The Very Daring Duchess Part 9

"Because that is not all of what you ask, ma'am," he said softly. "And because of who I am, I couldn't give you the answer, even if I knew it."

"My lord captain is the master of one of the greatest English s.h.i.+ps of the line, and a confidant of the admiral himself. If you do not know whether I should be preparing my neck for the arrival of monsieur guillotine, why, then, I-"

"Signora, you make me speak plain," he interrupted, trying not to think of her and the Frenchmen's gruesome executioner. "I am an officer of the crown, for my king and my country, and there are confidences and knowledge that I have sworn not to share with anyone, especially here in Naples."

She flushed, suddenly understanding. "When I said that this city was full of spies, I did not include myself."

He sighed, wis.h.i.+ng things hadn't come to this. "They say the guillotine is not much used any longer, especially by Napoleon's men, and not here in Italy."

"Mi scusi! However did I overlook my good fortune?" She made a little gasping sound, a sad attempt at a laugh to accompany an even sadder jest. "To be a lone woman, waiting for the arrival of an enemy army! Oh, yes, they shall let me keep my head, and in grateful return they can claim whatever other part of my person or possessions they please!"

Unhappily he sighed again, at a loss for how to comfort her. As a Neapolitan, she wasn't his responsibility, and for the security of his own men, s.h.i.+p, and country, he could not let himself become entangled in her personal affairs. It was his duty to always decide for the good of the majority, and not concern himself with individuals. When the long-expected orders finally arrived from the admirality offices in London and the goodwill and survival of King Ferdinando was no longer deemed important to England in this war, then the navy s.h.i.+ps would sail from this harbor, and the French would swiftly conquer this last, most southern kingdom in Italy.

Unfortunate, yes, even tragic, but also somehow inevitable. Edward was an experienced commander of high rank, and he understood the unfairness of war. The English navy could hardly be everywhere in the Mediterranean, could they?

But inevitable, too, was the danger to Francesca Robin. The jackals that filled the French army were rewarded with wholesale permission by their generals to murder, rape, and plunder wherever they conquered. Frenchmen who'd murdered their own king and queen without a qualm wouldn't think twice about sparing the home-or the body-of this lovely young woman who had proudly displayed portraits of royalty.

She knew it, and so did Edward, and to his shock the knowledge made him want to take her into his arms and hold her and keep her from the harm that was swirling around her. All too vividly he could imagine how she'd be to hold, warm and trusting against his chest, her golden skin like velvet and her scent enticing and womanly. For once he'd know exactly the right things to say to make her feel safe and to comfort her. The image was so vivid and soft and warm and so shamefully wrong that he could barely meet her eye.

"You should plan to leave Naples for a short while, signora," he suggested instead, fighting to forget how much he still wanted her in his arms. "Surely you've a friend or relation you could visit elsewhere, on Sicily, say. I want you to keep yourself safe and from harm, la.s.s, until affairs here are, ah, more settled, a month or two."

"Affairs will only grow worse, not better. Don't dissemble, per favore," She was staring down at her hands, her fingers clasped so tightly together that the knuckles had paled. "You are quite abominable at it, and besides, such a blatant lie is scarcely worth the stain upon your much-vaunted honor."

"But d.a.m.nation, I do care what becomes of you!"

"Go," she whispered. "Just-just go."

She was right, and if he'd any pride left he'd leave at once. In miserable desperation he stole one final glance at the painting on the easel, as if he'd find inspiration there for what to say or do next.

"I'll give you three hundred gold zecchini for the picture, signora," he said. He could have this part of her, if nothing else. "Signed by your own hand, mind?"

With her lips pressed in a tight, grim line, she flipped the painting around and away from his sight, then with a flurry of skirts went to pause by the doorway. "The picture is not for sale, my lord."

"Why the devil not?" he demanded, hating the way she was dismissing him. "Because your country is not the same as mine?"

"No, my lord captain," she said, her voice dropping off into a fierce whisper as she stood in the doorway. "Because I have no country, and you do. Because you have a future, and I have-I have my fate. Buon giorno, my lord, and farewell. Farewell!"

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For the last time Francesca traced her fingertip along the proud arch of the painted horse's neck, then carefully wrapped a strip of lamb's wool around the narrow neck of the black and red vase. The vase had miraculously survived, unchipped, uncracked, for two centuries, and now all she could do was to pray and trust to cedar shavings that it would remain intact a few months more, through storms and war on the long voyage to England.

I want you to keep yourself safe and from harm, la.s.s, until affairs here are more settled... that was what Edward Ramsden had said, wasn't it, breaking his precious, honorable silence to say so? And the way he'd said it, as if he actually cared what became of her, the way no one else did. She'd remember that; she'd remember him.

d.a.m.nation, I do care...

If only it were as easy as he'd made it sound, as easy as wrapping herself in lamb's wool....

"Sainted Mother of G.o.d, how the old master would weep to see you do this!" muttered Nanetta, loud enough for Francesca to hear but still soft enough that she could pretend to be speaking only to herself. "Sending off his treasures to this London, the one place on this earth he hated the most-ah, ah, how he must be weeping in his grave!"

With an exasperated sigh, Francesca placed the now-swaddled vase into its packing crate, and sat back on her heels to confront Nanetta, perched across from her like a cross-tempered crow in her rusty black gown. True, Nanetta had served her father and now her since before Francesca herself had been born, and as a worthy old woman who must have seen at least sixty summers, Nanetta was also ent.i.tled to certain allowances.

But this morning Francesca's patience was stretched as taut as her nerves. She had been packing without stopping since late yesterday afternoon, feverishly working to meet the English merchant captain's sailing date. Preparing each piece for the voyage was far more than merely wrapping or boxing, for every vase, or painting, or bronze had a story, a memory that she'd shared with her father. It was almost as if she were losing him all over again, parting with his favorite belongings, no matter how much she knew she'd no real choice left to her.

"My father is not weeping, Nanetta," she said crossly, "not in his grave or heaven or anywhere else, and I'll thank you not to pretend that he is."

Nanetta's toothless jaw set more stubbornly. "The master would weep if he could. You selling all his fine things like this, before his body is even cold!"

"I am not selling all his things." Wearily Francesca rubbed her temples with her fingertips, trying to remember exactly what Lady Hamilton had advised her to say to slow the rumors that the English would soon be abandoning Naples. "I am sending them to London now to have them appraised, so I might know their value."

"You would let a filthy Englander set his own price so he might rob your pocket?" She made a disgusted noise deep in her throat. "Be meek and take whatever the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds offer! Ah, that the old master-"

"That is quite enough, Nanetta," interrupted Francesca sharply. "You forget that my father was himself English."

"I remember him better than the daughter who would sell his treasures to thieves for a dozen zecchini!"

"If I sell any of my father's collection, it will be for a fair price, and only because I must," said Francesca firmly, striving to convince herself as much as the old servant. "You're not blind, Nanetta, though you pretend to be. Do you see my studio full of patrons, the way it once was? When was the last time I called you to light the lanterns to show the Oculus to some young gentleman on his tour?"

"If times are hard, mistress, then it is the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Englanders who are to blame." Nanetta turned her head toward the window and the harbor with the English s.h.i.+ps and contemptuously flicked her fingers beneath her chin. "The Englanders, and our own wh.o.r.emonger of a king. If you want times to be better, then the people of Naples should speak, and throw open the gates to the French, and to freedom."

"Nanetta, hus.h.!.+" gasped Francesca, appalled, rising swiftly to her feet. Nanetta had always been temperamental, but she'd never dared speak as strongly as this to Francesca, and about such dangerous ideas. "That's treason! If anyone hears you-"

"Let them," said Nanetta with a cackle. "I'm old enough to see the truth, and speak it, too."

But for Francesca, the truth was taking a new and ugly turn. "The paintings that were destroyed here last week, the paintings of King Louis and the others. So help me, Nanetta, if that was your doing-"

Nanetta gasped with indignation. "I, mistress? I? Ah, ah, what your father would say to hear you accuse poor Nanetta like that?"

"What else am I supposed to think when you say such wicked things?"

"Not wicked things, mistress, but the truth. The truth!" Nanetta's dark eyes glittered ominously. "You'll see soon enough. When the Englanders leave, the king and his fat queen will follow the same path to the guillotine as her Austrian sister. You are the blind one, mistress, the one with the bad English blood!"

"Stop this, Nanetta!" ordered Francesca, seizing the older woman by the shoulders. "You will not say such things, not in this house and not-oh, perdition, there's someone below at the door! Go, now, answer it, and bring whoever it is here to the studio directly. Go, go, do as I say at once!"

She let Nanetta go, and the servant touched her forehead and bowed. But the new boldness in her expression unsettled Francesca, and when Nanetta left to answer the door, Francesca pressed her hands over her mouth, struggling to calm herself and push back her fears. All she was trying to do was survive, and yet everything was changing too fast for her, like sand sliding from beneath her feet.

It wasn't as if she'd no experience being on her own. Papa had died slowly from the disease in his lungs, painfully, but he'd taught her the workings of the studio and explained his network of fellow artists, dealers, and forgers. Since then, and before this war, she'd done well for herself, in some ways better than when Papa had been alive. She'd always been clever and brave and strong and resourceful.

I want you to keep yourself safe....

"Emma, Lady Hamilton, mistress," announced Nanetta. "To see you, signora."

Instantly Francesca composed herself as best she could, sinking into a graceful curtsey of welcome. She couldn't afford to let her own troubles show. Instead she must be sure to demonstrate how aware she was of this honor, the way her ladys.h.i.+p expected.

"What a snug nest you keep, my dear little Robin!" exclaimed her ladys.h.i.+p, letting her gaze wander around the studio with unfeigned interest. She was dressed for the cool December afternoon in a close-fitting, high-waisted pale blue jacket with a diamond brooch on one lapel, a white fur m.u.f.f, and one of her favorite blue velvet hats with a tall crown and white plume, all designed to emphasise the color of her famous eyes. "Why have I not come to visit you here before, I wonder?"

"What matters is that you honor me now, my lady," answered Francesca, glancing sternly toward her maidservant to make her obey, at least this once. "Nanetta, biscuits and a pot of chocolate for her ladys.h.i.+p."

"But this cannot be the same chamber where the vandals ravished your work, is it?" murmured her ladys.h.i.+p as she walked toward the wall with the paintings. "Such a dreadful, cowardly crime! One would never believe such a thing would happen to a lady here in Naples."