To Surrender to a Rogue (24 page)

"I never thought I would give thanks to my Eton Latin master and the years he spent drumming verbs and conjugations into my head," he muttered. Knowledge of the obscure military terms came from the duke, and family suppertime discussions that demanded an intimate acquaintance with Caesarian battle tactics.

Under the guise of making a quick review of his sketches, Alessandra had slipped him the documents, admitting that as her Latin was mostly scientific, the contents were a bit baffling to her. She had relied on Frederico and his translation of the original text in mapping out possible locations.

Quite likely he was simply covering the same ground, but...

Lifting the page to the light, Jack stared thoughtfully at the smudged words, and then down at the site map that Alessandra had drawn for him. Pencil shadings indicated the two places where she was doing some exploratory digging, and a circle marked the area where Frederico was concentrating his efforts. However subtle, nuances of language could easily change the meaning of a sentence. 'Stride' and 'distance' meant different things to a soldier and to a civilian.

Jack reread the page several more times, then carefully pocketed the papers. Taking up his canvas bag of tools, he circled back to the footpath and followed it down to the flat verge of swampy soil that bordered the river. The eddying waters pooled in the shallows along the bank, gurgling softly over the smooth stones. In the distance he heard the song of a linnet, and the
slush
of shovels digging out the sculpted Roman columns.

Following his instincts, Jack turned left, away from Alessandra's markings and the main excavation site and began to count his strides.

One, two, three...

"I was beginning to worry." Alessandra tumbled with her document case, hurriedly sliding the ancient papers in between two committee reports. "Frederico will be back at any moment," she whispered. "You had best not linger."

"Actually, I have good reason to be here," he replied with a hint of a smile. "I've been assigned to help Merrill sort through the pottery and help choose the best example for a drawing to go in the Society's exhibition gallery."

She was glad of his company but couldn't quell a flutter of worry over the Italian's reaction. "Frederico won't like it"

"Frederico can
va'all 'inferno "

A burble of laughter rose in her throat, but Alessandra quickly choked it down. Folding back a square of oilskin cloth, she busied herself with arranging her site plans on the makeshift trestle table. The workmen had just finished lashing down the canvas roof and walls on the new shelter and were helping to move the crates of pottery inside while she readied her things. "Please don't make light of the danger. He is still a deadly threat"

"Not for much longer." Jack reached over to help her shift a wooden box of writing supplies. He had removed his gloves, and she saw mud was embedded beneath his nails and scrapes covered the flat of his palms. "I was hoping to uncover some hard evidence of Bellazoni's misdeeds, but I've decided that we ought not wait Given that we've not heard from your cousin, I am going to slip off to London tomorrow, after making an appearance here in the morning."

A firegold glimmer in his dark eyes made her inhale sharply.
"Santa Cielo,
you've discovered something."

He nodded. "A classical education does prove useful once in a while. As do military marching drills. In putting the two together..."

Alessandra listened in stunned silence as Jack explained his hunch, and how he had followed it to a bend in the river below the main excavation site. Pacing out the distances according to his own calculations, he had come to a spot that seemed to match the ancient description.

"It was there?" she demanded, jumping one step ahead of his explanation. "The gold
imago
of the Second Legion Augusta in Britannia actually exists?"

"Yes."

She felt a surge of scholarly excitement "Is it—"

"Undamaged, and absolutely magnificent," finished Jack. He smiled. "It is an incredibly important archaeological discovery."

Her breathing became a ragged, rapid-fire series of tiny gulps. For an instant, she felt a little giddy, as if she were floating on air. And then fear brought her back to earth.

"We
can't
let him get his hands on it," she whispered.

"Never fear." He touched the back of her fisted hand, the fleeting flare of warmth loosening its clench. "It's buried in a spot where no one will think to look. And the fact that it is real works greatly in our favor, not his." Sensing her confusion, he went on quickly. "His plan no longer seems such a fanciful dream. If he succeeds in raising money, he has a chance of fomenting an uprising in Italy. Something that our government would find troubling, to say the least So I think Lord Lynsley will listen very seriously when I explain the situation."

His argument was logical, and yet Alessandra was not entirely convinced. "If only we had some shred of evidence that proved his malice. He is here in England under an assumed name—his real name is Frederico Bertoni—so even something so simple as a document showing his false identity would give credence to our story."

"It would help," allowed Jack. "But your word—our word—will suffice for now."

She pressed her lips together.

"You must trust me on this."

Keeping her voice steady, she braced her hands on the rough planking and looked up to meet his gaze. Those deep, dark eyes had once seemed so opaque, so intimidating, but she had learned from a master artist how to see the subtle nuances of color and texture. "Of course I do. Without question."

"I promise you, we will beat him at his own game, sweetheart."

His calm confidence fanned a spark of hope inside her.
A future free of the terrible past?
She hardly dared to let it flicker, for fear that it would somehow turn to ashes.

"I..." Alessandra forced her mind to focus on the present "I am ready. Tell me what I must do."

"Simply go through the motions of your daily routine." Jack lowered his voice as the sound of footsteps on the path rose above the rustling of the oak leaves. "Just for another day or two." His fingertips met hers in a swift, sweet caress. "As I said, I'll show up here in the morning, just to be seen, and then sneak away to London. No one will know I have gone."

Outside, Frederico's silky laugh snaked up through the thicket of gorse.

"Go back to Merrill's worktable," she urged softly. "No point in stirring Frederico's suspicions by having him see us conversing."

Jack listened for a moment as the Italian's voice grew louder and louder, then turned away. As he crossed to the other side of the shelter, muscles rippling with the lithe, light-footed grace of a large cat Alessandra caught a glimpse of his unsmiling face, his features honed to a hard edge.

"We shall soon see how the predator likes becoming the prey," he murmured.

The next day seemed to go on forever. Restless and on edge, Alessandra went through the motions of her work at the site. Jack had slipped away unnoticed after the morning committee meeting. While he raced to a rendezvous in London with Lord Lynsley, she could only sit and wait

Between meetings with Dwight-Davis and supervising a new section of the excavation grid, she managed to dodge any contact with Frederico. But he continued to crowd her thoughts, his shadow swirling around her consciousness like a thick, choking London fog.

A sharp sound startled her from such reveries. Looking down, she realized that the pencil had snapped in her grip. She drew a steadying breath, and stared at the splinters.
No more naming, no more hiding.
She had cowered in fear for far too long, a passive victim, flinching at the sound of every knock or footstep.

Surely she could do something more useful than fretting.

Pushing the tiny slivers of wood into an orderly row, Alessandra forced herself to think dispassionately about the situation, and how she and Jack could prove their allegations that Frederico was a criminal. Words were all very well, but a piece of incriminating evidence would give much more credence to their charges. There must be some proof, some paper...

Pietro.
The conte had arranged for Frederico to be part of the Italian delegation. Once he knew how his longtime friendship had been abused, he would gladly help her by turning over any document in his possession. A false name, a forged credential—a lie, set down in stark black and white, would be hard for the authorities to ignore.

Alessandra listened to the flapping of the canvas, the chink of the brass buckles against the wood posts, echoing her own misgivings. She might well be drawing Pietro into danger. A small slip on his part might tip off Frederico to the trap about to spring. And Frederico was clever and cold-blooded enough to do whatever was necessary to save his own skin.

Gooseflesh prickled up and down the length of her arms. Chafing her hands together, she slowly rubbed some warmth back into her palms. Pietro would want to do what was right, regardless of the danger, she decided. The workday was almost over and he would be returning to his quarters for several hours before going out for the evening...

The curricle's wheel bounced over the ruts and puddles, spraying a brackish mixture of muck over the lacquered wood. Bracing his now-filthy boots against the iron rungs, Jack turned up the collar of his driving coat to ward off the chill bite. As the sun played hide-and-seek among the gathering clouds, the rising wind was growing sharper with the threat of impending rain.

He eyed the heavens, hoping the ominous black line hovering at the horizon would hold fast long enough for him to reach London.
Wishful thinking, no doubt.
Given the rotten state of the roads, he couldn't expect to make very good time.

Dropping his chin into the thick folds of melton wool, Jack resigned himself to the fact that he had hours of bruising travel ahead of him.

The workday finally over, Alessandra had returned to town. But rather than return home, she had her carriage drop her at the Society's townhouse. Ducking into the back stairwell, she pulled the latch shut and started up the steep steps. Pietro's suite of rooms was on the top floor, and while a visit to his private quarters might raise a few eyebrows if she were spotted, it could be explained away.

Time was of the essence.

Tiptoeing up the last two treads, she peeked into the corridor. The small arched window on the opposite wall let in only a single blade of the afternoon sun. Dust motes danced in the muted glow, the only sign of movement. Still a bit breathless, Alessandra swallowed a small gulp of air, trying to slow her thumping heart.
No need to be nervous.
Pietro would no doubt be shocked to learn the depths of Frederico's depravity, but he would believe her.

Shifting her stance, she saw that the door to the conte's sitting room was slightly open, spilling a pool of lamplight across the dark polished parquet Relieved that he was not out on some errand, she slipped from the shadows and started forward, tiptoeing silently over the thick Turkey runner.

But as she approached, she heard a muffled oath.

"Me ne infischio
—I don't give a damn!"

Alessandra froze in her tracks. That all-too-familiar silver-tongued voice! Yet now it was twisted in a snarl.

"Don't patronize me, Pietro!" continued Frederico. "Come take a look for yourself."

"Calm down,
amico"
counseled Orrichetti with his usual patience. "There is no need for histrionics."

"Easy for you to say" grumbled the other man, though his voice did drop a notch. "You ought not let the
Inglieze
give all the orders here."

Alessandra heard her old friend heave a long-suffering sigh. "Very well, let us go down and talk to Dwight-Davis. Give me a moment to get my coat"

She dared not let Frederico see her here. Looking around wildly, she saw the door to a small linen closet set into the wood paneling. It yielded to her push, allowing just enough room for her to squeeze inside.

"It is only to be expected that some problems will arise on a joint venture like this one. You must trust that I know how to deal with them." Orrichetti spoke as if trying to soothe a sulky child. "Try to remember that I am in charge here."

"Si
," grunted Frederico. "But that does not mean..."

The words faded into the sound of bootheels clicking over the marble steps of the main stairs.

Alessandra waited several moments before emerging from her hiding place.
Retreat and wait for him to return?
That would be risky. As the afternoon faded into evening, so would her chances of finding the conte alone.

She looked around uncertainly, the surrounding silence seeming to amplify the quickening thud of her pulse. Perhaps from the window she could see where the men were headed.

A few tentative steps brought her abreast of the door. Orrichetti had left it slightly ajar, allowing a glimpse of coals crackling in the hearth and a pair of highback chairs arranged close to the fire. Between them stood a dark mahogany tea table, a leather portfolio case bulging with papers resting upon its polished top.

Papers.
That was what she had come for. Perhaps it would even be better if she could discover any useful information on Frederico without exposing her old friend to any danger.

He would forgive the intrusion, she told herself as she slipped into the room.

Taking the portfolio to the alcoved window, she seated herself on the cushions and began skimming through the folders. The first few held naught but itineraries and expense records. Feeling a little guilty at snooping through her old friend's confidential papers, she tried to hurry her search.

Her fumbling fingers nearly missed the slim packet wedged between the wine merchant's bills and a list of books ordered from London. Hope flared in her breast, but on untying the ribbon, Alessandra was disappointed to see the first few papers appeared to be private letters. Still, she could not afford to overlook the chance of finding any documents on Frederico's background and qualifications. All personal correspondence she would skip over without a second glance.

But as she thumbed through the sheaf of papers, her eyes caught a name and held it

Stefano.

Torn between guilt and longing, she hesitated, and then couldn't resist reading what was written about her late husband. Orrichetti had been his closest friend and confidant Any reminiscences he had exchanged with other acquaintances would be a welcome complement to her own memories of Stefano.

Smoothing the deckled edges of the letter, she began to read.

"Dio Madre,"
she whispered, before quickly moving on to the next missive.

At some point the portfolio slipped from her lap, scattering the papers across the carpet She was oblivious to any sound, save for the crackle of creamy stationery between her nerveless hands. A wave of light-headedness washed over her, blurring the lines of ink into one long, looping serpent Squeezing her eyes shut, she feared she was going to be sick.

Somehow, she must have mistaken or misinterpreted the words.

For one mad moment, Alessandra wondered whether the last few weeks of worry had unhinged her mind. But on forcing herself to swallow the taste of bile and reread the letters, she saw her eyes had not deceived her. The truth was there, undeniably etched in black and white.

Orrichetti was a methodical man. He had kept copies of his own letters, filed along with the replies received from a man named Luigi Vignelli. She knew of him—he was a rich, reclusive nobleman who dreamed of one day restoring the glories of ancient Rome under a modern Caesar.

A dreamer.
But a dangerous dreamer, according to the twisted thoughts he had put down on paper.

Like spiders, the men had spun a sinister web of intrigue and innuendo.
Bribery, slander, and yes, even murder.
According to these missives, Vignelli had helped fund Frederico's violence against the Austrians in return for a promise of political influence in the cabal that he and Orrichetti were planning.

She made herself study the sordid details, and it soon became clear that their conspiracy stretched back several years. Which meant that while Orrichetti and Frederico had been enjoying her late husband's hospitality, they had also been betraying his. principles. And his friendship.

Lies, all lies.

Sinking back against the mullioned windowpanes, Alessandra pressed her palms to her throbbing brow. A swirl of wind rattled the casement, the chill air seeping through the glass and taking hold of her heart

The truth was horrifying, not only for itself but also for the doubts it cast on her own judgment She had trusted these men without question, looked to them for counsel and support And she had let them manipulate her with laughable ease, following their advice like a docile little lamb being led to slaughter.

Pietro's perfidy was perhaps the more shattering. He had known her late husband for years. They smoked together, drank together, talked philosophy long into the night together. He had always expressed admiration for Stefano's political writings. How could he have disguised his true nature for so long?

But she knew well enough how one could hide an evil secret, if one were disciplined and determined.

Somehow, she had the presence of mind to pluck the most damning of the letters from the sheaf in her lap and tuck it inside her cuff.

"Alessa?" Orrichetti was naught but a dark shape, his silhouette limned by the fire. "Is something amiss, my dear?"

She looked up, tears trickling down her cheeks. "How
could
you?"

His gaze flicked from her face to the papers on the floor. "Shut the door, Frederico."

Smoke wafted out from the half-open door, along with the pungent smells of spilled ale, wet earth, and the unwashed bodies of the local farmers. Jack tugged the brim of his hat lower and shouldered his way inside the taproom. The inn was one of the less reputable stops on the road to London, which was exactly the reason he had chosen it He didn't want to chance encountering a familiar face. The fewer people who knew he had left Bath, the better.

Peeling off his driving gloves, he ordered a tankard of porter and took a seat by the window. The coins he had passed to the ostler should ensure that a fresh team of horses would be harnessed to his curricle within five minutes. Still, he shifted impatiently on the rough bench, watching the twisting shadows in the stableyard with a growing sense of unease.

Stop seeing specters,
he chided himself. Looking away from the dingy panes of glass, Jack lifted the mug to his lips, silently recounting all the reasons it was necessary to leave Alessandra alone while he made a quick trip to Town. The possible rewards far outweighed the risks. That damn rogue Marco may still be missing, but with his brother vouching for him, he should be able to arrange a meeting with Lord Lynsley. The marquess had the resources and authority to deal with dangerous situations. And he owed the Circle of Sin a debt for past services.

Quid pro quo.

The thought should have settled his nerves. And yet as he leaned back, a chill prickled down his spine.

Steeling his jaw, he crossed one booted leg over the other and began drumming his fingers on the scarred tabletop. A minute passed.

And then another.

Damn.
A growl reverberating in his throat, Jack pushed up from his seat and hurried for the door, the flap of his heavy caped coat stirring up swirls of sawdust. He was alive today because he had listened to his instincts, even when they countermanded common sense.

"Here now, sor." The ostler looked up from the horses. "I've just one more buckle an—"

Jack pushed away the man's hands from the harness and quickly threaded the stiff leather through the brass. Silencing the protest with a handful of silver, he vaulted onto the driver's perch and grabbed for his whip.

Alessandra heard the soft thunk of oak and the click of the key. "You murdered Stefano," she whispered.

"Tut, tut, my dear. Murder is such an
ugly
word, as you well know," replied Orrichetti. "Stefano had a weak heart I simply helped to hasten the inevitable."