The Very Daring Duchess Part 6

"I must go, my lord," she said, trying to concentrate on tying the portfolio's ties together as her fingers inexplicably shook. "Mi scusi, but I must go now."

"You've nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Robin," he said gallantly, misreading her decision. "Those drawings are far better than anything for sale in your studio."

"I am not ashamed, my lord captain," she said, slinging her workbag over her arm and clutching the portfolio in both arms over her chest. "This is Naples, my lord, not London. Here we do not waste our worries over shames or scandals, nor do I-"

But she broke off at the sound of the voices on the stairs. Lady Hamilton's laughter announced her return, her cheeks flushed with pleasure as she entered the room between the two most famous Englishmen in Naples. On one side was her husband Sir William Hamilton, his shoulders rounded with age and habitual scholarship, his half-smile as courtly as his impeccably powdered wig. On her ladyship's other side was Admiral Lord Nelson, a slight, hollow-eyed man whose wounds and scars-the empty sleeve that marked the amputated arm, the shade slanting over the half-blind eye, the fierce, raw scar on his forehead from the September battle at Aboukir Bay-still couldn't diminish the commanding vibrancy of his personality or his attention to Lady Hamilton.

Oh, there was no shame in Naples, thought Francesca wretchedly as she mumbled her farewells and excuses to Lord Nelson and the Hamiltons, no shame anywhere. But she fled without saying good-bye to Captain Ramsden, running down the palazzo's marble steps with her portfolio still clutched tight in both arms and her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn't until she was halfway home, alone in the dark of her ladyship's private chaise, that she realized she'd left her shawl behind, and with a forlorn sigh she leaned back against the soft leather squabs and closed her eyes.

Her head ached abominably, the throbbing punctuated by the horses' hooves clopping on the cobblestones. The murderous French army and the icy gray sanctuary of London, the tall captain's large hands so carefully holding her drawings and his chilly scorn as he'd judged her, Lady Hamilton smiling between her lover and her husband and the red sun sliding into the golden bay, all jumbled together in her aching head. As soon as she was home she'd ask Nanetta to make up one of her sleeping powders, and then to bed she'd go. Yes, yes: A good night's sleep and a fresh dawn would cure everything.

Everything but the odd little ache in her heart, that heart that she swore she'd keep for herself.

The chaise stopped before her house, and the door opened. Slowly she stepped outside, unaccustomed to the attention of one footman in sky-blue velvet livery steadying her hand, another holding a lantern to light her path.

But the illusion of luxury was short-lived. Even before she'd alighted, the door to her house flew open, and Nanetta, her housemaid and cook, flew sobbing down the steps to clutch at Francesca's skirts.

"Praise the Mother of G.o.d, at last you return! While you were gone, Mistress Francesca-such a shock, such a violation, I can hardly speak of it!"

Francesca caught at the old woman's arm, dragging her back to her feet. "What happened, Nanetta? Tell me!"

"Thieves, signora, in the studio!" cried Nanetta, shaking her head as she wiped at her face with her ap.r.o.n. "And oh, mistress, what the black-hearted devils have stolen from you!"

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"You are most fortunate, Signora Robin," said the constable as he tapped his gloved finger to the empty nail where, until last night, had hung a portrait of King Ferdinando. "Your losses do not seem to me to be nearly as severe as you described."

"Not severe, Signor Albani!" exclaimed Francesca. "How can you look at this-this disaster and say my losses are not severe?"

Indignantly she swept her hand through the air to encompa.s.s the sorry state of her studio. She had ordered Nanetta not to clean until the constable came, and in the watery morning light the gaps among the pictures on the wall seemed sadly conspicuous. But at least the thieves had cared enough about those pictures to carry them off. A dozen or so others had been mutilated instead, the canvases slashed to jagged tatters that drooped forlornly from the frames, and all complete losses, beyond repair. Pottery vases had been smashed against the wall or on the floor, two chairs broken into sticks, and cinders from the grate tossed onto the wreckage. It was the wantonness of the destruction that angered-and frightened-Francesca the most, and when she looked at the ruined paintings she could almost feel the willful slash of the knife, an attack upon herself as much as upon the pictures.

But Signor Albani did not agree. "And I say again, signora, that you are fortunate your losses are so slight." He bowed slightly, his yellow-toothed smile anything but rea.s.suring. "A beautiful young woman such as yourself, living alone-"

"I do not live here alone, signor," she said haughtily, drawing herself straighter against the constable's insinuation. "I have two trusted servants who live here with me, and have served in this household for many years. And if you mean to imply that this attack is somehow my fault, simply because I do not rely upon the protection of a husband to-"

"I imply nothing, lovely signora." He smiled again, trying to soothe her, holding his black-gloved hands upward. "I would never mean to show you any such grave disrespect."

"Why didn't Signor Mazzetta come himself?" she asked pointedly, referring to the older, more senior constable. "He has always come to my summons before. He perfectly understands my situation."

"Ah, poor Signor Mazzetta." The constable sighed, and shook his head. "His health is not what it once was, you know, and at last he was persuaded to retire to the country in the care of his daughters. For his own good, you understand."

"And you are his replacement?" Signor Mazzetta had been the model Neapolitan public servant, cheerfully corrupt and too lazy to be more than competent, who'd always treated Francesca like one more daughter.

"Times change, signora, and so must we." The new constable bowed with a flourish. "I am your servant, in all things."

To Francesca, his insinuating manner carried the sour charm of a professional litigator, as did the affectation of his all-black clothes and black wig, and she suspected there'd be none of his predecessor's cheerful incompetence, either.

"Then how do you propose to catch these villains, signore?" she asked sharply. "How will you protect my house so that this will not happen again?"

The black-gloved hands now became part of his shrug. "Perhaps it is not so much what I can do, Signora Robin, as what you shall do to protect yourself. If the door to the street had been locked-"

"I was not at home," she said defensively, feeling more like the thief than the victim. "It is not my custom to have the doors locked until I have returned for the night."

Another shrug, this one with just a hint of scorn. "Then your servants must learn to be more attentive to your property, signora. For them not to hear these men enter your house and this studio, to be deaf to this destruction despite the loyalty you say they owe you-this perplexes me, signora."

It had perplexed Francesca, too, though she'd never admit it to the constable. "Nanetta and Bartolomeo were in the kitchen, away from the front stairs and door. Besides, they are not young, and their hearing is not what it once was. If you had seen their terror last night when I returned, signor, you would not question them now about these thieves."

The constable turned back toward the wall, idly tracing his thumb along the place where one of the pictures had hung. "True, they may be loyal to you, signora. But what are their feelings toward his majesty, eh? Are your servants good subjects of the king, or do they look to the lure of the north, to the republican promises of the French?"

"Nanetta and Bartolomeo?" She couldn't fathom such a possibility. The two servants were more like aged relatives, too busy grumbling and quarrelling with each other to consider such traitorous politics. "I do not think they could even tell you a single republican promise, let alone be lured by it."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his upper lip drawn tight over his teeth. "Then what of your own beliefs, signora? You are widely known to welcome all manner of foreigners, even Frenchmen, here to your studio."

"But such touring gentlemen have always been patrons of the artists in this country," she protested, "and without their gold guineas or louis d'or, we would likely perish!"

He was watching her closely. "You are most independent for a lady, signora. Perhaps liberty, brotherhood, and equality hold attractions for you as well, or at least long enough for you to buy favor with the ruffians in the street."

Francesca gasped, shocked by such an accusation. Personal infidelities might not matter for much in Naples, but political intrigue, informers, and spies most certainly did. If this man persisted, she could easily find herself accused, tried, and buried forever in some dark little prison cell. "I summoned you here because of a theft, Signor Albani, not to be interrogated as a traitor!"

"Calm yourself, dear signora," he said, his voice silky soft. "It is simply my task to consider all possibilities, to ask all questions. I would be derelict in my duties as constable if I did not."

Her hands were damp, her heart racing with panic, things that she prayed the constable wouldn't notice and see as signs as guilt. "But I do not see how-"

"Consider the nature of the pictures that were, by your own reckoning, stolen or defaced," he answered easily. "All portraits, signora, all of royalty and aristocrats from Naples and other places-kings and queens and grand dukes."

"That is what sells to my t.i.tled visitors, signor," declared Francesca swiftly. "And surely there could be no greater sign of my own devotion to the crown!"

"As you say, signora, what doubt could be left?" He turned back toward her, gently rubbing his black-gloved hands together. "I shall do what I can to recover the lost paintings, though I must tell you I have little hope. And I advise you to begin locking your doors, and your lower windows, too. With so many foreign sailors in our city, a lady must show caution."

"I shall do that, signor." With a desultory sigh, Francesca looked past him to the shambles of her studio. She'd suspected herself there'd be little chance for finding either the paintings or the thieves, but hearing the constable say it turned her suspicion into cold fact. "If there is nothing further for you here, then I'll call Nanetta to show you out."

"Thank you, lovely signora, but I can find my own way." He bowed and turned, then turned back as if he'd forgotten something. "Your neighbors told me you returned last night in the English Lady Hamilton's chair. But then, you are often a visitor to Palazzo Sessa, yes?"

Francesca frowned, wishing her neighbors were not quite so willing to discuss her habits with the constable. "At Lady Hamilton's express invitation, yes. She has been a kind patroness to me. But I do not see how-"

"A great kindness, yes, and what better way to recognize your own Englishness, eh, signora, or should I say Miss Robin?" He smiled, this time showing all his teeth along with his dislike for all things English. "But while you are most clever to promote such connections with the amba.s.sador and his wife, I must caution you not to align yourself too closely with them, or risk the consequences when they leave you behind."

"Lady Hamilton has offered me her patronage because of what I offer in return to her, not because of where my father was born," said Francesca quickly, even as she remembered her ladyship's warning. "Besides, the English will not soon leave Naples. Admiral Nelson needs our harbor to supply his ships and sailors. Everyone knows that. And what would become of Naples were the English to leave us?"

"Exactly so, my dear signora," said the constable, his smile now gone. "What would become of Naples without the English lion to guard our gates? Alone, could we survive this General Napoleon and his French demons?"

"But the English will not leave," insisted Francesca, her heart still racing and her hands knotted into tight fists at her sides. Did this man have spies in the English amba.s.sador's own villa, to echo so precisely her conversation with Lady Hamilton? "King Ferdinando would not permit it!"

"Times change, signora," repeated the constable, lightly smoothing the sleeve of his coat. "Just as His Majesty must consider what would become of us without the English, a lady alone like you must be wary as well. If you are not careful to keep your head, you may well lose it. Good day, signora."

She watched him go without offering any farewell, nor did he linger to receive one. For a long minute she didn't move, simply standing in the center of the broken pottery and slashed paintings. What kind of warning could such destruction be?

She'd always considered being able to speak both English and Italian a benefit, but not now. Now it seemed as if she was too English to be considered a true Neapolitan by her neighbors, yet too Neapolitan to be accepted by the English. And if the French ever did come, the way everyone seemed to fear, then what would they make of her?