended not to notice her chapped hands or how her collar bones showed in relief above the bodice of her gown.
“I am not blind, Captain St. John,” she replied, her dark brows furrowing as she glanced first at Marcus and then at Frank. “If you have brought me potential husbands, you must know I am still in mourning for my Christopher.”
St. John chuckled softly. “These gentlemen are two of my passengers. I am taking them to Roma for their Grand Tours,” he replied. “Marcus Higgins…” he paused to wave in the young man’s direction. “And Frank Turnbridge. They are both sons of earls,” he explained.
Maria dipped a curtsy as Marcus rushed up to take her hand to his lips. “My lady,” he murmured.
Frank followed suit, holding onto her hand far longer than necessary. “Lord Reardon is a very lucky man,” he said.
Maria blinked, her dark brows furrowing as she turned her gaze on the captain. “What is he saying?”
“Christopher is alive, my lady,” St. John stated, aiming a quelling glance in Frank’s direction. He waved to Marcus. “This young man is betrothed to his sister, Lucy, which is how I learned of it.”
Maria rushed to stand before Marcus, her eyes wide. “You have… you have seen him?” she asked in disbelief, gripping one of his hands. “Christopher Fitzsimmons? Captain Fitzsimmons?”
“Sì, my lady,” he replied. “I spoke with him not even a week ago,” Marcus assured her. “At a ball. When I asked his permission to court his sister,” he explained.
“He was... well?”
Marcus furrowed a brow. “Well, he was… alive,” he replied. “He looked a bit pale, but I think it was because he had eaten a bad lobster roll.”
Maria appeared confused for a moment, her gaze going to St. John before she rushed to stand before him. Her subsequent words were said in Spanish in a combination of frustration, anger, relief, and happiness, many of them punctuated with punches to his arms and shoulders and finally a hard slap across his face.
Both Marcus and Frank recoiled in shock and then displayed matching expressions of confusion when she wrapped her arms around the captain’s neck as tears erupted. A litany of what sounded like apologies soon followed.
“I must go to him,” she said between gasps for breath. “You will take me?”
St. John aimed an arched brow in Marcus’ direction. “I cannot, but there is a ship bound for London in port right now,” he replied. “The captain plans to leave in the morning. If you’d like, I can see to it you have your own cabin.”
She let go her hold on him. “I must be on that ship,” she stated.
“I can arrange your passage,” he assured her. “But… what about your father?” he asked, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. He had been expecting the aristocrat to make a grand entrance at any moment.
Maria dipped her head. “He has died,” she replied. “Almost two months now. After you were last here.”
St. John displayed a look of sorrow. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, even though he almost felt relief on her behalf. He was sure the conde had reached the point where he would have sold Maria into slavery as a means to make some blunt.
“I am not,” she said on a huff, her tears quickly abating. “He spent all of my inheritance. I have no dowry,” she added. “No money. No butler. No—”
“I can see to your passage to London,” St. John interrupted. “Give you what you’ll need to get to Lord Reardon’s house. You can be there within the week.”
She stared up at him. “Gracias,” she whispered.
St. John nodded. “There is a favor you must do for this young man, though,” he said as he waved to Marcus.
Maria directed her gaze on the young man. “Favor?” she repeated, suspicion evident in her voice.
“I need you to take letters for me to Lord Reardon’s sister, Miss Lucy Fitzsimmons, and to Lord Reardon,” Marcus said. “And one needs to be posted to my sister.”
“You’ll act as a courier,” St. John stated. “I have a missive for Lord Reardon, as well.”
“Letters for Christopher’s father?” she asked, her brows once again furrowing.
St. John inhaled sharply, immediately understanding her confusion. “Remember, Christopher’s father died before he fought the French,” he explained. “It was the reason I was dispatched to Waterloo. Christopher is Viscount Reardon now.”
Her eyes rounded. “So... I am a viscountess?” she asked softly. Relief sounded in her voice.
“You will be,” St. John confirmed. He dared a glance at the footman who was watching them from the top of the stairs. “You were angry with someone when we arrived,” he said. “What has happened?”
Tears once again filled Maria’s eyes. “A messenger arrived before you did. I have been told I must leave. This villa has been sold to become a… a hotel, I think it is called,” she explained, obviously uncertain about the English word she used.
“Then you must be on the ship to London in the morning. If you would like…” He glanced up again, noting the servant was no longer watching them. “I can help you with your trunks. See to it you are safely on board,” he offered.
“I will pack my trousseau right now,” she replied, turning to climb the stairs. “The rest is already packed.”
“Pray tell, how many trunks will you take, my lady?” Marcus asked.
Three sets of eyes turned to regard him in surprise. He shrugged. “She’s a woman. I have two sisters, so I know there will be more than one trunk,” he said in his own defense. “There are only the three of us,” he added sheepishly.
“Four. I have four trunks,” she replied, already racing up the stairs. “Two valises. Mayhap three. And a wooden crate.”
The men all seemed to roll their eyes in unison.
“A wooden crate?” Frank repeated under his breath.
“We’ll need a cart,” Marcus remarked.
“We shall return for you soon, my lady,” St. John called up to Maria.
“I will be ready,” she replied, before disappearing from view.
St. John lifted his hands to his hips and sighed. “Well, it seems we have a cart to locate.”
“But at least we have a courier,” Marcus said.
The three took their leave of the villa to search for a means to transport the lady’s luggage to the port. It seemed they had some work ahead of them that afternoon.