A Gentleman Never Tells (23 page)

NINETEEN

R
oland awoke abruptly: one instant buried inside a cocoon of sleep, and the next bolt-upright in his bed, every nerve alive, his heart striking a staccato beat against his breastbone.

Outside the window, a gray yellow dawn crept over the crest of the mountains. Five o’clock, at the latest. He swept the room with his eyes, catching every detail, finding nothing awry.

His gaze dropped to the empty hollow in the mattress beside him.

She was gone.

Gone back to her room, of course. Gone back to Philip, before the boy woke and missed her. Packing her clothes, no doubt. Readying herself for the journey.

He sprang from the bed. A vague nervous dread rattled in his head, sending shots of energy into his blood, into his muscles and limbs. He should have packed up the night be-fore, while she was sleeping. He’d meant to, but his body had been so heavy with languor, so muzzy with bliss at the feel of her body in his arms, he’d sunk under the weight of it.

Now dawn had arrived; time ticked away. He’d dress and pack, then go to Lilibet’s room to gather her and Philip. Leave some note in the kitchens, perhaps, so the others wouldn’t worry.

He reached for his trousers and drew them upward in swift tugs. His limbs protested the movement. Hardly surprising, after such a night. Passionate Lilibet, all her restraints fallen away, all her beauty bare and breathtaking in his arms. The way she’d arched her back and cried out her climax; the way she’d curled her body into his, afterward, entangling their fingers, while her breathing drifted off into regularity.

He shut his mind to the memories, to everything but the list of actions before him. Love and passion and pleasure belonged to the moonlight. Cold, sharp reason: That was all he needed this morning.

His hand closed around his shirt and lifted it from the back of the chair. A button was missing from the collar, after its hasty removal on the lakeshore last night. He stared at the dangling thread, at the wilting linen, attempting to trace in his mind the source of the anxiety sunk into his bones.

With an oath he strode to the door and whipped it open.

His long legs shifted into a jog: down the corridors, around the corners, past the rough stone walls, the floor cold and hard beneath his bare feet. Just a quick look. Just to reassure himself that she was in her room, readying herself and Philip for departure. Just to still the unnatural fear hammering through his body.

He turned the last corner and found her door. The thick wood sat in place, silent and immutable. He raised his fist to knock, and then reached for the doorknob. If Philip were still asleep, he didn’t want to wake him. The boy would need all his strength for the journey ahead.

The door swung open easily. In the split second before Roland peered around the edge, he heard a soft noise quaver through the air, directly into his thrumming heart. A choked keening sound, almost like . . .

A sob.

“Lilibet?” he whispered.

But Lilibet wasn’t there, and neither was Philip. Francesca sat on the narrow bed, her headscarf a startling white against her black hair, with her face pressed into her hands. She looked up as he lurched through the doorway.

“Signore . . .” Her voice quavered. “Oh, signore!”

“Francesca, what . . .”

She shot up from the bed and flung herself in his arms. “
Perdonami
, signore! Oh, signore!”

“What is it? My God! Where are they?” Roland grasped her shoulders, set her away, and stared desperately into her weeping face. “Tell me, by God! Where are they?”

“The man, he come last night, middle of night. He take the boy! Oh, signore! I can do nothing! He is big man, angry. I run to find the signora. I know she is . . . she is . . .”

“With me.”

“Yes! I come in, I wake her, I tell her.”

“Good God!” He raked his hand through his hair, half-mad. “Good God! And you didn’t wake me? Good God!”

“The signora say no. The signora, she follow me, she get her . . . her dresses, her things.”

“Good God!”

“She tells me, stay here. Wait for Signore Penhallow. Tell him . . .” Another choking sob. “Tell him not to follow. To wait here. She return.”

“Good God! Good God! You should have told me! You should have found me!” He just stopped his hands from grabbing her shoulders again and shaking her.

The tears broke loose from her eyes. “But the signora! She say to wait! I go to you two times, three times, and stop. I . . . I . . . Morini . . . she is not here. She . . .” Francesca shook her head and fell to her knees. “Forgive, signore!”

“How long ago? How long ago did she leave?” He strode about the room, eyes stripping the walls, the chests, the wardrobe. Dresses still hung from the rail; a brush still sat on the chest of drawers. She hadn’t taken much.

“One hour ago, I think.”

He turned. “Did she walk? Did she ride?”

“I think she go to the stable. I hear voice. The horses.”

The stables. “Giacomo. I’ll find Giacomo. He’ll know, blast him!”

Roland raced from the room, toward the stairs, straight into the tall, jacketless figure of Phineas Burke as it emerged from Lady Morley’s bedroom.

“Good God! Penhallow! What is it?” Burke demanded, in a fierce whisper.

Roland clutched his shoulders. “Have you seen her?”

“Seen whom?”

“Lilibet! Lady Somerton!”

“No, I haven’t. Not since last night. What’s the matter?”

Roland flung him away and ran down the stairs, into the silent chasm of the entrance hall, through the still, lichen-crusted courtyard. The sharp stones in the driveway cut into his bare feet, but he didn’t pause, didn’t slacken his pace, not until he ducked through the stable door and called Giacomo’s name in his most thunderous voice.

“All the night, all the night, it is noise and talking and fires!” The groundskeeper emerged from some dusty corner, brushing at his trousers. “Now
you
, signore! No peace for Giacomo! The dawn, it is hardly here!”

“Look here, Giacomo! It’s an emergency! You must tell me . . .”

Giacomo shook his head. “I am not understanding. What is this emer . . . this thing?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Never mind that! Lady Somerton, was she here? About an hour ago? Did she take a horse?”

Giacomo removed his hat and scratched his hair. “Lady Somerton. She is which one?”

“The beautiful one, the . . . the . . .”

“The women, they are
all
beautiful.” Giacomo scowled, as if the general attractiveness of the visiting Englishwomen were something to be deplored rather than celebrated.

“Good Lord! The
most
beautiful one! The one . . . oh, blue eyes, dark hair. The one with the child.”

“The child, he is not with her. The father is taking him, before.”

“Blast it all! I know that! But the
mother
! Did she take a bloody
horse
?”

Giacomo looked puzzled. “No. The horse, he is not bloody. Why the signora take a horse that . . .”

“I don’t mean
blood
! I mean, did she take a horse at all?”

The Italian rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course she take a horse. You are thinking she walk? She take the horse of the duke, the best horse. She put on the saddle, she ride him away at a . . . at . . .” He moved his fingers on his opposite palm, mimicking a horse.

“At a gallop! Oh God!” Roland pressed his fists into his head. That damned horse of Wallingford’s, fast and spirited. Images filled his brain, lurid images of Lilibet falling off, of the horse throwing a shoe or stumbling on a rock, Lilibet launching over its head. “And Philip? The boy? The man who took him, what did he say? Was he riding or driving?”

Giacomo shrugged. “He is saying nothing. He drive in a carriage, a fast carriage. I hear the noises, I go outside, I see them in the moonlight.”

“Was he hurting the boy? Tell me, Giacomo! Was Philip all right?”

Another shrug. “I cannot see. There is no screaming, no . . . no fighting.”

A deep gust of relief shook Roland’s chest, the first in some time. At least Philip had gone willingly and hadn’t tried to struggle. At least Somerton hadn’t hurt him or taken him by force.

The panic in his brain was settling now. He had the facts: Somerton in a fast carriage with Philip, Lilibet following on horseback. Headed where? Florence, he guessed. That was where Somerton was staying. Easy connections to Milan, eventually to London. Somerton was only an hour or two ahead of him. He could catch them.

He braced his hands on his hips. “Look, Giacomo. Listen carefully. I’ve got to go inside, to pack a few things, and then go after them. I’ll need a horse saddled, the fastest we’ve got, and . . .”

“Oh no. No, no, signore.” Giacomo’s head swung back and forth in emphatic fashion. “I am not saddling the horses. I am grounds keeper.” He separated the words, as if to emphasize their meaning.

“Then tell the stable hands! I don’t bloody care!”

“Signore, it is a very long night. There is the fire in the carriage house, there is . . .”

“Fire? What the devil?”

Giacomo waved his hand in the direction of the valley. “The place, the work place of the Signore Burke. Is a fire.”

Roland started. “A fire? When? But I saw him a moment ago . . .”

“Is out now. But then there is the father, making all the noise. And then the signora, with the horse.” Giacomo placed his hand atop his heart. “Is a very long night.”

Roland drew in a steadying breath. “Yes. I daresay it’s been a long night. Rather a long night for me as well. But regardless, old man, you’d better listen up. Because when I emerge from that castle in approximately twelve minutes, I want a horse saddled and waiting for me, right where you’re standing now. I don’t care how tired you are. I don’t particularly care who does it. But I want it
done
.” Roland leaned closer and lowered his voice to a menacing purr, suitable for threats of all kinds. “Is that clear, Giacomo, my friend?”

The groundskeeper’s eyes narrowed into petulant slits. “Is clear.”

Roland wheeled about and plunged through the doorway, into the brightening stableyard.

“Signore Penhallow?”

He turned back. “Yes, Giacomo?”

The groundskeeper nodded to Roland’s naked chest. “Is better if you are wearing the shirt.”

*  *  *

S
he’d forgotten her gloves, and the reins cut into her palms as she drove Wallingford’s horse along the hard-packed road toward Florence.

She didn’t notice.

The sun rose fully above the mountains at her back, casting long shadows across the ground before her, warming the clothes against her skin, but her only response was to urge the horse faster as the road became visible.

The duke’s saddle chafed at the tender skin between her legs, and she could only think,
Damn Somerton, damn him to hell
, because while she’d known this would happen, had known he would eventually track them down, she’d never imagined he’d choose to strike in the hours after she’d engaged in repeated acts of carnal union with her vigorous and well-endowed lover.

Bastard.

She could only pray that she wasn’t harming the baby, that the tiny precious life would remain tucked inside her, safe and well cushioned from the jolting ride.

She could only hope that Somerton was taking Philip to Florence and not in the opposite direction. She could only repeat to herself, over and over, that Somerton was a brute but not a devil: that he loved Philip, in his way, and wouldn’t hurt him. Philip was his heir, after all. His future.

Just let him be all right. Just let Somerton be rational, be humane. Let him be just, and not blame Philip for his mother’s sins.

The track wound on through the hills, unrecognizable from her journey in March, now warm and verdant where they’d been dank and gray and sterile. She crossed a bridge and realized it was the same one bordering the inn where they’d stayed that fateful night. She caught a glimpse, as she trotted smartly past, of the long, red-roofed stable in which she and Roland had come together for no more than ten frenzied, tender, secret minutes, during which the baby now inside her had been conceived. Months ago, a lifetime ago. Then, she’d been rigid and proud and fearful; now she was brimming with love, with strength, with plans for the future.

In March, the ascent from Florence to the inn had taken all day in the rain and mud; descending now in fine summer weather, Lilibet cantered through the sun-soaked outskirts within a few hours, crossing the Ponte Vecchio as the clock tower in the Piazza della Signoria tolled noon.

The midday sun blazed against her shoulders; the horse beneath her nodded his head in weary resignation, waiting for her next command.

What that command might be, she had no idea.

She’d reached Florence. What the devil did she do now?

*  *  *

R
oland had taken the road to Florence several times since arriving at the Castel sant’Agata. Every fortnight, he’d ridden into the city to meet with Beadle, discuss Bureau affairs, and update himself on any developments in the search for evidence of Somerton’s activities. There hadn’t been much to discuss on that count, so they’d soon moved on to wine and
bistecca
and gossip at some discreet trattoria near the Arno, and watched the sun climb down behind the round red globe of the Duomo.

He knew the road well, and he knew where to cut off from the main track to wind his way into the city using the back alleys. He pushed his horse to a drumbeat pace, crossed the Arno not long after Lilibet, and made his way straight to Beadle’s rooms near the Santa Croce.

“Penhallow! What the devil!” Beadle’s face split open in a punishing yawn through the crack in the door.

“Let me in, you fool!” Roland pushed the door wide enough to allow himself through. “We’re found out. Somerton came to the castle last night and took the boy.”

“The devil you say!” Sleep vanished from Beadle’s face. He tore off his nightcap and tossed it on a nearby table. “And his wife?”

“She was with me.” Roland said it without hesitation, without apology. Nothing about his liaison with Lilibet was dishonorable, and he’d kill the man who dared to suggest otherwise. “The maid woke her, and she slipped off after them. I saddled a horse as soon as I discovered them missing.”