Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (7 page)

Surprise flickered in her eyes. “No, no, my lord. Eduardo wanted only to tell me about someone from his village. It is nothing.”

Rycote nodded as if satisfied. He could hardly accuse her of lying, and after all, why should she confide in him? He was a stranger.

By the time they were all seated by the window and supplied with small cups of bitter coffee, she had recovered her aplomb. Eduardo and Amelia covered the table with plates of pastries, bread, sausages, and cheeses, and Lissandra entertained them all with a stream of comments about the people in the piazza, spinning fantastic histories for them.

Her gaiety seemed to drop from her when a group of French officers came into sight. She muttered something in Italian, almost certainly a curse from her tone of voice, and pulled back, but not before one of them caught sight of her.

At the sight of Lissandra's pale face, Elinor reached over to her and asked what was wrong. Lissandra just shook her head, but was still clutching Elinor's hand when one of the Frenchmen strode into the room. He was reasonably tall for a Frenchman, and his uniform fit him well. All that gold braid and tassels would look impressive onstage. The fellow had a moustache, twirling up at the ends, and probably thought himself quite the ladies' man. Rycote scowled at him.

The officer swept off his plumed shako, clicked his heels, bowed, and spoke in French. “Donna Lissandra, I would not have expected to find you in such humble surroundings. Had I realized your parents were now permitting such outings, I would have offered to escort you myself.”

Lissandra held up a hand to her companions to tell them to remain seated and looked somewhere off to the side of the officer. “Any such offer would be refused, as you have doubtless surmised.” Her voice dripped ice.

A flush of anger crossed his face, and he glared at the others. “You will perhaps introduce me to your companions?”

Her lips tightened, but she relented and waved a hand in his direction as she turned to her companions. “This is Lieutenant Girard. He is one of the French troops here to protect us, they tell us.”

When it appeared she intended to say nothing more, he ground out, “And your friends?” He made the word sound like an insult.

Rycote stood up, towering several inches over Girard, and smiled thinly. His French was adequate to understand Lissandra's exchange with the Frenchman, but he preferred to speak English himself. “Allow me, Lieutenant. I am Viscount Rycote. This is my sister, Lady Elinor Tremaine, and our friend, Viscount Tunbury. We and my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Penworth, are staying with the Crescenzis. Her parents consider us acceptable companions for Donna Lissandra. I trust you have no objection?” He was pleased to see that the lieutenant looked taken aback.

“I assure you, no insult was intended.” Girard clicked his heels again. “But as you are English, you may not realize that the protection Donna Lissandra dismisses so casually is indeed needed.” A slight stiffening of his posture was the only indication that he heard the contemptuous noise Lissandra made. “The rabble who were driven out of Rome only by the arrival of the French troops have begun to creep back. We are ever vigilant and will root out all these rebels, even the misguided fools who are betraying their noble families.” He shot a venomous glare at Lissandra with that last comment.

Lady Elinor decided to break in at this point with a sunny smile. “Really, Lieutenant, I don't think there is any need for you to be afraid. I am sure that if there were any danger, the emperor would have mentioned it to Papa when we stopped in Paris on our way.”

Girard goggled at her. “The emperor…your father…”

She continued to smile. “It would have been rude not to call on him while we were there. Especially with the peace conference going on.”

The heels clicked once more. His moustache quivering, Girard gave a short bow before he turned and marched out.

Rycote brushed his own moustache with the side of his finger. He decided to shave it off.

Early in the morning on the day of their first trip to view the ruins of Etruria, the mysterious civilization that was old when Rome was new, Lady Penworth and Elinor came down the wide marble staircase to the courtyard. Penworth and Tunbury turned to greet them and, after a moment of stunned silence, Penworth began to laugh. Rycote, who had been looking out the gate to see if their carriage had arrived, turned at the sound.

“Good God, Mother. Elinor. You're mad, both of you.” He looked as shocked as he sounded. “You can't go out in public dressed like that.”

“Don't be silly, Pip,” said his mother. “You can hardly expect us to be exploring tombs underground in crinolines or hoops.” She looked down complacently at her divided skirt of deep red wool, short enough to show the riding boots on her feet. “Besides, no one will see us in the carriage, and I doubt there will be many others wandering around the Etruscan cemeteries.”

“Or did you think we would just sit under a tree, twirling our parasols, while you gentlemen had all the fun?” Elinor tossed her head and turned aside to ignore her brother and smile at Tunbury.

He smiled back. He couldn't help it. But it was a weak smile, and his mouth was too dry for him to say anything. He should have known she would do something like this, and he should have known her mother would join her. It was just as it had been crossing the Channel. She hadn't worn a corset then, either. Her reasoning had been perfectly sensible, and it was perfectly sensible now as well. Of course they couldn't go climbing around tombs with their skirts sticking out six feet in every direction. But this…

It wasn't that he could actually see anything. There was more of her skin exposed when she wore a ball gown, almost baring her shoulders and cut low enough to give a hint of bosom. But now—it was what he
knew.
She was within reach. Without those petticoats he knew that if he slid his hands down from her waist he would be able to feel the swell of her hips, the curve of her derrière…

“Anne, my dear, you look enchanting.” Lord Penworth swept into a courtly bow and kissed his wife's hand. “And I am exceedingly grateful that you do not intend to parade about the city in this costume, delightful though it is.”

“You know I would never embarrass you, Philip.”

“You could not.” He tucked his wife's hand into the crook of his arm and patted it fondly. “But I fear you might drive the gentlemen of Rome to distraction, and I am getting too old to be fighting duels.”

Tunbury watched the exchange with a stab of envy. The marquess and his wife loved each other. Even after all these years of marriage. What he would not give to have had a family like that. Rycote might grumble and blush at his parents' displays of affection, but he had no idea how fortunate he was to have always lived surrounded by love.

Tunbury's parents had barely been able to tolerate being under the same roof. On the rare occasions when they were, the vicious sneers at each other, the shouts of “Whore!” and “Drunkard!” poisoned the atmosphere and drove him from the house. Rycote and Norrie had no idea how vile the world could be. Norrie had to marry someone who could protect her and keep her safe in that world of love.

Not someone who carried with him a heritage of shame and dishonor.

Not someone with bad blood.

Not someone like him.

He gave himself a mental shake and went to join Rycote in watching for the arrival of the carriage. By the time it arrived and the ladies were safely hidden inside, he had managed to inure himself to Norrie's appearance. He prided himself that his voice sounded perfectly normal, at least so long as he kept his eyes on her face, not her body.

There was a slight setback when they reached La Storta where they had arranged to have saddle horses awaiting them. The horses were there, and perfectly acceptable mounts—neither slugs nor overly excitable. Unfortunately, Lady Penworth had arranged that she and Elinor would be riding astride.

Elinor took exception to the expression on Tunbury's face. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry. You know perfectly well that Mama and I always ride astride when we are at Penworth. I will put up with a sidesaddle when I am trotting along the manicured paths of the park, but this is obviously much safer when exploring unknown wilderness.”

He couldn't deny it, so he shut his mouth and helped her to mount. How did she manage to make the most outrageous things she did seem perfectly sensible? He gritted his teeth. At least, he consoled himself, he was handling it better than Rycote, who had protested so vehemently that his father had to reprimand him.

As they rode along, everyone grew calmer. The gently rolling plain, almost treeless, seemed utterly deserted. They might have been in a different world. When they reached the top of a small rise, they could see a steep cliff about a mile off with some buildings atop it—whether ruins or hovels could not be discerned from this distance.

“According to Mr. Dennis's book, at the foot of that cliff lie the remains of the city of Veii, perhaps the most important of the cities of Etruria,” said Penworth.

They looked out at it in silence. From a distance, there seemed to be nothing to see, just a slightly bumpy plain fringed with trees. Finally, Tunbury broke the silence and suggested that they at least ride over and see the place. Even so, they remained as quiet as trespassers as they crossed a glen separating the cliff from the ancient city. They forded a small stream and followed a path that led up to what had once been a city gate. Of the ancient walls, all that remained were some small rectangular stones.

There was an atmosphere to the place. Not frightening, precisely. Just odd. Tunbury was not given to imaginative flights, but he felt impelled to pull his horse up so that he was riding close to Norrie. Whatever it was about this place, she seemed to feel it too, because she gave him a quick smile and seemed to relax slightly, as if she was grateful for his nearness.

Eventually they came to the Arx, the city's ancient citadel, a sort of plateau with sides dropping sharply to the streams that ran through the glens. Only a narrow ridge, rather like a causeway, connected it to the rest of the city. A few stones near the edge of the plateau could be the remains of a temple, or perhaps the towers that defended the citadel. Did anyone know, or was that one of the mysteries surrounding the Etruscans?

Penworth dismounted and the others followed. An eerie hush hung over the area, with the wind carrying mournful whispers. There were no birds; that was it. Harry took Norrie's hand and tucked it under his arm, pulling her close to him. She offered no objection. In fact, she was almost clinging to him.

“Do you feel it?” she said softly. “There is something about this place. It's as if some ancient sorrow still clings to the ground here.”

He knew what she meant. He could not identify it precisely, but he knew there was something, some memory, some emotion, still lingering.

“Legend has it that the people of Veii held out here against the Romans for ten years,” Penworth said, turning slowly in a circle. “Finally the Roman commander Camillus had his men dig a tunnel under the citadel through which he led them. According to Livy, they burst into the temple of Juno just as the priest conducting a sacrifice declared that he who completed the sacrifice would be victorious. The priest was about to hand the entrails to the Etruscan king, but Camillus snatched the entrails from him and offered them to the goddess himself.” He sighed. “And that was the end of Veii.”

Elinor shivered. “It seems so sad.”

“Sad? Perhaps,” her father said. “But a reminder to us that every victory is a defeat for someone, and that eventually enough time will pass to ease both the pride and the pain. All our victories and defeats will be forgotten.”

“There is no need to be quite so gloomy, Philip,” said Lady Penworth sharply. “One might equally well think of it as a reminder not to take ourselves too seriously.”

Penworth's sudden laugh echoed around them. “Quite right, my dear. And indeed the Etruscans are probably the last people who should be giving rise to gloomy thoughts. By all accounts, they were a cheerful lot. Come, let us leave the place of defeat and see if we can find something happier. I understand that there is not much left to discover here—the antiquities dealers have been ransacking it for the past twenty years, at least. However, there is a painted tomb of which much has been made.”

They found it without too much difficulty and discovered that it was not just interesting but delightful. The earthy colors of the frescoes retained much of their freshness, but it was the design that intrigued them all, the painted doorway in the middle with two horizontal panels on either side depicting people and bizarre animals in hierarchical sizes.

“Everything—the people, the animals—they look almost playful,” said Elinor. “How strange to think of a tomb being cheerful, but it is. No mournful faces, no tears and cries. Just this, this exuberance.”

“Fascinating,” Harry agreed, though whether he meant Norrie's enthusiasm or the paintings was uncertain.

“They're not just strange, they're bizarre,” Rycote said, frowning. “They're all in different colors and patterns. Look at that horse. Its forequarters are red and its hindquarters are gray. And it's speckled. Preposterous.”

His sister glared at him. “You are the most unimaginative
c
lod,
Pip.”

Their parents paid their offspring no heed.

“Is that a sphinx underneath?” Lady Penworth peered at the painting closely.

“Yes,” said Lord Penworth slowly, bending over beside her. “Remarkable.”

Harry stepped back and looked slowly over the whole wall. “It's a tomb painting, I know, but what's really strange about it is that it's so…so happy.”

Elinor nodded in agreement. “I can imagine living in a house with a wall like this. Is that what it means, do you suppose? They seem to have had a very cheerful view of the afterlife.”

“I'm not sure about the colors, though,” said her brother. “They'd get a bit monotonous.” He grinned when she aimed a swat at his shoulder.

“The colors are one way they know this is one of the earlier tombs, the colors and the fantastic creatures,” said Penworth meditatively. “From the seventh century BC, they say. More than two thousand five hundred years ago. We have no way of knowing who painted this wall, but he speaks to us across all those centuries. Veii may have been defeated, but the spirit of these people speaks to us and triumphs over time.”

He was still studying the wall when his wife suggested that perhaps they should leave if they intended to get back to Rome before nightfall. On the ride back, he was unusually quiet and took out a small notebook in which he wrote from time to time. He quite ignored the lively chatter of his children and Tunbury.

That evening, as they were preparing for bed, he said to his wife, “I think I shall ask Freeborn if he knows of anyone who is conducting excavations. I would dearly like to see a tomb before it has been disturbed by looters.”