 
An Unsuitable Occupation For A Lady

Jackie Walton

Published by Jackie Walton at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Jackie Walton

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For Marilyn: sister, friend, fan, not necessarily in that order

Cover courtesy of Christine Margle, Mariah Dorssers, and Christy Walton

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Scamp's Lady

Chapter 1

London, England, early May 1812

In general, the season bored her. Unless she had to, she rarely spent the whole time in town. She saw the friends she really wanted to see, did the shopping she really needed to do, and listened to enough music to tide her soul over the relative caterwauling of the uninspired musicians generally found around her home near Maidstone. The memories of sitting through innumerable, excruciating concerts forced a wry smile as she stood with her friend, Lindsey Alder, near the back of Lady Burlington's ballroom and listened to the surprisingly good string quartet that provided the music for the ball.

She still had a few evenings left to enjoy London's musical offerings: Hayden's "The Seasons" tomorrow and Mozart's always-delightful opera "The Magic Flute" the day after. She justified her dawdles in town because her uncle had been dropping hints of something he wanted her to do, for the past week or so. However duty and familial affection would not hold her permanently in town on the basis of his vague, amorphous hints. The new factory under construction on her estate needed her attention, at least for awhile. She wanted to be back in town for the running of the Derby at the end of the month, but she could return to town for that if necessary.

In the meantime, she watched Lindsey's almost imperceptible, but none the less blissful, sway to the music. Her friend's light moss green gown complimented her copper-colored hair. The puffed sleeves and neckline plunging to a jade broach flattered her milk-white skin. Her own ivory silk dress slipped off her shoulders, teasingly, as if trying to slip off completely. The tease continued with the full, sheer sleeves gathering to pearl encrusted cuffs.

She let herself float back into the music.

"Lady 'Chee-air-ah,' may I have the honor of this dance?" A somewhat portly gentleman with a glaring red waistcoat and thinning blond hair stood before her. Unfortunately, Chiara thought, his snug breeches left little to the imagination. The high collar points enclosed his cheeks and prevented him from turning his head. Several fobs dripped from his waist. His tone told her that he actually expected her to be the one honored.

"Lord DuBois, my name is pronounced 'Key-are-uh'." She rolled the "r" gently, but had no expectation that sound would ever pass the gentleman's lips.

"Ah, yes, Italian, if I recall. Such a pity. You could add a good English name, such as my own, to it, and all would be most acceptable."

Lady Chiara's mouth twitched. "I, ah, appreciate the thought, my lord, but I find I am quite content with my own Brownlee." She absentmindedly played with a curl. She knew the honey blonde locks marched well with her name, which meant "light."

DuBois had some official connection with her uncle Geoffrey, but that connection was so thin that it snapped easily. "Now, if you will excuse us, Miss Alder and I have something to attend to." She smiled, nodded her dismissal, and nudged Lindsey in the opposite direction.

Candles blossomed from the chandeliers and the wall sconces. The dancing ladies below them looked like a myriad of brilliantly colored flowers swaying in a musical wind. The men partnering them might have been dark-trunked trees, save for the occasional uniform glaring red or green in the forest.

"Key, you were too kind to him," Lindsey smirked. "As a set-down, it failed miserably."

From behind them, a clipped masculine voice interjected, "Miss Alder, on the other hand, has no need of kindness to my cousin. Set-downs are obviously her stock-in-trade now that she has consigned herself to the shelf."

Lindsey froze then turned slowly, her plain face set in wooden lines. Chiara, on the other hand, felt a rage as Italianesque as her name surge through her. "Miss Alder has every right to feel that way, Mr. Simmons. Lord DuBois is hunting a fortune and set his sights on her last season. He even made a ham-fisted attempt to compromise her."

Her antagonist was not much older than herself, an heir to a baronetcy, good looking in a Byronic, careless way. A moment's thought brought to mind the connection between him and Lord DuBois.

Behind him stood a somewhat older man, dark and silent. Chiara didn't recognize him, but one glance told her that those eyes, dark and piercing like a predator, missed nothing. But he wasn't the current problem.

"If that's the tactic he's using now, then Miss Alder might be advised to let him compromise her. Lord knows with that platter-face, it's the only way she's going to get a husband!"

"You will apologize this instant, sir!"

"Not bloody likely," he muttered.

Chiara felt a red haze of fury form on the edges of her vision. "You will apologize," her hand snaked out to slap him across the face with a crack that was heard by everyone around them, "or you will face me over pistols tomorrow morning."

Before the shocked young man could reply, a warm hand went around Chiara's waist, and her brother's studiedly bored voice came over her shoulder. "Best give it up, Simmons, m'sister's a crack shot. Not quite the thing for a lady, but there you have it."

In the silence that followed, the whispers drifting from behind dozens of fans and hands sounded like a hive of enraged bees. The dark man merely lifted a brow.

Simmons dropped his hand from his cheek and looked from sister to brother. Slowly, he turned to Miss Alder and bowed deeply. "My most sincere regrets for my ill-said words, Miss Alder. You are most fortunate in your possession of a friend who would defend you so fiercely." He turned, and the crowd parted as if it was the Red Sea. The tall, dark-eyed man with him looked closely at Chiara and then followed.

On David Brownlee's advice, they stayed at the ball for a few minutes, heads high, deflecting or distaining the subtle and not-so-subtle inquires about the incident. Finally, Chiara escorted her friend out of the ballroom and into her own carriage, dismissing the Alder family vehicle. "What was that all about?"

Lindsey, who had obviously been hanging onto her composure with her fingertips, burst into tears, "I don't know; I don't know."

Chiara simply held her friend all the way home.

### Chapter 2

The next morning, Chiara desperately wanted to call on Lindsey. Unfortunately, when she arrived at her home from the ball, a summons for a mid-morning appointment with her uncle awaited her. This was not a great time for it, but Lindsey would have to wait. Aunt Ada and Uncle Geoffrey had, after all, raised the newly-orphaned Lord David Brownlee, new Earl of Liston, and her when Ada's brother-in-law was killed and her broken-hearted sister soon followed her husband to the grave. In Chiara's opinion, her aunt and uncle couldn't have done more for David and her if the orphans were their own children. Any thing Uncle Geoffrey or Aunt Ada, Lord and Lady Wentworth, wanted was theirs as soon as Chiara or David could provide it.

This was not to be a familial or social call, though. The note requesting her to call on him was signed, as he usually signed such things, "Wentworth." The "W" had an almost imperceptible third flourish instead of its normal two. That meant that her uncle was requesting her presence in his official capacity as "Watchman," the coordinator for all the royal intelligence agents in the sixteen-year-long war with Napoleon.

Chiara, much to her uncle's private disgust, was one of his best agents. She knew of the existence of about six agents like herself, most of them only by the code names assigned to them—Bear, Lion, Wolf, Wolverine, Tiger, Lynx and her own, Marten. She found hers rather apt: small, camouflaged, and deadly when necessary. Some of the agents were personal acquaintances. Wolf and Lynx were both faceless civil servants in the Home Office. Bear she didn't know personally, but knew that he was a wrongfully cashiered naval officer who kept tabs on the coastal "gentlemen," the smugglers who brought in contraband and the occasional spy. Lion and Tiger worked in France. Wolverine was probably the most legendary of the bunch. His identity was a closely guarded secret. From a single, only slightly indiscrete, comment of her uncle's, she guessed that he had entrée into the most elite of French and English houses.

Her main responsibility involved listening to society gossip (a surprisingly fertile source of information) and anything involving Italy or Italians. She'd also handled two missions to Italy to deliver documents.

She knew the people and the language well. Born there, she lived a goodly part of her life in Rome until Napoleon ordered Pope Pius VII to expel all Englishmen in 1806. Although the historical relationship of the Roman Catholic and Anglican Churches had never been cordial, her father, Lord Peter Brownlee, had seen the need of good diplomatic relations between England and the Papal States. He spent twenty-odd years as special ambassador from the Court of St. James to the Vatican. When Napoleon demanded that all Italy submit to his authority, Lord Brownlee sent his wife and children back to England ahead of him. A French assassin insured he would not return to make his final diplomatic report to London.

Chiara had spent too much time with her father not to know most of his business. What started out as a casual conversation with her uncle revealed her knowledge and his real job. She then badgered her way into the service, armed with a burning desire to destroy Napoleon and all he stood for. A chance at her father's killer wouldn't be a bad thing, but it probably wasn't in the cards. After the...the other incident, she trained herself in every means of defense. She could shoot bows, guns, and slingshots. Her brother hadn't lied to Simmons. She could wield a knife or a sword. Tom Crib, boxing champion in 1807 and '09, gave her very private lessons. He taught her all a man's weak points and how to exploit them. As a result, she never went anywhere defenseless. Several of her household staff had similar training.

The carriage stopped in front of her uncle's Belgrade mansion. When Hyde, the very proper butler who knew almost as much about Lord Wentworth's affairs as Lord Wentworth did, opened the door, he greeted her. "His lordship is in the study...with a visitor."

Chiara looked at him and humphed. "Well, I guess I'll just visit with Aunt Ada until he's finished."

"Lady Chiara, I believe his lordship's instructions were to announce you immediately on your arrival."

Since this was an "official" call, Chiara looked askance at him.

"Even so, my lady. Allow me." He opened the study's massive oak door. "Lady Chiara Brownlee to see you, my lord."

"Thank you, Hyde, that will be all for the moment."

As Hyde murmured, "Very good, sir," Chiara swept around him and into the very masculine study. Since it was strictly forbidden to any staff member but Hyde, the room had the tidy, but not quite sparkling, look of male care. Lord Wentworth sat facing the door in one of the group of chairs in a corner near the window. Another dark, vaguely familiar man had his back to her.

Both rose as she gushed in her best tonnish accents, "La, Uncle Geoffrey, what ever possessed you to entertain guests in this dark hole of a room. You're going to frighten the poor man so much he'll never..." The man turned to bow, a sardonic gleam in his eyes: Simmons's friend. "...Return." Chiara kept the banal expression on her face. Until she knew more, she would maintain her persona. She nodded acknowledgement to him and gave her uncle a quick kiss along with lifted eyebrows.

Geoffrey patted her hand. His receding hair had gone grey, and his perpetually-flushed face bore the lines of age and care, but his eyes twinkled like a young buck. "Let me make the introductions. Marten," he nodded to her, "may I present Wolverine." A wave of his hand indicated the stranger.

Chiara drew a breath, and Wolverine warned, "Wentworth!" Agents' identities were usually a closely guarded secret, even from each other.

"Pleased to meet you, Wolverine." Wolverine glared at both Chiara and her uncle; she didn't know who bore the brunt of his annoyance. In a moment of cheekiness, she extended her hand. As he took it and bowed, she remarked, "Uncle Geoffrey, would you be so kind as to formally introduce us, since you have already informally introduced us?"

Wentworth cleared his throat, "Sorry about that, m'dear. Thought you already knew each other. Lady Chiara Brownlee, may I present Lord Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury."

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his coal black hair unstippled by grey. Chiara wasn't sure that handsome was the correct word for him. Arresting suited him better. The planes of his face held the same degree of softness as his eyes: none. Chiara thought Lord FitzHenry no more resembled his angelic namesake than her favorite horse resembled the Prince Regent. After all, her horse was much more slender than the Regent. A slight smile played on her lips at the thought.

"Something amuses you, Lady Chiara?" His eyebrow rose.

"No, no," she retrieved her hand and turned to her uncle. "We met last night but weren't introduced."

With no more need for social pretense, Chiara quietly took a seat across from Lord FitzHenry and her uncle. Absently, FitzHenry replaced the walking stick that slipped when he rose. Well, she thought, at least I don't have to pretend to be paying a simple _beau monde_ social call. Uncle Geoffrey will get to the bottom of this strange interview in his own time. He usually does.

Lord Wentworth sat with pursed lips and studied the Aubusson carpet for a moment. "It has come to the attention of the Ministry that Napoleon ordered Pope Pius VII arrested, and General Radet has taken him to the Bishop's Palace in Savona."

Chiara's breath hissed and her hands clenched. Wentworth glanced over at her but continued on with his briefing. "Now, Pius is a damned papist," Geoffrey snorted, "but your father, Chiara, always respected him as a head of state and a religious man for that matter. Despite our differences, he was always someone we could work with. When Napoleon ordered his borders closed, Pius refused to comply. As far as the Ministry is concerned, that makes him a friend and an ally. If we can get him out of his gilded prison, it will be a great diplomatic coup. Catholics and Protestants will be seen as united against Napoleon. The Pope can represent opposition in exile and rally his followers all over Europe. Maybe we can start Napoleon's empire crumbling from within."

Lord FitzHenry frowned, "That's an admirable goal, but how do we fit into your scheme?"

"Patience, I'm getting to that. The young are always so impatient."

Lord FitzHenry lifted his aristocratic eyebrow but said nothing.

"Chiara was born and raised in Italy. She speaks like a native and can slip right into the population. She also knows the Pope personally."

"I was baptized by an Anglican priest, but His Holiness stood as one of my sponsors." She shrugged. "Nobody objected, and it made for good diplomatic relations, I'm told."

Lord FitzHenry toyed with the head of his walking stick as he listened. Chiara had the feeling of being a court lady seated in judgment before a Roundhead. FitzHenry radiated disapproval—words weren't necessary. If Uncle Geoffrey put them together on an assignment, they might do more damage to each other than to Napoleon's _Grande Armée_. She could see the writing on the wall.

Wentworth continued, "Lord FitzHenry, here, is not only a highly efficient agent, but he has the skills to physically extricate His Holiness. In addition, he's dark as bedamned and can pass for a local."

The object of his description quirked his mouth, but Chiara decided more concrete action was necessary. "Lord Wentworth, admittedly my association with Lord FitzHenry has been brief, but I'm afraid that posting us together for an extended time would... um...not be conducive to accomplishing the mission. I respectfully suggest that someone else, perhaps an Army officer with experience in, I don't know, scaling defensive fortifications might be better."

"I'm sorry, but time is of the essence, and I've made my decision. I want you on your way in three days. That will be all.

"Now, my dear, I assume you wish to see your aunt. I will escort Lord FitzHenry out." Agents never came or left together.

Lord FitzHenry rose and bowed to Chiara. "I shall call upon you at, shall we say, 10 o'clock tomorrow, Lady Chiara?"

Chiara went to the parlor to grit her teeth in front of her aunt for a few minutes.

Some time later, Ada entered the study and closed the door behind her. She knew her husband was aware of her presence, even though he didn't look up from the document he wrote. She hesitated while he quickly sanded it and put it in a leather folio. Certain things she did not want to know about.

At his side, she bent and kissed his slightly balding forehead. "You really put the cat in with the pigeons this time, my love. Chiara was ready to chew plowshares into swords."

"Humm, yes, you may be right."

"Geoffrey, I know Chiara isn't a naïve young girl, since she works for you, but isn't sending her off to Italy with a relative stranger asking for trouble?"

"I know, I know. I'm not entirely comfortable about it, but they are the only two that have the skills between them to get it done."

"What's going to happen to our little girl?"

They both knew the question entailed Chiara's past, present, and future. Uncle Geoffrey set his teeth and shook his head.

Chiara spent the rest of the day clearing her calendar, writing letters, and organizing some sort of plan for her, no, their mission. She wasn't used to working with someone, especially someone who had all the congeniality of a...wolverine. Sanding the letter of apology and instructions to her estate manager, she snorted. Wolverine was an appropriate name for him. The animal was unsocial, unlovable, stank worse than a bunch of stevedores on a hot day, and fought with more tenacity and viciousness than all Napoleon's Imperial Guard put together.

Summoning Blakeley, her own equivalent to Hyde, she outlined what was going to happen and what she needed him to handle in her absence. She also gave him her list of supplies. She grimaced at the thought of putting the walnut stain on her hair and skin, but knew her coloring was too unusual for her not to stand out, even in northern Italy where there was a goodly population of Germanic blonds. Oh the sacrifices I make for my country, she thought as she fingered a golden curl. I'll just have to cut it again when I get back.

Her personal affairs set in order, she drew a fresh sheet of paper out and began noting down everything she knew about Pope Pius VII, General Radet, the Bishop's Palace in Savona, and those people she knew who could assist her, them, in any way.

At the Tillman's ball after the symphony, Chiara finally had a chance to draw Lindsey aside for a few private words. "Lindsey, what was the meaning of that little contretemps last night?"

Lindsey studied the landscape painted on her fan. "I saw Mr. Simmons the other day in the millinery with Jane Hall."

Chiara already suspected the worst: tact wasn't Miss Hall's strongest suit. Usually that was her kind disposition.

"She looked at me and said, 'Miss Alder, with your unfortunate hair, it's a wonder you can wear anything but homespun.' I replied, 'Beauty is as beauty does, Miss Hall.' Then I turned to Mr. Simmons and said, 'I had though you more percipient in your choice of associates. I guess I was mistaken. My apologies.'"

Chiara snickered. "As far as set-downs go, that was masterful. I suspect he's angry because it was true."

"Maybe." She played with the fan sticks.

Time for a change of subject, Chiara decided. "You look magnificent tonight." It was the simple truth. The pumpkin underskirt and off-white lacy over-dress set the copper curls off to perfection. "I shudder to think what it would look like on me, but on you it is ideal." Chiara's pale violet dress with its dark painted border would have been hideous on her friend.

Chiara lowered her voice. "I have to leave town for a while. It could be several months. Can you quietly spread the story that I had a major fire at my estate and have to go back to tend to things?"

Lindsey stuck out her lower lip thoughtfully. "Another 'I can't say what I'm doing' trip?"

Chiara nodded and smiled vaguely at a passing couple before turning back to her friend. "Uh huh. Can you start, say, at the end of the week? I'm going...oh no!"

Lindsey followed her friend's gaze. "Indeed." Mr. Simmons and Lord FitzHenry bore down on them like charging cavalry. "Too late to escape."

Salvation came from an unexpected quarter. An imposing woman dressed in an unfortunate shade of puce blocked the gentlemen's advance. She had an appealing, brown-haired, young lady in tow, a young lady who obviously didn't really want to be there. The woman directed her remarks and her daughter to FitzHenry's attention.

Chiara turned and pulled Lindsey along with her. "Let's get some air." She bent to Lindsay's ear. "By the way, who is our guardian gorgon, ah angel?"

Lindsey flipped open her fan to shield her mouth. "That's Mrs. Lowell and her daughter Felicity. Mrs. Lowell thinks Felicity would be an ideal Countess FitzHenry. All her efforts are bent towards that end. She may well succeed if determination is any bell-weather."

Chiara snorted most indelicately. "If it wasn't so amusing," she thought of the disturbingly dark man, "I'd feel sorry for FitzHenry." Not exactly handsome, he had a strange magnetism.

A glance in the direction of the hapless groom-to-be showed him and his friend once more advancing ruthlessly on them.

"Oh well," Lindsey sighed. "Might as well get it over with. Maybe then we can enjoy the rest of the evening."

Chiara spoke under the shadow of her fan. "Mr. Simmons looks like he's been eating lemons." Lindsey giggled for the younger man had a distinctly sour look on his face. Good, Chiara thought, the banter worked on her friend.

The gentlemen stopped in front of them and bowed, FitzHenry in black, Simmons in dark blue. Simmons began rather haltingly, "Miss Alder...I spoke most thoughtlessly the other night." He tugged gently on the intricate _Trône d'Amour_ folds of his cravat. "I can only say that my mind was absorbed by other matters, and I unintentionally took it out on you. I ask your forgiveness."

Lindsey stared for a moment, as if not quite understanding what he was saying then she nodded gravely.

Chiara saw FitzHenry give his friend an almost imperceptible nudge in the back. Simmons continued, "Will you do me the great honor, then, of allowing me this dance?"

Lindsey hesitated, but Chiara was impressed with Simmons's willingness to admit fault. She leaned toward Lindsey but grinned directly at Simmons. "Go ahead, Lindsey. Think of the consequence it will give him, to be seen dancing with you."

James Simmons blinked and then caught on to the gentle ribbing. "'S faith, Miss Alder, if you cut me, I vow I'll not be able to dance another step this evening."

He looked enough like a hurt puppy that Lindsey giggled. "Very well, sir, but if you trod on my toes, I shall give you the direct cut."

"Best be nimble, then, lad," FitzHenry observed dryly.

Chiara watched the pair go off, an odd hopefulness in her heart. They had such a rocky beginning, but they seemed...

"May I have this dance?"

Chiara looked up, startled. "What?"

"This dance. It would look very strange if I simply left you here alone."

"Oh, no, don't think on it. It's...it's not necessary."

"Are you, by any chance, afraid to dance with me?"

Damn him, she thought. He's known me less than twenty-four hours, and he already knows how to get what he wants. She snapped her fan shut and placed her hand on his outstretched arm. For a moment, she thought he must be one of the new electricity machines that generated a static charge and made your hair stand on end. Even through her glove, the jolt of awareness shot through her and she looked up at him. He stared at the superfine of his coat sleeve where her hand lay. Then he looked up.

Without a word, he led her out onto the floor. The musicians began a waltz, and he reached for her hand and her waist. Chiara's head whirled for a moment, and then she realized that her body whirled along with it. She glanced up at Lord FitzHenry. His eyes were hooded, but they never left her face. Her feet glided over the floor, but she couldn't say what piece the musicians played. The world outside the circle of his arms took on a blurry, unreal cast. Nothing was real except the hard muscles of his arm and the banked heat of his gaze.

The music ended; he stopped at the edge of the dance floor and let go of her.

She almost tripped.

"Until tomorrow at 10 o'clock." He bowed and left.

Chiara wanted to cry. In a flash, the impulse was gone. What an idiot I am! I don't even like him.

That night, her nightmares started again.

### Chapter 3

"The beige." Chiara paced over to the window and whirled. "No, the blue-gray." She examined her nails. "No, the lavender." She strode the length of the room.

Betsy pulled each dress up off the bed as her mistress spoke and then gently laid the garment back. The gowns were lovely, exquisitely crafted, and all of them made her mistress look like a vision. She knew Lady Chiara thought all of them sackcloth at the moment. The barest hint of a smile played on her lips. She'd never seen her self-possessed lady in such a dither over a gentleman's visit in, well, she couldn't remember. However, it lacked fifteen minutes of the hour. "Milady, the blue-striped silk is definitely the most becoming."

Chiara stopped her pacing. "Very well." She looked at the clock, "Oh, we must hurry. He'll be here shortly."

Lord FitzHenry only had to wait a couple of minutes. He didn't bother to sit down. The vision in blue silk that swept into the parlor showed no signs of anything but quiet confidence. She offered her hand, and he bowed over it.

Her manner betrayed nothing of last night's encounter. He wasn't sure what to make of it, or her, himself. The society princess or professional intrigante, what was she? He felt himself reasonably safe from her feminine wiles. Blue-eyed blondes never attracted him. What surprised him was the...awareness he felt when he'd asked her to dance. That was the least inflammatory word to describe the feeling. He'd intended to apprise her of her up-coming role in the mission. Instead, he'd spent the dance staring into those clear, blue eyes.

He planned to remedy last night's omission at the earliest opportunity.

"Be seated, my lord. I will outline how we are to proceed."

FitzHenry tucked his beaver hat under his arm and looked over his shoulder at her as she moved opposite him to sit down. One of his eyebrows rose. "The mission's plan has already been set. I will explain it to you." Her willingness to create a scene at the Burlington's demonstrated an impetuous tendency that he needed to bridle immediately.

Chiara hesitated in smoothing the pencil-straight skirt of the Empire line dress as she sat in the bergère. He thought the spiral reeding on the back must be biting into her back. Her eyes narrowed. He flipped the tails of his coat prior to sitting on the classically-styled sofa. The tails, the color of fine, aged walnut, stood out against the soft grays and beiges of the sofa. He watched her face as he settled his hat on his lap.

"My lord, you seem to be under the misapprehension that you will be planning this mission."

"Misapprehension, Lady Chiara? I don't think so. I am the senior field officer on this mission, and I will be organizing the planning and implementation of the operation."

"Lord FitzHenry, while I am sure that you have ample experience in the boudoirs of Paris, I'm afraid Rome, Milan, and Savona are _terra incognita_ for you. I'm sure that it's quite impossible for you to plan any mission in those areas, let alone command it." She obviously knew that her words were deliberately insulting. She was right.

He didn't move. He didn't say anything. He didn't even blink. When he finally roused, his words fell like chips of ice on a tile floor. "If you think for a single moment that I will place the success of this mission into the hands of a green chit, you are sadly mistaken. I am of the opinion that Wentworth was in the throws of a brain fever when he asked me to work with you. I shall correct that error immediately."

He stood and bowed. "Your servant, my lady." He didn't look back.

Late that afternoon, one of Wentworth's footmen stood respectfully in front of her. The message he presented to Chiara was short. "Here. Now." She knew there would be a price for standing up to FitzHenry that way. She'd needed to establish her authority in this matter, or he would tromp all over her.

This was the price.

He was furious. Absolutely furious. Chiara knew this as well as she knew her name. And he hadn't said a word. He just sat behind that big, oak desk and glared at each of them in turn. The silence grew and billowed until she thought it would escape out of the room like steam from a kettle.

"You are my two best agents." His voice sounded almost conversational. "You each have your strengths...and your weaknesses. You are also both as hard-headed as walnuts. Having said that, I expect, no, order, you to cooperate on this mission. If your bickering results in the failure of this mission, my wrath will make the cannonades at the Battle of Trafalgar look like a fireworks display! Do I make myself clear?"

Chiara and FitzHenry both nodded.

"Given that, I expect that I will have to set some boundaries, although it seems beneath both of you to have to do it. FitzHenry, you will have ultimate responsibility for the mission." Chiara's breath hissed. He ignored it. "You will be responsible for getting the two of you in and the three of you out, safely. Chiara will be responsible for the actual rescue." FitzHenry's "What?" sounded low and threatening, but Wentworth ignored it, too. "Chiara has contacts in high and low places that you can't imagine. She can find the people most likely to assist you and can coordinate their actions in a way that you could never do. I expect you both to pool your ideas and come up with the best possible plan. Now," he rose deliberately, "I will leave you two here to finish the meeting you started this morning."

Neither said a word for quite a while. The walls in Wentworth's library reverberated with his words, even after he left. Chiara contemplated the embroidery on her reticule while she tried to come to grips with the situation. She was obviously not going to see "The Magic Flute" this season.

After clearing his throat, FitzHenry spoke. "Well, I haven't been dressed down so...thoroughly or so...elegantly in quite a while. In fact, the last time was when my grandfather caught my cousin and me stealing peaches from one of the tenant's trees. He also had...a way about him."

Her laugh was almost involuntary. "Indeed! I can remember a similar quiet, restrained...ah, discussion after I put a frog in the old butler's bed. He was a starchy, old sot without the slightest trace of a sense of humor. I felt it served him right for some reason or other that I can't seem to remember right now, but my uncle wasn't of the same opinion."

"And that, I wager, is an understatement."

"Indubitably." Chiara saw his mouth quirk, but he steadfastly refused to crack a smile.

"Yes, well, let us turn to matters at hand. Your uncle seems to think that we should...discuss the options. I assume you have some sort of a plan, given your willingness to create a scene." FitzHenry asserted.

"Of course I do, as, I assume, you do. We both started plotting the moment this assignment was handed to us. It just remains to decide which has the better chance of success."

She went over to the large oak bookcase covering the entire wall and opened a drawer in the cupboard which formed the lower stage of the bookcase. She immediately found what she wanted: two wooden-framed wax tablets with styluses seated in cunning holes masquerading as part of the frame. She handed him one.

"I haven't used one of these since I was in short pants, and I have no wish to renew the acquaintance." He attempted to hand it back to her. Failing that, he put it on the seat next to him.

"True," she smiled, enjoying his discomfort, "but they make excellent aids to plotting and revising and destroying the evidence." Chiara had a fleeting memory of plotting and replotting her mission to Naples, just before the fall of that small kingdom. Nothing had gone according to plan, but one of the stratagems that had been outlined in wax and discarded had actually proved useful in the final event.

"My plan is relatively straight-forward. I don't need a great deal of...plotting."

Chiara thought the word had a putrid taste from the look on his face. "Nevertheless, it is a good idea to..."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," she said.

Hyde appeared in the doorway. "My lady, my lord, I have taken the liberty of bringing your dinner here, al fresco, so to speak." He waved in several footmen who brought in a table, set it, and then returned with a number of covered silver servers.

Chiara and FitzHenry sat opposite each other and waited for the first course to be served. "Thank you, Hyde. We'll finish serving ourselves. I'll ring if we need anything. Otherwise, we'd like not to be disturbed." She smiled to erase any possible sting from the dismissal. After all, behind his formal exterior, Hyde was a capital fellow.

That estimable individual bowed and sheparded his minions out the door.

The soup was a delicate cream of mushroom. She allowed herself to enjoy it in silence.

However, during the _supreme de vollaille aux truffles_ with asparagus, she set to work again. Retrieving her wax tablet, she drew a rough map of central and northern Italy. "His Holiness is here, in Savona," she jabbed the spot on the map. "Genoa is here," she jabbed again, slightly east of Savona. "Now, I don't know anyone in either city, but I do know..."

"We don't need to know anyone. What we need is a troop of marines."

"Marines, um? Ah, that's right. You're a former naval man. You fought at Trafalgar, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Chiara sat back and toyed with the stylus. The single word could have been carved out of granite and thrown at her. He definitely did not want to talk about the subject, she concluded. But then she knew a little about his service at Trafalgar. He served with distinction and actually captured a Spanish vessel. Shortly thereafter, he'd been recalled home to take up his family title. Seemingly, his duty now lay in establishing his nursery. This necessitated a wife, but he seemed in no hurry to do his duty on that front.

"Lady Chiara, given that I do have military experience, perhaps you should be guided by me in the military aspects of this mission."

She opened her mouth to retort, but Uncle Geoffrey's admonition rang in her ears. It didn't cost anything to listen to his plan. "Why don't you lay out what you're planning?"

He leaned back with the air of a man who had just won a battle. "Most wise, my lady. I propose to sail in under cover of darkness, take a troop of marines into the city, break into the palace, snatch the Pope, and get out. Simple and elegant."

"Humm," she worried at her lip, "while Savona is a sea coast town, it is only 20 or 25 miles from Genoa. That is a major port with a good-sized French fleet stationed in and around it. In fact, it is responsible for the entire Ligurian Sea. Just getting in and out of the area will be difficult. Second, the Bishop's Palace is not going to look like Buckingham Palace. It will more closely resemble a small version of Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. General Radet may be a hot head and a...cur, but he's not a fool. He will have a very significant military presence in and around the Palace."

He glared at her She guessed she was poking holes the size of rabbit warrens in his plan.

"Did you think your marines could just march up and rap on the door?"

"I am of the opinion that it's our best option..."

"The coastline in that area is rocky and treacherous. Even if it was completely undefended, a clandestine landing, itself, could take several hours."

"I'm aware of how long a landing takes," he growled.

"An open assault on an Italian fortress house would take at least two days to land, reconnoiter, assault, and get out. Your plan only gives us 10 hours at best. Are you going to lodge a troop of marines at the local inn?"

His eyes narrowed and his fingers drummed on the table. "We'll take them in dressed as natives."

"Ah yes, a bunch of butter-headed, milk-faced Englishmen are going to fit right into the population. You might as well have them dig their own graves while you're at it because they'll get hung as spies if anything goes wrong. And it will. Are you willing to risk their necks, literally and figuratively, as well as ours? We are one thing. A bunch of soldiers that are ordered in is quite another!"

The rapping was from his knuckles, now. "We'll use sappers to tunnel into the palace from..."

"Didn't you listen to me? That area is rock! I haven't been to Savona, but I know Genoa is solid rock. You wouldn't be digging, you'd be blasting."

He said nothing for a moment. Things were obviously not going the way he'd planned. "I'll take a group of volunteers and seek an audience with the pope. We can take him out then or..."

"But..."

He overrode her "...cache some people inside and get him out later. We'll then need to head out of town to a rendezvous point somewhere, to get out of Italy."

For a moment, she drew meaningless lines in the corner of the wax tablet. He was finally starting to make sense. The only problem was that there were still some major holes in the general idea.

He took a sip of tea. The delicate china cup should have been incongruous in his large hand, but he handled it like an antique knife with a poisoned blade. The look in his eyes was just as sharp. Chiara wondered what he was thinking.

"My lady," he stressed the word, "I find intelligence work a...an unusual occupation for a gently bred lady. I mean," his expression took on a bland, almost paternal cast, "it is not considered quite the thing for a gentleman to do. I imagine it would be much less acceptable for a lady." Again, he stressed the word. "There are not a few in society who would consider such activities beyond the pale for a lady." He stressed it again. "It would be catastrophic to your reputation if knowledge of your activities leaked out, wouldn't it?"

Chiara narrowed her eyes and sat up straighter. "Are you trying to blackmail me into relinquishing my duty, sir?"

"Absolutely not." His expression wouldn't melt butter. "I'm simply trying to point out the hazards of your activities."

Chiara smiled, two could play at this game. "You relieve my mind. And I appreciate it more than I can say." She knew her toothy smile didn't reach her eyes. "But I don't foresee any problems. Only three people know the true nature of this operation. If Wentworth suspects that my...activities...have been published abroad, he'll know where to look. Do you remember what happened to the young buck who ferreted out Vole's identity and operations and used the knowledge to entertain his friends?"

The clenching of FitzHenry's jaw told her he was familiar with the "unfortunate" murder of the young man by unknown footpads a week after Vole was killed on a mission. Chiara knew Wentworth's only regret was not finding the spy who collected and transmitted the intelligence.

Chiara smiled serenely, "As to your very kind," she batted her eyes, "and informative reminder that I am a lady, let me ask you," the smile faded to cold purpose, "if that precludes my defending my country in its need?"

He crossed his arms and glared at her. "No."

"As to the 'green chit,' I've been involved in intelligence gathering since I was in the schoolroom. I have planned and completed two overseas missions and several here. Perhaps your 'green chit' has a bit more bronze than you realize?"

Narrowed eyes were his only response. She let the silence grow.

A knock at the door startled them both. His expression implied that he blamed her for the interruption. "Enter."

Hyde came in and bowed. "Your pardon, madam, sir." He gestured the footmen in; they quickly cleared the debris and brought in luscious-looking lemon tarts. He filled the glasses and bowed out of the room. Chiara suspected that there was little serendipity about his timing.

"Well?" FitzHenry demanded.

"Well, what?"

"Since you've taken great pleasure in ripping my plans to shreds, let's hear yours."

"It gives me no pleasure, Lord FitzHenry. But I suspect the fact that you are looking for other options says that you, too, see the flaws in your plans. I fully expect my ideas will need refinement or rejection.

"I think our best option for the rescue will be stealth and deception. If we want muscle, we can recruit from the local population. We can get access to the Palace via the laborers, suppliers, or staff. Once we make initial contact with His Holiness, we can enlist his assistance."

"What about the house, itself?"

"Getting a plan of the palace should be fairly easy from priests or staff, maybe former staff."

"How are you going to meet all these people? As you said, you don't know anyone there, and you can't very well just walk up and ask the locals to help. Can you?"

"No." She looked at the remains of the tart as she though for a moment.

"The risks of involving..."

She waved him into silence while she worked through the ideas. "Yes," she breathed. Looking up, her eyes twinkling, she whispered, "Family."

"What?"

"Family. Families are everything to the Italians. Popes Pius VI and Pius VII were from the same town. There're families are friends, besides being related by marriage at at least one point."

"So?"

"Pius VI appointed the current bishop of Savona who is still alive and probably not living in the Episcopal Palace. Members of one or both families have visited or worked there. They're familiar with the building. They would also know who can be trusted to assist us in Savona."

"Where do we find these fonts of information?"

"Well in...humm. We may have to go to Cesena."

"Where?"

"I happen to be good friends with His Holiness' family, the Chiaramontes. They live in Cesena."

"Where?"

Chiara stood and went to the large globe in the corner of Wentworth's library. One of her uncle's prize possessions, the top of the C-shaped frame sat about even with the top of her head. She had spent many hours here after her return to England, spinning the huge ball, dreaming of exotic climes, and remembering the land of her birth.

A small push set the globe spinning lazily until she stopped it. Leaning over, she quickly found Italy and Ravenna on the Adriatic Coast. "Here's Cesena." She used one elegantly manicured nail to locate the small print and even smaller dot thirty or so miles south of Ravenna.

FitzHenry rose from the chair with the lazy grace she had come to associate with him. He stood in back of her and bent forward over her to examine the map. She looked over her shoulder and nearly stopped breathing. He was closer to her than even Betsy, her maid, dared to be. His mouth brushed the topmost hair in her coiffure; his breath caressed her cheek. When his eyes left the globe, they seemed to capture hers: they held her gaze in a gentle prison.

She started to rise, but his body blocked the way, and he didn't move. For a moment, she just stayed there, bent under his imprisoning body. "My lord," she murmured, "this is a most uncomfortable position."

Immediately he straightened, putting his hand under her elbow to assist her. "My apologies, Lady Chiara."

He continued to watch her, and she had the feeling that his words contained absolutely no contrition.

She gestured him back to their chairs.

Desperate to regain what ever control of the situation she could, Chiara launched into her plan. "Cesena will be the best place to gather information and contacts."

"Why not Rome? You know people there."

"Yes, and they know me. Their loyalties to the Pope and their faith may be less strong than their loyalties to Napoleon and his inducements."

"Good point. But how long is this going to take?"

"Once we round Italy, the trip will be fairly easy. Napoleon sets relatively little store by the Balkans—too fractious for his tastes—so the Adriatic Sea is lightly guarded. A day or two in from the coast, a few days in Cesena, a week to ten days to get to Savona."

"That is, assuming everything goes smoothly." He took a long look at the globe.

"Yes, but I think we can count on a great deal of cooperation. Family is everything, and a pope in the family is like having the king for a cousin."

"What about the actual rescue?"

"Some variation on your idea of infiltrating the household, I suppose. We'll have to play that one as the cards fall. What worries me is how to get him out of the country."

"The best way is to have someone else send a pre-arranged signal at one place. We meet up with the ship at another place. For that we can consult with the ship's captain later."

Chiara thought for a moment. "Very well. Now we need to plan some of the more mundane things. Do you have clothes?"

He glanced rather pointedly down at his breeches. "I believe so," he drawled.

Chiara blushed as she realized how a perfectly professional question had gone awry. "Forgive me. That wasn't impertinence. Do you have Italian peasant clothes?"

He wrinkled his nose. "I have French peasant clothes. I assume those will do."

"They will if you wish to be arrested. I'll see to them."

"I assure you that I can arrange for my own..."

"Do you even know what an Italian peasant wears?"

"Mercifully, no, but I expect I'll be learning."

"Indeed. Can you get a hold of French and Italian money?"

"Certainly. And I will see to the ship."

"Hasn't that already been arranged?"

"Possibly, but I have a very specific ship and captain in mind. She's very fast, and he's a fire-eater if I've ever known one. If anybody can get us out and back, Harley can."

"He'll need some good maps."

He tapped his finger on his knee. "I'll arrange for a couple of volunteer," he stressed the word, "marines to come along."

"Lord Fitz..."

"I'll make sure they're black as bedamned, too."

### Chapter 4

The next two days passed in a flurry of activity. With no measurements in hand, she and Betsy rough-cut the clothes FitzHenry and his escorts would need. Most of the clothes she had used for her last mission would do nicely for her.

Instructions and messages, both of the mundane and the if-the-worst-befall type, had to be written. She detested doing both. The first set because she wanted to be organizing and doing the things herself. The second set, well, she had done most of them at least once already. Topmost on that stack was the letter to her uncle. She knew that, despite his matter-of-factness, he worried about her missions. She wanted to do everything she could to waylay his inevitable guilt.

FitzHenry sent word that he had succeeded in obtaining the ship and captain he desired, as well as completing his other tasks.

Tomorrow they left. Tonight, though, Chiara decided she would attend the Russell's ball. Lindsey would be there.

For now, all that mattered was that her silver-shot shawl sat just so over her arms and that her dress, the teal of a duck's wing, set off her eyes. Tonight would be just for fun; perhaps the last enjoyment she would have in a while.

The Russell's ballroom shone with the light of hundreds of candles. Chiara sipped the too-sweet lemonade as she looked around the room. She couldn't stay too long; the ship sailed at dawn with the tide. Hopefully Lindsey would arrive soon.

"Will you be able to make the sailing after a night of dissipation?" The soft, masculine challenge sounded near her ear.

Chiara looked quickly over her shoulder. Damn, she thought. "I'll be there, just like you will."

A youngish man with a most serious expression bowed in front of her. "Good evening, Lady Chiara, Lord FitzHenry. May I have this dance, my lady?" He held out his arm.

"Of course, Lord Bolton, I would like that very much." She placed her hand on the elegantly tailored jacket sleeve. Behind her, she heard, "Oh Lord FitzHenry, I'm so happy to see you again. Felicity talked of nothing else but you after the Tillman's ball."

The ship, a 90-gun, three decked frigate, bobbed gently at the dock, grey in the foggy dawn's half-light. Even to Chiara's untutored eye, she looked fast. The crew bustled around, loading, fixing, organizing. Her own trunks already on board the _Swiftsure_ , she dawdled until the last minute. The ship's bulwarks would define the limits of her life for a significant number of days. She wanted to treasure every moment of solid ground.

As she strolled along the dock, the sailors going about their tasks were curious but respectful. The British Navy was not known for its tolerance of disrespect, as well they all knew. A carriage piled high with trunks approached the berth. She recognized the crest even at that distance, complete with its discrete bar sinister, on the side of the vehicle. The FitzHenrys were proud of their royal blood, and by this time, the wrong side of the blanket was just as distinguished as the right side.

"He always did like to make an entrance," the cheerful, masculine voice behind her said.

She turned to see a man of tanned, roguish countenance dressed in the dark blue uniform of His Majesty's naval officers.

"Captain Thomas Harley, at your service, my lady." He swept off his bicorn hat to reveal light brown hair and bowed deeply. "At Trafalgar he brought his frigate about just as I was ready to finish a Spanish fourth rate frigate off." The carriage stopped, and FitzHenry stepped out. Harley raised his voice slightly, "I did all the work holding the _San Justo_ , and he comes in to snatch my prize from me. Miserable bugger."

FitzHenry looked at the captain with a wry smile. "Indeed, you sodden incompetent; I saved your ungrateful arse in the process. A 50-gun frigate shouldn't have given you all those problems. Half a prize ship was a small price to pay."

The two men embraced and clapped each other on the back. "Good to see you."

"Pleased to see your unrepentant hide is still in one piece."

Chiara's confusion began to ease. These were fierce competitors and even fiercer friends. She wouldn't have to spend the entire voyage keeping them from each other's throats, as she'd feared for a moment.

FitzHenry bowed to her. "Has this ungrateful slacker been regaling you with his fish stories?"

"Nothing but the truth, Rafe, nothing but the truth." The captain put his hand to his heart and grinned. It seemed to Chiara that his tanned face held a constantly happy mien. "However, we need to get aboard if we are to leave with this tide. My lady?" He gestured her toward the gangplank.

Two men pulled a number of trunks from the carriage's boot and roof while a third saw to their disposition.

Harley lowered his chin and looked up at FitzHenry. "Traveling light this time, old man?"

"Absolutely," the earl drawled.

Harley looked pointedly at the luggage.

"Two marines, my man, and myself: weapons, clothes, and supplies. Not extravagant, do you think?"

"Humph. Well and away. Let's be off as soon as you're aboard. My lady?" He offered Chiara his arm. She looked up at the ship, gulped and put her hand on his sleeve. Harley grinned at FitzHenry then turned to Chiara. "I assume your maid is already on board. I've made arrangements..."

"No, I did not bring a maid with me."

He stopped midway up the gangway. "No maid? But how will you manage? What of the proprieties?"

Chiara smiled. The male of the species was entirely predictable: one woman was a lady and one was definitely not. "I can manage dressing by myself. As to the proprieties, I believe I can entrust my virtue to His Majesty's finest. Besides, she would be here alone when I went on the mission. No, a maid would be just one more mouth to feed. I shall do nicely without Betsy's services for awhile, thank you."

Harley lifted his eyebrows, but made no response. Wise, Chiara thought. He could show himself an insufferable prig or a God-forsaken libertine. For a captain of his repute, the second would be only slightly more acceptable than the first.

Her quarters turned out to be the captain's own cabin, recently vacated. A second rate frigate's captain's cabin held all the luxuries: wood paneling, comfortable chairs and tables, wardrobes, and enough wall sconces to light a ballroom. "Captain Harley, I cannot possibly displace you from your private quarters! This is intolerable!"

Harley bowed as he waved her into the spacious cabin. "Ah, my dear lady, I insist." The twinkle returned to his eyes. "I exist to serve you. If offering my poor quarters for your comfort makes your voyage with us any more enjoyable, then they are yours. I only beg that you will dream of me as you slumber in my bed, as I will of you, even after you have left us."

"Bloody hell!" FitzHenry stood, ignored, in the doorway. "What he means to say is that Wentworth laid down the law to him. Since this is the only lockable cabin on the ship, it's now yours. He's bumped his first and second officers from their cabins for the two of us," he pointed to Harley, "and so on down the line."

Harley smirked and shrugged. "My steward will be pleased to assist you in anything you require. Mr. Pearce, if you please!"

"Aye, cap'n, m'um, sir," the short, bandy-legged man replied from behind FitzHenry. "Be's right 'ere, sir. No needs t'shout."

Harley looked at him with a mixture of censure and resignation. "This unmannerly lout is my steward. He will take care of anything you need. Just don't ask how he accomplished it or where he got it."

Mr. Pearce grinned, and Harley ruefully shook his head. "Rafe, this way."

Mr. Pearce stood aside for them and made to follow when Chiara called him back. "Mr. Pearce, I shall require a few things before we set sail."

"Ah's yer man, m'um."

Three days passed before Chiara showed her face outside her cabin. Mr. Pearce had supplied her with everything she needed to weather her inevitable bout of _mal-de-mer_. He even brought her some ginger to help settle her stomach. With that organ finally under control, she ventured out of her cabin for breakfast.

Mr. Pearce met her on the way to the captain's ward room, now doing extra duty as the officers' mess. "G'morning to ye, m'um. Ah's glad to see ye is up and about finally." She held the door for him, as he balanced three trays. "Thank ye, m'um. Thank ye."

"My pleasure, Mr. Pearce."

"What can Ah's gets ye?"

FitzHenry, Harley, and another officer rose from the table as she entered. "Oh, a little of everything, please, I'm quite famished." Pearce lifted his eyebrows in the very same way that Harley had done some days ago. Like master, like man, she thought as he went about his duties.

"Lady Chiara," Harley bowed, "I'm delighted you could finally join us. May I present Mr. Grenfell, my first officer?"

The young man, who obviously hadn't been shaving long, turned beet red and bowed rather jerkily. "Servant, ma'am." With that, he bowed equally jerkily to the gentlemen. "Excuse me, sirs, duties you know." His half-finished plate remained behind him.

As he waited for her to sit, FitzHenry jibed, "Why Lady Chiara, I do believe you've frightened the stripling."

Chiara just looked at him and then glanced about the room. Paneled in the same dark, soot-stained wood as the captain's cabin, the bank of windows also looked out off the stern of the ship, but one deck lower. She addressed Captain Harley. "I apologize for being such a poor guest, Captain. Mr. Pearce has been most helpful, though."

Harley glanced over at his steward, and the small man grinned. "Thank you, Lady Chiara. I wouldn't have expected any less of him, but it's still nice to hear. You've quite recovered, I hope?"

"Indeed."

"Splendid! You made a top-hole turn out, especially under the circumstances." Her wool gown, dark blue and practical, featured long sleeves and a high neckline as concessions to the cool weather on board the ship. A white sash emphasized the high waist of the gown.

"What kind of progress have we made in my...absence?"

"Smashing, absolutely smashing! We've been doing just shy of 12 knots, and the crew is working like a well-adjusted clock."

Chiara frowned and FitzHenry broke in, "What he means is that we should reach Lisbon late today."

Chiara's face brightened at the thought of a port. She knew they were also delivering dispatches for Wellington, who was somewhere north of Badajoz, Spain, approximately 120 miles east of the Portuguese port.

FitzHenry leaned back in his chair. "We'll only be in port for a few hours, enough to deliver the papers and take on a few supplies. If you've finally gotten your sea legs, I wouldn't recommend you getting off the ship."

"Oh well," accompanied a deep sigh. "I don't want to have to repeat that experience any time in the near future."

"Precisely my point." He steepled his fingers under his chin.

"You are most tediously right, my lord."

"Of course. Remember that."

For a moment, she looked at him coolly. What an arrogant...person he was! Chiara knew she couldn't give him the set-down he needed and deserved, at least not until the mission was finished. Then...she mentally rubbed her hands together.

"My lady," interjected Harley, "don't let this son of a sea cook distress you. He forgets that even the late, lamented Lord Nelson suffered from the same affliction."

"Tom, you're such a marplot."

Chiara ignored him and addressed the Captain. "When will this speed put us near Ravenna?"

"Well, in a perfect world, we should have you on dry land again in about 11 days. I wouldn't be too sanguine about the weather, though. This part of the world has been known to sprout some good ones at this time of the year."

FitzHenry rose and walked to the wide window at the back of the chamber. He appeared to be studying the wake intently.

"Well, I'll just pray, for what do they say, 'fair skies and following winds.'"

"Just so, my lady," Harley glanced at FitzHenry with a grin.

"My lord, I would like to inspect the clothes you and your men propose wearing." His eyebrow went up in mocking outrage. "To insure their appropriateness, of course."

"Of course."

With a slight grimace, she turned to the captain, "If the proposed clothes for Lord FitzHenry and his marines are as inappropriate as I suspect they may be, I might require some extra hands. Are any of your men, perhaps, somewhat proficient in sewing?"

"Indeed, my lady, I have two sew-sew boys I will put at your disposal. They can be spared from stitching sails for a few days. Mr. Pearce will fetch them at your need.

"And now I'm afraid I must attend to my duties. I do hope you will be able to join us for dinner, my lady. My chef has a particular touch with beef. Three bells." He bowed and left.

FitzHenry walked to the summoning bell pull on the wall and gave it two sharp, silent tugs. While he waited for his valet, he leaned against the wall and studied Chiara. Jones, FitzHenry's valet, knocked briefly before entering the ward room. His master barely glanced at him as he requested the men be brought to him. Chiara requested her sewing basket as well. She dismissed him with a smile and then turned to FitzHenry. "Rafaelle..." His lifted eyebrow stopped her. Merciful heavens, she thought, I could get tired of that quickly. "Much as I do not wish to be on...intimate...terms with you, it appears I must. I will be addressing you as Rafaelle from now on. I will do all the talking in public. You must hold your tongue. No matter how good your French, it simply wouldn't do in Italy for an Italian peasant."

"I must, hum? My sister never thought she would live to see the day. She is forever accusing me of telling her what to do."

"Obviously a most astute woman. I shall have to seek out your sister's acquaintance. It seems we have much in common."

He snorted.

"You might start practicing your role, now," she muttered as a sharp rap sounded on the door. Jones and the marines entered, followed by Mr. Pearce. The valet greeted them, while the marines pulled at their forelocks.

Chiara studied the two soldiers. There were both dark-haired and dark-skinned for Englishmen. They would do, especially if they let their beards grow. "Gentlemen," she said, "be seated."

Both jaws dropped. Members of the aristocracy had obviously not often offered them a chair. They glanced at FitzHenry. He nodded briefly, and they all took their seats.

"We need to start making you into Italians, at least to the casual observer." Worry, fear, and outrage blossomed on their faces. "It may save your lives. We're going to work on dress, language, and mannerisms.

"My name is Chiara." She rolled her "r' with great emphasis. "He," she nodded towards FitzHenry, "is Rafaelle. This is the only way you will address him, beginning now." The two men tried to hide their grins. "If you ever address him as 'my lord' or 'sir' it will probably cost all of us our lives. He is 'Rafaelle.' I will be doing most, if not all, of the talking, so I will be seen to be the harridan mistress. I will be addressed as ' _Signora_ ' or ' _Signora Chiara_ '. You will also need 'please,' ' _prego_.' and 'thank you,' ' _grazia_.' We'll practice them.

"When introduced to someone of rank or substance whose friendliness you aren't sure of, pull off your cap,' she got up to demonstrate, 'hold it close to your chest, drop your chin, and sink into yourself. Make yourself small. Then yell for me." The wry note in her voice had FitzHenry smirking.

"Do you have something to contribute, Rafaelle? I mean more than childish remarks?" If he wanted to use words as edged steel, he'd find that hers were just as sharp.

A small brush of his hand was the only response.

"May I see the clothes,' she glanced at all of them, "you propose to wear?"

Rafaelle glanced at the valet, and the man left on his errand.

Chiara frowned at the marines. "We have not completed the introductions. You are...?" She looked at the taller one.

"Jerry McEowen, m'um, uh, _senyoura_." His English came straight out of the Highlands.

"Very good," she smiled. "You roll your 'r' well. We'll have you carrying on conversations in no time." The marine beamed with delight. "We will call you...Giaccomo. That'll be fairly easy to remember. And you are...?" She looked at the other man.

"Sam Goode, m'um."

The tone of his voice told Chiara that Sam Goode did not want to be here and did not want to do anything more than was absolutely necessary. "You will go by Salvatore. Now I realize you may be uncomfortable with the strange clothes and language, but you need to make every effort. In the field, it may buy us a few seconds of advantage, enough to save all our lives. I really need you to practice; even it is sounds funny or strange."

"Ay, _s'nor_."

"Si, _signora_. Repeat it, both of you."

"Si, _sigyora_."

"Better. Keep practicing." She studied the two men, wondering how to turn two obstinate English marines into passable Italian peasants in less than two weeks. No flashes of inspiration enlightened her.

Jones brought in the clothes. Chiara inspected each garment. For some reason, she was reluctant to pick up FitzHenry's French peasant clothes.

"At least two of the pants will have to be altered. Italians generally wear knee breeches rather than trousers. And the stockings will need to be lengthened to go with the breeches. My...Rafaelle, your clothes will need to be decorated in accordance with your more elevated status."

"My...status?" The eyebrow took flight again.

"Yes, you will need to be a relative of mine, a brother, husband, close cousin. It's unlikely a woman would travel alone with three men and not have any of them kinfolk."

"Humm. Do I get to choose?"

Her repressive glare was her only reply. "The full tunic shirts with the draw-string necks and gathered sleeves will do. Salvatore and Giaccomo's jerkins will also do, but yours," she nodded at FitzHenry, "will have to be of a better cloth if you are to be a member of the landed peasantry. Also our escorts will need neckerchiefs, and you will require a more elaborate, triangular scarf. Cummerbunds and caps, too."

"Do you always dress your men so carefully?"

"Have you even seen an Italian peasant, Rafaelle?" He shrugged, and she continued speaking to the marines. "Before we land, you will rub some walnut stain into your skin to darken it." She looked around. "Are there any questions?" No one answered. "Very good. Then I have to get to work." She looked at FitzHenry. "I need to get measurements, please."

The rest of the group left the ward room while Chiara rooted in her sewing basket for tape and a wax tablet like her uncle's.

When the door closed, FitzHenry sauntered from his window spot to the table. "Does 'Chiara' mean 'cat' in Italian?"

"What? No, what?" She couldn't find the stylus.

"'Cat' would suit you. You're a strange mixture of claws and purrs, and I suspect you'll make a formidable huntress, Chiara." He rolled the "r" in the soft French fashion rather than the more pronounced Italian.

She spoke fluent French, though not nearly as well as her next-to-mother tongue. The French "r" always sounded like the hiss of snakes compared to the robust rolling consonant she grew up with. The sound of her name on his lips was the sound a beautiful, deadly viper would make as it prepared to strike. Chills went down her back. She stopped searching her sewing basket and looked up. He'd perched on the edge of the table next to her. Even sitting he seemed to tower over her.

"Chiara," he breathed. One hand reached out to lift a curl from her neck.

Chiara watched his eyes, transfixed as a finger reached out from holding the curl to taste her neck. Electricity raced from the touch down her back. A swell riding under the boat sent her swaying towards him.

Striking like a snake, he clasped his hand around her neck, bent, and kissed her. His mouth pried at her lips, demanding surrender. For a moment, all Chiara wanted to do was yield to that demand. Then she saw his eyes. Even up close, they were the hard, calculating eyes of a master predator.

She jerked away and grabbed her basket. "Do not ever try that again. This is an official government mission, not a trip to a brothel."

He straightened, sensuously graceful, into the cold English lord she knew.

"I will get your measurements from your valet." She turned and fled the serpent's den with as much dignity as she could muster.

### Chapter 5

Chiara stomped back to her cabin. "The man's a pig. An absolute, bloody pig! He's the most degenerate excuse for a heathen I've ever seen." She marched into her cabin and slammed the door. It bounced back open. She had to go back and close it, which infuriated her even more.

"That miserable, thrice-damned bastard." She knew her stout-hearted aunt would be reaching for her vinaigrette if she heard, but Chiara didn't feel in the slightest bit lady-like right now. Furious, murderous, vicious...yes. Lady-like, no.

She tossed her sewing basket on the table bolted to the bulkhead wall and went over to scramble into the gently swinging box bed. She threw her head back onto the pillow, feeling the brush of the wooden frame against the top of her head. She rubbed at the small sting. It was another thing she chalked up against FitzHenry.

She stared at the wood panel ceiling for what seemed like an eternity. He tried to use seduction to make her biddable. The arrogant pig! Chiara knew the mission had to take precedence over personal animosities, but there must be something she could do to punish him for the insult.

Turning, she looked out the wide transom window that mirrored the one in the wardroom directly below. Her trunk sat on the window seat. Fabrics and sewing supplies took up a goodly amount of space in the trunk. As she looked, an idea bloomed. Of course! It was a piece she had intended to use for herself to replace a bodice. Normally she would never even consider the color and pattern, but it suited Italian tastes perfectly. The flamboyant red and yellow flowers would make FitzHenry a perfect waistcoat, with maybe a red scarf to match. He of the restrained elegance would hate it.

The next few days were spent measuring, cutting and sewing. FitzHenry kept his distance and maintained cool politeness when distance wasn't possible.

Captain Harley provided a sun shade and chairs for Chiara and her assistants on the forecastle. It allowed her some respite from her increasingly close cabin, luxurious as it was, and also allowed the Captain numerous opportunities to subtly flirt with her. FitzHenry's obvious indifference emboldened Harley to show her how to use the sextant, standing in back of her and positioning her hands just so on the instrument. It was a perfectly innocent lesson in navigation, but Chiara caught FitzHenry's eyebrow rise on that and other occasions.

Chiara enjoyed the Captain's company and good humor, and she ignored FitzHenry.

As they left the Straits of Gibraltar, and the ship's bell rang eight times for 4 o'clock, Harley approached her sewing pavilion. His bow morphed into a close examination of her handiwork, the flowered vest. His face showed the polite look of distaste: it was totally blank. "And who is this for?"

Chiara smiled innocently, "Why for his lordship. Don't you think it will suit him? He will blend right in with this."

"Indeed!"

"Indeed what?" FitzHenry strolled up to them.

Harley looked at her, a wide grin on his face. "I was just explaining to Lady Chiara that the weather is going to change on us."

"Hum, and rather quickly, I wager."

Chiara frowned. She looked at both men. "How do you know this?"

FitzHenry answered. "The bank of clouds behind us," he nodded aft, "carries a vendale wind out of the Straits of Gibraltar. It's advancing with the kind of speed that spells a storm. And the winds these storms bring can be furious."

"Indeed, Lady Chiara, best make sure everything is battened down after dinner. It's going to be a bumpy night."

FitzHenry grinned, "Absolutely!" Glancing askance at the emerging vest, he left them.

With a twinkle in his eye, Harley put his hand aside his mouth. "I think he's looking forward to it."

"What, the storm or the vest?"

Harley's laughter barked, and he strolled away.

Dinner was a fairly quiet affair, with most of their attention focused on getting their food from the plates to their mouths without losing any. The leading edge of the storm caught them even faster than anticipated. Between bites, it was the main topic of conversation. The serious discussion of sails and heading gave her some cause for concern.

As it turned out, there was some cause for her concern. During the night, as the storm hit in force, the driver's mizzen mast's hinges failed, sending the mast swinging around the forecastle. Few men were on the deck, but a midshipman suffered a broken arm.

The next morning dawned bright and clear and breezy. Chiara finished breakfast alone in the wardroom. She grabbed her sewing basket and headed for the sunshade. Repairs on the mast were underway. Captain Harley spotted her and sauntered over to the pavilion. He swept off his hat, when the lookout in the crow's nest shouted, "Sail ahoy!"

Harley stopped in mid-sweep and looked up. "Where away?"

"Five points t'starboard, sir," came the reply.

Harley reached for the telescope that a lad conjured into his hand. Leaning over the bulwark, he searched the area. Not satisfied, he ran to the nearby rigging. Stripping off his jacket, he started up the ropes like a monkey.

FitzHenry lazily climbed the ladder to the forecastle deck. He cocked his head up at the rigging. "Company?"

Harley held the telescope to his eye and replied, "Aye, too far away yet to make her out, though."

FitzHenry dropped his coat on top of the captain's and followed him up the rigging. Chiara watched him, open-mouthed.

Behind her, Mr. Pearce spoke, sotto voce, "Don't look so surprised, m'um. The two o' em be more like cats den bloody captains. Yer pardon, m'um. In d'old days, they'd be up the ropes almost afore the lookout'd finish his hail."

"I believe you, Mr. Pearce, but the Lord FitzHenry I know would no more climb a rigging than...than put on a dress." Pearce smiled, showing his entire picket fence of teeth, but said nothing. Chiara leaned forward to watch the men on the riggings.

Harley handed the telescope over. FitzHenry studied the oncoming ship for a few moments. The breeze teased his black hair, and he pushed it out of his face. Finally, he snapped the instrument closed and handed it back then started down. He jumped to the deck, followed by Harley, and reached for his coat. As he shrugged it on, he said, "It's French, I'll wager. Probably one of the green-wood frigates they've been building since Trafalgar to replace their fleet. With any luck, her captain is just as green as his ship. Going to take her on?"

Captain Harley leaned against a nearby stanchion. "God's head!" He scratched his chin. "This is an embarrassment of riches. I've a lovely lady on board and a French ship just right for the pickings. What to do?" He tapped the telescope on his chin. "What to do?" He looked at his friend. "You're not urging me to run, old man?" FitzHenry snorted and jerked his head toward the damaged mast.

Chiara could just see the tiny dot to the south of them.

"I don't know of any English ships slated to be in this part of the Mediterranean now," Harley mused, "but that storm could have blown it off course."

"Could be." FitzHenry's tone expressed his lack of concurrence with the captain's words. "We should know soon enough."

"Umm, Mr. Grenfell," Harley's voice rose suddenly. "Speed up that work. We're having company, and I want the parlor ready!"

"Yes, sir! Martin, Smiley, get your carcasses..."

Harley studied the broken mast. "God's blood! Without the driver, we've lost a lot of maneuverability. It's not too likely that the repairs will be done in time to do us much good. It looks like I'll have to stand and mayhap fight, whether I wish to or not."

FitzHenry nodded. He turned to Chiara, his face grave. "You're to go to the lady's hole at the bottom of the ship as soon as we're sure of his flag."

"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort."

"Rafe's right, ma'am. It's the safest place for you. I'll have Pearce escort you." Harley's face no longer sported its easy-going grin. He was all business now, and his business was war.

"Thank you, captain, I don't need an escort." She turned and retreated towards her quarters. She'd be dead and buried before she ran from a fight, but now was not the time to tell that to the captain or to question his instructions.

The trick would be to keep out of the way until she could be sure of the situation. A drum beat the call for the crew to take their stations. She would, also, if needed.

From the bowels of her trunk, Chiara pulled out a draw-stringed blouse of the cheapest muslin. It had long, gathered sleeves typical of a peasant blouse, but with one extra feature. Next she retrieved a low-necked vest in dark green, followed by a mustard yellow kerchief. Finally she lifted out a pair of black knee-britches wrapped around a pair of striped stockings.

Quickly she divested herself of her more conventional garments and donned the new styles. She braided her hair and pinned it up into a secure knot on her head. The kerchief went over it. A little more digging in the trunk produced a knife in a sheath attached to a leather strap. This she buckled on just inside the special slit in the right sleeve of the blouse. Once adjusted, she pulled the knife from its sheath, readjusted the fit, and tested the blade before returning it.

Rooting in the truck again, she found a sheathed sword, shorter than usual, but perfectly sized for her, particularly when used in combination with the knife, in what used to be known as the Italian style of sword fighting.

She sifted through her papers, trying to think of any incriminating documents she or FitzHenry carried. She'd committed nothing to paper, and Uncle Geoffrey had given them nothing, as usual.

Now she waited. That was the worst part.

Feet stomped on the deck above her. Muffled orders bellowed up and down and through the ship. Some of the sounds, she couldn't identify; in concert, she knew them as a symphony of war.

If the battle was fought with only cannon, she would remain cloistered in her cabin. If they were boarded, she would be up on deck fighting with the rest of the crew. There would be some shock at the sight of a woman in men's clothing, and censure perhaps (particularly from Lord Self-Righteous), but she was not going to sit and cower from a fight. They'd all get used to the idea quickly enough when French swords pricked at their bellies. And be glad of it.

The waiting, she thought, the interminable waiting. She didn't fear the fight. Combat she knew, both in practice and the real thing. She'd proven her mettle before. But to have to wait and not even be able to help with the preparations or see the field of combat! She began to pace, listening for the small sounds, and larger ones, that would signify the beginning of battle, assuming, of course, it was a French ship.

She looked out the transom window: nothing but blue ocean and bluer sky.

She checked the release of her own blade when a far-away boom heralded the beginning of battle. Looking out the window, she saw the ocean explode upwards several hundred yards short of and behind the _Swiftsure_. The battle begins, she thought.

An answering cannonade shook the ship, but Chiara could tell if it was their cannons doing the firing. Soon, the starboard half of their 90 guns were firing almost rhythmically. Now and again a French ball provided a counterpoint. For the moment, she could only trust in the British gunners' well-celebrated skill.

The time interval between the cannon shots and strikes grew shorter and shorter. The French ship closed on its intercept course.

Soon, she would know. She patted her sleeve sheath when an unseen hand threw her toward the portside wall. Staggering, she regained her balance. What happened? Right on the heels of the question came the answer. The two ships had collided! Time to grab her sword and go topside.

The passageway stood deserted, but the sounds of boarding and combat filled the top deck. She ran up the stairs, but found the hatchway locked; it was probably the captain's misguided attempt to keep her safe.

The next hatch, with sounds of battle coming through it clearly, proved more fruitful. She stuck her head out to get an idea of the situation. It looked like the gates of hell. Clouds of smoke obscured most of the ship and stung her nose. Ghostly British marines flowed over the gunwales to the French frigate. An almost equal number of French sought to board the _Swiftsure_. Yelling filled her ears, punctuated by the occasional scream.

In an eye blink, hand to hand combat broke out on the deck in front of her. Chiara pushed her way up. A French sailor charged across an undefended area of the deck, waving his cudgel and yelling, " _Victoire_!" She scrambled to meet him, sword held unobtrusively at her side. He slid to a stop on the sanded deck, goggling at a seemingly unarmed woman in men's clothing. His weapon dropped. It was the advantage she'd hoped for. Her blade flew up, catching him in the neck. Blood spurted and his eyes opened wide before he fell. The sand he slipped on absorbed his blood.

Her stomach clenched. Blood and death—her doing! She controlled the impulse to gag, telling herself that this was war, and she had engaged. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man's body roll; she searched for a fresh target. The next one would probably not be as easy.

The tang of fresh-spilled blood joined the gunpowder. Smoke clouds ebbed and flowed around the masts and equipment. The familiar structures turned into a dark, menacing forest. The small clearing she stood in, empty save for the Frenchman's body, erupted into movement. On her right, Sam Goode fought a burly, bearded man. Chiara saw the Frenchman slash out with more force than finesse. None the less, it caught Goode across the left upper arm. Blood spurted, and Sam stumbled, falling against the main mast. The Frenchman moved in for the kill. Chiara screamed, and he looked up in surprise. A big grin split his bearded face. His rotten teeth made Pearce's look like a solid wall. He caught sight of the bloody sword in her hand. The grin transmuted into a snarl. He started towards her, lumbering, but with a sailor's characteristic sure-footedness.

Chiara regripped her sword and reached into her sleeve for the knife hilt, but she didn't draw it.

The man raised his sword to strike. She began her rush. As she raised her sword to parry, she drew the sleeve blade. Their swords met. She deflected the blow, rather than trying to stop it. The force of the blow rattled her arm. Rank breath flowed from the man's renewed grin. She knew he thought he'd overpowered her.

She allowed the last of her charge to bring her close. The small, deadly blade slid up and under his ribs. It went through his soft belly and up into his heart. The man's grin disappeared into a moue. She felt his weight on the knife and pulled it out. A fleeting thought marveled at how hard it always was to pull the blade out, as opposed to going in. Slipping around the falling corpse, she knelt by Sam Goode. His face was pale, the gash was deep, and he was losing blood. His new "Italian" neck cloth was already around his neck. She smiled at his small vanity but untied it and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

"God save ye, m'lady, and ye have m'lasting thanks."

She pressed a quieting finger to his lips. "Get over under cover." He nodded and began to crawl under the rail with the main mast's belaying pins.

She went on in search of a fresh—she took a deep breath—kill.

Randomly, she moved forward through the clouds of smoke. The riggings formed giant spider webs around her. She coughed in the gunpowder clouds. Cannon fired; she couldn't tell if it was coming or going, but it threw her off balance for a moment. A barrel rolled across the deck to her left.

The smoke ebbed, and two men fought a vicious battle, surprisingly close to her. She recognized FitzHenry with his back to her just as a second Frenchman, with a pistol, sighted at him from the left. He saw her and changed targets.

She threw her knife just as he aimed at her with the gun. Damn, she was never very good with her left hand. The knife hit high in the man's right shoulder instead of his chest. He pulled his shot wide, but not quite enough, and she felt the burn of the bullet as it grazed her left arm.

FitzHenry turned and saw. "God damn you!" He broke off and danced out of the way of a saber slash. His opponent, tall and blond, knew what he was doing. FitzHenry had a fight on his hands.

"Look out!" she snapped. "And you're welcome." The knifed man pulled the blade out, drew his sword, and charged her with a snarl.

Without her knife, Chiara switched to a two-handed grip and parried his first strike. Less than it might have been, the shock still reverberated up her arms. Her left hand faltered, so she tightened her grip. She kept his blade engaged by rolling the locked steel up and over their heads. He pushed her away. His stance told her that this opponent knew more about sword-fighting than her first two opponents. He twirled his blade in a slow circle to distract her. She'd used that trick before, herself, and kept her eyes on his. The circle ran clockwise, which said he would strike from---the left, a whipping slash at her mid-section. Her sword caught the edge of his. She pushed it away as she danced right. That wasn't the contact she wanted. He backed off a step, whirled the blade over his shoulder. Stepping up, he put his weight into the down stroke.

This was what she wanted. Catching the blade near the hilt of her sword, she stepped close to him, close enough to see the mole on his neck. Shifting her weight to her left leg, she kicked out with her right. She hit him inside his kneecap. His leg buckled, and he went down. She pulled her sword back, twisted it slightly, and plunged the blade in, parallel to the floor. It caught briefly on a rib and then slid smoothly into the man's chest as the strike was designed to do. His last sight was her cold steel blossoming in his chest.

She scrambled for her knife, slipping on some dry sand. Jumping to her feet, she looked around through the miasma for FitzHenry. His opponent still drove hard at FitzHenry's able defense. Another Frenchman--young, awkward, foolhardy--charged at him, sword flying, whooping. He focused on getting his share of the English aristocrat. She intercepted him, and he danced back to the gunwale. For several minutes they played cat and mouse among the deck's obstacles.

A shout came over the din, "They've struck! The Frenchie's 'ave struck!"

Her foe didn't seem to notice. His eyes had mutated from predator's to prey at her first strike. He focused on her and her sword swaying like a deadly cobra. He hadn't heard, hadn't understood, the surrender. All his attention centered on her, centered on his own upcoming death. And he was so young.

" _C'est fini_!" She tried to gentle her voice, but the smoke had turned it raspy. No matter, he didn't hear her. His sword stuttered after hers, and she knew better than to let her guard down.

She attacked. Catching his blade, she wrenched it up and to the side, but failed to break his panicky grip.

" _C'est fini_!" she yelled in his face. " _Votre capitaine est capitulé_!"

Hearing of his captain's surrender broke his trance. "Non!"

The denial punctuated a frantic squirm, but she braced her leg and pushed harder. " _Ecoutez_!" He stared at her and listened. The sounds of battle were fading quickly. English orders replaced French or English battle cries. She shoved at him. " _C'est fini_!"

His lower lip quivered, and a great sob welled from his chest.

Merciful Lord, she thought, he's just a baby.

His fingers unclenched, and he dropped his sword, the clatter loud in this suddenly-still field of carnage.

She gestured him around toward the center of the ship. FitzHenry and his foe were nowhere to be found, but other Englishmen had French prisoners. Now that the battle ended, the victors didn't quite know what to do.

She took a deep breath. "Attention!" she yelled, " _Prisonniers francaişes assiez ici_!" She pointed to a clear area. After the briefest of hesitations, the French sat in a rough circle. " _Mettez vos mains sûr votre tête_." Hands obediently grasped their heads.

"Blimey," one of the sailors breathed respectfully. Chiara grinned. Mr. Grenfell barreled through the slowly-lifting smoke. He skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling over a French prisoner. He looked over the scene, his mouth working like a landed fish's.

Chiara lowered her sword-point to the deck and leaned on the handle. It helped to keep her upright, but she wasn't about to tell them that. She looked at Grenfell through her lashes, "Your prisoners, Lieutenant."

"Um, yes, well..."

Chiara said. " _Prisonniers, levez vous. Laissez vos mains sûr votre tête. Suivez le officier_." After all the French were on their feet with their hands on their heads, she drawled, "All yours, Mr. Grenfell." With that, she went off in search of Sam Goode.

She found him trying, rather unsuccessfully, to crawl out of his hidey-hole. The blood on his sleeve had increased alarmingly since she tied the scarf around his arm. Gently, she pushed him back to a sitting position. She ripped his shirt, and he grimaced. "Sorry about that."

"No fault to ye, m'um."

She untied the blood-soaked kerchief to examine the wound. It still bled sluggishly, but she figured that was an improvement, given the blood already on him. "We need to get you to the surgeon, Mr. Goode and get this stitched up." She started to retie the kerchief.

He lifted his good hand to stop her. "M'lady, Ah don't want them damn saw-bone butchers to touch me. They'll just lop off me arm and have done with it. Ah knows Ah ain't got no right to asks ye, seein' as Ah was so pissy to ye afore, but could ye sews me up yerself. Ye've a gentle touch." She went very still, and he continued as he moved to rise, "Ah knows Ah ain't got no right. But help me to the saw-bones, iffin ye please."

She pushed him back again. "It's not the usual material I sew on, but I'll try by best. Stay here."

She hurried off to her cabin, twice interrupting her progress to direct French prisoners aft toward the holding area. With needle, thread, soap, water, and cloths secured, she went in search of some strong spirits, to be used inside and outside the patient. Supplies in hand, she started back to the main deck. She had one foot on the first stair riser when a voice rasped in her ear.

"God damn you for a two-penny whore."

She stopped and whirled. FitzHenry crowded her. She could see the grains of soot embedded in his skin. He smelled of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. A fleeting thought grew in the midst of the outrage. She probably smelled just as sweet.

"Indeed, my lord, if I am a whore for defending my country and myself at need, then what does that make you?" She started back up the stairs, but he grabbed her arm before she got two steps.

"Don't you dare go back up there!"

Wrestling away, Chiara put another stair's breath between them. She bent so that she faced him at eye level. "Don't question my ability to serve my country, ever," she snarled, "again." She turned back and stomped up the stairs, unmolested.

Sitting next to Goode, she took a long breath. Someday she would rip that man's foul tongue out of his mouth, but now she had a job to do. She needed steady, not furious, hands.

When she finished with Goode, several other sailors requested similar services. Mr. Pearce came by, and she requested fresh supplies. The men, preferring her "gentle touch" to that of the surgeons, kept her busy through most of the day.

After the last injured sailor made for his hammock, she dropped her chin and headed for her own cabin. It was only then that she realized FitzHenry sported a bloody slash across his chest.

Finally clean, her own arm bandaged with Mr. Pearce's assistance, and dressed once again like a lady, Chiara slowly made her way to the wardroom for dinner. Hammering, sawing, and unidentifiable scraping played an unscored symphony above her.

Harley handed her a glass of sherry as soon as she walked in. "I thought you could use this." FitzHenry nodded to her, but his eyes held no welcome. She knew hers reflected it.

Mr. Pearce announced dinner, so she took her glass to the table. For awhile, the only sounds around the table came from outside the room. She felt a great gratitude for the lack of conversation.

Mr. Grenfell and the other junior officers, not at the table, were supervising repairs on the _Swiftsure_ and the French _Triomphe_. As was the custom, freshly-shaved, bald men, the French prisoners who had given their parole not to try to revolt, worked on repairs under the watchful eye of marines.

Harley broke the relative silence, "As much as it pains me to think that a lady in my care had to defend herself against villains, I understand from several sources that you acquitted yourself most handsomely, Lady Chiara, and rounded up prisoners, to boot."

Chiara glanced at FitzHenry glaring at his wine glass before she replied, "It would have been unconscionable of me to sit cowering in my cabin, Captain. Besides," her wry grin peaked out, "I couldn't let you men have all the fun." As soon as she said it, the grin faded to a grimace, with the memory of how that "fun" was achieved.

"Indeed. Fun. In any event, the fun hasn't ended. The _Triomphe_ will go back as a prize ship. You'll both be getting shares, by the bye. I need to man her and guard the prisoners." He took a deep breath. "I'll have to impress your two marines, Rafe."

FitzHenry grimaced and glanced at Chiara, but he didn't protest.

"We've got a lot of wounded, and I've a fair bit of repairs on both ships to deal with, plus I have to..."

"I understand, Tom, I'd do the same thing in your place. In fact, I anticipated it the moment we saw the sail.

Harley's grin had a rueful cast. "Of course, you always know which way the wind blows."

FitzHenry may have already worked through the implications, but Chiara hadn't. She did so now. It would only be the two of them, with no escorts for a buffer. The next few weeks did not present themselves with equanimity.

After dinner, she took herself to the upper deck and found a spot on the leeward gunwale with relatively little repair going on near it. The sky had cleared to a crystalline clearness, with a waning moon hanging just above the horizon. She leaned her elbows on the gunwale, watching the whitecaps behind the ship as they played in the moonlight.

The absence of any chaperonage--for lack of a better word--had the potential for severely compromising the mission, given the inability of FitzHenry and herself to maintain civility for more than a moment or two in private. Mercy, the potential for chaos staggered the mind!

It might almost be easier, she thought, to accomplish the mission herself. Could she convince him they'd have a better chance of success if they tried to rescue the Pope independently? Perhaps she could convince him to make an attempt from the west coast after the ship dropped her off near Ravenna for her attempt from the east. Two sequential attempts might have a better chance of success.

Perhaps she could talk Captain Harley into simply clapping him in irons for s short while. "Might do him good."

"Do whom good?"

She whirled. With the repair noise, she hadn't heard him approach.

"I suspect that if you're damning some poor sot to the deepest pits of hell, then you are probably referring to me."

Taking a second to allow her heart to slow, she drawled, "Why Rafaelle, I didn't think you capable of such perception." After a level look, she turned back to study the waves.

"Ah, the direct cut on top of the subtle insult." She angled her head to glower at him. The cur was grinning! "All while I'm groveling with an apology."

She turned fully to stare at him, mouth open. She snapped her teeth closed. "You couldn't grovel if someone knocked your knees out from under you!"

His laugh sounded harsh and forced. Then he sobered. "I am trying to apologize. What I said was impermissible, under any circumstances. I wish I could take the words back."

She stared back out at the ocean while her teeth worried her lip.

"If we're going to work together with any chance of..."

"That's just it! I don't think we can work together. We're both too hard-headed to work together."

"Of course..."

"You can't get past the fact that I am a fully capable soldier who happens to be a woman, and I can't get past your...your insufferable arrogance!"

"Well, that puts the cards on the table. However, we have our orders..."

"Orders be damned!"

"And I intend to obey them as delivered because I believe that we are stronger if we pool our strengths, and weaknesses, then if we work separately." He offered his hand. "Truce?"

She stared at it, thinking that, like a snake, it would bite her if she reached for it. Every ounce of self-preservation recoiled. The problem was that he was right, damn him.

Slowly, she reached for his hand. It was warm and firm and a little calloused. Turning his hand so that hers lay in his palm, he started to lift it then stopped.

She held her breath, but he merely bowed.

Releasing her hand, he turned to study the ocean.

The silence in their small corner of the world grew.

### Chapter 6

Chiara felt loathed to break the silence and didn't know what she would say if she were to do so.

"I should thank you for coming to my assistance today. I had my hands full, and another sword at my back may have been too much."

"You're welcome. I'd have done the same for anyone."

His smile looked a little crooked, "I'm sure you would do it for anyone, but in this case, the 'anyone' was me. And, knowing the deep level of affection you have for me, I can most sincerely say 'thank you.'"

She turned back to the uncaring sea and nodded.

"Having said that, I still don't like it. You shouldn't be wielding a sword. You can't possibly handle it. You're a woman. You wouldn't last two minutes against someone like their captain."

"I take it that's who took you on?" He nodded. "Well, I'm aware that I am a woman. I can, and did, handle several opponents. Obviously, they weren't experts like the captain, but they, or you, or most any competent man would be able to take me down faster than a Whig voting for land reform. I can't hope to compete with a man on equal terms, so I compete on my terms. I try to end it in less than two minutes and not to get embroiled in a cock fight like you did. I know that I can't handle that kind of thing. The techniques I use are more...unorthodox... but effective for me."

"That's delightful! What happens when they don't work?"

She turned and gave him a level stare. "I compete to win, liking to remain alive as much as you do. But to answer your question, the same thing happens to me that happens to you when your techniques don't work."

Glaring, he relented, "That sort of thing's not supposed to happen to ladies, you know."

"And it's supposed to happen to men? I'm fighting for the same reasons you are, Lord FitzHenry, plus one more. One of those men who are 'supposed' to be killed in this war was my father."

Startled, he reached out as if to comfort her.

Striking like an angry cat, she slapped his hand away. "You've played that particular card before, my lord. Keep your hands to yourself!"

His hand clenched. Thinking he might be tempted to strike her, she hurried back to her cabin, glaring furiously over her shoulder to insure he didn't follow.

The battle and its aftermath cost them three days, but at noon of the fourth day,, the _Triomphe's_ repairs were generally finished. She took longer than the _Swiftsure_ , having taken significantly more damage. The French gunners couldn't hold a candle to the well-drilled British. The prisoners were stowed safely, and the prize crew transferred.

The last duty before the ships parted had to be the hardest, the sea burial of several British and quite a number of French men. The chaplain read the burial service, translated for the French, who bowed their heads and crossed themselves at the appropriate times during the Anglican service. The dead men's possessions, ceremoniously sold before the mast, provided a last benefit to the dead men's families.

Sam Goode, unable to use the line between the ships as so many of his comrades had, headed for the jolly boat. He approached Chiara as she stood with Captain Harley. He dropped the pitifully small sack containing all his personal possessions so that he could tug at his forelock. "Sir," he nodded nervously at the captain, "M'um, I jus' wanted to thank ye again for everythin' ye've done."

"It was the least I could do, Mr. Goode. I'm just sorry you were hurt."

"'Tis a cost o'taking the king's shilling."

"All departing hands to the jolly boat!" came from the side.

"God save ye, m'um and thanks."

"Good bye and God's speed."

He picked up his sack, nodded, and turned to the boat.

Inspiration struck Chiara, "Captain, with his injured arm, wouldn't it be better...?"

"No, I'm sorry," he cut her off. "Even with one good arm, I'm so short-handed that I still need him there."

Chiara grimaced and nodded, "It was worth a try."

FitzHenry appeared on deck and strode over to Mr. Grenfell waiting next to the jolly boat's moorings. The new captain of the _Triomphe_ accepted the oil-skin wrapped packet and put it into his jacket pocket. He spoke to FitzHenry, but Chiara couldn't hear the words.

She strolled over to the bulwark to watch the boat transfer the last of the crew. She waved at Sam Goode and watched him awkwardly climb the ropes onto the _Triomphe_. Once on board, he hailed someone. Jerry McEowan joined him at the side. They waved briefly before the bos'n called them away to their duties.

FitzHenry joined her but kept a tolerable distance. Silently, they watched the _Triomphe_ set her sails and begin the ponderous turn that would head her back towards Gibraltar and her new master's home. Captain Harley gave orders to his new first officer, a short, pimply-faced young man. "Let's get this good, old girl moving, Lt. Topp." Chiara blinked when the lieutenant bellowed, "Away aloft." The bos'n's echo sent bare-footed sailors scrambling up the rigging and out onto the yard arms. As soon as they were in place, the lieutenant ordered, "Let full sails." Beginning with the main mast at the bottom, they loosened the lines at the ends of the yard arms, followed by successive lines. The unfurling sail looked for all the world like a giant choirboy's sleeves, snapping and billowing as the wind filled them.

FitzHenry leaned against the rail and turned, looking up at the main mast, where the topsail underwent the same procedure. The sail undulated until the wind filled it.

Chiara watched his expression. It seemed almost...wistful to her. "Do you miss the sea?"

"Truthfully, yes. There's something about standing on the deck of a ship, with her and her crew working like a well-oiled watch. It's your watch, and you've honed it and refined it until it can do anything you ask of it. The feeling is indescribable. It's almost godlike."

"Why did you give it up?"

"The usual reasons. My brother died shortly before Trafalgar and my father a couple of months after." He shrugged. "I resigned by commission to look after family matters...and your uncle's."

Yesterday she'd slept from sheer exhaustion. Tonight, that was a luxury denied her.

She stared out over the serene water, not daring to close her eyes, for every time she more than blinked, the horrors of the past few days rose up before her. The feel of a sword piercing flesh, the eye-burning gunpowder, and the contortions of death all played out again on the insides of her eyelids. Sleep had degenerated into terror; something to be avoided. She'd gotten dressed again and come out on deck.

She'd been through this preview of hell before. After having to kill a man on a previous mission, she spent weeks talking to her uncle and ex-soldiers about the chaos in her mind. Almost to a man, they told her in one way or another that there was no magical cure. Duty, faith, and trust in the rightness of their cause were what they all recommended.

The crew had their own way of dealing with the aftermath. The joke about using the severed hand someone found as a back scratcher rated guffaws all around. When first told, even she found it funny. Now...

She knew all the rationales. They helped during waking hours. For her, time proved the only thing to banish the nightmares and silence the screams of the dying.

Eventually, she knew, she'd be able to close her eyes and dream of friends, family, and her yet-to-come true love...why did Rafaelle's face pop into her mind? She laughed. The arm joke wasn't half as bad as that one.

The _Swiftsure_ gave the boot of Italy a decidedly wide berth. Fair weather and a lack of French ships made for well-filled sails.

Chiara finished her sewing the day before, and there was little to do besides raid Captain Harley's small library. She searched through title after depressingly naval title until she spied a copy of Scott's _Lady of the Lake_. "Hum," she muttered, "not the sort of think you'd think to find in a dashing ship's captain's library, but, hey de ho, it beats Lever's _The Young Sea Officer's Sheet Anchor_."

She wandered up to her shaded area, a place of solitary splendor now that the sew-sew boys had finished their work. She eyed her throne with some small distaste when a wooden clatter on the main deck caught her attention.

Lt. Topp and the other junior officers were practicing swordplay with wooden swords.

"Hopefully they won't give themselves splinters," she observed to no one in particular. She took the last step to her chair and whirled, "Yes!" Scampering down the ladder, the only thing preventing her from undoing the tapes of her dress was the seaman tugging his forelock to her just before she reached her cabin. Moments later she strode back on deck in her "fighting clothes."

"Mr. Topp, may I join you?"

One of the youngest midshipmen goggled at her and blurted, "Blimy! She does dress like a bleeding man!"

"Mr. Wingate, Lady Chiara is a gallant lady who I am proud to serve beside," Topp bowed to her, and she returned a nod. "You will address her with every, and I repeat, every respect. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir" could hardly be heard.

"To help you remember, you will surrender your sword to Lady Chiara and then you will proceed down to the head and clean it. I will inspect it at four bells."

Little Mr. Wingate grimaced, and his peers snickered, but he did as he was told and trudged off to complete his task. The remaining twitters brought Mr. Topp's glance. "Anyone wish to join him?" Silence. "Good." He turned his back on them, as much to talk to Chiara as to hide the twinkle in his eyes. "To answer your question, my lady, we would be delighted. How would you like to proceed?"

She looked at the young men trying gallantly not to stare. "Perhaps I could borrow your prize pupil for a little sparring practice?"

"Mr. Meadows, oblige the lady, if you please."

Meadows stood big and brawny, but he took on the cast of a hunted animal at Topp's order. "Mr. Topp, please, I can't strike a lady. M'grandmother'd have m'ears! And the captain, the captain'd have me flogged and rightly so. Mr. Topp, please!"

"Mr. Meadows," Chiara stood before him in the balanced stance of a practiced swordsman and raised her wooden sword in salute. "I'm going to kill you." He stood there, sword pointed to the floor as she swung at his neck. His eyes bulged. She halted the blade a scant thumb's breath from his neck. Every muscle in his body relaxed as the sword fell to her side. She stepped back and glanced at Mr. Topp.

"I could have killed you, Mr. Meadows, even with this." She lifted the sword slightly. "The fact that I'm a woman should not have prevented you from defending yourself." Meadow's Adam's apple bobbed, and he nodded. That was the only part of him that did move; the rest of him might have been carved from wood.

Chiara shouldered her sword and considered him. Heaving a sigh, she looked at Mr. Topp. "Would you be so kind as to oblige me, sir?"

"It will be my honor and my pleasure to do so, my lady." Without looking, he extended his hand to Meadows, who slapped his practice sword into it with a look of pathetic gratitude and relief.

Topp flashed an engaging grin, and they lifted their swords vertically in salute.

"Mr. Topp, a moment if you please."

FitzHenry's voice sounded behind her. She lowered her sword, sighing. That dratted man!

"I find myself in need of some practice. Mr. Topp, will you allow me the opportunity to spar with Lady Chiara?"

Topp grimaced, but FitzHenry didn't see it. He watched Chiara's reaction. She kept her face carefully blank as she waited for Mr. Topp's response. She knew he couldn't refuse with any grace.

"Of course, my lord, it would be my pleasure."

FitzHenry removed his coat and laid it aside.

"Mr. Meadows," he looked at Meadows with the air of expert to neophyte, "in life, you must learn that a lady's 'request' is to be treated with all the consequence that you would treat a 'request' from the King."

A thought struck Chiara. He took off his coat without the assistance of a valet. Most gentlemen's coats required a valet to squeeze the wearer in and peel them off again. FitzHenry's fit so perfectly, the difference wasn't noticeable. Yet, he'd brought his valet. She noticed his cravat had a simple knot in it and his boots, while clean, lacked a certain shine. Where was his valet?

"Lady Chiara?"

She shook off her reverie and saluted. He lunged in attack and all her well-honed reactions fell into place. The balanced, slightly bent-kneed stance felt as natural as breathing. She knew she could do this. Her sword snapped up to parry. It held, but the shock of the blow reverberated through her whole body. She'd seen his speed and technique against the Frenchman. Now, she felt the sheer power behind the blow. As she disengaged and danced back, she thought that the French Captain must have been a real master to have lasted as long as he did against FitzHenry. Even without the fillip of sharp edges, she worried more about this fight than all the ones in the battle.

As with most men, he exceeded her in reach and strength, although she was probably his peer in technique and speed. A lunge to his belly that he deflected just shy of its goal confirmed her guess.

Breathe, she told herself. You always forget.

A series of hacking blows convinced her to end the bout. She parried two more strikes until he gave her the one she wanted, angled down and to her right. Her parry caught his under his blade and pushed it to the side. She pushed forward so that his blade slid almost to her hilt. At the bottom of his power stroke, she began hers, pushing his blade up and to his left side. When she had his blade at shoulder height, she reversed her stroke and dropped to one knee with a slight forward lean. Her blade arched down and caught him at the back of the ankle.

He stared at her, bemused. She rolled and bounded up. Smiling, she stepped back, breathing hard, "I've cut your Achilles' tendon. As you take a step to follow me, your leg collapses, and I," she lifted her sword to his chest, "kill you." He lifted his wooden blade in a desultory parry.

"Even so." His smile was rueful, and he saluted. "Again?"

She returned his salute but, instead of bringing it to an " _en garde_ " stance, she stepped forward on her right foot. Her sword swung down in a "J" shaped slash, striking him on the hamstring before she pivoted backwards and away on his off side. "Once again, my lord, you are incapacitated and, shortly, dead." She stood back and saluted, feeling a little cocky and a lot more confident.

She watched his jaw clench and "again" came through his teeth.

She smiled slightly, "How many times do I have to kill you?" Midshipmen twittered but she had no time to appreciate the juvenile accolade. His blade pounded hers with a series of vicious blows. His eyes blazed with fury. Gasps and whispers sounded behind her, but all her attention focused on trying to avoid taking what would be a damaging hit even with a wooden sword. Each punishing overhand blow beat her sword and her confidence down further. She changed to a two handed grip to better withstand them. Each one radiated up her arms. She could feel her sword yield more and more with each successive strike. Without surprise or an opportunity to engage on her terms, she had little chance. The shocks wore down her strength and she knew she had to find a way to disengage. His stance changed subtly. She looked for her chance. His side-armed slash, if unparried, would take off her arm. She didn't bother with a parry; she dropped down and rolled under the stroke.

Bouncing up out of the roll, she danced backwards and saluted. "I concede you the victory in such a fight, my lord," she hesitated a moment, "which is precisely why I avoid that bullish type of fight." She drew in a deep, hard breath. He looked like he'd just finished a waltz. His gaze cooled, and he nodded.

To the side, one of the younger midshipmen whispered, "...Not play by the rules." Another hissed, "...Not sporting."

She turned to them. "Not sporting, gentlemen?" They gulped or looked away or plucked a speck of lint from their sleeves. "Listen up, gentlemen. It may not be 'sporting,' but, if Lord FitzHenry were a French soldier, he would be trying to kill me any way he could. Notice, if you please, that in the first two encounters, I lived, and he didn't. 'Sporting' be damned. The only thing that matters is who walks away. Understand?"

Those two looked shocked, but the older ones nodded.

Mr. Topp cleared his throat, "Would you be so kind as to teach us some of those techniques, my lady?"

"Of course, Mr. Topp."

"And I shall be honored to assist her."

Chiara sighed. She'd hoped the odious man would find nothing as boring as teaching callow, young men.

The midshipman Wingate whispered to had a disgruntled look on his face. She suspected that it stemmed from the prospect of swordplay instruction by a...ugh...woman.

"Lord FitzHenry, would you be so kind as to spar with Mr....."

"Blackwell," he offered with a touch of bravado.

"Yes, Blackwell. Give him no quarter."

It took precisely three strokes to send the wooden sword spinning to the floor.

"In a real fight, Mr. Blackwell, you would have absolutely no chance against some one of Lord FitzHenry's..."

"Weren't we going to practice using Christian names...Chiara?"

The sound of her name on his tongue slithered down her back and tickled something deep in her belly. "Ah, yes, Rafaelle. Um, as I was saying, you would have no chance with an opponent of his strength and skill. In a few years, you can use his techniques yourself. Until then, you need to learn techniques that will allow you to survive. Your survival usually means that your opponent is disabled or dead." Blackwell looked a little sick.

"Mr. Blackwell," FitzHenry interjected, "Lady...Chiara is absolutely right. How many times did she 'kill' me in our matches? Twice, yes. Now you and I may find her techniques 'ungentlemanly,' but she's alive to teach them, and I'm dead. Survival is success. Listen to her."

Chiara nodded at him, as much as in thanks as acknowledgement. "Notice that what I am going to show you are means to end the battle quickly and efficiently. Once...Rafaelle figured out what I was doing, he led with a series of powerful overhand blows to overpower me. These techniques must be your first strikes.

"Now, split into two lines..."

"Your health, Captain Thibaut," Harley lifted his glass. Chiara followed suit, as did the rest of the table. A sibilant "health" accompanied it. She didn't mind the repeated toasts (the burgundy was excellent), but at this rate, even the hard-headed Englishmen and the wine-weaned Frenchman would be thoroughly foxed before the evening was over. Her sips grew progressively smaller as the evening progressed.

"And yours, Captiane 'Arley," his French "h" loosing something in translation, "since I am honor-bound not to wish you success in your endeavor." Thibaut glanced at FitzHenry, who nodded in acknowledgement. Excruciating politeness reigned over the dinner table.

Only this afternoon, the Frenchman's parole was accepted, and he had free run of the ship. The rest of his crew sailed on the _Triomphe_ , but Harley decided to separate the officers and keep them under his watchful eye. The crew would have less opportunity to revolt without their officers.

And he was dangerous, this French captain. All through dinner, he had discretely inquired, and with impeccable manners, as to the nature of the _Swiftsure's_ mission. Harley had been delightfully vague and FitzHenry maddeningly clueless. She, of course, had not been consulted and did not have to lie. Chiara knew Thibaut thought she was only suitable for flirtation. As far as he could see, she was only decoration. He probably thought she was the captain's mistress. She wanted to keep it that way.

When he wasn't trying to ferret out the nature of their mission, he delicately needled FitzHenry.

The antagonism hung heavier than a London fog. Everyone was so polite it was disgusting.

Chiara remembered that afternoon when, finally, she sat in a sunny spot on the deck with Harley's copy of _Lady of the Lake_. Although it was not strictly necessary, she wanted her blonde's skin to acclimate to the Mediterranean sun. Besides, it felt good.

A shadow crossed her book. She knew who it was before she looked up. "May I join you...Chiara?"

Rafaelle waited politely for a response, but she knew it was no more a request than the sun would request permission to rise. "Of course, but I'm afraid I have the only place to sit."

"'S not a problem. I've spent many an hour standing on deck."

She closed the book and looked at him curiously. "How long were you in the navy?"

He leaned against the side and grabbed a rope. "Let's see, 15, no, 16 years."

"And you fought at Trafalgar?"

"Harley and I were both brand new captains at Trafalgar, little more than glorified lieutenants, running frigates barely worthy of the name. We thought we were the greatest things in creation."

He grinned, and Chiara thought for a moment there was a second sun in the western sky. She squelched the thought with a ruthless will. "Strange, I wouldn't have marked you for a naval man."

"Well, second son and all that. It was either the army, the navy, or the church. No way in hell was it going to be the church, and you walk too much in the army."

"I can't see you in the church," she laughed.

"No...Anyway, that left the sea. I found I liked it. It fed something," he looked off to the horizon, "wild and free in me."

"Indeed it does." It wasn't the words that sent Chiara into full alert, it was the accent. An ice-blond giant loomed out of the sun: the French captain, the man FitzHenry fought during the battle.

Rafaelle barely glanced up, " _Bon jour, Capitaine_." He straightened off the side. "Lady Chiara, may I present _Capitaine_ Charles Thibaut, late of Napoleon's frigate _Triomphe? Capitaine_ , Lady Chiara Brownlee."

" _Enchante. Elle est une déesse du mare._ "

He bent low and actually kissed her hand. It wasn't a fleeting kiss, either. She didn't think that, or being compared to a sea goddess, was quite the thing for first acquaintance. Plus, he didn't let go of her hand. Glancing up, she saw FitzHenry's murderous expression fade to blankness. Perhaps he didn't think so, either.

"The captain has given his parole and will be staying with us until other arrangements can be made." Rafaelle's voice held all the passion of boiled potatoes. Whatever rode him stayed on a close-held leash.

"I most hardily regret the loss of my beautiful new ship, but it is more than recompensed by this most lovely vision."

Chiara decided she wanted her hand back. His grasp and his admiring glances were becoming...tiresome already. The feeling surprised her, seeing as how Captain Thibaut, himself, could set even English female hearts beating a mite faster.

Nevertheless, she tried to withdraw her hand. His grip tightened, and she had to twist her hand to break free.

His devilish smile said he knew exactly what she was thinking. She returned the expression, but the curve of her mouth barely broke horizontal and certainly didn't reach her eyes. The cur dared to toy with her!

Then she caught his glance at Rafaelle. No, he wasn't toying with her; he was toying with FitzHenry. Why? A small piece of revenge for his defeat? Perhaps. But somehow it seemed more personal than that, especially since he sought to involve her. Strangely, she disliked being a toy less than she did being a cat's paw.

From behind Thibaut, a small voice sounded, "M'um, sir, would you be so kind as to show us some more swordplay?"

Thibaut looked around and down. "You are teaching _les enfants_?" He directed his question at FitzHenry. Meanwhile, Wingate looked at Chiara who gave a small head-shake. His face fell, but she raised her hand slightly in a calming gesture, and he seemed to understand that something "adult" was going on here.

Rafaelle, facing her and Wingate, had caught the by-play. "Absolutely. As a matter of fact, I am. The middies are excellent students." Wingate beamed, somewhat undeservedly. Rafaelle looked at him. "Assemble your colleagues and the swords and meet me on the main deck."

Thibaut pushed out his lower lip. "While I myself have never been much of _l'_ _instituteur_ ," he used the term for a teacher of very young children, "I might be of assistance."

Rafaelle's grin reminded her of a shark. "Well, their level of expertise may be beyond you, but come along anyway." He walked away, leaving Thibaut with an ugly look around his eyes. The Frenchman followed, and Chiara felt it might be wise for her to be there, in case they required a referee.

On the main deck, the midshipmen formed a part of a circle, the rest of it filled in by any sailor who thought he could sneak a few minutes away from his duties. Even the bos'n left off haranguing his underlings to watch the show. Chiara slipped in next to Blackwell.

Meadows offered a wooden sword to the two men.

Thibaut looked at the practice weapon with distain. "One fights with these?"

" _Bien sûr_ ," FitzHenry replied. "They are obviously for training, not killing."

" _D'accord_ ," Thibaut agreed, "but unless there is risk, there is very little incentive to do one's best."

"They will have all the risk they need later. Now, we will demonstrate the overhand strike and its counter. _En garde_!"

Thibaut didn't return FitzHenry's salute. He launched directly into the attack. FitzHenry managed to block the blow but only partially. The locked blades scraped over his left shoulder. Thibaut's chthonian grin showed an abundance of teeth before FitzHenry pushed him away.

"Notice," FitzHenry barely moved his lips, "that it is more efficient to deflect the blow," he successfully sent the next strike off to the right, "than to actually stop it." He moved back a few steps. "That would take a strength most of you don't have yet, so don't try it."

Thibaut again swung over his head.

Chiara drew breath. Thibaut's attacks went far beyond training. This was open combat.

Rafaelle stopped the weapon just as it began its descent. Chiara couldn't tell if his grimace reflected concentration, pain, fury, or a combination of them. The next blow he deflected, but the wood split under the pressure. Chiara gasped. He danced back.

Thibaut smiled his devil's smile as he closed in on his helpless victim.

She grabbed Blackwell's sword and tossed it to FitzHenry. Rafaelle danced back a few more steps as he found his grip. The circle of watching men expanded to give him room. Chiara knew the practice bout had degenerated into war.

Thibaut again struck overhand. Rafaelle blocked it and pushed off. He began his own series of overhand blows that Thibaut alternately blocked or parried.

Every blow reverberated through Chiara.

For long minutes, the advantage changed hands as the two men drove each other back and forth. Neither man gave ground for long.

Chiara knew it had to stop. Too much was at stake to let FitzHenry get seriously hurt in a grudge match.

She looked around for a way to break it up. Harley stood on the quarterdeck with his hands behind his back, watching the action. She skirted the inner edge of the circle until she was directly below him.

"Captain Harley," she called. He didn't hear her over the din of cheering sailors. "Harley!" she bellowed, and he looked down. "Stop this!"

He grinned and shrugged his shoulders in mock helplessness.

He's enjoying this, she thought. Glaring at him, she lowered her voice so only he could hear her, "You stop it, or I will."

He scowled and leaned on the railing. "Mr. Topp." He barely raised his voice, but the lieutenant looked up. Harley sketched a finger across his throat.

Topp nodded. He spoke to the bos'n who blew a long blast on his whistle.

FitzHenry stepped back and lifted his sword in salute. Thibaut rushed him and struck at his left arm. Rafaelle's salute dropped to block the blow. Topp stepped into the clinch. "Gentlemen..."

"Stop this at once!" Chiara yelled running towards them

Thibaut stepped back with a hint of a snarl on his mouth. He turned to her and bowed, "Forgive me, _mademoiselle_ , I did not realize the match had terminated without a victor."

"It's practice. There is no winner or loser. Gentlemen," she looked at the midshipmen, "put the weapons away.

"As for you two..." She scowled at each of the combatants, then turned and walked away.

Captain Harley looked on from the upper deck with arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Ah, but _L'Empereur_ destroyed the Russians at Austerlitz and Eylan already, as he has destroyed every other army that has set itself against him." Thibaut took another bite of the apple pie. "We are invincible!"

"Boney may have excellent luck," Rafaelle drawled, "but M. Soult is having a damned hard time in Spain and Portugal against Wellington. Nelson won the Battle of the Nile and then smashed Villeneuve at Trafalgar with the humble assistance of Harley and myself."

Chiara watched Thibaut's hand grow white on the stem of his wineglass.

"Finally, we not only defeated your _Triomphe_ but took it as a prize. Your sea power is emasculated, and, I suspect that once Lord Wellington gets across the Pyrenees, Paris will fall into his hands like a ripe peach."

" _Va tu faire foutre_ ," Thibaut hissed.

Chiara started, and Harley looked like he didn't think he quite heard correctly. After all, it wasn't polite dinner conversation to tell someone to go to hell in such crude terms.

Rafaelle leaned back in his chair with glittering eyes and a slight smile. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast. "Not quite the invitation a gentleman," there was a slight emphasis on the word, "makes is front of a lady, but..." He shrugged.

Thibaut started to rise, " _Encoulé_!" Asshole.

Chiara decided it was time to intervene. "Captain Thibaut, what part of France are you from?" He ignored her. "Captain!"

He slowly sank back in his seat. After a last glare, he turned to Chiara. "I was born just outside the town of Pont Aven on the Brittany coast at my father's estate. I've been on the sea since before I could walk."

Chiara felt rather than heard the collective sigh of relief from the English, all except Rafaelle. He just sat there with his slight, mocking smile, as if to taunt Thibaut with salvation from ignominy by a female.

"What does your estate produce?" Mr. Topp bravely stepped into the fray and earned a smile from Chiara. Harley raised his glass an inch to him.

The conversation limped along with mundanities until Chiara decided she'd had enough. If they wanted to kill each other, so be it. "Gentlemen," she rose and all the men did likewise, "it has been a lovely dinner, but it's been a tiring day. I bid you goodnight." Returning their bows with a curtsy, she left the wardroom.

She went up to the fo'castle to look at the stars, but the stiff breeze blew through her thin muslin, reminding her that she hadn't brought out a shawl.

She returned below decks and made for her cabin. As she opened the cabin door, a hand pushed her through the doorway.

### Chapter 7

A hand closed around her mouth. Chiara's eyes widened in shock. On the ship, no one had so much as looked crossly at her, except Rafaelle, of course, and even he wouldn't dare... Whoever it was pushed her into the cabin and kicked the door shut. Chiara grabbed one of the fingers over her mouth and yanked viciously.

" _Merdre_!"

Thibaut! And drunk as a lord unless she missed her guess.

She spun out of his grip and quickly looked around the cabin. All her weapons were stored. Nothing presented itself as an efficient weapon, except her hairbrush. She darted over to get it then shifted it to her left hand. "Get out! Now!"

His laugh lacked any humor whatsoever. "You are very...good at giving orders, _cherie_. It will be...," the wine fumes had a heavy overlay of brandy, "...my pleasure to tame you."

Not entirely steady on his feet, Thibaut rushed her. A backhanded slash sent the bristles of the brush towards his face and eyes. He yelped and tried to block her. The real blow, rigid fingers into his diaphragm, followed immediately.

Satisfied that Thibaut was too busy to do anything but try to breathe, Chiara went to the door. She yanked it open and bellowed, "I need some..." FitzHenry, at the door to his cabin, whirled. "...help," her voice dropped to normal, "...in here."

He pushed inside before she finished.

Thibaut could finally breathe, gingerly, but he still clutched his abdomen. Rafaelle looked at Chiara.

She shrugged, "He wasn't invited in; I just made it clear."

More men crowded into the doorway as Rafaelle strode up to the Frenchman, grabbing the back of his jacket collar.

"Rafe!" Harley pushed through the doorway. "Bloody hell. What's going on here?"

Chiara sat in one of the chairs, the aftermath of adrenalin taking its toll on her knees. "He" she flapped a hand toward Thibaut, "he forced his way into my room, with the intention of...of..."

"I understand, Lady Chiara." Harley glanced at the crowd of men spilling into the room. "Take him into custody."

Rafaelle released the Frenchman's jacket as Thibaut hauled in air. Two men grabbed Thibaut's arms. "The whore lies. She invited me in here. She wanted..."

Rafaelle backhanded him. "Tom, allow me to administer a little English naval discipline before you clap him in irons."

"English pig! You wouldn't dare!" The Frenchman pulled one hand from the guard and wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding mouth. The guard regained his grip. "I demand satisfaction."

FitzHenry smiled coldly. "Of course. If M. Thibaut hasn't the stomach..." Thibaut snarled. "...For punishment, let's make it a contest. If he wins, he retains his parole. If I win, he spends the rest of the voyage in the brig." He glanced at Harley who shrugged acceptance.

" _D'accord_ ," growled Thibaut as he ripped out of the sailors' hold. "Now!"

Harley looked at him with some disgust. "Do you think I'm going to light the _Swiftsure_ up like Buckingham Palace on the King's birthday so that you can have a mill? I dislike the prospect of waving a flag to any of your comrades who may be in the vicinity. The quarter deck at dawn. No weapons." Rafaelle stiffened, then relaxed.

"That is impossible," Thibaut exploded.

"It will be possible, or it will not be, and you will land yourself in the brig very shortly," Harley adjusted his cuff with the air of a man who had nothing on his mind other than a game of cards and a bottle of port.

" _D'accord_ ," Thibaut acquiesced. He strode off, brushing past Mr. Topp. Harley looked at his first officer. The young man, seeming to understand the unspoken order, went after the Frenchman.

Harley turned to Chiara. "Please accept my apologies, my lady. One way or another, there will be a guard on him at all times for the rest of the trip. Try to get some sleep." He shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. "And be pleased to sleep late tomorrow if you will."

For an order, he couched it very politely, Chiara thought.

The excitement over, everyone filed out of the cabin, except Rafaelle. "Tomorrow morning, I think you'd best do as Harley suggests. I know you're working on a way around his order. Let me take care of this small matter."

"Are you daft? Small? That man's a behemoth! He could...he could..."

Rafaelle laughed and tipped her chin up with one finger. "Why my lady, I almost think you care about me." She jerked her head away with a glare. "You will stay here. Don't make me post a guard on your door."

"You wouldn't..."

"Absolutely. I will and well you know it. When it's over, I will come down and show you that I'm still in one piece."

"Humph!" She glared at him.

He turned to the door then hesitated. "Is it possible that your discomfort reflects a _tendr_ e for me?" He grinned rakishly. "Get some sleep." The quiet concern in his voice surprised her.

He left, but she heard him calling for a guard on her door.

Chiara woke early and dressed quickly. Even if she'd forgotten the morning's agenda, the stomp of feet on the upper deck and the excited voices would have alerted her to the mill's commencement. Harley obviously allowed the crew to witness the spectacle.

A cheer roared from above.

She rushed to the door and ran straight into the broad back of a sailor standing there with his legs braced and his arms folded. He grunted as much as any human rock wall would.

"Yer pardon, m'um."

"Stand aside, if you please."

"Beggin' you pardon, m'um," he repeated as he tugged at his forelock, "but the cap'n's order be real plain-like. Ye're not ta leave 'till t'mill's over."

"But..."

He grimaced and tilted his head with implacable pity. "Ah'd likes to be there, too."

She took a deep breath and surrendered. He was just following orders. She left the door open, and he obligingly stood in the jamb to hold it there. She smiled.

A thud sounded above them. The crowd roared.

""Is lordship's doin' well, 'seems."

"Ummm." She moved to the window and sat on the cabinet's cushioned top. The sea rolled like any well-ordered body of water. Only the humans on top of it acted like Bedlamites.

A crash, accompanied the unmistakable roll of barrels. The collective groan told her that Thibaut could hold his own, too.

On and on—oh Lord, she thought—and on. The sailor's groans and cheers stood at roughly equal when a huge roar shook the cabin. Her sailor-guard smiled. In a few moments it grew to an impossibly wide smile.

"Bloody good show, sir. Wish Ah were there." He moved off.

FitzHenry filled the doorway...

"I take..."

...clad only in breeches and boots.

What was she saying? Was she saying something? Her jaw fell open. She snapped it shut. And finally remembered to breathe.

There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Each muscle on his chest, on his belly, on his arms stood out like the cords on a hawser. A light sprinkling of black hair covered his chest. He wiped sweat off his face and threw the towel over his shoulder.

Her mouth watered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he started towards her. His stride reminded her of a cat. Not a house cat, no, one of the panthers she'd seen caged at the fair, and about as dangerous. The panther had its bars, and FitzHenry had his civilities. She didn't want to see either without them!

His hands gripped the window frame, effectively caging her. He bent down and kissed her. His chocolate-brown eyes watched her as his mouth covered hers. Beads of sweat clung to his face, and she could taste their salt on his mouth. There was nothing lover-like about it. It was hard. It was proprietary. It was the victor's prize.

His civilities had gone the way of his shirt.

Only his mouth touched her, but she couldn't move any more than if she were bound.

He straightened, turned, and walked out.

She should have slapped him!

Only now did her petrifaction ease. Chiara hauled in a deep breath. Suddenly, the cabin seemed to close in on her. She grabbed her shawl and headed for the quarterdeck. As she climbed out of the main deck hatch, a sailor sluiced a bucketful of water over a spreading red stain. FitzHenry had a cut above one eye and his knuckles were bloody, but nothing to account for this volume of blood. Several other sailors picked up shards of wood. She climbed to the quarterdeck.

Harley stood in his usual spot, in his usual position: splay-legged and hands behind his back. Only this time, there was a very satisfied, far-away look on his face. He glanced over at her without surprise. "My lady, I can guarantee you that M. Thibaut will not afflict you, or us, for the rest of the voyage." He rocked back on his heels. "One thing about my friend Rafe, when he sets out to do a job, he does it most thoroughly. And I must say that I'm glad he's my friend."

"Rafaelle had a few...cuts and bruises. Is M. Thibaut all right?"

"Well, that depends on how you define 'all right.' The ship's surgeon is attending him now, but I don't believe he has any permanent damage.

"I sent Mr. Pearce to attend Rafe. He'll do a damn slight better job than the doctor."

Chiara watched the men remove the last traces of the brawl. A small yawn reminded her of just how early it still was. She politely patted her mouth as she examined the sun for confirmation of the early hour. It still sat low on the horizon off the starboard side.

With Thibaut out of the way, today would be a good day to practice knife fighting. She turned to Harley to ask about the possibility when she whirled back to the early morning sun. The morning sun should be off the bow. "We've turned north!"

"Indeed we have, my lady, this morning at two bells. We should be off the coast of Ravenna by tomorrow night at the latest. He rocked back on his heels.

"May I be so bold, Lady Chiara, to observe that since you've come into his life, there is a...um, lightness that I haven't seen in my friend for a long, long time."

Chiara just stared at him, incredulity impeding her ability to speak. That may be just as well, she thought, because she probably would have laughed at him. The very idea that she could have any influence on FitzHenry, good or bad, was insupportable.

"You must be..."

"Uhumm," Mr. Pearce cleared his throat behind her. "M'um, sir, breakfast be ready."

"Thank you, Pearce." Harley offered his arm to Chiara, leaning over so only she could hear. "A long, long time. And I couldn't be happier."

Once again, she found herself rendered speechless.

Mr. Topp followed them to the table. FitzHenry, with his plate piled high, turned from the sideboard. "Good morning, Chiara, gentlemen."

"I see you've worked up quite an appetite, old man."

"Absolutely. You are looking 'fair as is the rose in May,' Chiara."

Roses and Chaucer, indeed, she thought. "And you, sir, look only slightly the worse for wear from your brawl."

Rafaelle looked sideways at her as she sat down with her plate. "You are not the only one with an excellent education in the fighting arts. Tom Crib teaches a not terribly well-known, but comprehensive, class in street fighting. With all modesty, I must say I was his star pupil."

"I took some instruction from him, also. He's developed quite a following since he knocked out 'The Black Terror,' Bill Richmond, in 1805," she said.

Topp barely avoided the embarrassment of laughing his mouthful of food all over the table. Harley managed to snicker and look stern at one time.

"Just how many fighting methods," Topp asked, "are you familiar with, Lady Chiara?"

"Let me see, swords, knives, pistols, rifles, garrotes, unarmed combat, and I have some experience with explosives."

"Remind me not to seriously annoy you," Rafaelle commented before a sip of tea. "I can see that I shall have to be on my best behavior around you."

"That means you'll be only slightly annoying," Harley quipped.

Chiara looked at FitzHenry. "I hope you are experienced with knives."

"Yes," he drawled, "but why knives in particular?"

"Are you going to carry a sword under your cummerbund?"

Topp laughed appreciatively. "I say, my lady, someone told me about a smashing little forearm sheath you sport."

She nodded. "I also carry a garrote in my pocket when I'm working."

"Amazing female," Topp breathed.

Rafaelle looked on the young man with narrowed eyes, but he said nothing. He picked up his tea cup again.

Topp folded his napkin and stood. "With your permission, Lady Chiara, gentlemen, I have my duties." He bowed and headed for the door.

FitzHenry watched him over the edge of his cup. "A most admirable young officer, Tom."

"Yes, he seems to be coming along well. A bit of a surprise, really. He came on board when you did. I must say I wasn't terribly impressed with him at first.

"Rather like old Barnham, remember him?"

Rafaelle nodded as Harley turned to Chiara, "Mousiest, little man you've ever seen, until you put him on a quarterdeck. The man was an absolute genius when it came to commanding men."

"Indeed." Rafaelle sat back in his chair, cradling his cup. "Where is he now?"

"Took a sword at the battle for Martinique in '06. They won, and he got his ship back to London. Died onshore a few weeks later, the poor blighter."

"Bloody hell," Rafaelle grimaced as he nodded and stared into his tea.

She knew they mourned their comrade in the silence of their hearts. Everyone knew and accepted the possibilities, both for themselves and their friends. But it all seemed so damnably...normal.

Chiara leaned against the rail, looking out on what Homer called "the wine-dark sea" with her eyes and looking back on the day with her mind. She felt a sense of amazement that it had gone so peacefully, at least after the beginning. She and Rafaelle spent the morning discussing routes, possible tactics, supplies, personnel, and all the thousand and one details that go into a mission. She marveled at the lack of cross words, bickering, and propositions that characterized most all of their other discussions. In fact, she enjoyed it. He was well-spoken and thoughtful. He could even be funny. His anecdote about calling on a self-righteous, old French bishop, only to find the cleric "entertaining" an equally old, self-righteous _grande dame_ , had Chiara chuckling merrily.

They broke when Mr. Pearce came in to begin preparations for lunch.

"I'm amazed," she said as they cleared their materials from the room. "We actually spent several hours in civilized, intelligent conversation."

He leaned on the massive table as he turned to face her. "'Amazed?' I don't think that's the exact word I would use. Perhaps 'relieved' or 'gratified' might fit better. It bodes will for the next few weeks, don't you think?"

Chiara wondered how long he'd practiced the "boiled potato" look to get it down so perfectly. She just smiled and nodded.

Dinner was peaceful, too. Conversation ranged from the intellectual to the spirited. Compared to last night's dinner, she thought it was positively mundane. She decided that mundane would be quite pleasant.

A fiddle tuning up pulled her from her reverie. She looked down on the main deck. The fiddler sat on a coil of ropes, next to a sailor with a small drum. A piper stood next to him, tooting a quick scale. Around them, a growing crowd of men stood or sat in a rough circle. A concert, she thought with delight. Not the symphony, but music was music, and she looked for a comfortable place to sit near the quarterdeck rail. The first piece was a folksong, sung in Welsh by a remarkably clear tenor. She listened, entranced. The musicians segued into a reel. Several of the men started dancing, an interesting spectacle, with no ladies in the group. One of the men, more impudent than the others, bowed to her and waved his hand in invitation. A Puckish expression crossed his face. She had to laugh.

On impulse, she climbed down the ladder and took his hand. Magically, the deck cleared. He bowed, and she returned the honor with a curtsey. With one hand around her waist and one hand holding hers, he began to whirl her around the floor in an enthusiastically joyous country dance.

Halfway around the circle, Chiara burst into laughter at the sheer exuberance of the dance. At the end of a circuit, she heard rumblings.

"Gi'us ah chance."

"Let's have a turn."

"Fair shar'em."

She broke from her partner's arms and signaled the musicians to stop. She tossed her now-extraneous shawl out of the way. "All right, all right. Everybody gets a turn. Line up. Keep it honest."

A few good-natured hoots and groans greeted the last.

The musicians started up again, and the first man in line claimed her hand. Each man took his turn leading her around the dance floor, with greater or lesser levels of finesse. A few missteps didn't lessen her enjoyment, and she laughed and giggled like a schoolgirl.

Her latest partner whirled her into the arms of the next. The music stopped and she looked up. Rafaelle! Almost immediately, the music restarted with a waltz.

Many of her other partners had held her around the waist, but all at a consciously respectful distance. Rafaelle held her so close that her breasts grazed the front of his shirt. He'd discarded his jacket, as she her shawl, somewhere along the way. Only three thin layers of cloth separated them. Every brush against his chest incited delightful torture. She could feel her nipples rise to the provocation.

No catcalls harassed them, no demands for a "turn." Rafaelle lead her through the simply sensual elegance of the waltz. Chiara no longer wondered why the doyennes of English society had, for so many years, frowned on the waltz. This dance was pure seduction in front of the entire crew.

A small smile flitted across Rafaelle's mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing, she thought!

His eyes, though, told a somewhat different story. His gaze never left hers. The look told her clearly that he tortured himself with the same delightful torment he inflicted on her.

He led her through the intricate steps with ease. Each turn would draw her close. Then he loosened his hold until the next whirl. Touch and withdraw, touch and withdraw. Every touch sent a shiver of delight—and something more—down her spine to blossoming through the core of her womanhood. She would be a candidate for the mad house, or the bawdyhouse, if he kept this up!

Just when she thought she might either melt into his arms or drag him off to the nearest bed, the musicians ended the waltz with the greatest flourish their three instruments could manage. Rafaelle released her with obvious reluctance. His bow would have done honor to the Prince Regent. She curtseyed, and the audience burst into applause and cheers.

Chiara had to escape. Every inch of skin felt like a static electricity generator just before it gave off a spark of electricity. She wanted to jump or yell or scream or turn cartwheels. She didn't know what she wanted to do! What she did know was that she had to get away from all these eyes. And she had to get away from Rafaelle! If she stayed near him, the incipient spark would burn her to a cinder.

Sleep proved elusive. She tossed and turned, got up and read. Finally exhaustion claimed its due, and she slept.

Her shift billowed around her as she ran through the fog-enshrouded forest. At least, she thought it was a forest.

It followed her. It pursued her, now stealthfully, now at a dead run. The beast would tear her apart with its sharp claws and vicious teeth. It was a wild beast, untamed and answerable only to its own ungoverned lusts.

Nails clicking on rock told her it was right behind her. Claws slashed at her, ripping her shift. She could feel the cold through the tear. So cold. She knew it would try again and not miss. So cold. So cold.

She woke to find her night rail twisted around her hips and her blankets falling onto the floor. It was freezing in the cabin. She straightened her clothes and pulled up her blanket.

Shivering as much from the cold as from the nightmare, she burrowed under the covers and went back to sleep.

The restless night did nothing to refresh her. She stood on the port rail, trying to flush the cobwebs out of her brain with the sea breeze. The technique usually worked. Shaking off the effects of a restless night like that might be more than a brisk breeze could deal with though.

Right now, Chiara tried her hardest to see the Italian coast. Even with Harley's telescope, it remained invisible. The captain maintained a course well out of sight of it for their journey north. Now, they waited for nightfall and tried to be inconspicuous in the Adriatic Sea until the time to move into shore.

All their supplies were checked, everything was packed. There was only one thing left to do before she changed her clothes and boarded the jolly boat. Strangely, she felt loathe to do it. It wasn't like it would be the first time. But maybe that's why she hesitated. The last time, it felt so alien, like losing her identity or being in someone else's skin. But, it had to be.

She went back to her cabin and concocted what she thought of as her witch's brew. The walnut tea—raw, whole walnuts crushed and steeped—had been dried to a powder to be reconstituted as needed. She had several packets of it tucked in her bag.

Then, she stripped down to her shift. Dipping a brush in the obnoxious stuff, she began stroking the stain through her hair from root to tip. Slowly, blonde turned into brown. She checked the coverage with a pair of mirrors and covered any yellow showing through. Satisfied, she started on her skin. Ears, nape, hairline all got careful attention because they were the easiest to miss. Her face and throat came next. Her blouse had a drawstring neck so her entire chest, shoulders, arms, and most of her back required dying. That presented a small problem, one she hadn't really anticipated. Streaking her back would be amusing and fatal. Well, she'd call on Mr. Pearce again for the last bit. He'd proved discrete and efficient.

One arm done. Since she had to pull her arm out of the shift sleeve to reach efficiently, she thought she'd let the first one dry and do her feet. Folding her chemise up over her thighs, she dyed up to her knees. One never knew when you had to cross a stream or show a little ankle as a diversion. Her arm dry, she slipped the sleeve back on and pulled the other off.

A preemptory knock sounded at the door and it opened. She gasped as she saw FitzHenry standing there. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes narrowed, saying nothing.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Quickly, he came in and shut the door. Then he threw the bolt.

"I would have left, but the horse is already out of the barn, don't you agree? She glared. "Besides, I wanted to discuss a contingency plan if your friends aren't in Cesena."

He moved closer to study her hair and exposed skin. She knew her chagrin showed on her face. Her hand grabbed the sliding neck of her chemise.

"Don't dither. Ball gowns show about as much."

"Sir, you are no gentleman!" She pulled the hem of her chemise over her legs.

"Can't blame a man for trying."

"Would you like to place a small wager on that?"

"I never bet against a sure thing." He inspected her efforts. "What is this?"

"Walnut stain. It has to be replaced every few days on the high wear areas but it generally works well."

She looked pointedly at the door. "Now, if you will be so kind as to leave, I'll finish the job."

Instead of leaving, he walked around her back. "You missed a spot," he touched a place on the back of her dyed shoulder, "here."

Chiara felt the small touch race all the way down to her belly. It was last night all over again. Except worse! Last night the desire, yes, she finally admitted to it, merely blossomed through her being. Now it exploded. Fireworks bursting in the sky burned with less violence.

He'd held her hand during the waltz, but his single finger on her shoulder pulsed with more heat than an Italian summer's day. The sensations were exciting and frightening at the same time. Never had she felt such a pull towards a man. She turned to look at him. He stared at her shoulder. She saw muscles in his throat tighten. He looked at her with compelling intensity. It was the look of a man who would brook no refusal.

A sickeningly familiar panic flooded her. The hand holding her chemise up tightened until her nails dug into her palms.

She lurched forward, but his hand followed her. "My lord, I shall attend to this matter myself!" She heard the emaciated whisper of her voice. She stood faster than a flushed quail. Gripping her chemise to her chest, she whirled on him. "Be so kind...," gratitude to all the heavenly powers flooded her. Her words sounded stronger, "...as to leave immediately." She put every ounce of command available to her into the order. It still weighed less than a down feather. "This is completely unacceptable if you have any hope of our completing this mission together."

"On the contrary, if we are going to be working together, we should get to know each other so that we can anticipate the other's actions."

"Perhaps," she looked around wildly, "but this is not the time or the place."

"Why not? You will very probably have to reapply the skin dye before we leave Italy, and it would be helpful to have someone to do it for you." He took a step towards her.

"Get out now! One more step and I will begin screaming. Then you and M. Thibaut can compare notes on how you got thrown in the brig."

He retreated a pace and studied her. After a moment, he nodded, bowed, and left.

Chiara slumped onto the chair. With her elbows on her knees, she rested her head in her hands.

Oh my God, she thought, oh my God.

### Chapter 8

The bos'n spoke seven bells rather than rang them because the _Swiftsure_ had pulled in close to shore. It was time to go. Dressed and ready, Chiara had, none-the-less, spent the last few hours alternately telling herself the whole thing was impossible or that she should go alone.

After that scene in her cabin, Chiara seriously wondered if she could endure the next few weeks of his harassment. Despite the sensuous look in his eyes, she knew he made the same effort to force her to withdraw from the mission that he'd tried before. When she stopped to think about it, it infuriated her. Unfortunately, during the attempt itself, she had the most unnerving impulse, no desire, to melt into his arms. That frightened her, even more than Napoleon and all his armies combined.

A knock sounded at the door. "Come in."

FitzHenry entered and closed the door. The yellow vest of his Italian clothes burned against the cabin's wood paneling.

Her throat tightened, and she reached for her sleeve knife.

He watched her hands. When he looked up, his eyes were sober. "Chiara, I swear to you on my honor that nothing will happen between us without your full consent."

She swallowed.

"Can we work together under those conditions?"

She stared at him and then came to a decision. She nodded.

"Very well, we need to go. The tide is high, but will soon fall."

She gathered her cloth sack and shawl and headed out.

The three-quarters moon gave Harley enough light to make out the mouth of the Savio River. He ordered the boat made ready. Chiara offered both her hands to him. "Thank you for everything. I would be pleased to continue the acquaintance when you get back to England."

"It would be my pleasure, Lady Chiara. May fortune smile upon you and bring you success. We'll be off Savona in 10 days, awaiting your signal."

Lt. Topp stepped forward. He swept off his hat and bowed. "Fair weather, my lady. It has been my honor and pleasure to serve with you."

Rafaelle clasped Harley's hand in a grip that spoke volumes of their friendship. Nothing had to be said between them. Harley slapped his back, and FitzHenry moved to the boat. Chiara followed, and Topp clambered down last.

Soon the _Swiftsure_ lay astern, and the boat bottomed on the shore. Two sailors hauled it up. Topp climbed out with Chiara and Rafaelle. "Good bye, my lord, my lady. I...ahem...Prepare to shove off, men."

The two agents shouldered their bundles and trudged up the shingle. As the boat pulled out, Chiara turned to wave.

"You're deserting both your conquests."

"What?"

"Topp and Thibaut, you had them both playing the fool for you."

"You are a lunatic!"

"No, I'm male. I can recognize infatuation when I see it, and I certainly saw it in Mr. Topp."

"He's just a young man, little more than a child."

"Old enough."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, enough about foolish young men. We have work to do." She turned to look sharply at him. "Do men have nothing else on their minds?"

He looked sideways at her but said nothing.

They met up with the road, a worn strip in the grass paralleling the river.

"Umm. I'd like to get a mile or two inland before we stop for the night. You said Cesena's about nine miles from the coast?"

"Yes."

"That's about a three hour walk, if we can keep up a brisk pace. Given the circumstances, we can't. Keep an eye out for a deserted building or some other kind of shelter we can use."

She didn't mention that it was almost impossible to see anything in the dark. As they walked, she desperately wanted to think about the enigmatic man beside her. He acted the autocrat with her and the patient teacher with the midshipmen. He laughed with her then snapped her head off. A branch brushed her face and she flinched.

Her attention on her head, she kicked a rock sticking up in the road. For a minute, all her thoughts converged on the pain in her left toe.

Her thoughts regrouped, but it took several steps. One moment he played the protector, the next, the seducer. She stepped into a wheel rut, and the whole idea vanished. She concentrated on the black road.

Chiara wondered how far they had gone when Rafaelle spoke softly. "There's an old barn over there. Looks like half the roof's gone. It's likely abandoned. Let's try it."

"Be careful. People here don't abandon buildings with any shade of usefulness in them."

"Good point. Get off the road here," he pointed to a tree, "and let me check it first." After a few minutes, he signaled her over. "It's clear. We can bed down here."

Chiara walked nonchalantly over to the far corner of the barn and dropped her bundle on the straw that covered the floor. "I'll sleep here."

"No." She looked up at him. "You're in no danger from me, but I want you close at hand. If we have company, I don't want to have to yell across the barn at you."

His logic was impeccable. She moved her things and lay down with her cloak wrapped snugly around her. He did likewise.

Clutching her cloak tightly, she tried not to fidget, so much so that she lay rigid on the straw.

"Relax and go to sleep," he growled. "You're going to need it."

Surprisingly, she did.

Shortly after sunrise, they resumed their journey. After a while, she could see the Apennines in the distance. Cesena lay at their foot. The gentle elevation gain meant they made good time.

Without the darkness to hem her in, Chiara felt calmer. After all, this place was home.

At the first farm they reached, she approached the lady of the house to purchase some food. The woman happily parted with some bread, butter, and fresh-out of-the-cow milk in exchange for a coin.

As they walked out of earshot, Rafaelle asked, "That place looks like a small fortress, it's completely walled."

"Yes, they call them _cascinas_. All farmsteads are walled like that. Italy has never been a particularly peaceful place. All sorts of malefactors, from conquerors to _condottieres_ to just plain bandits, are common."

"Hum, give me the English countryside any day."

"You think England's been peaceful? How long ago did we have a war on British soil? The Stuart rebellion was only fifty years ago, remember?"

"True. But our farms still don't look like miniature castles."

At the next farm they reached, Chiara approached a man herding pigs. " _Scusi_ , signore, is this the road to Cesena? " The man nodded. He looked suspiciously at Rafaelle who had stayed by the road. " _Grazia_."

Rafaelle looked askance at her. "I just wanted to check." He grunted acknowledgement, and they continued. Grapes became the major crop they passed.

"These people you are contacting, I just realized you never told me anything about them. Are you sure they're trustworthy?"

"Oh, I'm sure they're trustworthy. Sergio Chiaramonte is the pope's younger brother. I've known him and his wife Graziella almost as long as I've known His Holiness. You know Pope Pius is my godfather." He glanced over at her with one eyebrow raised. "That makes me family in Italian eyes."

"That will hold even now?"

"That will hold especially now."

"All right. Go on."

"Well, they have a son and a daughter. Maria's my age, so I guess she's married by now. Paolo is older and he's...he's a love. A lot of their relatives work in the house and on their various properties."

As discretely as he could, Rafaelle watched her walking beside him. They'd been on the road for over an hour. Not once had she complained or flagged or even asked for a rest. She's a trooper, he thought. No, she's more than that. She's a true lady.

Most ladies of his acquaintance, and he knew a great many, would have begun moaning and whining after the first few minutes. The pampered beauties would have plopped down on their pretty little arses and refused to move long ago. They would require a carriage, a handsome, well-sprung carriage, and a maid. The maid wouldn't be there to protect the lady's virtue. No, most of the women of his acquaintance, both married and single, were only too happy to compromise their virtue with him. The married ones looked for an antidote to their unending ennui. The unmarried ones sought to end that state and enter into the state of boredom.

Like his mother.

As a lady, Chiara should be back in London flirting with the spineless male counterparts of the society ladies. Instead, she was here. Walking. Beside him.

Fields gave way to city outskirts, and people joined them on the road. Chiara stopped talking. Then the city wall loomed before them. Behind it, Chiara pointed out the hill of the Rocca Malatestiana with its castle.

People moved in and out through the gate, on foot, by horse, in vehicles of all types. Guards looked over the travelers. Rafaelle ducked his head and muttered, "French."

Chiara hummed a response. She began to chatter at him in Italian. "When we arrive, clean the tables and take out the garbage."

They passed through the gate unmolested. He leaned close, his eyes narrow. "What did you just say?"

She told him. "I figured you might as well get used to being henpecked."

He snorted. "Good luck."

"You are while we're here. The first thing you need to do is hush. There are too many unfriendly ears around. Besides, I have to figure out where I am. It's been a long time since I was here."

The streets quickly contracted to what looked like large alleys, hemmed in by the stone walls of houses. The cobblestones made walking difficult. Sometimes balconies or bridges between the homes blocked the sunlight. Vendors paraded the street, hawking their wares.

At one point, Chiara grabbed Rafaelle's arm and hauled him backwards. He reached for his knife, but an odiferous stream of water spewed from a doorway before he could pull it. She smiled a bit when she looked at him, feeling the tension in his body under her restraining arm.

A smile crooked his mouth, and he bent over her shoulder. "A bit jumpy, you think?"

After a few more minutes, they rounded a corner and entered the Piazza Pia of the Cathedral. Andrea Malatesta built both the castle and the fortress in 1385. Chiara always found their Romanesque architectural style appealing. People hung banners and put flowers in front of the houses. He looked at and at her. She shrugged.

From the cathedral, she knew exactly where she was going. Two blocks away, she turned left to a real fortress. The only opening on the street was a heavy gate. A guard challenged her as soon as they knocked.

After some discussion, the reluctant guard called to a comrade who went into the house itself. After a few minutes, the second guard emerged. "Come."

He ushered them up the grand staircase that would have done justice to any lordly house in England. Marble statues adorned the main floor and the landings. A magnificent depiction of some long-forgotten battle covered the entire wall where the staircase changed direction. A walkway rimmed the second floor above the courtyard.

The guard knocked at a door, then pushed it open as commanded. " _Signora_." One woman in the brightly-colored group of chattering, stitching females looked up. The lady, seated in the tapestry-draped room, had an embroidery hoop on a stand in front of her. She had graying hair and a plump body, but the rich, emerald brocade and fashionable cut of her gown said she was not an ordinary wife.

"Yes, Guido, now who is it that claims..." She glanced down at her work and then up again. At first her glance was merely curious. Then her brow furrowed, and she put down her needle as Chiara and Rafaelle approached. Pushing back the stand, the woman's expression went from puzzlement to recognition.

" _Chiara, my little yellow bird! What has happened to you? Why are you here? What in the name of all that is holy have you done to your hair?_ "

Chiara found herself engulfed in green brocade and then in the rainbow fabrics of the other ladies.

When she finally surfaced, Chiara smiled wryly at Rafaelle and looked up at her friend. " _Tia Graziella, I have much to tell and much to do."_ She leaned close. _"I need your help to reach Padre Barnabà."_

Graziella Chiaramonte's jaw dropped, if only for a moment. " _I think I need to get Sergio."_ To her ladies, she said, _"Remain here."_

" _But you must be famished, mia ragazza. Come."_ She rang a bell. To the servant who answered, she called for her husband and ordered food and wine. Then she ushered her guests to a small, windowless chamber with a table and chairs. A servant hurried to light candles then vanished. The white-washed walls with a single painting on each one looked stark compared to the heavy decoration in the rest of the house.

Graziella eyed Rafaelle and launched into a rapid-fire series of innocuous questions.

" _Tia, Tia, gently. My very handsome brother is fine and no he has not found a wife, yet. Tio Geoffrey and Tia Ada are doing well and thank you for the condolences on mother. She just didn't want to live after Papa was killed. I miss her, too."_

A servant appeared with still-warm bread, cheese, and wine. The bread was flattish and drizzled with oil, with grated cheese, herbs, and olive slices on top of it. Rafaelle and Chiara both fell to it hungrily. The farm-wife's breakfast was sparse and a long time ago.

"Sweet Jesus," Rafaelle breathed after the first bite. The women looked up at him. "This is ambrosia."

No translation needed, Graziella clapped her hands with the delight of an Italian mother seeing the younger generation appreciate good food and lots of it.

"It's called focaccia."

"If this is just their bread, I'm going to have to fire my French chef and hire an Italian one."

At Chiara's urging, Graziella launched into a detailed description of marriages, babies, weather, business, servants, and family.

Rafaelle sated his hunger and sat back, watching the two catch up on their lives.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

" _What's going on? She knows better than to interrupt a meeting._ "

" _I don't know, signore."_

The door burst open and a medium-statured bull of a man strode through it—a very angry bull of a man. " _Wife! What's going on here that..._ " His voice trailed off as he stared at the young woman who stood up in front of him. He glanced at his happily smiling wife and then back at the newcomers. Silently, Rafaelle rose. Sergio frowned at the man and then focused on Chiara.

His wife prompted, " _Its Chiara!_ "

Sergio Chiaramonte stared a moment more, " _Mother of God, it is!_ " With surprising quickness for a man his size, he gathered her up in a massive hug, muttering endearments in between kisses.

From behind them, an amused voice said, " _Smothering her is a fine welcome, Papa."_ The man had the look of the elder, but he was a young, vigorous bull instead of an old one.

" _Paolo!"_ Chiara cried and rushed into his arms. Paolo lifted her up, swinging her around and proceeded to give her a most unbrotherly kiss on the mouth.

" _The little warbler comes home at last. Perhaps this time we should build a cage for you."_

" _Paolo!_ " his mother gasped. " _Your manners!_ " Paolo subsided but kept his arm over Chiara's shoulder.

She saw Rafaelle's eyes narrow and slipped out from under the embrace. She caught Graziella's eye and gave a small nod towards the door. With the servant dismissed and the door locked, Chiara asked softly, " _Is this room absolutely secure?"_

Sergio Chiaramonte nodded, and his expression changed from joy to dead seriousness. " _Much as I am delighted to see you, I assume this isn't a social call._ "

" _No,"_ Chiara's expression was rueful _, "it isn't. May I present Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury. He also works for Uncle Geoffrey."_ All the Chiaramontes nodded. _"We've been assigned to mount a rescue effort for His Holiness."_

Sergio gestured to the table and everyone sat. He leaned back, his lips pursed. " _We've thought of it, but it would be suicide for the family._ "

Rafaelle listened to Chiara's soft translation. _"I agree,"_ she said _. "That's why we are here. We believe we have the bones of a plan that will accomplish our goals and keep you unconnected. Ideally, we hope to get from you some contacts with the staff in the Episcopal Palace there in Savona."_

Sergio tapped the table thoughtfully _. "The same objection holds."_

Rafaelle replied, _"The plan includes causing a disturbance in the area and having our contacts left bound in their home during the operation. It will look as though they were coerced."_ Chiara's jaw dropped. "Italian's not that much different from French," he shrugged. "I can get the gist of what is said."

She added, " _We don't want any repercussions if it can possibly be helped, but I'm sure you realize how much of a blow it would be to Napoleon to have the Pope in England and able to speak out freely."_

Their hosts all sat silently for several long minutes, each obviously weighing the immediate risks against the wider benefits.

Graziella cleared her throat. " _Francesca's brother's family works at the Palace_." Sergio nodded.

Paolo went to the door and called down the hall. " _She'll be here."_ He hesitated _. "I probably should have said the little bird was here. Francesca would have flown herself._ "

Rafaelle glanced thoughtfully at the door. " _Signor Chiaramonte, with respect, can you trust all your household staff?"_

Chiara frowned, and Sergio sat back. " _I presume the question was not a deliberate insult to my household."_

" _Not at all. However, the minute I open my mouth outside this room, I will be recognized as a foreigner, if not an Englishman. Someone whose loyalties are not wholly yours might find it profitable to report me, and you, to the authorities."_

" _Ah, an excellent point. Sometimes I think my servants know more about what's going on with this family than I do._ "

" _Even if we leave tomorrow morning, there is still the chance of being overheard, or even someone being suspicious of your reception of two relatively ordinary individuals."_

" _Tomorrow,"_ Graziella said _, "is the feast of St. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the cathedral."_

" _That's the reason for the decorations we saw,"_ Chiara murmured.

" _Today and tomorrow, everyone is coming into town. For even a small group to leave would be suspicious. People will be leaving town the day after tomorrow, though."_

Paolo spoke up _. "Plus a carriage would look strange leaving tomorrow."_

" _A carriage?"_ Sergio asked.

" _Francesca has to go with them. Can you picture her on horseback or on foot to Savona?"_

" _Humph."_

" _The four of us would be much more comfortable in a carriage."_

" _Four?"_ his mother asked _._

" _Yes, I intend to escort them. I suspect they'll need some extra hands."_

" _Paolo, no, it's too dangerous!"_

" _Mama, even if His Holiness weren't my uncle, I would still go. It is necessary."_

" _But, Paolo..."_

Sergio interrupted, _"Cara, the boy,"_ he looked at Paolo _, "forgive me, the man, must do what must be done. If I thought it would be helpful, I would go myself. As it is, I will provide all I can—clothes, gold..."_ He shrugged. Graziella did not look happy. Sergio turned to Rafaelle. _"We must discuss what you will need._ "

The chamber door opened and a short, grey-haired woman entered. She was over half as wide as she was tall and wore a cook's apron. " _Signora?_ "

Paolo closed the door after her as Graziella waved towards Chiara. Francesca's eyes opened wide and she hastened to add another hug to Chiara's collection. Rapid-fire Italian followed.

" _All in good time, Francesca, all in good time."_ Chiara laughed, then her face softened and she drew the older woman to a chair. Kneeling before the cook, Chiara said, _"Old friend, we need your help. My companion and I have been sent to rescue Padre Barnabà."_

" _Thanks be to God, but..."_

" _Do your brother and sister-in-law still work at the Episcopal Palace?"_

" _Yes."_

" _We need you to introduce us so that we can gain entrance to the Palace."_

Francesca shook her head sadly, _"I don't know that it is possible, ragazza."_

" _That is our problem. All you have to do is introduce us."_

Sergio interrupted _, "Are they loyal to my brother, Francesca?"_

" _Of course! I would stake my life on it."_

" _It's not your life being staked,"_ Paolo's tone was dry. _"It's mine."_

" _I will guarantee it with my own!"_

Chiara patted her hand and stood. _"We'll be leaving day after tomorrow at dawn. Pack a small bundle. We'll go by carriage, but we'll be traveling light."_

" _Oh, Giovanni will be so excited..."_

"Tell no one!" Rafaelle said harshly. Chiara translated.

" _But I must_..."

" _No one,"_ Chiara repeated _. "Our success and our lives depend on it."_

Francesca looked at Sergio who repeated _, "No one. We will make any necessary explanations, even to Giovanni."_

Francesca heaved her ample bosom. _"D'accordo. And now I have much to do for tomorrow."_ She struggled up and hugged Chiara _. "We will talk later, my Chiaretta."_

After she left, there was a moment of silence. Rafaelle broke it. _"Can we trust her?"_

Sergio said slowly _, "We can trust her and her brother. They are cousins and fiercely loyal to Barnabà. As for anyone else...,"_ he shrugged _, "...trust cautiously."_

Paolo laughed _. "Leave it to my papa to say two opposing things in the same breath."_

" _Silence yourself, cretin."_ He cuffed Paulo gently on the back of the head. _"Be grateful you are my only son. It would delight me to consider you expendable."_

At Chiara's translation of the banter, Rafaelle snickered. "My father used to say that to me."

His face clouded, and Chiara knew he thought about his late elder brother and wondered about the "expendability" of a second son.

Sergio called for his house steward. " _Alessandro, be seated_." The dour man hesitated and then complied. " _You remember Lady Chiara, don't you?_ "

A brilliant smile split Alessandro's face as he looked at the guest. " _Of course, it is a totally unanticipated pleasure. But your hair!_ " At the personal outburst, his face closed down again. He turned to Sergio. " _Yes, signore."_

" _Lady Chiara and Lord FitzHenry are here to_..."

Rafaelle interrupted _, "Tell him no more than is absolutely necessary!"_

Sergio glared, _"Alessandro has my complete confidence!"_

Rafaelle nodded _. "I understand. But the less he, or anyone, knows, the safer it will be for them and for us. It has nothing to do with confidence."_

Sergio pursed his lips and nodded. _"On the morning after the festival, Paolo, Francesca, Lady Chiara, and Lord FitzHenry will be leaving. Until then, I want you to immediately find jobs elsewhere for anyone you deem even slightly less than completely loyal, anyone with a tendency to gossip—men and women mind you. Our guests will require an ordinary, but fast, carriage. See to sturdy peasant clothes for Paolo."_ Paolo looked at Rafaelle's roughly woven clothes and sighed mightily. His father ignored him. _"They will need gold, food, weapons, and...?"_

Rafaelle nodded _. "You are more than generous."_

" _Perhaps we can get this venture considered an indulgence and all buy our way out of hell,"_ Paolo laughed.

" _Paolo, that is enough!"_

" _Ah, yes, Papa. Plus, our guests are English and don't hold with indulgences from the Church."_

Alessandro stood up _. "I shall see to rooms for our guests. Will there be anything else?"_

Chiara looked up at him with soulful eyes _. "A hot bath would be absolutely heavenly!"_

Alessandro smiled _. "At once, my lady. I shall return shortly."_ He bowed and left.

Sergio examined his fingernails. _"Paolo..."_

" _I know, I know, my mouth flaps like a thresher's flail."_

" _You are aware of the consequences."_

" _Yes, yes, yes. I'll put a lock on it that will rival the lock on your gold chest."_

" _See that you do."_ He turned to Rafaelle and Chiara _. "Is there anything else you need us to do; besides pray?"_

" _No,"_ Chiara said _, "the rest will be up to us."_

" _Tomorrow, there will be a parade and festivities in and around the Piazza Pia and the Duomo. You might enjoy it, even if it is, as you English say, Popish. There will be a great dinner that we must attend tomorrow evening. I regret that we cannot include you in our party."_

" _No, it would not be wise,"_ Rafaelle agreed. _"We will be fine here. However, if Chiara will consent to guide me, I would like to see some of your fair city today."_ Chiara looked up at him through her newly darkened eyelashes. _"...after that promised bath. Fresh water is very precious on board ship. Baths are...a luxury."_ Chiara snickered.

" _I would be more than happy,"_ Paolo offered, _"to show you my city, the city that claims two popes to its credit."_ Rafaelle's eyes narrowed at the young man's English. _"I learned the language when my childhood playmate spoke to me as much in English as Italian."_

"Ah, that will not be necessary." Rafaelle's smile reminded Chiara of a wolverine baring its teeth in battle challenge. "I know that we took you away from important business. We won't impose on you or your father any longer today. I'm sure your affairs are vastly more important than entertaining two uninvited guests."

" _Chiara and her friends are always welcomed here,"_ Sergio interposed gruffly. _"However we did leave Mario Innocente without a word of explanation. Come, Paolo, we will see our guests at dinner."_

Alessandro waited for them outside the windowless chamber.

By unspoken agreement, they both needed to walk around. Rafaelle and Chiara circled back through the town to the Duomo.

"How's your French?" he asked in her ear.

" _Passable."_

" _Use it to talk to me in public. I suspect Napoleon has any number of French-speaking agents here. He certainly has enough troops. Tell me about the town._ " They strolled into the Duomo, dipping their hands in the holy water font and crossing themselves. Rafaelle looked down at his fingers and grimaced.

" _Yes, well, Cesena dates back to the Romans. Like everywhere else in Italy, it's had a number of masters, even an Englishman_." He looked down at her with an eyebrow raised. " _Yes, John Hawkwood, the English condottiere, captured it for Robert, Cardinal of Geneva. They were not...delicate in the process._ "

" _I can imagine."_

" _Anyway, the town was turned over to the Malatesta family in the, let me see, 1400's. They did much of the major building that you see, the Piazza Pia, the Library, the Duomo, and fortress. Now, it's a town very loyal to the papacy. Pius VII and his predecessor, Pius VI, both came from here."_

" _Yes, I can see why the French would want to keep a fairly close watch on things here."_ He examined a side altar. _"One thing confused me, the Chiaramontes' referred to the Pope, at least I presume it was the Pope, as Bar....Bar..."_

" _Barnabà. He was christened Barnabà, and that's what the family still calls him within the family unit. He took the name Gregorio when he was elevated to Cardinal."_

" _Sounded more Catholic, more pope material?"_

" _Heavens, no. He never wanted the papacy. He is the quietest, most unassuming, gentleman you would ever want to see."_

" _Not an Alexander or a Julius?"_

" _The furthest thing possible,_ " she laughed, then lowered her voice. _"That's why Napoleon thought he could coerce him into agreeing to his state-run Church and his territorial acquisitions."_

" _He was wrong, obviously."_ He stopped to examine a statue of a naked man holding something floppy down by his leg. "Bloody hell!"

" _Shush! What is the problem?"_

" _That's a...a human skin he's holding!"_

" _Indeed it is. That's a statue of St. Bartholomew holding his flayed skin. D'Agrate did that in the 16th Century. It is surprisingly well-beloved."_

" _The Italians are as bad as the Spanish in their taste for gruesome art."_

She shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Spoken like a true Englishman."

"Absolutely!" His grin came and went in a flash.

Snickering quietly, she pointed out the main altar. In keeping with its Romanesque origin, the altar and the church as a whole looked more spartan than many of the newer churches in Europe and England. Most of the decorative aspects flowed from the architecture itself rather than embellishments. " _Now, take a good look. Except for the figure on the cross, this could be an old church in England."_

He slanted an incredulous look at her.

" _Think about it. It's true."_ The exception, she pointed out, was the lateral transept dedicated to the Virgin. _"We call the style Norman instead of Romanesque. The outside of this church could be cousin to the Tower of London, except that this is red stone and that's white. The inside could be Winchester or Ely Cathedrals. The stone church near my estate is almost a small copy of this."_

" _Your estate?"_

" _Yes, my estate. It came to me from my mother's family."_

" _Where is it?"_

" _In Kent."_

" _That will be quite a dowry for some lucky man."_ The words held no inflection.

" _It won't be a dowry for any man. I have no intention of marrying."_ The subject held little interest for her. " _Let's go. We're attracting a little too much attention in here."_

### Chapter 9

"... _So I'm in the far corner of this now-pristine deck, and the lieutenant says very sweetly, 'If you walk on this nice, clean deck, you'll have to do it all over again.' Well, they'd just called for dinner, and, growing boy that I was, I was hungry. So..."_

They turned into the palazzo gate. She looked at him when he hesitated. _"So...?"_

" _So I hopped up on the rail and walked around. I was so angry at that lieutenant I forgot to look down. It felt so good to beat him at his own game that it took several minutes to realize I hadn't been afraid of the height. Hasn't bothered me since."_

She laughed then shivered, thinking of herself in that situation. _"I don't know if I'd have the..."_

" _Chiaretta!"_ Paolo's voice sang out from across the courtyard. _"There you are. I thought your...uh, friend had lost you in the alleys of the city._

"Maria and Massimo are here! She's so excited; she's almost dancing out of her shoes." He took Chiara's arm and led her through the shade of the palazzo walkway and over to the stairs. "But you will wish to change for dinner."

Behind them, Rafaelle said, _"_ I'm afraid that if your family wishes us to dine with them, they will have to accept us as we are. We did not come prepared for formal dining."

Paolo smiled as they climbed the stairs. _"_ Well, I'm sure we can find something for Chiara. Of course, even the most spectacular court dress would pale in comparison to your beauty." He lifted her hand for a lingering kiss as they rounded the landing. "For you, _signore_ , I'm afraid we cannot accommodate you. However, if you wish to eat in your chamber, I can inform the kitchen staff."

Glancing at him, Chiara saw only bland politeness, but the churlishness of his words amazed her. Paolo had always been so good-natured! She withdrew from his arm under the guise of gathering her skirts. "Tia Graziella knows we are not prepared for formal dining. We will both come as we are. If this is a problem..." she shrugged, leaving the consequences unsaid.

"And you will still be the most beautiful woman at the table!" Paolo again reached for her hand and kissed it while his eyes lingered on hers.

Chiara gently retrieved her hand and headed for her chamber. "When will dinner be?" Rafaelle walked on to his room.

"About a half an hour. A servant will call for you."

"Thank you. Until then."

"Until then."

In the salon, Massimo looked at Rafaelle's bright yellow waistcoat. He pursed his lips, _"I've never had a yellow waistcoat."_ He lifted his chin and studied it _"I don't know why, exactly, but I like that one. I may have my tailor make one up for me. Hummm, perhaps with some autumn leaves embroidered on it. Most excellent, indeed."_

Chiara barely suppressed a smile as Rafaelle nodded with all the confidence of a man who selected his own clothes and knew he looked good in them She thought, with only a tinge of regret, about the highly fashionable, sky-blue dress that Graziella sent up to her chamber. Chiara avoided even trying it on, afraid she might not want to take it off. However, she took note of its design for future use. Her dark green bodice and tan skirt would have to do for now.

Paolo took her hand and kissed her fingertips with more fervor than might be necessary. " _You look magnificent. A pastoral goddess._ " Chiara smiled and retrieved her fingers.

Her bodice and skirt were going to get old by the time they left Italy. She almost wished she could take the blue dress with her. Ah well. Graziella, at least, dressed for dinner with gracious restraint. Maria, well, Maria would not be underdressed if she met the Empress Maria Theresa.

Alessandro announced dinner shortly after the anticipated greetings and hugs. Rafaelle, in French, asked to be seated next to Chiara, claming the need for a translator near at hand. She wasn't surprised to find Paolo on her other side.

Maria babbled on through the antipasto course: babies, houses, clothes, and jewels seemed to the only topics she could converse on. Chiara couldn't decide if Massimo, he of the dopey look when he gazed on his wife, was simple or simply besotted. On first glance, she figured that it was a little of both.

The servants changed the plates and the wine. They served a light, savory broth with sprigs of parsley. Sergio dominated the conversation, a discussion of a business matter with Paolo.

Another remove, another wine. Plates of shrimp in a delicate butter sauce appeared.

Rafaelle leaned over to her, " _The servings are so small_ ," he whispered in French while the conversation flowed elsewhere. " _Are they trying to starve us? I've had larger bites during a meal at home than what is on this entire plate._ "

She snickered behind her hand. " _Please, don't worry. The plates and the servings are small, but you won't starve, I promise."_

One black eyebrow lifted. He finished his shrimp with obvious regret.

Chiara watched the servants bring out a delicate yellow rice dish. " _Risotto, my favorite!"_

Graziella smiled gently, " _Yes, I think Francesca knows something of your fondness for risotto."_ She turned to Rafaelle _. "When she was just a little thing,"_ Chiara translated with some reluctance _, "she went down to the kitchen before dinner and took the pot of risotto off the stove. Francesca went to dish it up, found the pot missing and exploded with fury. They found this little minx in a broom closet, eating risotto straight out of the pot."_

" _Risotto, umm,"_ Rafaelle reflected as he forked up a bite _. "Well, I can't blame her. It is delicious."_ He turned to Chiara. _"Risotto, I'll have to remember that. They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Maybe the same holds true for a woman."_

She gaped at him a moment before she translated. Everyone laughed except her.

" _But,"_ Paolo interjected with a sly glance at Chiara _, "if you come back to Italy, you could have a different kind of... risotto every day._ " Out of the corner of her eye, Chiara noticed a servant refill his wine glass almost to the brim.

Alessandro entered the dining room carrying a plate with the largest bass Chiara had ever seen. It lay on the platter surrounded by leaves and flowers like an Oriental potentate on a divan. The butler served directly from the side board.

Sergio looked at Rafaelle. " _Is this your first trip to Italy?"_

" _It is my first time on Italian soil. I've only seen it from the sea."_

Sergio launched into a travelogue of the major sights Rafaelle should see that lasted well into the zucchini course.

" _Signora Chiaramonte,"_ Rafaelle said _, "I must confess that I don't believe I've eaten any better in the best houses in London. This dinner is superb."_

" _Grazia, Signore,"_ Graziella preened _._

" _You should sample the dishes in various parts of Italy. They are surprisingly different."_ Paolo took a large sip of the latest wine accompanying the vegetable.

_A_ s they removed the dishes and the glasses, Massimo cleared his throat. _"I will require my in-laws assistance Monday in compiling the information required by the French bureaucrats."_

Sergio sighed. " _The government doesn't matter, they all want their taxes_."

Ravioli and a different wine now graced the places.

Paolo tried the wine before the ravioli. " _I won't be able to give you any help. I'll be out of town for a while. I'm sure my father can do what ever you need done."_

Rafaelle looked past Chiara and flexed his jaw. Massimo's face had an irritated expression on it.

" _Besides,"_ continued Paolo _, "why would any one want to cooperate with the French?"_

" _Paolo, enough!"_ Sergio ordered _._

Massimo frowned, _"Paolo, if nothing else, the Empire has given Italy a new sense of organization, of direction. We have a much more up-to-date government than under the old, fragmented system."_ Massimo sat back and looked around the silent table. His satisfied, superior expression said that he felt he had given the definitive word on the subject. Chiara couldn't tell from his expression whether he actually supported the French government or was simply so straight-laced that any government's word was sacred.

When the veal began to appear, Paolo finished his entire glass of red wine before his food arrived. He looked sideways at Chiara, examining her garments. " _Why didn't you wear the dress Mother sent up for you, cara? It was perfect for you."_

" _I prefer to wear my own clothes, Paolo. I'm sure your mother understands that I don't have a trunk of clothes available."_

" _Of course, of course, but to wear your traveling clothes at the table when you have garments to reflect your beauty!"_

" _Paolo,"_ she took a bite of meltingly tender meat _, "I am the only one who decides what I wear, not you, not, with respect, your mother_." She looked over to Maria and asked about her children.

Midway through the fruit, which Paolo ignored in favor of the sweet wine, Massimo reiterated his position. " _Paolo, I must insist that you put aside your pleasures until this report is finished."_

" _I can't help you. I'll be visiting relatives up north."_

" _We'll get it done, Massimo, don't worry,_ " Sergio grunted.

Chiara closed her eyes and prayed.

After the cheese and the last glass of wine, Rafaelle smiled his wolverine's smile and led Paolo to the windowless chamber. Chiara glanced at Sergio, and the two of them followed.

Paolo lounged on the center table, negligently holding a goblet of wine between two fingers. A half smile played on his lips.

Rafaelle strolled over to the wall next to him, examining a gilt-framed portrait. He studied the portrait until the door closed. Then he grabbed the front of Paolo's jacket. The goblet crashed on the table. A whirl and Rafaelle's single step smashed Paolo's back on the wall. "You stupid sot! Are you trying to get us all killed?" He shook his prisoner. "Your straight-laced Francophile of a brother-in-law is probably even now on his way to visit the French authorities with the news that English spies are going north to rescue the Pope!" Paolo tried to escape in vain. "We'll all be swinging from a rope, you and your family included!"

Chiara translated for Sergio and he said, " _This is not possible. Massimo is family._ "

Rafaelle tossed Paolo aside. The younger man stumbled onto a chair. " _It's not only possible; it's probable. Massimo has thrown in his lot in with the French, and you are expendable. He'll turn you all in to gain himself credit with them."_

Sergio thought for a minute. Then he hurried from the room, only saying _, "Stay here."_

He returned a few moments later. _"I've detained them. Now what do I do with them?"_

Rafaelle studied Paolo who'd sat in the chair, his head in his hands. _"You need to implicate him in this. If he has as much to loose as you do, he'll keep his mouth shut."_

"Blackmail _?"_ Chiara asked _._

"Absolutely"

_S_ ergio nodded sagely _. "I know exactly the thing. I guarantee that neither he nor Maria will say anything."_

With a cool stare, Rafaelle grunted _. "Now, can you keep your son at home, too?"_

Paolo's head shot up, and he groaned. _"No! I will not be left behind."_

" _My son, you have not managed to keep your tongue between your teeth even in front of Massimo, and you were already aware of his uncertain loyalties."_

" _It was the wine."_

" _Yes, it was the wine, and, even if lives were not at stake, you have still vilely embarrassed your mother."_

" _I know, I know, and I apologize."_

" _Don't apologize to me, apologize to her."_

" _Yes, I will."_

" _In any event, I think you should stay here and work with..."_

" _No! I must go. You know that I must."_ A long look passed between father and son.

" _Very well."_ Sergio turned to Rafaelle _. "I would consider it more than adequate recompense for my assistance if you would include my son in your mission. If,"_ he looked at Paolo but spoke to Rafaelle _, "you have any reason to think that he will purposefully or accidentally betray you, you have my permission to kill him."_

Chiara gasped but translated.

Paolo simply gaped at his father.

Rafaelle nodded.

The day blossomed warm and clear, not all that unusual for the middle of an Italian summer, but a good omen for the feast of Cesena Cathedral's patron saint. The parade, scheduled for mid morning, sounded infinitely preferable to sitting around the palazzo.

When she broached the possibility to Rafaelle, he looked at her with his now-familiar raised eyebrow. "Go to a fair or sit around here? Do I look like a complete barmpot? Of course I'll go."

The vendors and the crowds were both out by the time Chiara and Rafaelle left the palazzo. As they wandered among the booths, Chiara stopped to finger the shawls in one of them. The proprietress was young, but old enough to approach Rafaelle who stood at the far side of the stall.

" _Would the handsome signore like to purchase a shawl for the signora?"_ His mouth quirked, and the vendor continued, _"Or perhaps the signore would like something more,"_ she pushed the shoulder of her blouse down her arm _, "personal?"_

Chiara, finished with browsing, came up to his side and took his arm. " _Not today, thank you_." As they walked away, she hissed, "You aren't safe to take outside without a halter, bit, and blinders!"

He threw back his head in a grand, glorious laugh. Chiara noticed another female vendor watching him.

A troop of jugglers performed on a make-shift stage. In rapid succession, their balls, knives, skillets, and glasses filled the air between them. Rafaelle tossed a coin in the basket of the pretty juggler passing among the crowd.

They moved on, looking at a display of hats and then an offering of knives. Rafaelle picked one up and commented in French, _"Nice balance, good length."_ He put it down and looked at some others, then moved o _n. "If I didn't have one already, that would be a good purchase."_

They stopped for a moment to watch a puppet show _. "They're stock characters,"_ Chiara explained. _"There's Doctor Peste in black with the beaked mask. Doctors used to think the mask protected them from the plague. And there's Arlecchino. He's poor and always hungry, but he's usually the hero. Oh, there's my favorite character, Brighella. He's the cunning servant who can do anything, be anyone, and is generally looking out for himself._

" _Rather like Punch and Judy characters, I guess."_

They watched the show until a troop of French soldiers passed through the crowd. The savvy populace parted like the Red Sea, and Chiara and Rafaelle moved with them.

A stand selling ribbons attracted the girl in Chiara, and she admired a couple of the colorful strips. Rafaelle picked up an emerald green one. He signaled the vendor, a middle-aged lady with hair just starting to go gray.

Chiara wandered away as the vendor smiled and preened harmlessly at her customer. Two stalls away, a yarn seller displayed her wares. This, Chiara thought, might be just the thing to alleviate the boredom of the next few days. Knitting a shawl would help keep her busy, and the materials would not take up too much room in her sack.

As she inspected the colors and sizes of yarns a male body crowded her against the table. It wasn't Rafaelle.

" _A beautiful girl should never, ever be alone."_ It wasn't Rafaelle's voice, either.

" _She's not alone_." Rafaelle's French and his glare induced complete comprehension in the young Italian who scuttled away.

Chiara laughed softly. " _I think you frightened him."_

" _Then I succeeded."_ He presented her with the ribbon as they walked away.

" _For me? I assumed it was for..."_

" _For whom? Francesca?"_

" _Well, yes. I figured you wanted to sweeten her up."_ She tied the ribbon around her throat.

" _I don't think,"_ he said slowly _, "that Francesca needs any more sweets."_

She laughed and swatted his arm.

He grabbed her hand. She stopped.

" _Come on."_ He tilted his head and pulled gently. _"The parade is starting."_

She relaxed and walked with him, but he didn't release her hand. He found a spot with a good view. They could also see the dignitaries' platform. Sergio and all his family featured prominently there.

Chiara didn't think she and Rafaelle were visible from the dais. " _Is it my imagination or does Massimo look a little more...I don't know, indignant than usual."_

" _It's not your imagination at all. In fact, it looks like if he wasn't on display, he'd be spitting fire."_

" _I wonder what Sergio said to him."_

" _I don't know, but Paolo doesn't look any happier, although his displeasure..."_ Paolo shifted in his seat and stared at another group, further along on the platform, that contained several winsome young ladies, _"...seems to stem from boredom rather than irritation."_

" _Knowing Paolo, that would be the easy guess."_

Rafaelle leaned closer _. "The boy has a hard time keeping his tongue between his teeth."_

" _Ummm."_

" _From a strictly diplomatic point of view, I'd hate to have to kill him, but from a personal perspective, I'm not sure I'd mind."_

" _Rafaelle!"_ she sputtered _._

He shrugged. " _I wouldn't. He's an obnoxious little cock-up, as well as a flap-lip_."

The parade began its passage by them and most of the conversation, except for oohhs and aahhs, ceased. The musicians, closely interspaced between other groups in the parade, made sure of that. To the last group, they played with a great deal of enthusiasm, volume, and sometimes skill.

After the parade, Chiara said, " _Let's go back and get something to eat. I think I've had enough for one day."_

They walked back to the palazzo by a different route. The last vendor they passed was a wood carver. Chiara glanced at the trinkets and utensils displayed under the awning. The old man gave her a toothless grin while he continued to carve what looked like a kitchen spoon.

Rafaelle slowed. _"Should we actually get something for Francesca? After all, we'll be dragging her away from her home for a while."_

Chiara's snort sounded most indelicate, even to her ears _. "I guarantee you that Francesca is looking forward to this trip as one of the high points of her life."_

Rafaelle grimaced as he fingered a spoon _. "Would it be appropriate to get her something?"_

" _Oh, get it. She'll love you."_

As he turned to pay the vendor, the smooth metal top of a cane caught Rafaelle's eye. Pulling it out of the bin, he lifted the cane, ran a finger over the handle, and then spun it through his fingers.

The vendor put on his professional, if incomplete, smile and began his patter. He reached for the cane with a twinkle in his eye and twisted the handle. A wicked looking knife slid silently from the bottom of the stick.

One of Rafaelle's eyebrows went up. He stuck out his lower lip and took the cane to try the mechanism himself. " _I'll take it."_ As they left the stall, he flipped the cane onto his shoulder and sashayed a few steps. _"Is this the jauntiest sight you've ever seen_?" He used the cane to tip the brim of his hat back.

The hat fell backwards off his head.

Chiara laughed all the way to the palazzo.

A few minutes rummaging around in the kitchen and pantry secured a more-than-adequate lunch of bread, cheese, salami, and fruit.

Chiara found the lone kitchen maid. "It seems that Graziella gave almost all the staff the day off," she informed Rafaelle. "We'll have to shift for ourselves." She drummed her fingers on the long kitchen table they'd sat at for lunch. Silently, she reviewed the supplies. " _Therese_ ," she called the maid. " _How many people are going to be here today who would be expecting dinner?"_

The little maid counted on her fingers, then excused herself and darted out to confer with the guards.

Rafaelle watched her go. "From the look on her face when we walked in, you'd have thought I was the devil incarnate."

"Well, with either the French or the English, you could be. Don't take it personally."

"Humph."

The maid came back. _"Eight, plus you two."_

" _Very good. I think I shall make,_ " another quick inventory, " _Lasagna, mixed salad, and figs in wine sauce. Will you assist me?"_ The little maid nodded. _"Can you make the noodles?"_ The maid bobbed her head again. _"Good, we'll need about three pounds."_ The maid set off to begin her job. " _Where is the well?"_ Chiara asked.

" _I will get the water, signora."_

" _No you have your job, just tell me where."_ The maid pointed out a door.

"I can help, too." Rafaelle got up and grabbed a pail. "I've had enough sitting alone on the _Swiftsure_ to last me quite a while. I'll get the water." The maid watched him with wide eyes then scampered off to begin her chore.

An assembly of pans, knives, and spoons littered one end of the table when Rafaelle returned with the water. The maid set up her pasta-making supplies at the far end.

"I obviously don't have the same level of skills in drawing water as I do in, say commanding a frigate."

Chiara snickered. "Well, why don't you try your hand at chopping onions?"

Rafaelle looked at the small mountain of onions she placed before him. "You are turning out to be a most demanding taskmistress." He placed an onion on the chopping block and raised his large knife up to shoulder level.

"Stop!" Chiara yelped. "What do you think you're doing?"

He looked at her with a blank stare then looked at the onion and back at her. "Chopping the onion."

"Chop..." Chiara dropped the armload of celery she'd just taken from the pantry. She looked at the partially raised knife, then the onion, then him. Her stomach began to flutter, and the laugh grew until it burst out.

The maid looked down the table at the commotion. She furrowed her brow as she tried to understand the reason for the hilarity. After a moment's study, she covered her mouth against a giggle and resumed measuring flour.

Rafaelle glowered at the two women. "I hire cooks," he growled.

Chiara looked at him and then burst out laughing again. He grinned back and winked at the maid who blushed and concentrated on cracking eggs. Lord, he thought, it felt good to have a woman understand his cheeky sense of humor. So many women didn't that he usually didn't indulge it.

He hadn't worried about making her laugh. Oh, he expected she'd cursed him in the lady-like silence of her mind. Up to now, that hadn't bothered him. She was a fascinating woman, he admitted that freely. However, there were a lot of fascinating women in the world. Today, he discovered that Chiara was the only one of those fascinating women that he wanted, no needed, to make laugh. He felt like a laudanum addict: the more he had, the more he wanted.

Once her giggles subsided, she grabbed an onion. "This way." She sliced off the two ends on the onion and used the tip of the blade to pull off the browned outer layers.

He watched the precise chopping process. While she started on the celery, he began chopping, rather than annihilating, the vegetable. "I hope these onions are cognizant of the honor I do them."

Her mouth quirked, and he drank it in like a glass of water in the middle of the desert. "I'm sure they do."

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"Oh, from Francesca and our cook, Violetta. I used to wander into the kitchen for snacks and asked to help. They put me to work. I loved it."

He frowned. "You spent that much time in Cesena?"

"Oh no, the Chiaramontes have a home in Rome, too. We all went back and forth."

"What was it like, growing up here? I don't know too many households in England where the children would even know where the kitchen was, let alone be allowed to work in it."

"True, but in Italy, the kitchen's the heart of the house, and that holds true even among the aristocracy. Every woman knows how to cook. Graziella makes a fantastic osso bucco. It was inevitable that I learn."

"Sounds very different than growing up in England."

"It was magical. By the time I was born, my mother and father had fallen in love with Italy. When Napoleon invaded, my father sent us to England. He was going to follow, but French agents killed him. My mother died of a broken heart."

They worked in silence for awhile. Rafaelle could almost see the memories, happy and sad, passing through her thoughts. He envied her them both.

Chiara finished the celery and went onto the garlic. With the garlic dispensed with, she started on the carrots. Rafaelle watched her for a minute and then started on an orange root. She watched him as she sliced and smiled.

"You will never so much as breath a mention of this!" The mock threat in his voice broadened her grin. "I don't think even my consequence could withstand it."

"I'm sure your consequence would survive anything short of treason. I mean, your title dates back to the Normans, if I recall correctly."

"Ah yes, my title: the title my father was profoundly grateful I was not heir to."

Chiara stopped chopping, but Rafaelle's blade continued striking the chopping block with military regularity. Deep within, a flash of insight told her there was something intensely painful inside him. Silent, she let his thoughts simmer.

"My father deplored my very existence. I grew up as far from my parents as he could manage it. Mercifully, he shipped me off to sea. I suspect it was hoped I would have an unfortunate and fatal accident."

Chiara gasped.

"The irony of it," he continued without pause, "was that I loved the sea. I was fortunate in my captains and shipmates. They became my sole family."

"But, but what about your mother and your brother and sister?"

"My mother ignored me, as did my brother and sister."

"But, why would...I'm sorry. That was rude."

"Not at all." He could have been discussing the weather. "To answer your question, my mother, my father, my brother, and my sister are all quite blond."

It took her a moment then she glanced at his almost-black hair. "Oh!"

"'Oh,' indeed. My mother could give lessons to Harriet Wilson."

The laugh popped out. Harriet Wilson, the queen of the courtesans, could now afford to be picky about her protectors. "Decent" women weren't supposed to know about her. Another face popped into Chiara's mind: beautiful, blonde, cold, predatory.

His childhood must have been hell, she thought. He was an exile in his own family. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Don't say anything."

"On my honor, I would never repeat any of this!"

"There's nothing to lose any sleep over. I haven't told you anything that people haven't known or suspected for years."

Deep in thought, Chiara mechanically heated oil and dumped the vegetables in to sauté. She chopped some tomatoes, and Rafaelle followed suite.

"Stir the pan, put the tomatoes in and stir again," she instructed as she started the béchamel sauce. He set the water for the pasta on to boil and added herbs to the tomato sauce at her direction. Then he cut up some cooked meat and added that.

With a flourish, she added nutmeg to her now-thick, rich white sauce.

Layering the pasta, tomato sauce, and béchamel, she looked at Rafaelle. "Do you know what the best vindication for you would be?" He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, the awful eyebrow raised. "You need to find yourself a wife who thinks the sun rises and sets on that quirky eyebrow of yours and have yourselves heaps of children."

"Are you volunteering?"

"Mercy, no!" she snorted. "I don't deal with implementation; I just come up with the ideas."

She thought she heard him mutter, "Pity."

Rafaelle, Chiara, the maid, Alessandro, and five of the six guards sat around the great kitchen table. The relics of the meal littered the table. In between eating, Chiara spent the time fielding translations and compliments. Other staff members filtered into the kitchen. After awhile, the family party's voices rang out in the courtyard.

"We'd better go out," Chiara said.

Rafaelle swung his legs over the bench and held out his hand. It seemed so natural to her to put hers into it. His grip felt warm, firm, self-controlled. She left her hand there until she picked her skirts up to traverse the door sill.

Graziella saw them from across the courtyard. " _Chiara,"_ she sang, _"we missed you so terribly at the fiera. You should have been with the family!"_ She hurried over and put her arm around Chiara. _"But come, come, we must open a bottle of the best vino spumante to celebrate."_

" _Mama!_ " Paolo warned.

She waved him into silence, but he looked immensely satisfied.

Chiara looked at Rafaelle and shrugged.

Later that evening, Rafaelle walked Chiara to her room. She stopped at the door. "Good night. Thank you for all you help today."

"Ah, but you were the master chef. Thank you for a most enjoyable time. I will place much more value on a well-made dish in the future."

He touched the green ribbon he'd purchased at the fair.

"Thank you," Chiara whispered.

He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. She knew he probably felt her pulse jump.

"Thank you," he said before moving on to his own chamber.

She watched him go and rubbed her wrist just as he turned his head to look at her.

### Chapter 10

Cesena had long since shaken off sleep before the carriage left the Chiaramonte's courtyard. Francesca insisted on embracing all and sundry in the household. Chiara's honor would be zealously guarded, she assured Signora Chiaramonte for the third time.

At that point, Rafaelle lost his patience. "Get in," he waved to the carriage, "or stay," he pointed to the kitchen door. Francesca got in. Some things needed no translation.

As the carriage rolled through the bustle of Cesena's streets with Sergio's generous supplies stowed in the boot, its passengers settled back in their seats. The coach was comfortable enough for four people, though Chiara knew she would loath the sight of it by journey's end. The ladies faced the horses, and Paolo sat opposite Chiara. He stretched out his legs so that his boot rubbed against her shoe. She looked at his legs crowding her and set her sturdy shoe on top of his shiny boot. He grinned and slid his foot to a more distant position.

Rafaelle watched the play from the opposite corner. Chiara breathed a sigh of relief that his eyebrow remained in its normal position. She promised herself she'd reach for a razor if he did it again.

Francesca's face held a slight smirk. When Chiara looked at her, the cook turned to examine the street scenes passing outside the carriage.

Chiara caught the flash of ubiquitous black through the window. Francisca hissed "Your nun" at the next passer-by.

Rafaelle sat perfectly still and looked at her then Chiara. The eyebrow went up.

Chiara slumped back in the seat. The men's razors were stored in the boot. Her knife would do. Pity to get it bloody, though.

"What was that?"

"Francesca saw a nun out the window."

"So?"

"Italians think nuns are unlucky." Both eyebrows went up.

"It's not called 'superstition' because it has any reasonable basis." She dropped her chin to look at him from under her eyelashes. "Saying 'your nun' to the next person she sees passes the bad luck onto that person."

"Well, we certainly don't need any bad luck following us around." He gave Francesca a small smile and an even smaller nod. It was enough to put a wide grin on her face.

Paolo smirked. "So how is this little adventure going to proceed? I don't think you're going to be able to walk in and say ' _scuzi_ ' to the guards."

"No, Paolo," Rafaelle sounded like he addressed a foolish schoolboy. "We'll leave that part of the plan to you." He glanced at Chiara. "When we get to Francesca's relatives, she will introduce and vouch for us. If they are agreeable, Francesca will leave for Cesena."

"If they don't agree?"

Chiara spoke up. "We'll approach some sympathetic clergy and disguise ourselves as priests or brothers and a nun."

Paolo shook his head. "That is something you should never contemplate, even for the sake of your country. I shiver at the very thought of a cassock and, ugh, celibacy."

"We wouldn't dream," Rafaelle drawled, "of asking you to emasculate yourself."

"My masculinity can withstand it, can yours?"

"I proposed that aspect of the plan."

Chiara heard quiet menace in Rafaelle's voice. "Gentlemen," she emphasized the word, "when this is finished, you have my blessing to fornicate with as many whores as you wish to prove your masculinity. Right now we need to maintain a gelding's peace."

The carriage fell silent. Francesca looked quizzically at all parties.

Then Rafaelle burst into laughter. "Well said, my dear, well said!"

The pained expression on Paolo's face said he didn't entirely agree.

"In either case," Chiara lifted her own eyebrow at the still-sputtering Englishman, "we will seek to provoke a demonstration near the Palace. An outdoor mass in the Cathedral square with some rabble-rousing by the clergy and others may well give us the cover we need. We will have infiltrated the Palace as servants or clergy. We'll get His Holiness into some peasant garb. Some hair dye, make-up, a wedding ring and he becomes my father.

"Make-up?" Paolo sounded horrified. "He's not an actress or a whore!"

"No, but a nasty scar would go a long way to making him look less like Gregorio Chiaramonte and more like old Mario Luchetti," Rafaelle commented.

Paolo sat back and rubbed his chin. "Organizing this could take time, especially if we need to directly contact people who can be trusted."

Chiara nodded. Paolo occasionally acted the fool, but his family's intelligence lived in him.

Rafaelle glanced at her. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Our ship will be patrolling west of Savona five days after we get there. I'd like to be on board as soon as they make landfall."

"Yes, having them sit out there would rather be like a signal flag to the French," Paolo muttered.

The passengers lapsed into silence, drawing it around themselves like cloaks. The Via Emilia stretched before them. They passed small _cascinas_ , churches, and the occasional castle on a nearby hill. Dust floated continually through the carriage, but the stifling heat of closed windows was not an option.

A few miles down the road, a church perched on a small hill near the road came into view on Chiara's side of the carriage. Happy people flowed out of the door and down to the road.

Francesca leaned over Chiara. "Oh, a wedding!" She leaned a hand on Chiara's leg and waved zestfully with the other. "Aguri, aguri!" she yelled.

Francesca's shout drowned out Chiara's groan of pain. Her eyes widened and crossed before Rafaelle assisted Francesca back to her seat. Chiara drew a deep breath, prepared to thank her leg's savior, when a mass of vegetation flew through the window and landed on Chiara's lap. Paolo laughed and waved to the wedding party. _"Grazia mille!"_

Amused confusion showed on Rafaelle's face. He poked at the gaily tied bundle. "Rosemary, chive flowers, thyme, um..."

"Oregano, bay, and basil," Chiara finished as she examined greenery.

"Was this the bride's bouquet?" he sounded incredulous. "It looks like it belongs in the kitchen."

"Of course," Paolo said. "The herbs are said to keep away evil spirits. Catching it is good luck."

Francesca touched Chiara's arm and muttered something.

Rafaelle looked at Chiara, waiting for a translation.

"She said that I'm going to be married soon." Chiara shook her head and smiled at the cook.

Paolo leaned forward. "Chiara, my love, don't dash her hopes. You know that Francesca's fondest hope is to see you married." He spoke, rapid-fire, to Francesca. That worthy clasped her hands to her breast and replied.

Chiara looked at Rafaelle. "These two are plotting to get me married off so Francesca can make my wedding dress. In Italy, a bride doesn't have anything to do with the construction of her dress and doesn't even try it all on at once."

Francesca interjected again.

"She wants to be the one to set the last stitch in my dress: you finish the dress the day of your wedding."

"Francesca seems to have your future planned out for you." Rafaelle observed. "Do you have any say in it?"

Chiara gave a brief laugh. Paolo smiled. "All we want is your happiness, cara."

" _Que sera, sera_. Other things take precedence right now."

They stopped at an inn just south of Bologna for lunch. The driver arranged a change of horses. Paolo and Francesca went into the inn to order lunch for the group. Chiara opted to walk around to stretch her legs. Rafaelle joined her.

"Whew, is she ever quiet?"

Chiara laughed. "Rarely, but she's harmless."

"She's desperate to see you married."

"She'll survive the disappointment."

"I get the impression that Paolo would be delighted to assist her in that goal."

Chiara looked sideways at him as they walked around the dusty stable yard. "Paolo lost his wife last year, and he's looking for another. Last night, Graziella broached the possibility, very delicately, of course, of me taking on the job. I turned her down, very delicately, of course."

"Of course," he poked at a rock with his cane. "Tell me; are you a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft?"

"Mary...oh no! I have nothing against marriage, although I do agree with her _Vindication of the Rights of Women_ that women need to be educated to be more than merely ornaments on a man's arm. Education would impel women to take on many of the rights and duties that are seen as exclusively male now."

He thought for a moment, "Are you saying that women should be equal to men?"

She pursed her lips. "Men are physically stronger than women; that's not in dispute. If women were educated as men are, they could explore many of those provinces that are considered exclusively masculine."

"Like say...voting or fighting."

"I fight."

"Yes, but women generally have an excess of sensibility that makes them unsuitable for complicated matters such as politics."

"And the good yeoman on my estate who can barely read or write is more suitable to choose members of Parliament than I am?" she snorted. "Is the fop who cares only about the folds of his cravat any more qualified than the girl making her come-out who can only giggle and smile coyly because that's all she knows? Education is the key, for men and women."

"I've never thought of it quite that way, but I still quail at the thought of Lady Jersey making public policies." Lady Sarah "Silence" Jersey was the wife of an influential member of the House of Lords. She'd earned her sarcastic nickname.

She turned to him. "You think she doesn't?" They reached the edge of the courtyard and turned back toward the inn.

From the road, two men approached. Roughly dressed, they made Paulo's peasant clothes look like Parisian fashions. Skin showed through the rips, and a generous layer of grime obscured whatever color the fabrics ever had. They stopped a few yards in and stared at Chiara and Rafaelle, nudging each other and whispering.

Rafaelle lowered his voice, "'Ware strange sails to port."

"I see," she replied, her voice equally low. "Let's go eat. Paolo should have organized some lunch by now. This may be an excellent inn, but the climate out here has degenerated badly."

They walked quickly inside, where the innkeeper directed them to a private parlor. The driver, Antonio, an old man with a pock-marked face, joined them, but said little. Francesca filled her plate with meats and bread and fruit before joining him at the end of the table where she began an exacting critique of his driving. Antonio glanced at her then attacked his meat with single-minded attention.

Chiara, Rafaelle, and Paolo also filled their plates and sat down. Paolo appropriated the place next to Chiara. He proceeded to cut her meat and pour her wine, which he did with great flourish. "Only the best for my heart's delight!"

"Paolo, please," Chiara begged.

"Yes, Paolo, please." Rafaelle's echo held none of the gentle remonstrance of Chiara's request.

"The truth is never a bad thing, my dearest."

"Paolo," she warned, " _basta_!" Enough.

"But my own..."

"Enough!"

He smiled. "I won't embarrass you in front of your companion."

"We didn't get to finish our conversation in the courtyard," Rafaelle drawled. Chiara could see the light of evil genius in his eyes. Perhaps it was just as well. "I believe Miss Wollstonecraft adjures marriage at least partly because of the legal ramifications that you pointed out earlier. So why do women marry? Paolo, do you have any thoughts on the matter?"

Paolo sat back with the air of an expert. "Women marry for many reasons. They seek to better their own position or that of their family's. They make alliances. They want babies." He shrugged. "My wife's family, the Benedetto's, wanted to put an end to the small trade war we were engaged in that was ruining them. It worked, but she died before giving me a son," his grin had a wicked cast to it, "so we may try to ruin them again."

"Most practical," Rafaelle drawled.

"I want to follow my desires this time and marry where I wish, before they can offer me her cousin." His gaze rested on Chiara. She knew what he wanted, but steadfastly refused to acknowledge it or look at him in any way.

For a moment, it was quiet in the parlor. Rafaelle broke the silence, "I think we need to get going."

Rafaelle and Paolo stayed to settle the bill. Francesca, Antonio, and Chiara went from the gloom of the inn to the sun-swept courtyard. Antonio strode toward the carriage when Chiara hissed his name. "Come here," she called softly. He frowned but obeyed. "Let's wait for the others."

"Signora, I wish to check the horses before we leave. Excuse me."

"No, do not look at them, but two of the three men standing near the carriage followed Rafaelle and me back to the inn. I don't trust them." Francesca turned and blatantly looked at the men. They all appeared rough and hungry.

Paolo and Rafaelle came out and looked a little surprised to see the group dawdling near the door.

"'Ware sails," Chiara whispered as she gave her head a slight jerk. "Two of them paid particular attention to us when we walked around," she explained to Paolo. "Now they have a friend."

Rafaelle let the way. "Walk far apart," he said quietly. "Antonio and Francesca, stay behind us. Be prepared."

The three men pushed away from the wall they leaned on and advanced on Rafaelle and Paolo. Two of them flanked Rafaelle. Chiara folded her arms across her stomach and felt into her sleeve for her knife.

### Chapter 11

Almost simultaneously, almost inevitably, the three men drew long knives from their backs. Chiara sighed at the almost predetermined sequence of events.

" _What the hell do you want?"_ Paolo demanded.

The lead man smiled, an incongruous smile with his great, gleaming dagger waving gently in front of him. He addressed Paolo while gesturing with the knife, _"Give us your purses, and you can go quietly."_

Rafaelle smiled also. _"I don't think so,"_ he said in French. The robber's smile faltered. He might not know the meaning of the words, but when faced with a wolverine's grin, any sane animal thinks twice. Thinking twice wasn't enough for the thief. He rushed Rafaelle who lifted his cane with a quick snapping motion. The robber grabbed his bleeding hand but didn't let go of the knife. Ignoring Chiara, the other man flanking Rafaelle rushed in to engage him. Chiara sprinted up behind the man, grabbing his long, greasy hair while pricking his back with her knife. His rush stopped.

" _Drop it,"_ she said pleasantly. He tried to twist, and her knife insinuated itself further into his back, enough to draw blood. He dropped the knife.

Meanwhile, Paolo parried his opponent's blade with his own in his left hand. He punched his opponent in the face. The would-be thief plopped on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose.

Rafaelle's leader proved the most competent, or at least long-lasting, of the three. He switched knife hands. Weaving to avoid the slashing cane, he finally rushed in. Rafaelle, his stroke spent, stepped back and twisted as the man rushed past. Then Rafaelle put a boot in his rear sending him sprawling. The cane's blade biting at his kidney precluded any further action on the thief's part.

"Pretty inept, don't you agree," Paolo said in English.

" _Yes,"_ Rafaelle replied in French. He glanced over at Chiara, _"Get Antonio to call the innkeeper."_

Almost an hour later, safely in the carriage, Francesca's jabbering about the thieves could have been clucking chickens as far as Chiara was concerned. The innkeeper, justly annoyed at such a blatant attack on his guests in his own courtyard, promised to attend to the miscreants. From his expression, Chiara thought he might administer some rough justice himself and be glad for the opportunity.

Just as Chiara climbed into the carriage, she spotted Antonio taking a swig from a bottle he had under the driver's bench. She supposed he was entitled to it.

Chiara sat in the carriage and pulled her wool and her needles out to begin her shawl. She would enjoy having a nice souvenir from Italy, even it wasn't a pleasure trip. Humm, she thought, His Holiness might have use of it since he very well might be escaping with the clothes on his back. Nights on board ship could get chilly.

The carriage jolted along; obviously the Via Emilia needed some maintenance on the north side of Bologna. For several miles the carriage fell silent. No one listened to Francesca, and she eventually ran out of things to say. Finally, she went to sleep. Only the clicking of Chiara's knitting needles and the rattle of the carriage broke the silence. Paolo picked up the ball of yarn off the seat and began unwinding it for her. Even that paled after a while, and he set it aside. Rafaelle leaned back against the side of the carriage and looked over at Paolo. "You handled yourself well."

Paolo, looking surprised at the compliment, and slightly affronted, replied, "Why thank you, I guess. Although I suppose it's to be expected with fencing lessons since...well, slightly after I could walk."

Rafaelle rubbed at his lower lip with his thumb. "Ah, yes, fencing lessons. The only trouble with those fencing lessons is, one, you didn't have a sword on you. Two, your opponent wasn't a paid sparring partner who would have lost his job if he so much as nicked you, and," Paolo's face resembled an angry thundercloud, "three, there was no instructor at the side-lines to call a halt when things got too rough. In short, this could well have been a fight to the death. And, yes, you did acquit yourself well."

"You are an expert?"

Chiara didn't look up from her knitting. "Yes, Paolo, he is. There is a great deal of difference between a sparring match and fighting for your life. If I were you," she broke the thought to concentrate momentarily on a stubborn stitch, "I'd accept the compliment of a master a little more..."

"Graciously?" Paolo put in innocently.

"Exactly."

"Well then," Paolo took a deep breath and turned to Rafaelle, "I apologize for my ill-thought words and accept your compliment of my skills."

Rafaelle nodded. "It was an honest compliment."

Paolo grinned at Chiara and nudged her leg to get her attention. "I was a little busy, myself, but I got the impression that you did an excellent job of covering Rafaelle's back."

"Well, it was only two against three, but it seemed a pity to let you two get all the exercise."

Paolo's laughter rocked the carriage, waking Francesca who smiled sleepily at her youngling's amusement before dozing off again.

"She's already proven her mettle," Rafaelle said quietly. Chiara looked up to find something more than just acknowledgement of her skills showing in his eyes. "I'd proudly fight at her side anytime, any where."

"I'm not arguing her proficiency. It's just that no woman should have to do such things. They should be...knitting."

"Paolo," Chiara growled, "I do what I must, just like you and Rafaelle do. To even think of denying me that dishonors me in a way few things can."

Paolo put up his hands in surrender. "I'm not saying you don't do it beautifully." Rafaelle's mouth held a small smile. "I'm only saying in a perfect world..."

"This isn't a perfect world," she concentrated on her knitting.

"Yes, but I still think that women..."

"Paolo," Rafaelle drawled, "would it make digging this hole you're intent on any easier if I lent you a shovel?"

Paolo sat back with a huff and drummed his fingers on the window lip. He turned to Rafaelle. "What part of England do you come from? Is it true that Englishmen are as cold as their climate?"

Francesca saw a black cat in Modena when they stopped to change horses. She crowed about their forth-coming good luck.

Chiara knit on, trying to clear her mind of wars and thieves and rescue attempts. Every once in a while she looked up to see Rafaelle watching her, a brooding expression on his face. Paolo slept.

Francesca dozed in the corner of the parlor of the Reggio nel'Emilia inn. Chiara wiped the small remnants of her dinner from her hands.

" _Come,"_ Paolo reached for her hand. _"Walk with me. My legs are so stiff from sitting in that carriage hour after hour they could collapse like the Roman Coliseum. Go get your shawl."_

As she left, Rafaelle looked at the younger man. "What are you doing?" He kept his voice soft so as not to be overheard by prying ears. The tone held pure demand.

Paolo picked up one of the oranges left on the table from dinner. He looked at it thoughtfully. "An orange has a bright, thick, bitter skin on it." He began to peel it. "But when you get down to the meat, the fruit is sweet and juicy, with just enough of a tang to keep you interested."

He looked over at Rafaelle, a quirk of his head implying he'd just heard the question. "Why, I'm taking Chiara out for a walk to stretch our legs. Something an old friend who knows her and loves her and appreciates her would do. Don't worry. I'll protect her out in the big, bad town."

Paolo grinned widely, setting Rafaelle's teeth on edge. The dilettante thought he could...

" _Let's go."_ Chiara hurried into the room. _"It's been many years since I've seen Reggio nell'Emilia."_

Rafaelle watched them leave, gritting his teeth. He wanted to strangle that upstart puppy with his bare hands. "What an arrogant little prick! Just listening to his sophomoric jokes sets my teeth on edge," he muttered. Flexing his hands on the table, he looked at the single remaining orange. He reached for it and turned it over in his hands, remembering Paolo's description. Only an idiot would fail to understand that Paolo was talking about Chiara, and Rafaelle never considered himself an idiot.

A rustling in the corner told him Francesca was awake. She started laughing softly, almost a snicker.

" _Who will win and who will loose?_ " she muttered as she waddled to the door. As she opened it, she turned, _"I did see a black cat."_

She's been awake for a long time, he thought as he tossed the orange from one hand to another.

Growing darkness didn't change the grimy color of the empty public room's walls. Several empty bottles of wine sat on the table in front of Rafaelle. He'd moved to the corner so he could see the front door. He sat on a bench with his back to the far wall, but declined to lean back against it. In the half hour or so he'd sat there, he'd waved off two whores and an old man who, as best as Rafaelle could understand, promised to be his best friend in return for a bottle of wine. With the changing light, his mood changed from annoyance to concern.

Doesn't that young idiot know better than to fool around when they had a job to do? No, obviously not. If they don't get back soon, I'll have to go out looking for them, and that's something I'd rather not do. Let's see, I'll ask for them first in French, then muck my way through in Italian and hope that somebody...

He sat half-sprawled in the chair when the inn door swung open, but no one entered. He heard voices outside.

"Yes, this is the right one, and no, I don't want to see the Duomo under the stars."

Sounds of a brief scuffle and a grunt made Rafaelle look up just before Chiara preceded Paolo into the parlor.

She walked in, shaking Paolo's hand off her arm. He whispered in her ear, and she turned back to him. "I said 'no!' I meant it, Paolo."

"But..."

"The answer is still no! It will always be no. You're like a brother, but it cannot be."

"But you know..."

"How many languages does she have to say 'no' in, Chiaramonte?" Rafaelle growled.

Startled, Chiara whirled towards the voice. "Oh, it's you. I thought you'd gone up."

"No, there's not a lot to do in this town so I stayed here with the excellent wine. You should have kept us company."

"No thank you," Paolo said, "we had other things to attend to."

"Ah, yes, that brings us back to my original question. Do you not understand the meaning of 'no'?"

Paolo walked up to Rafaelle's chair and looked down on him. "I don't need language lessons from someone who doesn't know 'sop' from 'sot.'"

Rafaelle erupted from his chair, but Chiara moved faster. She stepped between the two snarling hounds. "Paolo," she said to the bulldog, "would you do me the honor of removing to your chamber?" She watched Rafaelle, the wolf hound, the whole time.

Paolo's fist opened and closed and opened again. "Paolo." In the end, he complied.

When he left the room, Chiara turned on Rafaelle, fire in her blue eyes. Rafaelle sat back in the chair and ran his fingers through already-tousled hair. "Don't..." he began.

"Don't? Don't what? Don't tell you that you've just make a fool of yourself, stepping in when things were completely under control and...and throwing grease on the fire? Don't point out that you are alienating one of the vital few allies we have on this mission? Don't tell you that you will probably have the devil's head tomorrow and will most likely be useless if there's a problem? Or maybe, just don't interfere in my affairs?"

He raised a hand and turned his head in surrender.

"Go to...," she shook her head. "No, do what ever you want. But know this. We'll leave bright and early tomorrow, even if Paolo has to kick you out of bed and into the carriage in your night gear." She turned on one heel and headed for her chamber.

Rafaelle closed his eyes and shook his head. The movement hurt. He heaved himself out of the chair and went to Paolo's room. When Paolo answered the door, Rafaelle crowded so close that he could see the small mole on the man's ear, even in the dim light. "Do something stupid," his voice was barely a whisper, "like that again, and you can walk home right then. We're working, not sightseeing or courting, you young fool."

Paolo's smile did not convey friendship. "Care to place a small wager on that?" He closed the door in Rafaelle's face. Rafaelle turned and walked down the hall to his own, inevitably flea-ridden, bed.

The next morning, Rafaelle's head pounded and his eyes seemed to have a layer of grit in them. Keeping his luck consistent, he met Paolo in the hallway. The Italian's eyes narrowed. He looked like he'd at least had a decent night's sleep.

Rafaelle's hand sliced through the air. "Don't even start. I get the distinct impression that she kicked both our asses from here to China last night. Let's leave it at that."

Paolo's guffaw echoed in the hall and he slapped Rafaelle on the back of the shoulder. _"D'accordo."_ Rafaelle barely caught himself from falling flat on his face.

"Absolutely."

After a few steps towards the parlor, Rafaelle stopped. "I forgot something." They parted with, if not with amity, at least with understanding. Rafaelle went to the chamber Chiara shared with Francesca and knocked. Chiara answered. When Rafaelle looked into the room, he didn't see Francesca. "May I come in?" Without waiting for permission, he gently, but inexorably, pushed his way into the room, shut the door, and threw the bolt.

Chiara backed up a few paces and glared at him. "I thought I made myself clear the last time, Rafaelle. This is more...intimate than I wish to be with you." He strolled over to her, pleased that she held her ground. "Saving my life was very intimate, as far as I'm concerned. In some cultures, if you save a life, it belongs to you."

"I freely and completely relieve you from that bond." He heard exasperation and a little fear perhaps, in her voice.

"What if I don't wish," he trailed a finger down the soft curve of her cheek, "to be released?"

She didn't flinch, only looked at him with wide eyes. He saw the beginnings of understanding glimmering there.

"I feel an over-whelming need to thank you." He bent and gently kissed her lips, soft as a butterfly taking that first, testing sip of nectar. When she didn't object, didn't resist, a surge of elation swept through him but he ruthlessly reined it in. He'd put his boot in the muck too many times with her already to make a mistake this time.

He deepened the kiss slightly and had the delight of watching her eyes fall to half mast. Much as he hated to, he broke off the sweet contact. "We have to get going."

Breakfast was a quiet affair. If anybody had anything to say, they didn't want to say it.

When it was over, the group headed for the door. Before they got there, a shabby, slew-eyed crone entered. She looked around, probably for the innkeeper, and sidled over to Francesca to beg.

Francesca took one look at the old woman and screeched _"Maloccio, maloccio!"_ She gestured frantically with her forefinger and pinkie. _"Maloccio, maloccio!"_

Chiara rushed over. _"Francesca, that's enough. Basta!"_ she hissed.

Rafaelle saw the commotion. Ordinarily, he would have ignored a beggar, but some hitherto unmobilized angel urged him to intervene. _"Basta, Francesca!"_ Although his voice sounded moderate, it held authority. Francesca backed away, her gesture now hidden in the folds of her skirt.

Rafaelle drew out a healthy supply of coins and placed them in the woman's hand. He opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. Turning to Chiara, he said in French, _"Ask her to pray for us."_ Then he walked out.

Francesca and Paolo sat opposite each other for this leg of the trip. After a space of sparse conversation, they both seemed to decide a nap looked expedient. Chiara's needles clicked softly. She looked up at Rafaelle. _"That was a very generous thing you did at the inn."_ She spoke quietly in French.

Rafaelle shrugged. _"A few coins."_

" _Ah, but those few coins not only helped a poor old woman, but they allayed Francesca's fears about the maloccio."_

" _Yes, what was that?"_

" _The evil eye. Those hand gestures, the cornus, ward it off. It is one of the more feared of the Italian superstitions."_

Both Rafaelle's eyebrows went up; it seemed a strangely artless gesture. Chiara knit a few more stitches. _"I see that you and Paolo are not at each others' throats this morning."_

" _Humm, we decided that one thrashing each from the lady of the manor was quite enough for both of us._

" _Paolo asked you to marry him, and you turned him down, I gather."_

" _Uh huh."_

" _You never got around to telling me why you refuse to marry."_

She concentrated on a few stitches. " _And I won't, but I never said I refused to marry. I will not marry for the usual reasons members of the ton marry: expedience, convenience, inheritance, things like that. I don't need to._

" _If I can find a man who loves me for myself—not my inheritance or my connections or my ability to bear children—and with all that has happened to me, I very well might marry. But since I have no intention of publishing my life history, I doubt I will find the man, even if he exists. I have not led the life that Lady Chiara Brownlee should have expected to lead."_

" _Paolo isn't that man? He knows what you do."_

" _He knows only part of what I am, and that part he heartedly disapproves of. You heard him."_

" _Umm. I admit, ah, espionage is not the usual occupation for a woman or a man, but I've accepted it."_

She looked up under her eyelashes at him.

" _I have. Your fighting skills, for one, are formidable."_

Her mouth twitched. " _Well, it's nice to be appreciated for one's accomplishments."_

He stared out the window for a few seconds. _"You do this because of your father, don't you?"_

" _At first, yes. Patriotism played a part, but basically it was for him. As the years passed...things happened. I do it now for myself. I guess you could say I have a score to settle."_

" _Oh?"_

She glanced up. _"What about you? You did your duty and more, I suspect, in the navy."_

He shrugged. _"Habit, patriotism, wanting to see Napoleon trounced, even if I wasn't in the navy,"_ he grinned. _"I don't like unfinished business. Always comes back to bite you."_

Thinking for a moment, she said, _"Those are good reasons, but not compelling. After all, you have a duty to your title."_

" _Title, maybe, but not family."_

" _Well...wouldn't it be...ah, commensurate for you, of all people, to insure passage of the title."_

" _A little revenge?"_ He grinned, and his chest shook with silent laughter. _"I hadn't thought of it that way, but I like the idea. Maybe I will get out of the spy business after this mission."_

A small smile flickered over her mouth. _"Title not withstanding, I think you would make an excellent husband and father."_ She hadn't meant to blurt out the thought. The knitting now required her complete attention.

Of all the things he'd expected to hear from her, that was the absolute last. A good husband and father, indeed. He had no idea of what made a good husband and father.

Lord knows his own provided no shining example of either. His father doted on his older son, spoiling him and taking great delight in polishing his mirror image. He even coddled his daughter beyond any expectation. He younger son sometimes ate only because the servants were eating.

Fields and farms passed, unseen, outside the window. He tried to look at the situation logically. Dispassionately, he knew that was next to impossible. But still, he wondered what it would take to make that paragon. He knew this much. It was exactly the opposite of his father.

A good father saw to his children's needs. Not too extravagantly. Needs and wants were different things. His brother had everything he could possible want: money, possessions, power, women, and valued none of it.

Who was a good father? Bloody hell, he wasn't sure which of his acquaintances in society even were fathers. Well, who could he envision as a father?

Of course, Captain Barnham! Rafaelle remembered the quiet man's smile, not an easy, careless thing, but all the more valued when it appeared. His smile was worth more praise than everyone else's on the ship. His frown, well, you never wanted to see it, because it meant you'd really mucked it up and disappointed him. Mostly, though, you got the feeling he enjoyed your company.

That was the opposite of his father.

At lunch, Francesca insisted on serving the spaghetti and meatballs. Rafaelle watched her scrupulously count out the large meatballs out over huge plates of pasta. For a moment, the tomato sauce she poured over the plates looked like blood. He shook off the crotchet. Now was not the time for gory imaginings, he told himself. There'd already been enough of the real thing on this mission, and there might well be more.

He wished he could protect Chiara from it. Right on the heels of that thought was the self-mocking horror of what her reaction would be. Chasing that thought, he knew he would never again dishonor her status as a warrior. She'd proven her skill and valor. No man could do better.

That didn't, however, mitigate his desire to protect his partner. Partner, partner. The word rolled around his mind as he watched Francesca count the meatballs she'd dished out.

" _Aiyee!_ " Francesca shrieked.

" _What's wrong?"_ chorused in two languages. Paolo pulled his dagger from his sheath and looked around for a target.

" _There are 17 meatballs!"_ Francesca pointed at one of the offending spheres.

" _Well, it is what it is,"_ Rafaelle shrugged. _"You can get some more if you need."_

Paolo reached over with his knife, speared a meatball and popped it whole into his mouth. After a few moments chewing the ball the size of a child's fist, he said, _"Problem solved. Now there are 16."_

" _Mother of God, the damage is done"_

" _What damage?"_ Rafaelle asked.

"The number 17," Chiara said as she moved one of the meatballs from her plate to another and gave that to Antonio, "when it is written in Roman numerals, is XVII. If you rearrange the letters, to VIXI, that is Latin for 'I have lived.' In other works, 'I'm dead.'" She traced a number on the table. "They also think that '17' looks like a man on the gallows."

Rafaelle took his plate and sat down. "Seventeen, huh?"

The rumble of the wheels combined with the swaying of the carriage to produce a mind-numbing listlessness. The meatballs, despite the fuss, turned out to be quite tasty, and the wine surprisingly drinkable. Rafaelle allowed himself to slip into that pleasant state of not-quite-awake-and-not quite asleep. The click of the knitting needles and the occasional snore from Paolo provided the only punctuation to his comfortable haze. The not exactly rhythmic clicking sounded very domestic to him, the sort of thing a wife might do when she made socks for her husband or a blanket for her infant.

He doubted his mother even knew how to knit. Ah yes, his fashionably unfaithful mother. She's given her lord his heir and then given him, or someone, a spare. Her wedding vows, love, honor, and obey, were empty promises to her.

A pothole in the road opened his eyes and brought a disgusted hiss from Chiara.

He looked at her from under lowered eyelids. If she made those promises, something told him she would love and honor to the end of her days. Obey? Well, maybe not, but that didn't bother him.

How did that thought get in there? He didn't know, but he found it strangely comfortable.

### Chapter 12

Outside Voghera, just as Chiara began to nod off, she heard rapid hoof beats thud behind the carriage. The number of horses caught everyone's attention. Paolo quietly took the pistol out of the door pocket and laid it along side his leg. He gestured to Rafaelle to do the same, but the road held Rafaelle's attention.

Half a dozen or so French soldiers passed on the left. The lead riders kicked up a great deal of dust, making it hard to see the followers. One of the riders caught Chiara's eye. He sat his horse very strangely. It was just a passing thought until he turned in the saddle just before he went out of view. "Oh my God! That's one of the thieves in Piacenza! What's he doing...? It's a trap! He must be here to identify us." She opened the hatch door to the driver's box. _"Stop here, Antonio, now."_

The soldiers headed around a curve where the road went through a pass in the rocky foothills before them.

" _Si, Signora, I saw them. That piazzaiolo from the inn rode with them."_

Paulo snickered at Antonio's expression: turd head.

Chiara looked around the coach. _"Francesca, go over into the field and look like you have to pee."_

" _But..."_

" _Now. Quickly!"_

Francesca hauled herself out of the carriage. The last soldier looked around just in time to see her plop out the door.

"I'm betting on an ambush," Paolo commented as he checked the pistol. "Rather than reporting ahead, the officer in Piacenza would want the glory of the capture of an Englishman all for himself." He pulled out extra powder and shot.

"But why?" Chiara asked.

"I spoke English during the fight," Paolo snarled his self-disgust.

Rafaelle nodded. "I'd hoped they wouldn't notice, but obviously the leader recognized it and decided he could use it as a bargaining chip.

"We'll have to fight," Paulo's rising excitement showed in his voice. "We can't risk leaving them alive to tell the story again! They won't be as easy as the thieves. While they're not the Imperial Guards, they're trained soldiers."

Rafaelle nodded as Francesca clambered back into the coach. Paulo called up to Antonio. _"There's going to be a fight. Do not try to drive through it._ " Antonio frowned and then leaned down for his own pistol.

" _A fight! A fight! I knew those meatballs were bad luck!"_ Francesca bawled.

" _Quiet!"_ Paolo ordered. _"Stay out of the way."_ He pushed her legs to the center of the carriage so he had access to the door. The temperature inside the carriage rose significantly.

Chiara pushed her garrote into the top of her bodice and checked the action of her knife in its arm sheath. Then she pulled the pistol from her door's pocket, checked the load, and laid it next to her leg.

Paolo gave Antonio the order to go. The occupants of the coach looked at each other in silence. Francesca's rosary beads appeared and flew through her fingers.

The coach started back up again. Rafaelle looked thoughtful. "Let's see if we can bluff our way through this first. Tell Antonio to do nothing aggressive." Paolo opened the hatch and relayed the instructions. Antonio acknowledged it by sliding the gun under his leg. Paolo's own gun went into the back of his pants.

As they rounded the turn at the rock, Chiara could see the soldiers. "They've ranged across a narrow spot in the road. Rocks on both sides." She stood up to speak to Antonio. _"Get right up to the line. Use the horses as weapons if you have to."_ As she sat back, Rafaelle gave her a hard smile of approval.

" _Halt!"_ the officer bellowed. Antonio drew the team up so that the horses could almost nose the bores of the soldiers' rifles. _"Get out of the carriage!"_

Paolo got out the right side. Chiara could see the thief, his horse tethered to the officer, whispering and pointing frantically toward Paolo.

Rafaelle quickly checked the twist release on his cane. He looked up at Chiara. Calm, prepared, confident, the searching eyes wandered over Chiara's face as if burning the sight into his memory. He opened the door, and Chiara's heart clenched. He might be facing a firing squad. That's intolerable, she thought. She would prevent it, even if it cost her own life. She didn't question that thought, only watched him.

Rafaelle stepped out. His whole demeanor changed. He adjusted his vest and his coat with the air of a man used to having people wait on him. His very bearing said that this interruption of his journey was an intolerable imposition, even from a fellow conqueror. _"What is the meaning of this?"_ he demanded in French. He reached the line of soldiers. _"I have important business in Milan with M. Jean-Michel Agar, Comte de Mosburg and Minister of Finance. It would behoove you not to make me late. M. Agar will not be pleased with you if you make me late."_

" _Who are you?"_ the officer demanded. Chiara didn't think it was possible but Rafaelle straightened his already considerable height. At least they hadn't summarily shot him. He walked through the line of men. Chiara couldn't see Paolo.

" _My name? I am M. Honoré St. Lazar, chief officer in charge of financial compliance for the Grand Duchess Elisa Bonaparte, Grand Duchess of Tuscany. Who the devil are you?"_

" _Who I am is not important."_

" _I must say it is. When I make my report to your superiors, I wish to get your name accurately."_

In the officer's tone, Chiara could hear that he was not taking the bluff. Something else was needed. She stuck her head out the carriage. _"Honoré, my love,"_ she said in Italian-accented French, _"please hurry. I'm getting bored without you."_

Titters rose from the soldiers. _"Who is that?"_ the officer demanded.

Rafaelle glanced back languidly, _"Only my cher amie and her maid. They and my Italian servant travel with me."_

The officer ordered a soldier near Rafaelle to check out the carriage. _"I'm taking you into custody. I have information that your 'servant,'"_ he looked to the thief for confirmation, _"is an Englishman."_

" _Englishman? That's absurd."_

" _He was heard speaking English."_

Rafaelle huffed. _"English, no. He speaks French badly, though."_ Rafaelle peered at the thief, whose face sported some new bruises, and affected sudden recognition. _"You!"_ He took out a handkerchief and swept an imaginary dust mote off his shoulder. _"Perhaps that is what this thief,"_ scorn dripped from his lips, _"who tried to rob us heard."_

" _Nonetheless, I'm taking you into custody."_

A young soldier pulled open the carriage door.

" _You can apologize to M...."_

Chiara stabbed the soldier in the chest. His look of surprise and the red flower blooming on his chest had Francesca squealing.

The sound galvanized the men. Paolo pulled his pistol, rushed the soldiers and took dead aim at the one in front of him. Chiara shot through the window, but knew she'd missed the moment she pulled the trigger. The officer screamed unintelligible orders as Chiara reloaded the pistol. Her hands shook but she willed them to obedience. Glancing out the window, she saw Rafaelle engage a soldier whose rifle lay on the ground. A flash at the end of Rafaelle's cane told her there was steel there. She'd forgotten about that. That steel became the last thing the soldier saw.

Chiara finished loading the pistol and got out of the carriage. On the right, a rifle fired and Antonio scrambled down with surprising agility for a man his age.

Rafaelle took on the officer, going in on the man's off side. The leading rein for the thief's horse forgotten, the informant leaned over to untie it.

Chiara, her skirts and the pistol in her hands, rushed up. _"Stop!"_ The man just grinned at her and saluted with his bandaged hand. Loose, he kneed his horse around. _"Stop!"_ Chiara yelled again. He ignored her.

The horse, unhappy about the noise and lack of control, pranced for a moment. The thief grabbed its mane and kicked its sides just as Chiara raised the pistol and shot the man in the back. The man's body stayed there; the horse went on its way.

In a heartbeat it was over. Gunpowder and horse stung her nostrils. It should be dead still, Chiara thought. Instead, Francesca's screams echoed off the rocks. Finally the words pierced the fog in Chiara's brain. "Paolo, Paolo, my God, Paolo."

Skirting around the horses' heads, Chiara saw Rafaelle, unharmed. "You all right?" he snapped, grabbing her arm.

"Yes, yes," she gasped and wrenched away. She found Paolo on his knees, clutching his shoulder. His head bowed, he rasped what sounded like a string of obscenities. _"...scassacazzo."_

She dropped to her knees next to him and ripped the shirt away from the bleeding hole in his arm near the shoulder. Antonio hovered, cursing softly while Francesca wailed over her boy. Chiara looked at Antonio. _"Shut her up."_ He went over and slapped Francesca smartly across the face. Quiet returned to the pass.

Chiara stood and lifted her skirt, then tore the bottom flounce off her petticoat. She glanced up to see Rafaelle checking the soldiers. One groaned, _"Aidez moi,"_ and Rafaelle insured that those were his last words.

Chiara pressed the wadded material to Paolo's upper arm. "I have to stop this bleeding," she muttered. _"Francesca, I need the edge off your chemise."_

" _But, but..._ " Francesca lifted her skirt slightly to show a chemise without a bottom flounce. Antonio dropped to the ground next to her and lifted her skirt. Francesca squeaked but he growled, _"Silence._ " And she stopped. He pulled his knife and cut a hand's breath length of material from around the bottom.

As he handed the fabric to Chiara, Rafaelle strode up to them. "How're you doing?" he asked Paolo.

Paolo gave him a strained grin, "Why, I'm ready to...ah!" Chiara tightened the bandage around his arm. "Whew! Go dancing."

Rafaelle placed a gentle hand on Paolo's good shoulder and looked at Chiara. "He's lost a fair bit of blood," she said. "He was so close to the rifle that the bullet went in and out. I'm going to have to check the hole, though to make sure there's no fabric from his shirt in it. Then I'll need more bandages and soup and water."

Rafaelle looked around. "Well, they're not here." He looked at Antonio, " _How far back was the last farm house?"_ He mangled the Italian, but the message was clear.

Antonio scratched his chin, _"Several miles, signore."_

"Then we may as well go forward." He looked around the rocky hills surrounding them, then at Antonio. "We need to hide the bodies. Chiara, can you and Francesca get Paolo into the carriage?"

"I'm not quite helpless," Paolo growled and tried to rise.

"Wait one minute. We'll give you a hand." She put his good arm over her shoulder and Francesca grabbed him around the waist. Together, they baby-stepped him into the carriage. By the time he sat, sweat streamed down his face. _"Sit there,"_ she directed Francesca, _"and put his head on your lap."_ Then she went out to find Rafaelle.

He and Antonio walked back through a cleft in the rocks. Three bodies were left on the road. "He has to go back," she told the two men quietly. "The bullet hole is very close to the bone. Even if I get him bandaged up, he needs rest and care."

"Can't he rest at Francesca's relatives?" Rafaelle wiped some blood off his hands.

Antonio spoke up. _"If they trace your activities to them, the presence of a bullet-wounded man would be fatal for everyone."_

Rafaelle nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. _"If you take him back, we'll have to find some other transportation."_

Antonio nodded. _"Catch the horses and take them with us. You can use them to trade for a wagon or to pull one."_

Rafaelle looked at him and both eyebrows went up. _"Very good, my friend, very good."_

"I'll catch the horses," Chiara volunteered. "Are we going to need all of them?"

Rafaelle stuck out his chin in thought. " _Four, I think."_ Antonio nodded. "Strip the rest of their tack and send them on their way. Someone will find them."

Chiara checked on Paolo after she tied each horse to the carriage. He leaned against Francesca's pillowy shoulder, but seemed to be as comfortable as possible.

With the scene of the massacre set back nearly to normal, they started on their way. Rafaelle rode one of the horses and led another. Antonio slowed the pace of the team, but every hole in the road had Paolo swearing and Chiara checking his shoulder for renewed bleeding.

Finally, Rafaelle drew alongside the carriage. "There's a farm house up ahead. We'll have to chance it."

"No," Chiara said. "Let's try one that looks a little more prosperous."

The third farmhouse, they agreed, looked wealthy enough to have a carriage but not so rich as to question Rafaelle's credentials. She looked at him anxiously. "Can you make yourself understood?"

He straightened in the saddle. "Mademoiselle, I am an official of the French empire. I could ask for their virgin daughter and probably get her. I can get us a vehicle." His smirk had her snickering as he trotted up to the house. Just to be on the safe side, Chiara followed him to translate, curtsying to all and sundry on the property, just like a proper servant.

The owner could have been more pleased to surrender his carriage to a requisition by a French government official, but the Frenchman's munificence at offering two horses and a few gold coins— _"We French are here as saviors, not thieves"_ —went a long way to sweetening the owner's temper.

"He's laughing all the way to his barn," Rafaelle muttered as he hitched one of the remaining French horses to the vehicle. "To call this thing 'antique' probably underestimates its age by several centuries." The vehicle wasn't a closed carriage, but an open gig with a wide bench for the driver and a sadly stained and ripped seat for the passengers. In its day, it would have been a handsome vehicle. Now, it smelled.

Chiara laughed as she held the reins of the other horse. "We can buy a length of material in Voghera and get some lunch. Paolo's arm should have stopped bleeding enough that I can probe in there."

In town, they also purchased some strong spirits to put in Paolo and on his arm.

Chiara had known it would be difficult, but probing the bullet wound track while her childhood friend groaned in agony was possibly the hardest thing she'd ever done. It did, however, yield a scrap of fabric which matched the hole torn in his shirt. When she had him cleaned and bandaged, Rafaelle and Antonio loosed their hold on his arms and legs. She grabbed a towel and stumbled out of the isolated shack they'd laid him.

After a moment, Rafaelle followed her. One hand rested on her shoulder in sympathy and praise. The other pushed the bottle of liquor up to her mouth. "Drink this; you look like you need it."

She grabbed the bottle, took a gulp, and came up sputtering and coughing. "Thanks, I needed that; at least I think I did."

Rafaelle toyed with the bottle. "Do we have to send him back?"

She wiped her hands on the towel before she answered. "Yes, Antonio's right. The family could bluff it through if there's no evidence to the contrary. We need to make sure they all have plausible alibis. However, the presence of a wounded man could be like setting a sign saying 'Wellington is here, now' in front of Napoleon. At the very least, the French would have to investigate."

"I don't like splitting up. Both groups will be more vulnerable."

"True, but it can't be helped. Antonio will take good care of Paolo, and they should be at home well within three days. I didn't know Antonio when I lived here, but he's proven to be very competent.

"As for us, we hadn't planned to have Paolo, or Antonio for that matter, in the first place."

"True. Well, we'll split the gear, and they can go back right away."

"No, I think it would be better to go on to Voghera and have them head out to the road that goes down the coast. It'll take them a little longer, but I don't want them going back though Bologna. Someone, somewhere, might recognize them or the carriage."

Rafaelle nodded. "Well, we should still split the gear here. That way, we don't have to contact each other; we can be independent if we should happen to be stopped."

With the equipment and supplies split, Chiara climbed into the carriage to say goodbye to Paolo. He felt feverish. She dampened some cloths to cool him down. "Paolo, you have to go home," she repeated for the third time.

"This is just a nick. I'll be in fine form by the time we get to Savona!"

"No, you won't. You've been seriously wounded, and your body needs time to heal."

"But why can't I go onto Savona with you and return with Francesca and Antonio?"

"And spend three more days bouncing on the road?"

"I'll be fine. Let's just to on to Savona."

"No, Paolo," her patience and time were running out. "If you go on to Savona with us, you will be a liability and your very presence, even for a day, could arouse suspicion. That would present a very great danger to you and us and Francesca's family. Are you willing to risk that?"

He snorted and slumped back into the corner of the seat, looking out the window with a sullen expression on his face.

"Paolo, I know you don't want me to protect you, but I love you," his face brightened, "like a brother." He grimaced and wagged his head. "I have to do the best that I can to insure your safety, even if you don't like it."

He nodded, none too happy. She kissed his cheek and went out to give Antonio final instructions on Paolo's care. Rafaelle gave the driver a handful of coins and then offered his hand. Antonio looked at the proffered hand for a moment. Quickly scrubbing his own on his pants leg, the driver clasped it in a firm shake. Chiara marveled briefly at the class-crossing expression of friendship and respect before she hugged the old man and kissed his grizzled cheek.

The vehicles started on their way with Rafaelle at the reins of the second one. Chiara sat next to him. At Voghera, they parted with only the briefest of nods by the drivers.

Francesca, alone in the back of the gig and bereft of an audience, sank into silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle. Rafaelle kept his voice down so as not to incite her to join the conversation. "We're back to our original company." Chiara grunted and studied her folded hands. "He's going to be all right. He's strong, and Antonio will take good care of him."

"I know, but I still worry. There's been so much blood-shed and...death. I just couldn't stand to add him to the list." She lifted her hands from her lap and examined them. "There's so much blood on them."

He glanced sharply at her, concerned with the melancholy in her voice. "You're not auditioning for Lady Macbeth, are you?" The sadness in her voice had him making light of it.

"Lady...no, no. I realize this is war and people die, but having their blood on my hands is still disconcerting. Do you ever get used to it?"

He sought the answer in the left horse's mane, but it wasn't there. "No, you don't. All you can do is put it behind you."

"I guess. I just hope that Paolo doesn't have to pay that penalty for helping us."

"He was helping himself, too, don't forget." Even to his ears, his voice sounded harsh. He took a quick breath. "He has as many reasons as we do, perhaps more, for wanting to see Napoleon fall. Then, too, I think he had something to prove to his father." Chiara glanced at him quizzically. "I got the impression that's Sergio's leash on him was rather short. I imagine Paolo loves his father, but I also think that Sergio's...temperament makes it difficult for Paolo to really call himself a man."

Chiara frowned. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were right. My memories of them are of a parent and a small child, so it felt normal to me."

Rafaelle looked straight ahead, absently seeing the towers of Tortona in the distance. "And then there's the fact that he very much wanted to marry you."

He watched meditation turn to irritation in a heartbeat. "Yes, he did ask me to marry him! I turned him down!"

"He's a good man and would make a good husband."

"A lot of men are good men." She hesitated, but he could see she had something else to say. "Once upon a time there was talk about marriage between the two of us. It was our parents, but we knew what was going on."

"And once upon a time you would have been happy to go through with it."

She hesitated. "Yes. But now I'm older and wiser, and I've seen what a man can do to a woman who is helpless or doesn't have any recourse." He gaped at her. "You don't hear a lot about rape or wife beating in Society."

"No," he drawled thoughtfully, "generally we think of ourselves as civilized gentlemen."

The fire went out of her eyes and her voice was quiet. "Men don't see or don't want to see the women who are victims of your 'civilized gentlemen.' How many whores in the brothels or on the streets want to be there? How many maids and governesses have been sacked because their master or some such forced themselves on them?" It was at least part of the reason.

"Well when you put it that way, I can understand why you resist marriage."

"Why do you keep harping on Paolo's proposal? The mission will be completed. What's it to you?"

His eyes never strayed from the road. "It matters because I was planning to ask you the same question he did."

He risked a glance and saw her blinking in time with her mouth's opening and closing.

### Chapter 13

"I know, it's..."

She thrust out her hand to stop him.

"You..."

Her open palm nearly bounced off his shoulder as she turned away. When he stopped trying to talk to her, she wrapped her arms around herself and huddled on the far edge of the bench.

He wanted to marry her! The thought rolled around her mind, but it seemed as strange an idea as a Russian word or Chinese calligraphy. She hadn't thought of marriage with respect to herself in years. It seemed a closed subject, unattainable and therefore uncontemplated. But he resurrected that starry-eyed hope of every young girl.

For a moment, she hated him for that. It was dead and buried, and that process had been unutterably painful the first time. To have it happen again would rip her apart.

And it would rip her apart, she thought with brutal, if belated, honesty. Why? She'd briefly examined those fleeting thoughts just before the ambush. His safely was paramount to her. She would give up her life for him. Merciful heavens, she'd fallen in love with him!

The thought had her gripping the side of the bench as her head started to swim. She glanced over at Rafaelle to see if he'd noticed her lapse, but all his attention focused on the road.

He wanted to marry her! She risked another glance at his face. Black hair gathered to a queue at the back of his neck. His features reminded her of the rough-carved marble of Michelangelo's _Slaves_ she'd seen in the Grotto of Florence's Pitti Palace: just as harsh and just at powerful.

Yes, this time it would rip apart her very soul. She'd had what she suspected was a very small taste of his wrath. He had all he needed to completely destroy her.

So, why did the idea of marriage spark such hope in her? Could the risk really be worth the prize?

Silence reigned at lunch. Even Francesca must have felt the tension. She opened her mouth to say something, and Chiara saw her slowly close it without so much as a peep.

When they finished, Rafaelle helped Francesca into the carriage with a bow and a flourish. She simpered and settled herself on the banquette. Chiara moved to join her, without the assistance.

"Funny," Rafaelle murmured in her ear, "I never took you for a coward." Her head whipped around, and she glared at him. His expression made boiled rice look spicy. "We do have things to discuss that have nothing to do with my question."

She grimaced and moved to the front of the carriage. He offered his hand to assist her. She looked at it and wanted desperately to refuse. But that would be churlish. She laid her hand in his, and those long fingers closed around it. His touch reverberated down to her toes, and it felt so safe. She concentrated on arranging her skirts. He came around, climbed up, and signaled the horses. After a few minutes, he spoke, his voice quiet. "I won't press you. I know it's not in your long-term plans. I would, however, like you to consider it. I think we could make each other very happy." A great shiver when through her, despite the heat of the day. He saw it and drew a deep breath.

"Our first order of business in Savona," she relaxed as he continued, "will be to send Francesca on her way. What's her family like?" Chiara turned, her brow furrowed in confusion. "How many people do we have to work with?"

"I don't know." She turned to Francesca and asked. After a long, involved answer, Chiara turned back. "Catarina and Luciano have two sons and a daughter and a large number of in-laws and cousins."

"Good. We can use them. One will take Francesca off as soon as we get there. Have him go through Genoa on the off-chance someone could recognize her or the carriage.

"How many of the family actually work at the Palace?"

The list was extensive.

"Perhaps a better question would have been how many of the staff aren't family members."

Chiara snickered, and his gaze settled on her. "It's good to hear you laugh, even it it's only a small one. The past few days haven't given you much cause. I," he stressed the word, "don't want to cause you any unhappiness."

She nodded and the conversation lagged.

They drove the border of the Po Valley and the Maritime Alps. Another hill town perched along the side of the mountains. Chiara's lost count of the picturesque villages clinging desperately to the mountain side, their single road snaking around the curves below their eyries. Even with her wide-brimmed hat, the heat on the plain was brutal. "I'm not used to this any more," she muttered.

Rafaelle looked over. "Ah! The mistress of understatement! At least we should get some sea breezes in Savona. I'm almost tempted to make the climb," he nodded toward the village, "to get some of their cool breezes and maybe some of the view."

"I'm sure they concur with your appreciation of their summer climate. However, I don't think they built their village there to provide a summer retreat." Perhaps it was the irony in her voice that had him glancing over. "Defense."

"Absolutely. It's better than a fortress, and God built their walls. I'm only glad that we don't have to go to those extremes. I can't imagine Oakleaf Abbey with walls and fortifications."

"Your estate? Where is it?"

"Near Bristol. It was 200 years old when Henry the Eighth confiscated it and gave it to one of his bastards out of a daughter of one of the local gentry. My father always glossed over that part of the family history and emphasized that the family was old Norman stock.

She snorted. "I doubt there's a titled family in England that doesn't have a few antecedents from the wrong side of the blanket. If it was a royal blanket, well then, all the better."

He tilted his head and looked over at her. "Do you?"

"Of course, both sides. My father's is from Charles II. My mother's mother got pregnant by a stable hand. My great-grandfather was furious, but grandmother finally ran off with her beau. Great-grandmother convinced her husband to make grandfather manager of a small estate near my father's family property. Grandfather did so well that great-grandfather gave the estate to him. To the day she died, grandmother had a wistful light in her eye when she talked of her husband."

"I'm envious. My family...well, you know what my family is like, and they simply kept up the FitzHenry tradition."

"Yes," she said, slowly, "but it doesn't have to always be that way, you know."

"Going to help me change the FitzHenry family legacy of hellish marriages?"

"I'm still thinking about it."

"Well, that's not a 'no.'" He looked over at her silence and left her to her thoughts.

The mountains on the left stopped rather abruptly, and they descended onto a finger of the wide Po Valley plain. A few miles outside of Alessandria, they came on a ruined village. Craters pocked the road and the fields around it. No building had all four walls intact. Few people and fewer animals wandered through the streets. Several of the houses bore scorch marks. The steeple of the church looked like a giant had bitten off the top. Rafaelle looked out over the area. "This place looks like it once served as the gateway to hell. It...it was a battlefield and not too long ago at that."

Chiara rifled through her memories of recent Italian battles. "This must be Marengo. I imagine it did look like the mouth of hell. It certainly doesn't look too much better now."

He grunted, and they passed through the ruined land. Chiara thought about what war would do to her little piece of England. She suspected Rafaelle's ran along the same lines.

At Alessandria, they stopped for the night. Francesca, deprived of someone to talk to all day, made up for lost time. Rafaelle knew some measure of gratitude at his own relative lack of the language. He could just sit there and smile and eat. Poor Chiara actually had to pay attention to the endless tide of words.

In the morning, they took the south gate road towards Genoa. Several times they pulled off the road to let groups of soldiers pass. Only once did they garner even a curious look.

Late afternoon, they approached the west side of Savona. With the rocky coast on their left, Francesca guided them to the home of her relatives with only one request for directions from the populace. The sun still shone when Francesca pointed out her brother's house. Like most Italian houses, its front was unprepossessing. Chiara's stomach told her it was near dinner time. Francesca lumbered out of the carriage and stretched.

"We can't dawdle," Rafaelle snapped, waving toward the door. "We need to get inside and get her on her way as soon as possible."

Chiara nodded and urged the cook forward, despite grumbling. A young woman answered the summons. Chiara guessed it was a servant since the Pope's staff, and relatives, were definitely not peasants. Francesca stepped forward and identified herself. When the maid didn't immediately invite them in, Francesca walked forward, brushing past the young woman and squashing her on the door.

Chiara smiled as she followed, but told the maid, _"Have the carriage taken around back immediately."_ Waiting a moment to see her instructions carried out, Chiara and Rafaelle trailed into the parlor.

Two people were there. Obviously, the man who engulfed Francesca in a bear hug had to be her brother. Taller than Francesca, he was a slightly less round, male copy of her. Chiara gave him and his wife a moment to gush, then broke in, _"Francesca, you need to do your part and then leave."_ The man scowled. _"I'm sorry; this is not a social visit. Francesca, please."_

The man gestured everyone to chairs, but Rafaelle remained on his feet. He went to each of the doors and opened, then closed, them, and came back to stand near Chiara. The man's scowl grew blacker.

Francesca settled herself on the chair, back straight and chin in the air. "Catarina, Luciano Dallapiccola, you may remember me talking of Lady Chiara Brownlee. I'd like to present her to you."

Recognition dawned on Luciano, and he jumped to his feet, bowing. He jerked his chin towards his wife, and she scrambled up to curtsy. Francesca continued, _"Lord Rafaelle Fitz..."_ she glanced at Chiara who murmured "Henry." _"Yes, FitzHenry. They are here to rescue Cousin Barnabà."_

Both Dallapiccolas started talking at once. Chiara cut them off. "If you accept the introduction from Francesca, and will allow us to talk to you about it, I would like Francesca to leave immediately. It will be safer for everyone."

Francesca squawked, but Chiara again cut in, _"We discussed this. The longer you stay the more problems it can cause. Please don't argue."_ She looked directly at her old friend who reluctantly nodded. Chiara looked at Luciano and Catarina. He gave one jerk of his head. _"Good. Can you get a trustworthy member of the family to take her back to Cesena?"_

Luciano strode to one of the doors, _"Taddeo, come here."_ A mumbled voice answered. _"Now!"_ He came back, looked at Rafaelle and Chiara, and swallowed visibly. The young man entered. Luciano instructed him to hitch a fresh horse to the carriage. Rafaelle took out a handful of coins and said, _"I want them to go back by way of Genoa,"_ Chiara translated, _"go down the west coast, and cross over."_ Luciano looked confused. _"Different route than we came, less chance to be recognized."_

Luciano nodded then turned to Francesca. _"Is this the truth? Are they going to rescue Barnabà?"_

She nodded then sat down with him and her sister-in-law to talk quietly.

Taddeo returned. Luciano's instructions included remaining with his cousins for awhile. Rafaelle gave the young man his traveling money. They all walked out to the interior courtyard. With lots of hugs and kisses, Francesca got into the carriage and headed back to Cesena.

Back in the parlor, Catarina called for refreshments before Chiara gave the Dallapiccolas the same explanation she gave the Chiaramontes while Rafaelle wandered, almost aimlessly, around the room. Keeping her voice low, she explained the plan including the idea to leave the family tied up on the actual day of the rescue and concluded, _"I want you to think about the risks and problems here and tell us if you can go through with it. If you can't, we will understand, asking only your silence and directions to a loyal priest."_

Catarina's face radiated joy and hope. " _Deo gracia."_

Chiara relaxed. They passed the first hurdle.

" _Signora, we should contact a priest, though,"_ Catarina mused. _"He can contact people for the demonstration."_

" _But not Fr. Antonini,"_ Luciano interrupted. _"He's supposed to be the Pope's confessor, but he's a French supporter. Fr. Mezi or Fr. Marini or both."_

" _We'll firm up the details and leave that to you,"_ Rafaelle said. _"You are sure of their loyalty? He stopped his meanderings near Chiara._

Catarina nodded, _"Oh yes, they..."_

The door opened to admit a sultry beauty carrying a tray with glasses, a wine carafe and a plate of biscotti. _"Ah, mama, you do have guests."_ She was definitely not a servant. Her eyes skimmed over Chiara and rested on Rafaelle. Her hips swayed as she approached the chairs. She put her tray down. Stopping opposite Rafaelle, she adjusted the neckline of her blouse a little lower over voluptuous breasts as she cocked her head. _"Introduce me."_

Rafaelle leaned toward Chiara and growled softly in French, _"We don't have time for this."_

Female challenge radiated from the young woman. She wanted Rafaelle. Chiara could see that clear as day. He was new, handsome, exuded...well all the usual reasons a woman would want a man. Chiara knew she had to decide quickly: squish the woman's ambitions or ignore them. A desperate desire to claim and defend washed over her.

" _I am Chiara,"_ she nodded to Rafaelle, _"and this is my...escort, Rafaelle. I'm an old friend of your family. We may be here for a few days. Who are you?"_ Confrontation would only cause complications she didn't need, especially if the girl was who Chiara thought she was.

" _Basta,_ " Luciano hissed. Enough. _"This is my daughter, Bruna. She sometimes mistakes her duties as host."_

Chiara nodded to Bruna, deliberately not looking around for Rafaelle's reaction. _"If it pleases, you, I think this should be kept strictly between us...until the bargain is struck, don't you?"_ She looked to Luciano for understanding and agreement.

" _Indeed. You may get to know Chiara and Rafaelle later."_

Bruna left in a huff. Rafaelle's stare prompted Luciano to check the door.

" _I'm sorry,"_ Rafaelle began in French, _"the less people who know exactly what we are here for, the safer it is for you. A chance comment, an incautious word on someone's part..."_ he shrugged and Luciano nodded _. "Francesca introduced us formally, but we are Chiara and Rafaelle, simply friends of the family. We must be as normal as possible. In fact, we want you to get us positions inside the Papal household."_

Catarina smirked as she poured the wine, _"Chiara will make an excellent housemaid, but you,"_ she looked at Rafaelle, _"I don't know. You will be difficult."_

" _Why?"_

" _You don't speak Italian."_ She passed the wine and cookies.

" _I could be a mute."_

" _And you stand with power."_

Rafaelle blinked at the bald statement, but Chiara snickered. "You do." Rafaelle slumped in on himself as a humble peasant might stand, but Chiara said, "How long can you keep that up?"

He straightened, "Just about that long." Sitting next to Chiara, he balanced the wine glass on his knee.

Luciano said, " _He can work in the gardens with me. Va bene?"_

Chiara's eyes twinkled at Rafaelle, _"You're about to start a new career as a gardener. Good luck."_

They discussed plans: excuses for replaced workers, riots to divert French troops, a second exit from the palace that Luciano doubted the French knew about, and even disguises for the Pope.

Rafaelle leaned forward. _"We'll need lookouts east and west of the city to watch for the ship. They'll need lanterns and horses. I'll give them a signal code."_

" _Is there any possibility,"_ Chiara asked, _"of weapons?"_

Luciano pursed his lips. _"Explosives would be useful, but Radet has confiscated all the guns and gunpowder he could find. They're in the armory under heavy guard. We can still find some for you, though."_ His smile promised a goodly number.

Chiara blanched. _"Radet is here?"_

Catarina passed the cookie plate again. _"Yes, you know he was the general who arrested Cousin Barnabà and forced that dear old man on a hideous, round-about journey here."_ She concentrated on her hostess duties and not Chiara, but Rafaelle looked at his cohort curiously. _"Napoleon has him here now as chief jailor. He virtually commands the city. Even the commander at Genoa is afraid of him."_

" _He's ruthless,"_ Luciano added _. "Only last week he hung a man who carried a letter from His Holiness to a bishop. Cousin Barnabà is forbidden to write letters."_

" _They've closed up the balcony he used to bless the people in the piazza. He can no longer hold audiences. I try to make sure he has enough food to carry him through my day off, but sometimes I think they take even that from him."_

" _Radet is a pig!"_ Luciano hawked to emphasize his point with a mouthful of spit and remembered where he was. He swallowed.

Rafaelle hid a smile behind a cough. _"Yes, well all the more reason to keep our plans as closely held as possible. When you contact your supporters, don't tell them what the point of the operation is. No one should know any more than they absolutely have to. Understood?"_ Luciano and Catarina nodded. _"If we may, I think Chiara and I would like something to eat, and then we should head off for bed. I suspect we will need our strength for our new jobs tomorrow."_

After dinner, Rafaelle escorted Chiara to her room. "A word with you, please," he murmured in her ear. After checking the hallway, he slipped into her room with her. "Radet."

"Yes, I know him." She paced the small, sparsely-furnished, room while he stood near the door with his arms folded. "I met him when he was attached to the French Ambassador's party in London during one of the lulls in hostilities. Luciano insulted good honest swine when he called Radet a pig." Rafaelle snorted but said nothing.

She'd had time during dinner to think about this new problem and how to finesse the explanation. "He might be able to recognize me, except for three things. One, he's not expecting to see me here; two, I look different; and three, nobody looks at servants. It shouldn't be a problem."

Rafaelle stuck out his lower lip. "All right. Maybe someday, though, you'll trust me enough to tell me why his name made your face go pale. In the meantime..." he walked over and tilted her chin up with one finger. Bending over, his mouth touched hers, gently, with a hint of question.

Switching the gears of her mind caught Chiara off guard. Just the thought of Radet had polluted her mind. Rafaelle's touch banished that ugliness, somehow cleansing her, reassuring her that it could be good to be in a man's arms. For a moment, she looked at him then slowly closed her eyes. The finger on her chin caressed her cheek and threaded itself through her hair, while his other hand slipped around her waist to draw her close. Her hands flowed under his jacket to explore the muscles of his back.

"Yes," he murmured as he nibbled small kisses down her throat. "Yes."

The heat washing through her felt so good, so wondrous, so exciting. His mouth at the base of her throat sent delightful shivers through her. "Yes," she breathed.

His lips moved back to hers. Gently, he parted her lips so his tongue could taste inside her mouth. The intimate caress so thrilled her she dared to return it. He tasted of wine and...Rafaelle. When he pulled back a fraction of an inch, she felt lost until she looked up at his gleaming eyes.

"I think I've created my own private tyrant, but I'm not going to be fighting this one," he whispered against her lips. "I'm entranced by her." His mouth teased hers.

Her arms slipped around his neck. "Oh, yes!"

That was all it took. He anchored her to him and reclaimed her mouth with a fevered heat she never dreamed existed. And she returned it with the fire she thought could never burn in her.

A quick rap and the door opened. "Uh, wha'?" Chiara's thoughts tumbled in confusion, but Rafaelle simply held her close. The only sign of his displeasure was the tightening muscles in his throat.

" _Oh, my,"_ Bruna giggled. _"I thought this was Chiara's room, but since you're here..."_

" _This is Chiara's room,"_ Rafaelle growled. _"What do you want?"_ He turned in place, shielding her with his body.

Bruna shrugged prettily, tilted her head and looked at him through her eyelashes. " _Well,"_ she drawled, obviously understanding his French, _"I would love to welcome you to our romantic city. We adore showing visitors our charms."_

Rafaelle crossed his arms across his chest. " _Mistress, while we,"_ he stressed the word, _"appreciate your generous offer, it is far more than either of us need. Thank you and good evening."_ He gestured towards the door and used his body to move her along.

" _Well, if you change your mind..._ " she sashayed out the door.

"That's trouble," he declared.

"Absolutely!"

He snickered.

"Make sure she's left and then you go. I have to do my hair."

"I'd be delighted to assist. I believe I've already offered." The devilment in his eyes negated the pout on his mouth

"Out, out," she giggled as she shoved him towards the door. She guessed that even Bruna could hear his shout of laughter.

### Chapter 14

Bruna strode down the hall, hands on her hips. These strangers smelled worse than four day-old fish. They'd spoken French to each other in the parlor, but it wasn't French they spoke in the bed chamber. She'd listened at the door of the room. Bruna knew French, having used it frequently with Napoleon's soldiers. Who were they?

Next to a handsome man with a big cazzone and a purse full of coins, Bruna loved a puzzle. Mother Mary knows, she thought, he's good-looking enough, if you like the rough-chiseled look. Bruna liked all men, but the dangerous-looking ones gave her a special thrill. Plus, something about the way he walked, talked—she shrugged—or scratched his crotch, screamed MONEY. The combination might be amusing, pleasurable, and profitable.

She felt so good, she didn't even sneer at the fresh-faced stable hand who imagined he was going to get more than one inept poke at her.

"I swear," Chiara muttered, "every maid in my household will get a raise." It wasn't even time for lunch yet, and she was exhausted. She'd dusted three chambers (Who knew dusting was such a meticulous job?) and scrubbed two floors (On her hands and knees, no less; even broad-minded Lindsey would be horrified!).

Catarina said she'd be delivering His Holiness's lunch to his private apartment. Chiara would have an opportunity to talk to him then. It should be about that time.

"Chiara, leave that," Catarina snapped from the doorway. She took her role as chatelaine a little too seriously, Chiara thought. "I want you to help serve His Holiness. I can't spare anyone else. Smarten up and come to the kitchen. Quickly, now."

Chiara took the tray into the small private room. Her heart went out to the old man who, though he captained one of the largest religious organizations in the world, had only one simple maid servant to serve him a frugal meal, all by himself.

He sat at a bare table, simple implements and a rather thread-bare napkin. His hands folded in prayer as he waited, Barnabà "Gregorio" Chiaramonte looked greyer, thinner, and just older than would be expected since she saw him last. Fate had not been kind to this gentle man, she thought.

However, when he lifted his head, she recognized the spark of determination. It extinguished quickly, and his face took on an expression of bland politeness. "Signorina," he rose with the exquisite courtesy she remembered, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you."

She set the tray on the table and curtseyed. "Yes, you have, Padre Barnabà. You may remember a young girl," she lowered her voice, "with long, blonde hair and a hard-nosed English father." She waited a moment for the memory to surface and then flew into his open arms.

"Chiara, Chiara," he kissed her forehead and grasped her face to look into her eyes. "My little yellow bird." He caressed her face. "I grieve still for your father. We were an unlikely pair of friends, the Catholic priest and the Anglican diplomat. But friends we were."

"He valued it all the more because of your differences."

Pius VII nodded slowly. "So why are you here? That's not to say that I'm not delighted to see you."

"My companion and I have been sent by the British government to get you out of here."

"Ah, I appreciate the thought, but that's a risk I'm not willing to let you shoulder."

"You're a little late with that. This is what I do. I'm a British agent. Plans are already in process."

He took a step back and studied her. "Do I have a say in this?"

She laughed. "Of course, but do you really want to stay here?"

Face scrunched, he said, "No, I must confess I don't."

"Well..."

"You get more than your hair color from you father, young lady."

"I'll treasure that compliment. But right now you need to eat your lunch, or Signora Catarina will have my head. Yes, she knows."

He sat down and picked up his fork.

"We'll talk later. Rafaelle, my companion, will meet us on your walk this afternoon. Buon appetito."

After lunch, Catarina kept Chiara busy in obscure parts of the palace because French officials usually called on the Pope in the afternoon. Rounding a corner, Chiara caught a glimpse of the back of several elegant jackets and one familiar back in a red uniform.

She whirled back around the corner. Radet was here! Hand clenched to her roiling stomach, she propped against the wall to keep from falling. Every fiber in her body said, "Run!" No, no, think. Think, that's what she'd been trained to do. If she panicked, she might as well walk up to Radet and introduce herself.

She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Her disguise was good; all she had to do was maintain it. She leaned her head on the wall and closed her eyes for a moment. Merciful God, I just want to go home.

The memory of a beaten-down, but still resistant, old man in his threadbare white cassock supplanted that wish. She'd see this through, Radet be damned.

The French left, and Chiara breathed easier. She "accidentally" met the pope and offered her arm to escort him on his daily walk. _"Entertained guests today, did you?"_ They strolled down the long, winding staircase to the entry area. A big, wide undercroft, it was designed to allow the carriages of visitors to enter and turn around. Furniture heaped higgledy-piggledy next to the staircase made a pile as tall as a man and three arms' breadth wide. A massive gate led to the street and a smaller one to the garden. Three open doors to service areas flanked the staircase.

" _Today and everyday. 'Sign this, sign that. Now, now.' They are really quite predictable."_

" _What do they want you to sign?"_ They walked toward the garden.

" _Ah, Signor Napoleon is very annoyed with me. I refuse to agree to his Concordat. It would allow him to appoint bishops and abbots, instead of the Holy See. He thinks to control the souls of his empire's people as well as their bodies. I'm afraid that my slight frame stands in his way._

" _The roses are lovely here. Luciano, my head gardener, takes special care of them."_ He pointed to the blossoms near the door and nodded at the French guard.

After a few steps, Chiara snorted softly, _"It's not your body in the way, you stubborn old dear."_

He laughed and patted her hand as they entered the graveled paths of the Episcopal Palace's gardens.

" _This plan of yours, it is very dangerous, no?"_

" _Yes, but we think it is worth the risk. You are too important to sit and molder in this gilt cage."_

" _When you are 'important,' my child, any place is a cage."_

She looked at him with a small smile. _"Still damning the College of Cardinals that elected you?"_

" _Not exactly damning them,"_ he pursed his lips, _"but I would impose a very severe penance on each of them if they came to me for confession."_ She laughed and he continued, _"But as to this scheme of yours..."_

" _Eventually Napoleon's agents will threaten or browbeat or cajole you into signing. They have all the time in the world. The body and mind can only withstand so much. It will happen. Do you want that?"_

He stopped to admire a bed of roses. She let him think. Knowing him, it wasn't his personal safety he considered, but all the risks and benefits for others, including the Papacy he embodied.

" _As you say. Now, this companion you mentioned, he is trustworthy?"_

" _Absolutely,"_ she felt a grin grow at the memories of other times that word had been used. _"He's a former naval captain. I know he served with distinction at Trafalgar, and he's proven himself brave and resourceful. He's a good man. He's also experienced at...this kind of work, as am I."_

Pius VII smiled sadly, _"I'm sorry to hear that, my child."_

She knew exactly what he referred to. _"So am I, Padre Barnabà, but we deal with life as it is presented to us."_ She checked the direction of the sun and turned the next corner _. "Rafaelle will meet us on the west side."_

He cocked his head in a bird-like motion. "T _his, Rafaelle, he is...special to you?"_

She bit her lip before answering. _"Am I that obvious?"_

" _Only to one who knows you, my child."_

" _He's asked me to marry him, and I want to do so desperately."_

" _But..."_

" _But there are things I haven't told him about myself that I don't think he could accept."_

" _There is a patent solution to this problem, is there not?"_

" _Of course, but there's a reason it's not common knowledge."_

" _If he loves you, he will accept that, even if he cannot bring himself to like it."_

" _I know."_

Rafaelle looked down at his hands and his clothes. "Not exactly suitable to be entertaining a lady, are you old man," he muttered to himself, then looked around for nearby ears. Seeing none, he blew out a relieved breath. An honest, well somewhat honest, day's work shouldn't have made him careless. Thoughts of seeing Chiara, which had been wandering through his brain all day, shouldn't either, but they had. Several times. He's been lucky that his day-dreaming and patently foolish expressions each occurred when he was forking over the manure pile or on his hands and knees weeding.

Just the thought of his work day made him shrug his shoulder to stretch out some hither-to under-used muscles. What he wouldn't give for a hot bath and a large brandy!

Since it was late afternoon, the Pope would be taking his usual stroll, accompanied by the new maid who wished to make her confession.

Chiara rounded a corner of the hedge holding the arm of a frail old man in a white cassock. At first glance, Pope Pius VII didn't look strong enough to stand up to a squalling child, let alone the most ruthless tyrant the world had even known. Goes to show you, he thought; looks can be deceiving. He pushed his shovel into the dirt.

" _There he is."_

Rafaelle turned over the soil in a bed of flowers in a secluded corner of the garden. He had thrown his jacket and waistcoat over a nearby bush. As they drew closer, she could see the shine of sweat on his face. _"I believe this is a new experience for him."_ At Padre Barnabà's quizzical expression, she said, _"Working."_

" _No, not working, just a new kind of work,"_ Pius VII observed.

Hearing their voices, Rafaelle stopped and rammed his shovel into a pile of dirt. He wiped a shirtsleeve over his face and stepped up to meet them. _"Your Holiness, I'm honored. I am Rafael FitzHenry._ " He stopped, indecision as to how to proceed written on his face.

" _Chiara calls me Padre Barnabà, as I hope you will. Others have less polite names for me."_ His eyes twinkled as he offered his hand to shake. After a second's hesitation, Rafaelle accepted with a grin tugging at his mouth. _"He has good hands, your friend,"_ Padre Barnabà said to Chiara.

" _Can we talk?"_ Chiara asked.

" _Yes, Luciano kindly assigned me here by myself."_

" _What are these plans of Chiara has spoken of?"_ Padre Barnabà's voice held gentle command.

" _As soon as our ship is sighted, we will instigate a demonstration nearby, disguise you, and slip out by way of a secret entrance that Luciano knows. We'll make our way to the coast for pick up. Your relatives will be found later, bound and gagged, in their house and prepared with a story of our perfidy."_

The pope strolled over to examine the greenish-white flowers of a mignonette. _"They are agreed?"_

" _Yes."_

" _When will the ship arrive?"_

" _If all goes as planned, two days from today."_

" _Do you have confidence in her captain?"_

" _Absolutely. I do, and have, trusted him with my life and honor."_

Padre Barnabà looked up at him. _"Well said. And you, Chiara?"_

She nodded, _"I helped draw the plan up. I have every hope and confidence it will work."_

He picked a bellflower and carefully threaded its stem into Chiara's hair. _"Well, I could say that I've accepted my incarceration here as penance for my sins, but why add the sin of lying to all my others? What do you wish me to do?"_

" _Prepare and hide a small bundle of absolute necessities. Do you have common clothes?"_ When the pope shook his head, Rafaelle continued, _"We'll smuggle some in tomorrow. In the evening, wear them under your cassock. We may have to move quickly."_

Raising his hand in blessing, Padre Barnabà said, eyes twinkling, _"Bow your heads my children, like good Catholics. God be with you and hold you in the palm of his hand. I must continue my walk."_ He continued on his way alone.

They decided to stroll around the streets of Savona on their way home. Rafaelle wanted to explore the layout of the town. The Episcopal Palace and Cathedral were about four streets from the harbor, so they headed off in that direction.

They stopped in at the Cathedral. "We can take a few minutes to play tourist," Rafaelle commented. "If we can, I'd like to get into Sixtus IV's Sistine Chapel that Catarina mentioned at dinner last night."

"Lord FitzHenry might have easy access, but a couple of peasants aren't too likely to get in."

"Umph." He took hold of her hand as they walked up toward the white marble of the columns arcing around the main altar.

Somehow her hand in his felt right. "Let's find a shrine or something to say a prayer at," she whispered. "Tourists in peasant clothes aren't the usual sight." They found a black slate bas-relief of Mary's Assumption and stopped for a quick prayer.

"What did you pray for?" he asked as they walked away. When she didn't answer, he said, "I prayed that I sail home from Italy in a few days with a pope and a fiancée in tow."

She smiled because she'd prayed for the same thing.

They continued on toward the harbor.

"He's not exactly what I expected," Rafaelle said thoughtfully.

"And he was on his best behavior for a stranger."

He looked sideways at her, wondering. "Definitely not what I expected, but I guess he must be doing a great job if the Little Corporal is making his life difficult."

"Indeed, the Emperor considers him a threat on a par with Wellington. The power of faith can put the might of armies to shame. Napoleon knows that and he wants to control that power. It's all that will save him if his armies fail."

The short, square tower known as the Torretta lorded over the harbor area. Rafaelle stared up at it with some consideration in his eyes. "A lookout tower. I wonder if it's still in use. We'll have to talk to Luciano about preventing messages from leaving here if the soldiers sight the _Swiftsure_."

"More likely they have lookouts on the Priamar fortress there on that finger of land sticking out from the harbor."

"That ruin? I suppose so, although I suspect they may lose a fair number of men in the rubble.

"I want to get a look at the strand area there to the north of the town, see how long it will take us to get there."

From the harbor, they walked around to the rocky finger of land crowned by the ruins of the Priamar. Rafaelle casually surveyed the area. A couple of French soldiers lounged near the base of the rickety bridge across the shallow ditch. The other end of the bridge led into the cold, grey stone of the fortress. This side of the battlement was rounded, the other side was angular. The men glanced around but otherwise paid more attention to the young woman flirting with them.

Chiara and Rafaelle continued across the ditch to the base of the wall and around to the west side. They sat down, trying to look like a young couple seeking a few minutes of privacy.

Rafaelle shaded his eyes against the setting sun. "It looks like there is a road running near the beach. It goes around the point there instead of over it. Good, good. What did Luciano call it, the Capo di Vado?"

She found a grassy spot and sat down. It felt good to just relax for a moment. Her feet hurt, her back hurt, her hands hurt, and she rather thought her hair hurt. Even so, she studied the land and sea before them. "How far from the town are they going to come in, do you think?"

"If I were Harley, I'd aim for a point just beyond the Capo there. It'll make it more of a trip for us, about four miles, I'd say, but safer for the landing party." He sat down next to her and draped an arm over her shoulders. "I don't think it'll be a problem for us. Horses or a carriage would help immensely, though. We'll see what Luciano can dig up."

Chiara bent her head and leaned her cheek on his shoulder, even as she examined the coast curving out to the point. The hand over her shoulder played with the edge of her blouse. The other brought her hand to his lips. Her thoughts danced like water thrown into a hot pan. "Maybe...maybe he could arrange for us to, uh..." What was she going to say? "...Uh, be able to 'steal' them."

"Umm." Gently, he pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair.

"We should..."

"Hush, you talk too much." His hand turned her face towards him. "I have better uses for your mouth."

Rational thought blew away on the light breeze as his mouth descended on hers. The kiss started light as that breeze.

Chiara felt sure he would understand her, accept all that she was, had been, and would be. No one, she thought, could kiss with such tenderness, such consideration, such understanding unless it came from the well-spring of their being. He must love her.

Closing her eyes, she turned towards him, and his arms closed around her. He deepened the kiss, and his mouth gently pried hers open. It surprised and excited her, fueling the small flicker of desire within her instead of satisfying it. His tongue invaded her mouth, stroking and tasting.

Surprised, her eyes popped open, and she pulled back a fraction of an inch.

He watched her. "All right?"

She blinked. Was she all right? Merciful heavens, she was wonderful. Instead of responding, she parted her lips and kissed him.

His arms tightened, crushing her to him. She should have objected, but she only wanted to be even closer to him. Clothes and shoes and sunshine and people kept them apart.

A wolf-whistle from the top of the ramparts confirmed the last. Reluctantly, he drew back. "I'm afraid this isn't the time or place. Let's go." He jumped to his feet and offered her his hand. The assist up grew to a hug. He looked over his shoulder. A head leaned over the fortress wall. Rafaelle waved as they walked off.

Some time later, they knocked at the Dallapiccola's door, and the same little maid answered.

Dinner was almost ready, and Chiara headed toward the kitchen to help. Returning with a plate of pasta, she found Bruna draped over Rafaelle, rubbing her considerable curves over him.

"...and I can show you a very good time."

Rafaelle made no move to extricate himself. For a moment, Chiara stood there, stunned. He looked down at Bruna, one eyebrow lifted.

Catarina clattered through the door, platters in each hand. "Bruna, come help!"

Chiara roused from her paralysis and continued on to the table. Bruna slowly broke away from Rafaelle, but trailed a finger down his chest. She sashayed over to the kitchen door, favoring Chiara with a challenging smile. Rafaelle watched her go, never moving or changing expression. Chiara wondered what he was thinking. Could he possibly court her so tenderly in the afternoon and encourage that slut in the evening? Numbly, she placed her tray on the table and returned to the kitchen for the next load.

When she returned with the last platter, the table groaned under numerous plates and elbows. She, Catarina, and the cook took their seats last. Rafaelle sat next to the head of the table, the place reserved for the immediate family and guests. Bruna tried to entice Rafaelle to sit next to her, but Luciano requested he and Chiara sit on either side of him and Catarina, as mistress of the house, next to Rafaelle. Bruna, one place down from Chiara, continued to regale Rafaelle with hungry glances. Cousins and other members of the household filled in the rest of the spaces.

"Where are Taddeo and Nico?" someone asked.

"Busy," Luciano growled. The questioner opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but the scowl on Luciano's face stopped him. Bruna, just now noticing the absence of two of her brothers, looked from her father to Rafaelle. Chiara watched her toy thoughtfully with a string of spaghetti.

Conversation proceeded to range from the weather to a sick cat to general grousing about the French troops. Chiara couldn't wait to leave.

Dinner finished, Catarina shooed Chiara away when she offered to help wash dishes. "It is bad enough that a guest in my house serves the meal. You will not clean up. While it is still light, go out and enjoy the garden. Go! Go!"

Obediently, she wandered out to the neat, walled plot behind the house. Flowers bloomed here and there, but mostly the immaculate beds held vegetables and herbs. Tomatoes, their fruit still mainly green, filled one bed. Summer squash splayed over hills of dirt, their green-striped zucchini playing hide and seek with the over-sized leaves. Chiara bent to pick a leaf from a potted plant. She crushed it and sniffed. Mint—no wonder it was potted. Mint tended to be a bit like Napoleon. It took over where it could. She dropped the leaf and continued walking toward a bench in the far corner.

Footsteps, masculine ones, sounded behind her. She ignored them and concentrated on a patch of basil.

### Chapter 15

The footsteps sounded familiar, but she didn't turn around. He stopped a few paces away.

"You can't really think I have any interest in her. I assure you I have more... fastidious taste in females than that."

Still studying the basil, Chiara remained silent and shook her head. After a moment, she burst out, "You let her paw you and practically fuck you right there!" A small snicker behind her had her whirling.

"I love a woman who says exactly what she thinks."

Chiara sliced her hand through the air.

"And yes, I did let her paw me. I did not solicit the attention, but short of throwing her against the nearest wall, there wasn't much I could do until someone came in. I was going to try to discourage her gently."

Chiara snorted.

"But firmly. As a member of the household, she could make the next few days unpleasant for us if I rejected her too harshly."

"You didn't exactly look in pain!"

Rafaelle pursed his lips and let his head drop to the side as he considered her. "A woman's hands on a man can have certain...effects on the body of a man that are not entirely voluntary. I was doing my damnedest to make sure no hint of that involuntary reaction reached her. In all humility, I believe my self-control was exemplary. There is only one woman's hands I want on me, and she is now standing right in front of me looking angry enough to spit rifle shot."

Chiara looked down and scuffed at the ground with her toe. "I suppose I know, knew, that she was the instigator. I'm sorry I doubted you."

A single finger touched her chin and lifted her face up. "But it still bothers you."

"Yes."

Examining her face, he said, "I'd say my intrepid warrior maid is pouting."

She stalked away to examine the pepper plants. "You didn't have to let her!"

"Do you doubt my commitment?"

Several seconds passed before she said, "No."

"And I just tumbled off the turnip wagon."

She knew he was still watching her.

"I want to have your godfather marry us tomorrow."

Wide eyed, she whirled back to face him. "Here? Now? Tomorrow?"

"Well, not here or now. I was thinking tomorrow in the Sistine Chapel at the Palace."

"But, but...the banns haven't been read."

"He's the Pope. He can do anything he wants to."

"I have nothing to wear."

"Ah, every woman's universal excuse. However, while I look forward to making that statement a reality in the privacy of our bedchamber, I must say that your peasant garb is quite fetching."

"He's Catholic."

"Yes, and he's not an Englishman. I'll overlook his shortcomings. We can have an Anglican ceremony when we get back if you wish. But I think I need to clarify my intentions in a most definitive manner. Besides, it will protect me from being raped by Bruna."

Chiara burst out laughing. "All right. Tomorrow afternoon. I'll speak to him in the morning. Try not to get too grubby during the morning."

"Let's go tell Catarina and Luciano. They can stand with us."

When Chiara trudged upstairs to prepare for bed, Catarina continued her hasty wedding preparations. Chiara argued for restraint, but the older woman would have none of it. Only the best possible at such short notice would be acceptable, including Catarina's elegantly embroidered bodice. Finally, Chiara gave up.

She ached. The walk loosened up some of the stiff muscles, but now they ached with a vengeance. The hard, little bed called her name, a siren song in homespun. Sleep beckoned, and she sank happily into its arms, a smile on her face despite the soreness.

Tomorrow would be her wedding day. It wasn't the wedding every English society girl envisioned, but it would be hers to cherish. It would be perfect. Rafaelle loved her and accepted her. Plus, he was good and gentle and kind. He was handsome, too.

Everything was perfect.

Rafaelle's shoulder ached a bit. He couldn't tell if it was from moving dirt all day long or from Luciano's congratulatory pounding. Either way, it felt good to be able to lie down and go to sleep.

Tomorrow he wouldn't be sleeping alone. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing the unseen man on the wall whistled at them. He didn't think Chiara would appreciate having her virginity taken in full view of Napoleon's soldiers. Besides, his plans would require much more time than they'd had at the Priamar.

He rolled on his back and put his arm under his head. The bed in the sparse little chamber did not even fit him, let alone two people. He hoped he could talk Catarina into slightly larger accommodations.

For his wife. He savored the word. She would be very different from the recent run of FitzHenry wives. She was virtuous, faithful, and honorable. Tomorrow she would be his.

The morning passed in a daydream for Chiara. Fortunately, Catarina assigned relatively light, mindless tasks to her.

Finally Catarina hustled her into a small chamber. Pointing to a motley assembly of brushes and powders and other fripperies, she ordered, "Make yourself ready."

In a daze, Chiara brushed her hair, strangely surprised at its color. She washed her face and straightened her clothes as best she could. Catarina's bodice fit with plenty of room to spare, but its needlework was unsurpassed.

Catarina bustled back in. Taking one look, she pinched Chiara's cheeks. "Holy heavens, child, you look like you're going to a funeral, not a wedding."

"I'm just...just a little overwhelmed, that's all."

"I'm not surprised," Catarina raised both eyebrows. "Getting swept off your feet will do that to you." She looked closely at the younger woman. "Are you happy?"

Chiara thought about Rafaelle. "Oh, yes. Just overwhelmed."

" _Va bene._ "

The foreigners finally got to see Sixtus IV's Sistine Chapel. Catarina led her to a small side chapel festooned with flowers. Luciano's doing at his wife's prompting, Chiara guessed. Along with Padre Barnabà and Luciano, Rafaelle stood at the altar. Once she saw him, nothing else mattered. They spoke the vows quickly, for the ceremony was simplicity, itself. She thought she would later remember a fog of their common language, French, because that's all she remembered, even immediately after they speaking the lines that bound them together. Only Rafaelle slipping a plain gold band on her left hand and his gentle, impassioned kiss seemed real.

Everyone signed the Marriage Certificate. Padre Barnabà carefully folded it and gave it to Chiara. She tucked into the pocket inside her skirt. He then shooed them off with a smile and a blessing. He didn't want to confuse his French guards with a major change in routine.

The four of them walked back up the narrow, steep streets to the house. The dining room overflowed with people and food. Every member of the household clapped and cheered the new couple, except one. Bruna sat sullenly, her back to the newlyweds.

To Rafaelle, the toasts, the food, and the bawdy jokes seemed to go on forever. Finally, he stood up. In broken Italian smattered with French, he thanked his hosts and their household and announced that the bridal couple was going to retire. The jokes went from bawdy to crude. Chiara looked pained, and he, for the first time in his life, felt embarrassment at the lewd banter. Quickly, he escorted her upstairs to his room.

Once inside, he turned to throw the wooden bolt. "If anybody comes through that door," he growled, "the house better be on fire." He turned, gathering Chiara into his arms, and simply put his lips on her hair. "I thought dinner would never end."

He glanced at the bed then averted his eyes and his thoughts. Not yet, but soon. He took a moment to give thanks that Catarina replaced the bed with a larger one, as promised. Chiara looked at it a little apprehensively.

"Don't worry." He tilted her chin up with a finger as much to look in her eyes as to prevent her from focusing on his aroused body just yet. "The first time everybody's nervous. We'll go slowly."

Her shy smile entranced him. "I trust you. I love you."

He caressed her cheek. "And I you." Kissing her softly, he intended to move slowly and gently, her mouth opened beneath his. His tightly reined desire burst its traces. His embrace tightened, his hardened body nestled in her belly. His tongue teased her lips, seeking entry but her mouth remained closed. Looking up, he thought he saw a faint wisp of panic in her eyes.

He left off her mouth, trying another tack. Running his hands down her arms and to her stomach, he found the front lacing of the borrowed bodice. Slow down, he told himself, slow down. Spook her tonight and she'll be saddle-shy forever. He slipped the ribbon bow and began loosening the cross-lacings. His fingers felt as big as sausages and as unwieldy as the largest ship of the line. He looked up at her. Owl-eyed, she nevertheless found a small smile for him. Slack ties allowed the bodice to slip down over her slim hips. Undoing the buttons on the waistband of the skirt allowed it to follow the bodice to the floor.

She drew a breath. Time to slow down, he thought with a few nibbling kisses, but her peasant-style blouse quickly followed the skirt.

She reached over to deal with her sleeve knife, but he forestalled her. "Uh, uh. This is my prerogative tonight." She swallowed but dropped her hands to her sides. He smiled and kissed her nose. "You can have your turn next time, I promise." He unbuckled the knife sheath, tossed it up, and caught it thoughtfully. Then he stepped over and placed it on the floor near the head of the bed. Stepping back, he looked at the pouch hanging from a slim belt around her waist. "Handy things, pockets," and unfastened it.

All that was left was her chemise.

Feeling a little like a child wanting to keep his mysterious present and yet open it immediately, he ran a finger over her collar bone. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, deep and a little unsteady.

If truth be told, he felt a little unsteady. This woman, seemingly perfectly tailored for him, was his. He intended to go slowly, but desire rode him hard, and he didn't know if he would wind up being as gentle as he intended.

With one hand, he untied the bow of her chemise's neckline. As he started to push it off her shoulders, her hands came up to guard her breasts. "Chiara, your body is mine to cherish and worship. This will give us both pleasure. Trust me.'

She searched his face and dropped her hands. The chemise quickly followed. Perfection, he thought.

As he drew her into his arms, she ran her hands over his chest. "I seem to have you at a disadvantage, good sir." A cheeky grin played on her lips.

His hands ran down her back to her buttocks, and he lifted her against him. "Soon remedied." Carrying her the few feet to the bed, he stood her next to it as he bent to pull away the covers. Switching his hold, he picked her up once more and laid her in the bed. While he admired his handiwork, he stripped as fast as possible. Waistcoat, shirt, neckerchief, pants, no, shoes first if he didn't want to be hopping around the room with his pants around his ankles. Things flew helter-skelter, so long as they were off.

Finally, he stood before her, naked. Her gaze held a touch of fear—that's natural, he thought—but she obviously liked what she saw. He felt he could scale impossible mountains and conquer kingdoms. Still, almost hesitantly, he stepped to the bed.

He slid between the sheets, his leg brushing her silky thigh. Her fingertips brushed the still-angry stripe from Thibaut across his chest. He reined in his mind, even if he couldn't do anything about certain parts of his body. He rained light, little kisses on her face; butterfly kisses a nanny once called them. Her mouth was soft, pliant, but there was a hint of wariness around her open eyes. That had to change. His wife wasn't going to be the first woman who didn't receive pleasure from him. He ducked his head to taste the hard berry already crowning her breast. His tongue explored the delicious meal as her fingers laced through his hair. She drew an audible breath. Good. The other berry was just as sweet.

"Rafaelle!"

Responding to her plea, he kissed his way up her throat to her mouth. Before he returned there, he saw her eyes close in surrender to the pleasure. Excellent. This time he demanded that her lips separate. His tongue invaded her mouth, luxuriating in the soft skin inside her. He tasted her uniqueness and a hint of the spiced apple they'd shared for dessert. His hand drifted down over her belly to the tops of her thighs. Her legs locked firmly together. He smiled to himself. That wouldn't last long. For a moment, he played with the thatch of curls he found there. A gasp sounded deep in her throat. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch to gaze down at her. "Open for me, my sweet." Wide eyes stared back at him. "I'll be very gentle." For a moment, her thighs remained locked then he felt the tension dissipate. Perfect. He used his leg to gently lever hers apart and his hand slid in between to find the soft petals guarding her body's core.

"Oh!" popped out of her on an indrawn breath. "Oh my!" She reached for his hand to stop him

"No, no, no," he laughed. "This is half the fun. Relax, you'll see. Really." He continued teasing and probing until he found the tiny nub that held the key to her woman's pleasure. Stroking it gently, he heard "Oh!" and felt her body tense. He knew it was time.

Rolling over, he wedged his legs between hers and braced his hands on either side of her head. "I'm told there'll be a little pinch the first time, but it's quickly over." Each hand reached down to urge her legs up and over to his back. He positioned himself, feeling her soft gate against his most sensitive flesh. Not quite sure whether to do this slow and draw it out or quickly and have it done, he opted for the latter.

He plunged into her, prepared for her reaction to the breaking of her maidenhead.

There was none.

He seated himself to the hilt in her, and there was no pain. No pain because there was no maidenhead. No maidenhead because...

"God damn you!" He withdrew partway. "God" his teeth clenched and he could barely get the words out. "Damn" he thrust in again because his body demanded it. "You" he withdrew. "And" he thrust. "God" out. "Damn" in. "Me" out. "Too." This time his body exploded, and he collapsed on top of her as he rode his climax.

She lay unmoving beneath him now as she had at his first words. Her arms lay slopped at her sides. Under the walnut dye, her face was pale, only her wide, anguished eyes gave any color.

Why should she be unhappy? She'd tricked him into marriage, as if he were a green boy.

As soon as he caught his breath, he heaved himself off the bed, avoiding touching her. Finding his clothes and his shoes, he dressed quickly, hanging his yellow waistcoat over his shoulder with one finger. He stalked to the door and paused. "Like all the rest of the FitzHenry's, I have a whore for a wife." He went out and closed the door very softly.

He headed for the stable, then thought better of it and made for the kitchen. The little maid was alone, cleaning the last of the dinnerware. He demanded, _"Vino."_ She pointed and after a quick search, he found a full jug of wine and picked it up. The little maid opened her mouth as if to protest, took one look at him, and closed it.

There's one smart woman in this damned household, he thought.

Darkness pervaded the barn but enough moonlight came through the windows and chinks in the wall to show him a pile of clean straw. I've had worse beds, he thought, deliberately rejecting thoughts of the bed he'd just left. He threw himself on the make-shift mattress and popped the cork on the jug, hoping there was enough wine to get himself seriously drunk. He doubted there was enough wine in Italy to make him forget this day.

A slug of wine helped him contemplate the great injustice done him. I don't want to wind up like my father with a different mistress for every day of the week, he thought. Maybe someone permanent, tucked away discretely, would be the best idea. He'd leave the new Lady FitzHenry alone, disavow any bastards she whelped, and let the line of the cursed FitzHenry's die out. That would probably be best. Suddenly, he felt tired of fighting his legacy.

He lifted the jug and gave it a shake to judge the wine level. Half-full he guessed. Not nearly enough to make a dent in his hard head. However, that might be just a well. A full-on drunk might help him forget, but tomorrow could well be a busy day and starting it off with a head wouldn't make it any easier. He re-corked the jug and set it aside.

The barn door opened. Quietly, he reached for his boot knife. It was a woman. His heart clenched before he realized it wasn't Chiara. Bruna. Damn, he thought, another whore. Well, at least she's an honest whore. He shoved the knife back.

Bruna sashayed toward him. _"Now why is a handsome, newly married, man here alone in the cold barn?"_ She glanced at the jug. _"I can help you finish the wine, and we can have an enjoyable evening together."_ She knelt in the straw next to him and brushed her hand across his chest. He just watched her. Smiling, she took his silence for encouragement, and her fingers drifted lower.

His hand whipped out and grabbed her head, forcing her mouth down to his. She licked and bit, and her hand grabbed his groin. Rafaelle whipped her over onto her back. Forcing her hands down to the straw next to her head, he reared back to look at her.

" _So the Signore like it rough, eh?"_ She licked her lips. _"Good, because I like it rough, too."_

Arched over her, he stared. She smelled of old sex and stale perfume. His stomach began to roil. She flung a leg over his back, and he forced it back down. A corner of his brain told him she was open to him with her skirt frothed around her waist and her legs splayed, but his stomach threatened to puke right there.

Jackknifing off her, he headed for the barn door, desperate for some fresh air.

" _Hey, Signore, come back here. We're just getting started!"_

As he slammed the door closed, he heard, _"Bastardo!"_ He kept walking.

When he was halfway across the courtyard, he heard a horse stop at the house gate and someone knocked loudly. The gate keeper opened it, and one of Luciano's sons sent to watch for the ship rode into the yard. Spying Rafaelle, the young man headed straight for him, spewing rapid-fire Italian. Others heard the commotion, among them Luciano, who ran out of the house, _"Basta, basta, Nico. Be quiet."_

The young man took a deep breath. " _I sighted the ship off Capo di Vado and signaled just as the Signore told me to. They signaled back."_

" _Bene, bene,_ " Luciano looked to Rafaelle who nodded his comprehension. He glanced around. _"Everyone go back to bed. You, too Bruna. Try going to sleep before the small hours of the morning for once this week."_

Chiara lay on her own pillow looking at the ceiling through dry, red eyes when a soft knock sounded on the door. _"Come in."_ She struggled to sit up.

Rafaelle stood in the doorway. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he said, "The _Swiftsure_ 's been sighted. Tomorrow night we act." With that, he closed the door.

### Chapter 16

" _Chiara, my child, what's wrong?"_ Pius VII sat in an old, none-too-comfortable chair in a sunny corner of his chamber. He barely looked up from the poetry book he read. The room, small and stark, once functioned as the bishop's secretary's chamber. Somehow, it suited the Pontiff. After all, the only things he said he missed were his family, friends and his books. Catarina smuggled in books and paper from time to time, and smuggled them out—the French never actually looked at the volumes on the shelf, only their numbers.

Catarina, quite openly, however, kept the room full of potted plants and cut flowers. Watering them fell to Chiara this morning.

" _Nothing, Your Holiness."_ Catarina and Luciano noticed something this morning, she suspected, but they said nothing when they all left for work. Chiara felt profoundly grateful.

Padre Barnabà put down his book and cocked his head to look at her. _"Little bird,"_ he chided, _"even among the heathen English, it is not considered acceptable to lie to a priest."_

Chiara spared a small thought of gratitude at his discretion if not his humor. One never knew whose ears lingered in the hallways.

" _Nothing, really."_

" _Chiara."_

Looking over at him, she saw the quiet concern. Suddenly the dam burst. The watering can sloshed as she ran over, dropped to her knees next to him and put her head in his lap. The whole story bubbled out of her as he stroked her hair and murmured comfort.

A thieves' moon sat low in the sky, as slender as the light it gave. Luciano insisted on accompanying them despite reasoning, pleas, and threats. The sounds of a crowd, a noisy, angry crowd, reached them as they approached the Cathedral area. Fr. Mezi and Fr. Marini kept their word to stage a distraction. If the shouts and the masked townspeople still drifting towards the Piazza Duomo held any indication, the demonstration would be formidable.

The three of them carried as much weaponry as unobtrusively possible. All had knives. Rafaelle carried his cane and Chiara's garrote wound around her wrist. They both had their bundles they'd taken from the ship.

Luciano led them to a house a block away from the Palace and knocked softly. Chiara pulled her shawl a little closer around her shoulders. The door opened, and they entered without another sound.

Rafaelle and Chiara gave their bundles to the house's aged owner. They would be on the horses, waiting for them. Chiara also took off her skirt to reveal her pants. The old man reared back with surprise, then nodded his head, and pursed his lips in acknowledgement. He led them down a concealed staircase, his candle showing rough-hewn rock, dirt walls, and the occasional red eyes of a rat.

" _I don't like cramped, dark places,"_ Luciano grumbled. Chiara couldn't catch their guide's reply except for its smirking tone. She had to agree with Luciano, though.

" _Here it is,"_ the guide said softly. He handed the candle to Luciano and climbed the wooden ladder. Pushing against the trap door only revealed a spaghetti's worth of weak light.

" _There's a heavy barrel nailed to the door,"_ Luciano whispered.

Rafaelle nodded, gave his cane to Luciano, and tapped the old man's arm. _"Thank you. Allow me."_

The old man backed off and winked at Chiara. _"Oh, to be young and virile again."_ She couldn't think of anything to say, so she watched Rafaelle heave the door up and lower it gently to the floor of the potting shed before he ascended.

" _Many thinks old friend,"_ Luciano said as he grasped the old man's arm. _"Now go back."_

Their guide nodded and withdrew another candle from his vest pocket. Lighting it, he stood it in a small hole in the floor. _"God go with you. The horses will be ready."_ He turned and left.

Chiara climbed the ladder next. Rafaelle proffered a hand to her, but she ignored it and clambered out unaided. Luciano followed. He and Rafaelle silently replaced the trap door.

Rafaelle motioned for silence and cracked the shed door. He examined the scene for several breaths before he signaled them to follow him out. He held the cane, knife extended, like a sword. She and Luciano drew their knives. Even with the shed tucked into a back corner of the garden, Chiara could feel an unnatural stillness within the walls in contrast to the tumult outside.

" _Keep to the shadows,"_ Rafaelle whispered and led the way. When paths crossed, he stopped and checked. Outside the gates, French officers could be heard yelling orders to the rioters and to their troops.

Chiara knew the Palace's garden door lay around the next corner. Luciano tapped Rafaelle's sleeve and handed him a large brass key. In the dim light, she could see Rafaelle's eyebrow rise. Then he smiled unhumorously. Such a small omission could have sent them right back down the tunnel.

The key turned soundlessly, and again, Chiara silently thanked Luciano's foresight.

Torches flared in the wall sconces around the ground floor entrance. The pile of discarded furniture near the stairs might have been a large animal's den, but that kind of animal didn't concern them. Smooth rock walls reflected every sound, every foot step. The ground floor of the Palace was dark and empty. Too empty, she thought. Rafaelle obviously thought so too because he halted then, a couple of paces inside.

Too quiet. The tumult outside the great door on the other wall couldn't touch the stillness inside the wide front entry. A large bar dropped in the brackets guaranteed that tonight. The three doors on the two building walls were closed. No one bothered to close the entrance to the service areas. Usually.

"Rafaelle," she hissed. He turned and looked at her. It came as a small shock to her to realize that this was the first time he'd looked at her since he'd announced the _Swiftsure_ 's arrival. In the dim light, his eyes had the hard sheen of ebony, and about as much warmth. "We need to check these doors."

He hesitated and then nodded. The torchlight illuminated an empty room behind the first. The second held Bruna. Shocked surprise showed on her face. _"Damn you, Bruna,"_ Luciano whispered as he stepped towards her. _"What are you doing here?"_

Bruna recovered her nerve and shrugged prettily, but didn't answer immediately. _"I was near the gate when the riot started. The guards let me slip in here for protection."_ She looked at each of them. _"You're here for the Pope. Come on, you have to hurry."_ When they hesitated, she spoke louder, _"Come on, hurry."_

At her outburst, the next door flew open. A flood of French soldiers crashed through, rifles ready. Luciano's knife blossomed from the belly of the nearest soldier. All three rushed the soldiers, making the rifles useless at such close range. Soldier after soldier came through the door. The growing pile of bodies soon made it hard to maneuver.

Blood painted Chiara's clothes red. Most of it wasn't hers. The last wave of soldiers had bayonets in their guns and used them to drive the invaders back. One soldier slipped under her guard and sliced her arm. She willed away the pain. To give in was to die. He, however, paid for his small strike with his life. Chiara saw that only a few soldiers remained.

Out of the doorway, a familiar voice sounded. _"Ah, Chiara, I wondered if the foreign signora Bruna spoke of could be you."_ Almost lazily, Etienne Radet drew his sword. His angel's face, crowned by light brown curls, held a beatific smile. _"I shall delight in spreading your legs again. I always enjoy a good fight in bed. This time, though, I think I shall have to kill you afterwards instead of just leaving you curled in a ball."_

Luciano slit the throat of his opponent as Rafaelle rammed his sword cane into the back of another.

" _I would call you a cur, Radet, but I have several dogs that I'm fond of and wouldn't want to insult them."_

" _Always the witty one, aren't you, my dear?"_ Radet twirled his sword almost thoughtfully as he advanced on her with the grace of a deadly serpent.

" _I suspect,"_ Rafaelle drawled, his attention on Radet now that all his opponents finally lay on the floor, _"that the only 'dear' you have is that traitorous slut over there."_ He jerked his head toward Bruna. She had sidled her way to the stairs during the fighting. She gasped at the revelation of her betrayal.

Radet watched the by-play, his smile mocking.

Luciano looked at her, anguish in his face _"Is it true?"_ He shook his head, as if to deny even his question. He approached her and stood on the floor as she backed up the first stair.

" _No! Of course not! I...I couldn't do that!"_

" _Unless the price was right,"_ Radet sneered. _"Unlike you, Chiara, eh? You don't sell it, you don't give it away, but I took it. And sweet it was. On second thought, I might get rid of that one and keep you for a while."_

Rafaelle froze.

" _Bastard!"_ Bruna screamed. The word morphed into a gurgle as Luciano sliced his knife across her throat. She fell back on the steps, fountaining blood.

" _Bitch,"_ Luciano growled, _"and no daughter of mine."_

" _Sergeant!"_ Radet bellowed. Shouted orders sounded high up the staircase.

Luciano grabbed a chair from the pile and threw it over Bruna's body. _"Help me,"_ he ordered Chiara. Radet smiled and turned towards Chiara. Sticking her knife into her waistband, she grabbed a chair.

Rafaelle roused from his palsy. _"I'm afraid I can't allow you to hurt my wife ever again."_ His tone dripped formal drawing-room boredom, but his eyes promised death. _"It is obvious now that she suffered at the hands of one of the lower forms of humanity. It's my right and privilege to protect and avenge her."_ He drew his knife.

Seeing a greater threat, Radet faced his accuser. _"Oh, ho, the lady has a knight in shining...uh homespun. How quaint."_ His English was as perfect as his face.

Luciano tossed more chairs and small tables onto the stairs. With Radet's attention on Rafaelle, Chiara threw hers on the growing pile and grabbed a cushion and another chair. She saw what Luciano was trying to do, but the stairs were too wide for a functional blockade with the material at hand. Snatching another chair, she tossed it onto the pile. She heard footsteps at the top of the stairs.

Rafaelle and Radet circled around each other into the center of the room. Cane and sword whirled, waiting to strike. The sword struck first. The cane danced out of the way only to whip around into a downward strike on Radet's sword-arm. Cloth tore, but nothing else.

" _This is most displeasing, peasant."_ He backed away. _"I happened to be very partial to this coat. I'm afraid I shall have to make a very unpleasant end of you._

" _It shouldn't be too terribly hard. I've always found the English to be weak, ineffectual fops, quite unworthy of their inflated sense of consequence. Napoleon will happily set them right, and I shall be pleased to assist him."_ Rafaelle said nothing, his face grim with concentration.

All but the heavy table at the bottom of the pile blocked the stairway. Luciano grabbed the nearest torch and threw it into the heap of wood. Chiara did likewise, knowing the barricade would soon be useless—the furniture didn't extend across the stairway. She looked around at the now-empty room. Only people were left, the living and the dead. The dead.

Rafaelle used his knife to catch the next strike. The force of the blow sent his left hand downward. Radet grinned. He blew in his opponent's face. _"English peasant stink always offends me."_ At a glance, Chiara could see they were too close. The sword of Rafaelle's cane was useless. He reversed his grip and rammed the handle into Radet's gut. It wasn't a debilitating blow, but it allowed him to back out of the hopeless embrace.

" _Allow me to introduce myself, Lord Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury. But you may call me Wolverine."_ She could see the name had meaning for Radet, meaning and apprehension.

Chiara turned back to her problem. _"Luciano, help me throw the bodies on the fire."_ He hesitated a fraction of a second. His daughter lay at the bottom of the burning pile. Then he seized a pair of hands. Chiara went for the legs. Her cut arm burned at the exertion. Together they swung the body onto the pyre at the thinly-piled side. They went back for another. Before they got back, the first body blazed. They tossed the second on the other side. Soldiers appeared above the fire, shouting and brandishing weapons.

Snarling, Radet struck again and again at the cane. The second time, he sliced the hollow wood in two. "Oh my, now look what I've done." Rafaelle backed towards the stairs, dodging sword slashes. What was left of the cane would buy him another blow, but no more. From in back of him, Chiara caught his wrist and twisted the stump out of his hand. She slapped her knife into it.

Two crossed knives met Radet's next slash. The sword wrenched from side to side, but couldn't get free. The men pushed apart and circled each other.

Something, probably a gunpowder purse on one of the dead soldiers, exploded. One of the living soldiers, pushed close to the fire by his comrades behind him, screamed. Chiara and Luciano tossed the rest of the bodies into the flames.

Again the sword clashed with the knives. Chiara watched the fight, mesmerized, after the last body fed the flames. Too well she knew that Rafaelle's defensive position could not last forever. Luciano stood at her side, breathing heavily and watching. Suddenly he bent to one of the discarded rifles. Checking its priming, he raised it towards the combatants.

" _Be careful!"_ she warned. Rafaelle was between them.

" _But of course."_ He waited for them to separate and then fired.

A red flower bloomed on Radet's chest. His eyes grew round, and he fell.

Rafaelle slapped his hand to his ear then looked around. _"Thanks. Let's go."_

" _But the Pope!"_ Chiara cried.

He shook his head. _"It sounds like there's a garrison up there. We need to get out before they find another way down here."_ He shoved her knife back into her hand.

Luciano grunted agreement as he scooped up several rifles.

They sprinted for the garden door. Rafaelle held it closed. _"Hush."_ Cracking the door open, he checked the grounds. _"We go back the same way."_

Reversing their actions of earlier that evening, they traversed the tunnel to the old man's house. True to his words, horses awaited them.

Thanks and blessing sounded in the courtyard. _"Get yourself home and tied up,"_ Rafaelle advised Luciano. _"Have your story clear in your minds."_

He nodded and, shoving a rifle at Rafaelle, pushed them towards the horses. _"Go with God and our thanks."_

Chiara and Rafaelle rode westward out into the night.

While in town, they held their mounts to a quick, but unremarkable pace. As the houses thinned, they spurred the horses. Riding astride with her breeches, Chiara easily kept the pace, something difficult on sidesaddle. The drumbeat of the horse's hooves prevented any conversation.

In about a half hour, they arrived at the Capo di Vado. They listened for other horses on the road but all was quiet. A search of the small beach revealed Luciano's son Nico on watch. He grinned and sketched a tolerable bow to his elders. Then he signaled the ship, a barely visible lump on the expanse of water, with his lantern and quickly received an answering flash.

"Now we wait," Chiara said. She retrieved her bundle from the horse's saddle.

"We need to talk," Rafaelle's voice carried no further than her.

"We have nothing to talk about, my lord."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged and said nothing.

"Chiara..."

"I'm Lady Chiara to you."

"Not any longer. You're Lady FitzHenry."

She looked straight at him in the dim light. "I'm not married to you."

"Like hell, you're not."

"I don't have to prove that I'm not. You would have to prove that we are, if you can."

His eyes narrowed. "And you have the marriage lines."

"Exactly." She turned away to study the ocean. A small lump separated itself from the larger one.

Turning to the young man, she said, " _Gather all your things and be ready to go. Don't return by the coast road."_ Rafaelle handed him a few coins. Chiara handed him her horse's reins as did Rafaelle.

As the he went off to find his own horse, the young man stopped. He cocked his head. _"Horses,"_ he said softly.

" _Bloody hell,"_ Rafaelle growled. _"How far?"_

" _Maybe a mile or two. I don't think there are very many."_

The boat moved swiftly over the calm sea, but it was still a few minutes away. _"Get out of here. Hide!"_

The young man swung onto one of the horses, gathered the others' reins and took off perpendicular to the beach. Hoof beats sounded clearly now.

Rafaelle looked at the approaching boat and then further out to the horizon. A third large shape approached from the east. "Get down to the waterline. I'll buy you some time from here."

"No! The boat crew can help us fight them off."

""They haven't got time! A French ship is bearing down on the Swiftsure."

She looked up to see the horrible truth of his statement. "But..."

Four horsemen brandishing pistols drew up at the beach.

"Go!"

The boat pulled up through the surf as Rafaelle headed up the shingle. Mr. Topp jumped into the water and headed for Chiara. A sailor scrambled out, grabbed one end of the boat and pushed it around. "Come on," Topp shouted. "We have to go now."

"But Rafaelle..."

"I'm sorry, my lady, we can't wait even a second." His face was grim.

"But..."

He picked her up, threw her into the boat and clambered in after her. Chiara tried to climb out and he grabbed her arms. "Away!" he ordered.

"Stroke." The boat darted away from the shore.

"Rafaelle!"

"Stroke."

A rifle shot took down one of the soldiers.

"Stroke." Chiara could see him using the spent gun as a club.

"Stroke." She knew there was no way this could end well.

"Stroke." A sob boiled up from her innermost being.

"Stroke." More horses thundered from the roadway.

"Stroke." She looked up, sure that this was her widowing.

"Stroke." Nico, holding the two extra horses on either side of his, rammed the French horses.

"Stroke." Horses went up, men went down.

"Stroke." The _Swiftsure_ 's bulk loomed over them.

"Stroke."

"What's happening?"

"Stroke."

"I can't see, either, my lady."

"Stroke."

Pearce bound her slashed arm. He remarked that it was getting to be a habit. As expected, Chiara's sea sickness returned. Even after it eased, she spent most of her time in her cabin. When she did emerge, huddled in the shawl she finally finished, Captain Harley and the crew cosseted her like a bunch of broody hens. If she wasn't feeling so miserable, she would have enjoyed it.

The passage was slow. They had to wait several days in Portugal for dispatches and passengers. Among them was Sam Goode, invalided home and out of the marines due to his injury.

Just as they rounded the Guernsey Islands, the last leg of the trip, Chiara woke up with nausea again.

### Chapter 17

The sun barely crested the rooftops through the perpetual London haze when Rafael strode up the steps of Wentworth's townhouse. It was definitely not the hour for polite social calls but the mission report he'd written on the homeward-bound ship wasn't social. It'd taken him five months, but he'd arrived in town yesterday evening. A bath and barbering made him feel almost human again.

Hyde, even more stone-faced than usual, showed him into Wentworth's study. In addition to the spymaster, he found David Brownlee.

Both men rose when he entered. "Good day, my lords," Rafael said. As soon as he uttered the words, Brownlee slugged him in the face. The report went flying.

"Thank you for doing that for me," Geoffrey Wentworth said. "I very much wanted to, but at my age, I'm afraid I might not have packed the requisite punch." He handed Rafael a handkerchief.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"What do you think it's for, you pissing cock-up?" David growled.

Feeling confused, Rafael held the handkerchief to his bleeding nose. "I'll deal with you later," he promised David. He had more important things to attend to just now. "Where's my wife?" he demanded as he stood before Wentworth's desk in the library.

"Wife? Who the hell are you talking about? Chiara? Not bloody likely," David snorted.

"Wife and married by the pope, himself."

"Prove it."

"She has the lines." Rafael snarled as best he could with a hand held to his nose.

David Brownlee shook his hand out and stretched his fingers, but otherwise he looked ready for a stroll in the park. "Oh, yes, I'm sure."

Rafael glared at David and tossed the handkerchief aside as he took the first angry step.

Wentworth snapped, "Don't even think about it! Sit down! That's an order! Both of you."

Feeling a little hunted, Rafael gave in with ill grace.

"What the hell happened there? I've read Chiara's report but something tells me there's a whole lot left out of it."

"Where is she?"

"She's in seclusion. Now, answer the question."

"How can I when I don't know what she said?"

"Oh, she gave a complete report on the mission. What I want to know is what happened between the two of you that sent her packing."

"None of your bloody business."

"That's naff. We're her family."

"Too bad. Where is she?"

Wentworth just looked at him.

"Bloody arsehole." With that, Rafael stormed from the room.

"Well, that answers the most pressing question. They are married." Wentworth picked the forgotten report off the carpet.

"I notice you didn't tell him," David said as he helped himself to the coffee pot.

"Where she is? He'll find out, eventually. Do the boy good to have to work a little for something he wants." Wentworth flipped idly through the pages.

"That wasn't what I was referring to."

His uncle chewed on his lip for a moment, then motioned for a cup of coffee. "No, I didn't. Some things a man just has to find out for himself."

Rafael pounded on Chiara's townhouse door. He had the feeling Blakely delayed as long as possible in opening it.

"Where's your mistress?"

Blakely looked down his nose as only the most top-lofty of butlers can accomplish. "I don't believe I know, my lord."

"Where is she?"

"As I said, I am not in possession of that information."

"Damn you." He pushed past Blakely and marched up the stairs. Throwing open doors, he searched all the bed chambers.

"I must ask you to leave, Lord FitzHenry, or I will be forced to call several of the footmen to escort you out."

After checking the parlors and the dining room, Rafael satisfied himself that she wasn't there.

"What is Miss Alder's direction?"

"I'm sure I..."

"Don't know." Rafael rubbed his chin, then turned and walked out.

James's butler, less antagonistic to him than some of the others that Rafael had encountered that morning, escorted him directly to the dining room where his master was just beginning breakfast.

"Ah, Rafe, you're back. Forgotten what a civilized hour for calls is?"

"Bugger you."

"Join me for breakfast?" His friend nodded and examined the damage to his friend's face. "What brings you out at this bloody early time? And what...?"

"I need Lindsey Alder's direction. You know that sort of thing."

James Simmons put down his fork and studied his friend closely. "If you're thinking of looking in Miss Alder's..."

"I want Lady Chiara's country house's direction."

James picked up his fork again. "Well, that's all right. I won't have to call you out for that."

Rafe frowned at his friend. He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table. "Wind's blowing like that, is it?"

James grinned. "It's like that. I hope she will bring me up to scratch before the end of the month. I have every confidence she'll put me out of my misery."

"How did this come about? Last time I saw you, the two of you were getting along about as well as Bonnie Prince Charlie and King George."

"Well, we started talking when we realized you both disappeared at the same time and under equally unexplained circumstances. We figured you were together and Lindsey, Miss Alder, made inquiries of Lady Chiara's brother. When he gave her a great piece of nonsense about going to her country house, we knew something havey-cavey was going on. Naturally, we put our heads and our meager information together."

"And what exactly did this meeting of the minds produce?" FitzHenry picked up a slice of apple, examined it, and popped it in his mouth.

James looked sideways at his somewhat secretive friend. "Lord Wentworth's position at Whitehall isn't exactly secret, you know."

Studying his coffee cup, Rafe said, "Figured that one out, did you. My compliments. I would recommend that both you and Miss Alder keep what you know and what you suspect firmly between your teeth."

"Think so?" James grinned.

"Absolutely." There was no answering grin.

"Ah! Very good."

"In the meantime, while I wish you every felicitation, I still want Miss Alder's direction."

"Why?"

"I need to reclaim my wife."

James's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Wife? Lady Chiara?" His friend nodded. "Well, I'm coming with you, for sure." At Rafe's scowl, James corrected, "At least to Miss Alder's."

When Rafael and James called at the Alder home in Belgravia, polite society deemed the hour just barely acceptable for social calls. Shortly after the butler escorted them to the drawing room, Mrs. Alder swept into the room. A tall, horse-faced woman, she preferred to be addressed as Lady Violet, being the daughter of a viscount and married to a mere Mr.

"Ah, Mr. Simmons," she gushed, "And Lord FitzHenry."

Rafael bowed alongside James, but the action felt a little rusty. He saw the gleam in his hostess's eye. Here was James calling on her daughter. While also a mere Mr., he was the heir to a baronetcy and worth £ 40,000 a year. In addition, there was an earl in her drawing room worth substantially more. He could almost see the wedding plans in her head. Only the groom needed to be resolved in her mind.

He let James do the pretty to his unknowing future mother-in-law. "Lady Violet, how delightful to find you at home. 'S faith, if you weren't already spoken for..." Rafe thought him wise to leave the declaration hanging, even if it was prudent to get on the good side of your wife-to-be's family. He forced himself to resist rubbing his aching nose.

Lady Violet twittered, "You naughty boy! But I'm sure it's not me you called on." James's expression of rueful agreement almost had Rafe snickering.

At that moment, the drawing room door opened, and Lindsey entered. "Mama, Twindle just said...oh, Jam...I mean Mr. Simmons." She dropped a curtsey. "And Lord FitzHenry. What a surprise." Her tone didn't imply it was necessarily a good surprise.

Both men bowed. Lady Violet, with the complacent look of a mother who sees her duty to her children almost finished, left the "young" people to themselves.

James watched the door close then stepped up to catch Lindsey's hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a fervent kiss on her fingers.

"James! There is someone here!"

"He's not just 'someone' my love, he's my friend, and he knows how things stand between us."

Lindsey looked at FitzHenry and put up her chin. "My lord. At the moment I'm none too much in charity with James's 'friend.'"

"May we be seated?" Rafe asked, gesturing to the chairs. James seated himself next to Lindsey. "Since James has honored me with his confidence, I would return the favor." He thought for a moment. "Chiara and I were sent on a...an errand by the government. You have surmised that much. In the course of that business, we were married."

Lindsey gasped. "Married! She said nothing of marriage!"

"Even so, we were. Right now, however, she is rather justifiably angry at me and not of a mind to acknowledge the vows. She's not in town, is she?"

Lindsey slowly shook her head.

"Where is she?"

"I really don't think I should tell you."

"I really need to find her."

"I don't think she wants to be found by you, my lord." Her hand crept over to find James's.

"That's very likely. However, my life won't be worth living if I don't convince her otherwise."

In the carriage, James stared at his friend. "If you weren't so serious about this, I'd be laughing myself sick."

"Good, you'd be laughing yourself into the family crypt, and Miss Alder would be forced to find another suitor."

James gave him a level look. "Well, since I'm a victim of that same grave disease you suffer from, I'll maintain a salutary silence."

"Absolutely."

The small village in Kent almost looked familiar. A very similar one lay near his family seat in Yorkshire. Still another of the same ilk sat on the road to his Lancaster estate. Neat stone houses with thatched roofs lined the highway. A stone bridge crossed the Medway River, not much more than a large creek here. Near the bridge, the village inn boasted the grand name of "King Henry's Mare." Rafe spared a brief thought that it might have been named for his grandmother many generations back, although it could just as well have been named for his step-mother many times over, Anne Boleyn, who lived nearby at Hever Castle. He reserved a room with a parlor at the inn. It was clean and neat—about as good as could be expected. If he sent for his valet later, he would have to change lodgings or risk the ire of that high-stickler. Rafe, himself, had slept in far worse places, some of them rather recently. The sheets smelled freshly laundered here, and that counted for a lot.

Leaving his curricle and a horse at the inn's stable, he urged the other horse in the direction he received from the innkeeper. As he looked around, the condition of the land and its people impressed him--well-tended orchards, sleek cattle and happy children. Chiara proved herself an excellent steward of the land.

He'd chosen well. Now, he had to convince her that she had. He didn't fool himself that it would be an easy job.

In the clearing ahead of him, workers swarmed around the brick shell of a building. Three people stood to the side, including a woman heavily cloaked and hooded against the early morning chill. Even with their backs to him, he could tell it was her.

When he was a few yards from them, one of the men turned. It was Sam Goode, the injured marine from the _Swiftsure_. He said something quietly to Chiara.

She turned. For the briefest moment, her face filled with joy. If he hadn't been watching her, he would have missed it because, in the next second, her face went cordially bland.

"My lord," her voice wavered slightly, "I am delighted to see you well." Her voice grew stronger. "No one knew of your fate."

He dismounted, looped the reins over a bush, and walked closer, not taking his eyes from her. He absorbed her presence like a dry sponge does water. To her credit, he thought, she stood her ground. "After a bothersome journey, I made my way back to England."

"I'm sure the telling will stand you in good stead at dinner parties."

"Ah, but there are so few people I can tell it to." Sweet Jesus, he loved sparing with her. All other women were like unsalted potatoes.

"Lady Key," Goode interrupted them. "Do these changes meet with your approval?" He looked at Rafe. "My lord."

"Good day to you, Mr. Goode. What are you doing here?"

"Invalided out, sir." He turned slightly to reveal his left arm in a sling. "My lady was kind enough to take me into her service when we landed."

"And a most profitable notion it was for me." She turned to Goode. "You can go on with that."

Goode nodded and went off to supervise the construction with the other man. Although he was out of easy earshot, Rafe saw that he kept Chiara in his sights. Rafe noticed that he said something to a young boy who went sprinting off. Something about Goode screamed "guard dog" to Rafe. While that was all well and good, he hoped that they wouldn't come to blows over it. Rafe guessed that every one of the men working on the project, men who surreptitiously watched the proceedings, would be there to help. The help wouldn't be on his side.

"Your people take good care of you."

"Yes they do. What do you want?"

"What do you think I want? I want my wife."

"You don't have a wife."

"Even the Church of England recognizes a marriage performed by the Pope."

"Were you married?" She looked over at some men on the other side of the construction. Her hood slipped back, and he could see that her hair was cropped short with the ends still the walnut brown of her Italian disguise.

"Don't be coy."

"My name is Chiara, not Coy. And I have nothing to say to you on the subject of marriage."

"So you're going to make it difficult."

"No, I'm going to make it impossible."

"Why?"

She looked out over the building site. "I think I told you once that I would only marry if I found a man who could love me for all that I am. Under the circumstances, I've come to the conclusion that he doesn't exist. Therefore, no marriage."

"What about me?"

"You?" She tilted her head to look at him. "Find a sweet, biddable thing straight out of the schoolroom and marry her."

"What about you? I'm not looking to be a bigamist."

"What about me?"

"You're already my wife."

She turned to face him squarely. "I'm not your wife. As far as I know, you have no wife, and I have no husband." She held up her hand when he started to speak. "You made yourself perfectly clear in Savona. I have accepted that. I suggest you do likewise. It would be to your benefit."

"I don't know about that."

"Now who's being coy? You repudiated me, remember? Now, I'm giving you the chance, no the necessity, of starting over fresh with someone else, someone who can meet your standards as I obviously can't."

"I don't want anyone else."

"That's unfortunate for you."

"You're my wife."

"So you say. However, I say otherwise. And, most importantly, you have no proof."

"That's the crux of it, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

She spread her hands. "The game is over. You lost. Accept defeat gracefully."

He took her hand and bowed over it. "Absolutely not."

Retrieving his horse, he mounted and rode back to the inn.

He really would have to challenge her to a game of chess some time. They were well-matched. She'd formulated her defenses like a master. His needed to be better. This was one game he did not intend to lose, gracefully or otherwise.

He summoned the innkeeper. "Two questions, my good man. First, besides Lady Chiara, are they any other aristocratic landowners in the district?"

The landlord scratched his balding head. "Well, the nearest gentry be Squire Abernathy 'nd his lady. Then there be Mr. Pomfrey. He be looking to marry Lady Key. Then," he thought for a moment, "oh, Lord 'n Lady Meriwether. They jus' got in from the city. They be the nearest."

"Very good. Now, how might I find out if there are any properties for sale in the area?"

Armed with directions and names, Rafe set out to make his presence in this part of Kent more permanent and more pronounced. Pomfrey was going to find out that Chiara wasn't available, but that small detail could wait. First stop was the Meriwethers'. Luckily, he'd known them for years. Not very well, he admitted, but that could change.

"We didn't know if you survived." Chiara looked straight ahead as she and Rafael strolled the somewhat barren grounds of the Meriwether garden. Thank heavens she'd remembered her muff, or rather Betsy had. When she accepted the invitation to tea, she didn't know Rafael was in residence, in anticipation, he said, of his hosts' winter house party. "We saw Luciano's son riding in with the horses, but that was all."

"Young Nico did me a large favor ramming the soldiers. After we dispatched them, I took off on one of the horses, and he went home."

"I hope Luciano's family is all right."

"I'm sure they are. We didn't leave any loose ends."

She swallowed, knowing what that meant. "How did you get back?"

"Well being a French government official served me well once, so I figured it would do so again. It did. M. Honoré St. Lazar, _a votre servis_ , assistant to M. Henri Montfort of the Emperor's paymaster's office. It's a wonder what people will do for you when they think their money might be delayed."

She smiled and saw his eyes lighten. "M. St. Lazar held me in good stead behind the French lines. Getting through Spain was a bit more difficult, since the Spanish peasantry have a distinct antipathy towards the French. I just slept where I could and lived off the land. Once I got to Oporto, I had to wait two weeks for a ship, but I finally got out."

He turned to her, his face serious. "While I was in France, I heard that Napoleon ordered Pope Pius transferred to Fontainebleau."

"That poor, sweet, old man!"

"Hah, 'that poor, sweet, old man' is a major pain in the royal French arse. Nevertheless, I sincerely regret that we couldn't rescue him. I know that must be grieving you."

"Yes, I think about him every day. I don't know if he will survive the incarceration."

"He will." Rafe laid his hand on her arm in comfort. "He's stronger than he looks."

"I hope you're right."

They walked silently for a few paces.

"What about you? I thought Harley...I wondered..."

"Why the _Swiftsure_ didn't wait for you?"

"Uh huh."

"They were under attack as soon as we got on board. I screamed at Mr. Topp and Captain Harley to go back, but there was nothing they could do for the moment. The attack wasn't very serious, and they beat them off quickly. When they went back for you, you were gone."

"Indeed, I figured the best place for me was somewhere else, right at that minute. I guess I was wrong." They climbed the steps to the house.

"Yes, well..."

"Lady Key and my lord. I wondered where you'd gone to. The sky is lowering, and I wouldn't want this sweet, young thing to get drenched, especially since she took an open gig." Chiara liked Lady Meriwether for her sweet simpleness. She was a short, stout woman with a moon-shaped face, totally lacking in guile. However, Chiara thought, something was brewing in that good lady's head. "My lord, would you be so kind as to take Lady Key home in our carriage? We have to take good care of her."

There was no help for it, Chiara decided morosely, as Rafael handed her up into the carriage.

"We'll see you tomorrow, my dear for the musicale that launches my house party. I know how much you enjoy good music. I'm sure the music will be worthy of the guest list."

"I'll be there."

The patter of the rain began almost as soon as they left.

"I see a number of fruit trees on your land. What are they?"

"We grow pears and apples, mainly, although we are putting in more raspberries and currants this year. We'll be using the new factory to preserve them in jars."

"Jars?"

"Yes, they look a bit like champagne bottles with wider necks. Napoleon wanted a way to preserve food for his troops. Nicolas Appert, a Frenchman, recently developed the technique. You put the fruit in the jar, seal it, and boil them to keep them from spoiling. They called it Appertization. The British Navy is very interested in using them on ships to carry fruits and vegetables."

"One of the few decent things to come from France lately. But why the big brick building?"

"Fire danger from the boiling vats. Plus, we can have the fruit preparation right on the premises. With the river nearby, we will put them on barges straight up to the Thames estuary."

He nodded approvingly. "Sounds like a profitable venture."

"I think it will be."

"Quite a change from running around the world with a knife up your sleeve and a garrote in your pocket."

"Yes, indeed, and a welcome one." Her manor house came into view. A half-timbered yeoman's house, it boasted the peaked roofs and white-washed walls typical of the style. Even in winter, the front gardens invited perusal.

As the carriage came to a stop, Rafael climbed out to assist her. Reaching up, he grabbed her waist and lowered her to the ground. Still holding her, he stood there, taking the opportunity to caress her. A look of shock crossed his face. He froze.

"Bloody hell, you're breeding!"

### Chapter 18

"Yes, I am aware of that, and so is my staff, but you don't need to shout it to the world."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

The butler, who had opened the door at the carriage's approach, shouted into the hall, "Lacey, Dunham, get down here!"

Chiara knocked Rafe's hands away. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this."

"Right." He grabbed her under the arm and marched her up the steps. Two young footmen raced to the door and pulled up in back of the butler. Rafael looked at the three of them. "I'm going to speak to my wife," he snarled. "Let me know right now if you wish to try to stop me. Otherwise, back off."

"I'll be all right, Taylor," she soothed. "Lord FitzHenry isn't going to hurt me, although his bellowing may break some of the windows." She jerked her arm away and walked into the house.

The Great Hall, a wide, central chamber, formed the core of the house. It opened to the rafters with two side staircases leading to upper halls. Chiara stalked to one of the lower side rooms, a parlor.

"Now's the time, and this is the place," Rafe growled. "Talk."

Chiara divested herself of her cloak and muff. He peered at her midsection, looking for the obvious signs of her pregnancy. She smoothed her skirts and sat down. This room always calmed her, paneled in blue silk patterned with off-white, with dark brown accents. The large, leaded windows kept everything cheery, except on the darkest of days. She hoped that the surroundings might at least mitigate the coming storm. Somehow, she doubted it.

"What would you like me to talk about?" She needed a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

"You are pregnant, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"How the hell did you come to be pregnant?"

"The usual way."

He glared at her. "Very funny. Whose child is it?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a level look. "At this point, I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you."

"Under the circumstances, I think it's a valid question."

"The circumstances being that I wasn't a virgin on our...on the night we had sex."

He inclined his head toward her.

"Did you come to...that night a virgin?"

"That's not the point. In any case, a man has a right to know if his wife's children are his."

"Coming from you, that's rich."

"Indeed. My father couldn't disown his wife's child without proclaiming himself a cuckold. He thought the title and the fortune were safe. God knows he tried every thing he could to prevent as much as a tup'pence from coming to me."

"Well, since you have doubts, let's just forget about the whole thing now. I'll burn the marriage document, and you are quit of us, permanently."

His eyebrow flew up. "You'd put yourself through the consequences of that just to spite me?"

"No. I simply have no wish to put myself or my child through a lifetime of doubt on your part."

"And if I said I trusted you?"

"At this point, I'd say you were lying, or at least not really prepared to accept the consequences of that statement. You propose to give up concepts forged in your childhood that have guided your relations with women ever since. I find that hard to believe.

"You want virginity at marriage as guarantee of fidelity after marriage. Obviously, then the lack of virginity guarantees infidelity after marriage. I think it's safe to say that most men today are not virgins, present company included, on their wedding day. Ergo, you will betray your vows. Or is fidelity only for women?"

She studied his face, trying to read his response there. Gently, she pleated the gold, high-waisted skirts of her morning dress, the dark blue of her spencer's sleeve contrasting sharply. She'd spent four months thinking about this; four months of not knowing if she was a widow, wife, or whore; four months of trying to decide just what she wanted. What she wanted from him was everything or nothing. So much rode on these few words: her future happiness, his, and their child's. It would be so easy to just tell him what he wanted to hear, to tell him whatever he wanted and to grovel for forgiveness, understanding, or just tolerance. That wouldn't make a viable marriage. A marriage not based on love and trust and respect wasn't worth it. She'd rather face the future alone than live with daily distrust and suspicion. After all, that was her original plan. Now, though, there'd be at least one option.

His eyes narrowed, he growled, "I can't speak for the rest of mankind, but I have always had every intention of being faithful to my wife."

"And if you, not being a virgin at your wedding, could be faithful to your vows, why would a woman have to be a virgin in order to be faithful?"

He shrugged as though unable to disagree and unwilling to agree. "But you," he said softly, "were a virgin." Her mouth dropped open. "I just didn't realize it."

"You, you said all sorts of vile things to me, and now you're saying I was a virgin?"

"Yes, a virgin. Rape doesn't change that. Knowing you, I should have realized that you didn't give yourself lightly."

A dam broke inside her. "Radet took something from me that was only mine to give. He stole from me. In doing so, he made me feel dirty: a toy to be used and tossed aside. He made me look on my body as something that was valueless, something to discard. He made me undervalue myself and the love I had to give with it."

"Chiara..."

She waved him aside. "Then you came along, and I realized that I could give that love with my body as well as my head. But you did the same thing to me that he did. Except you were even crueler. He did exactly what you would expect an amoral bastard to do. I though you were different. I thought you were someone I could love and who could love me."

"I know that know."

"I was wrong. You're no different than he was. I slept with you because I wanted to give my body and my soul to you for the rest of my life. My mistake was in over-estimating the kind of man you are. No reasonable person gives precious things to someone who throws them away. I won't make that same mistake twice."

"All I want to do is spend the rest of my life loving and cherishing you, just like I promised when we were married."

"You 'love' me now, now that you've satisfied yourself that, if I'm not perfect, at least I'm not culpable. Yours is a lukewarm, half-baked, fickle emotion. I will keep and raise and love my baby. It was conceived with love, mine. You will have no part in it. I pity you for that loss, but you rejected us once; you won't have the opportunity to do it again. If you try to force the issue, I will destroy the document."

"Chiara, no!"

"Taylor!"

The door opened immediately.

"Be so kind as to escort Lord FitzHenry out."

"Yes, my lady." The two footmen stood behind him.

Rafael bent over her and took her hand. He kissed it. Taylor took a step forward.

"This isn't over." He turned and walked out.

She hadn't meant to say that, at least not all that. All the months, no years, of rage and tears and self-pity came bubbling out of her all at once. She had known, if he survived, he might want to claim her. It was a possibility she acknowledged when she planned to keep silent about the marriage and the baby.

He'd heard Radet's ugly words. They established her mental innocence if not her physical innocence.

But, it wasn't enough for Rafael to just say, "All right. You're damaged goods, but you'll do." There had to be more than that. She wouldn't settle for half a loaf.

She laid her head in her hands and cried as the door to the drawing room quietly shut.

"Lady Meriwether informed me of the musicale this evening. I will come for you at three o'clock. Be ready. R"

She crumpled the note Taylor delivered, thinking to toss it in the trash. The man had arrogance the size of Scotland. She lifted her hand to fling the paper away but hesitated. She wanted to hear the concert, but to arrive on her own might offend her friend and neighbor.

Hesitating in her rejection led to other thoughts: thoughts she didn't want to examine or decide upon yet. Did she really want to unequivocally remove Rafaelle from her life, to toss him away like this used piece of paper? Was there the slightest chance that his undeniable, but understandable, biases could be overcome? Did she want to try? She told him the truth when she said that the baby was conceived in love. If she meant it, really meant it, didn't she owe it to herself, and to their child, to exhaust all possible options?

Smoothing out the note, she laid it on the desk where she'd been working on her correspondence. She made her decision and shook her head as she traced the bold "R" where he signed the note. Wolverines were all an arrogant lot.

Sketching a most elegant bow, he looked up at her with the trace of a smile. "Am I forgiven?"

"No," she said as she curtseyed, "but I've decided to give you a chance."

"My lady is most gracious." He stepped closer, caught up her hand, and brought it to his lips. Glancing over at the butler and two footmen standing still as posts next to the wall in the entry hall, he murmured, "Your guard dogs haven't torn me apart yet."

"Not yet, but we'd better go before they start straining at the leashes."

She lifted the skirt of her green-sprigged muslin gown as she stepped into the curricle. For awhile, neither said a word. Just inside the border of her property, she waved at a family tending a garden near their cottage. The children tried to chase the carriage. The family dogs got closer, but eventually all gave up and returned to the garden.

"Isn't it a little late for planting?"

"No, they can get a winter crop of cabbage, spinach, and the like. The winters are mild."

"You like it here, don't you?"

"Yes, I spent a lot of time here with my grandmother when I returned to England after my father died. My mother naturally gravitated towards hers. They died close on one another, and the cottage came to me. It seemed the natural place to come when I got back from Italy."

"Don't you have to deal with, shall we say, the small minds of small towns." He looked over at her burgeoning tummy.

"Oh, there are some. Parson Underwood's wife is even more sanctimonious than her husband. She's the worst."

"Gives you grief, huh?"

"Not really. Lord Meriwether holds the living and keeps both the parson and his lady on their best behavior."

"I'm indebted to Lord Meriwether."

Squerryes Court came into view through the trees. Two small wings framed a forecourt while the main house, of mellow orange brick, boasted seven bays under a hipped roof. As the road curved, a small lake flashed behind the house. Several vehicles moved through the driveway.

"It looks like my host is having a 'small' gathering today," Rafe observed.

"They do this every year. When they come down from London, they have a house party. They host a series of events, each more elaborate than the last, until they end with a great ball with all the gentry in the area and any house guests."

A groom grabbed one of the horses' bridle, and Rafe and Chiara made their way into the already crowded house.

"Lady Key," Lord Joseph Meriwether bellowed, "in faith, it's been quite awhile since I've seen you. Missed you yesterday. And you look magnificent." A bull of a man, he bent close. "Anybody giving you grief?"

"No, not at all. And you are getting handsomer every time I see you. Why, if Lady M. didn't have her claws in you so firmly, I believe I'd have a go at you myself!"

The lady in question turned from the last guest she greeted. She was as short as he was tall. Putting on a stern face, she said, "I keep what's mine, young lady!" Crossing in front of her husband, Barbara Meriwether reached up to envelop Chiara in a motherly hug, finished by a buss to the cheek. Whispering into the not-quite-completely-blonde hair, she said, "Mr. Pomfrey is ill and unable to attend. I know you're devastated." Chiara grinned.

Lord Meriwether snorted and extended his hand to Rafael. "Welcome back and thank you for fetching our little bird. Can't be too careful with her, especially these days."

"Joseph," his wife admonished, "we have other guests. Lord FitzHenry will be with us for several days."

Rafe extended his arm to Chiara and led her into the drawing room. Furniture, moved out earlier, had been replaced with chairs. Candelabras clustered around a grand piano at the front of the room. A substantial number of people milled about, some of them from London. Many of them greeted Chiara and Rafael. Only Parson Underwood and his wife greeted her coolly.

"The righteous reverend and his wife, I presume?"

"Indeed."

"Bloody hell; am I never to have an evening out without the damned Lowells dogging my footsteps?"

Chiara followed his gaze. "Oh that's Felicity Lowell. She came out, what last year, the year before? What's the problem?"

"Three guesses and the first two don't count. Let me point out that Miss Felicity is unmarried and while she's a fetching little thing, she's not a diamond of the first water, like someone I know and love." He nodded to her. "Mr. and Mrs. Lowell want only the best for their daughter."

"You?"

Mrs. Lowell spotted Rafael's tall form from across the room and changed course to intercept him.

"Absolutely." One eyebrow shot up as he looked down at Chiara and stepped closer. "However, now I have protection for my virtue in the form of a wife."

Chiara grabbed a glass from the serving tray going around. "Don't play that card, my lord. You may find it does not complete your hand. To the world, we are nothing more than casual acquaintances and will remain that way for the foreseeable future."

The Lowells only a few feet away, found their path blocked by other guests. Rafe scooped up Chiara's hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her gaze flew up to meet his. Conversation buzzed around them and about them.

It's for show, her mind said. It's his self-defense, her good sense said. It's enough to send her pulse into a gallop, her heart said.

"My Lord FitzHenry, how delightful to see you here," Mrs. Lowell gushed.

For the longest of moments, neither Chiara nor Rafael paid any attention to the Lowells. Mr. Lowell humphed, and Rafe slowly lowered Chiara's hand, without letting to of it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lowell and Miss Felicity, good evening. Do you know Lady Chiara Brownlee?"

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Lowell didn't give her the direct cut, but it was close. Only Rafael merited her attention. "Felicity has been wild to see you. She was ecstatic when she heard you were here."

Good heavens, Chiara thought. FitzHenry raised that eyebrow. Felicity's face took on a distinctly infelicitous look. In fact, the girl looked like a fox hemmed in by a pack of hounds.

"I'm sure Felicity would be delighted to sit with you, my lord." Mrs. Lowell didn't notice the eyebrow as her daughter did.

"Miss Felicity! Aunt Barbara said you were here. Mrs. Lowell, Mr. Lowell." From the look in the young people's eyes, this was the hedge hog that just might be able to fend off the dogs. Young, fresh-faced and innocent, like the object of his affections, he possessed an air of determination that might see him through to his goal.

Chiara saw young eyes spit a challenge at older, wiser, and infinitely less interested ones. A retreat seemed in order. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lowell, but we are engaged to sit with the Abernathy's. Excuse us."

Rafael bowed to the Lowells. His face remained impassive but she could almost smell his relief. "Excellent strategy, my love," he whispered when they were out of earshot.

"Stop that."

"Complimenting you?"

"No, the...the other."

"But you are my love, with or without that piece of paper, which," he bent towards her, "I may remind you, can be replaced."

"You're forgotten one little thing."

"On the contrary, I've forgotten nothing. Do you think I've engaged this battle without an infallible strategy of my own? "

"Lady Chee-air-a and Lord FitzHenry! What a pleasure to see you!" Lord DuBois stepped from behind her to greet them. "I saw you drive up earlier with a lady," he said to Rafael. "I wondered who she was. Delighted to see it was you, dear lady." He bowed.

Rafael looked down on the shorter man and sketched a brief bow. "I didn't know you were here."

"Only just arrived."

"It's nice to see you again," Chiara said politely, if not sincerely. George "Beau" Brummell would have paled at the sight of the dandy. Chiara tried to look anywhere but the sartorial splendor. DuBois's head could barely more without endangering his cravat. His waistcoat was a lurid pink, pink for heaven's sake, she mused. The fobs at his waist were so crowded they clinked when he moved, and if he were not careful, he'd trip over the out-sized shoe buckles.

"Indeed, indeed. I always like to spend more time in your company."

Chiara watched Rafael's eyes narrow and decided to intervene again. "Will you excuse us? I must find Mrs. Abernathy." DuBois bowed and wandered off in the direction of the Underwoods.

As they walked away, Rafael leaned over and said softly, "DuBois doesn't know how grateful he should be to Mrs. Abernathy. I do believe I detected some of the oil on him that I noticed at Lady Burlington's."

Chiara snickered and approached a handsome, middle-aged lady with rich brown hair. "Ann, may I present Lord Rafael FitzHenry? Lord FitzHenry, Mrs. Abernathy, one of my oldest friends."

"Your oldest friend? Thank you, Key."

Chiara laughed. "My oldest friendship, all right."

"You're forgiven, darling. How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful."

Mrs. Abernathy leaned over to kiss her friend. "I'm pleased to meet you, Lord FitzHenry. Have you been here long?"

"Only a couple of days. I hope Lady Chiara will give me a tour of the factory she's building. It looks fascinating."

"Well, trust our Key to be _au courant_ with all the latest, even science. Soon, we'll be sending all our fruit to her to be preserved. You might also ask her to show you her new oast house."

"Oast house?"

"It's a facility for drying and packing hops for beer making."

"An innovator." Rafael nodded his compliments.

"Indeed. Have her show you its improvements. She's increased the efficiency so the hops dry more evenly. Makes better beer."

A tapped glass signaled the beginning of the performance. Everyone moved towards their seats.

Rafael leaned over. "Do all your neighbors know you're enceinte?"

She shrugged. "Most of them. As you can see, I haven't been ostracized."

"How much do they know?"

"They know I was in Italy on government business." Rafe stared at her. "I'm finished with that, so what they know is of no consequence."

DuBois passed them on his way to his seat behind them and nodded politely.

"Ann and Lady Meriwether helped take care of me after Radet...after what happened. They will more than counteract anything the local busybodies can say."

"I like them even more than I thought I did."

As everyone moved to their places, a tall, elegant, blonde woman entered the drawing room.

"Hell and damnation," Rafe hissed.

"Your mother!"

Lady Eleanor FitzHenry glided through the throng as a queen among her subjects. Several people nodded, none of which were returned, as the sea of people parted before her. She stopped in front of Rafael.

"I was told you were here. I understand you've felt yourself too good for London society this year."

Rafe said nothing, so Chiara introduced herself and dipped a curtsey.

"You do not have to curtsey to her, Chiara," he growled.

"Oh, but I always curtsey to my elders."

Lady FitzHenry looked at Chiara as if she had a bad smell. "Are you the reason my son is unavailable?"

"Unavailable?"

"My mother wants money, and I haven't been in town."

"Don't be any more crass than usual, Rafael. You are a gentleman now. Try not to act like the little barbarian you always were."

"If he is a barbarian," Chiara began sweetly, "he obviously comes by it honestly."

Eleanor FitzHenry raised her hand and started to swing.

Chiara blocked the blow with her arm, and Lady FitzHenry hissed in pain. "Don't do that," Chiara whispered as she shifted the arm down out of common view. "You might not like the results."

Rafael chuckled. "I can vouch for that." He took Chiara's arm and walked away. She could feel her mother-in-law's glare on her back. "Hasn't lost her touch. She always did like to cause a scene. My compliments, by the way."

Chiara looked sideways at him. "She practically told me she was going to hit me. It was too easy."

They found their seats among the whispers and stares.

Lady Meriwether obviously knew her social cues. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began from the front of the room. "Tonight you will be hearing four sonatas by Beethoven. Leo North will perform Opus 2, No. 2 in A major and Opus 27, No. 2, Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor, known as 'The Moonlight Sonata'. During the intermission there will be light refreshments across the hall. After that, Charles Welby will play Opus 10, No. 3, Sonata No. 7 in D major and Opus 31, No. 2, Sonata No. 17 in D minor, also known as 'The Tempest'. We hope you will enjoy the program."

The enthusiastic applause, Chiara's included, said a great deal about the audience's expectations of the program.

They met; one might think it by chance during the intermission. One of them did.

"You do not look pleased with FitzHenry's latest conquest."

"They are entirely too happy with each other."

"Indeed. If the look on his face is any indication, she may add another bastard to the family."

A cool look greeted that observation. "Neither of them deserves any happiness. She's a thorn in my side in more ways than one."

"A brazen hussy, indeed, with her belly sticking out like a Haymarket whore's."

A hum was the only reply.

"I will endeavor to rid you of her permanently. All you have to do is invite her for a carriage ride when I give the word. After that, you may leave the rest to me."

A nod and they parted.

Dusk settled around them as they drove home. "That was wonderful!" Chiara bubbled. "Those pianists were top notch. Lady M. always did have a knack for finding talented people. Her musicales are not to be missed."

Rafael looked over at her with a small smile on his face. "Absolutely." He held the curricle to a sedate pace, obviously not being in any hurry to end the evening.

"Did you know that 'The Moonlight Sonata' was named for the moonlight on Lake Lucerne in Italy? Oh, I love it." She began to hum snatches of the melody. "I have the music for it. I'll have to get it out. She didn't tell me what would be featured, the minx, or I would have been playing it."

"You play?"

"Indifferently, but I enjoy it. I like to listen more than play."

"You will have to play for me sometime."

"I told you. I do not play well, or for an audience. Ever." In the fading light, the straight line of her lips spoke of finality.

"We'll see."

They drove in silence for awhile. Then, she looked over at him. "Your mother was a surprise."

"And not a welcomed one. I would have re-thought my trip here if I knew she was anywhere in the neighborhood."

"I can't say as I blame you. She is not...maternal."

He snorted. "No. She has the morals of a cat in heat and the disposition of an asp. If you are wise, you'll stay away from her."

"I bow to your greater experience on that."

"Thought you might."

"Yet you give her money," she said quietly.

"Yes." He thought for a moment. "It keeps her out of my way, at least temporarily."

"Have you ever thought...no, it's none of my business."

"Go ahead and ask. If it's my business, it's your business."

She shook her head. At best, it was too soon for such intimacies. In any event, Stoneacre peeked out around the trees. It was not the time for a discussion of family now. Rafael slowed the curricle as it drew up to the front door. She waved to Sam Goode as he crossed to the rear of the house. A footman hurried to help her down.

"Thank you for escorting me, my lord. Perhaps I shall see you again before you leave."

It was dismissal, and he knew it. "Oh, you will. Lady Meriwether organized a trip to Hever Castle tomorrow. I told her I would pick you up in time for it. Ten o'clock."

With a frown, she opened her mouth to decline.

"You're not going to disappoint her, are you?"

He snapped the whip over the horses' heads and pulled the reins to turn out of the driveway. Chiara started up the steps.

The crash had her whipping around.

The left horse reared. One of the curricle's two large wheels spun across the gravel. Rafael rolled on the ground, clutching his left shoulder with a strangled curse.

### Chapter 19

"Rafael!" She ran down to the gig, followed by Lacey, the footman. Rafe rolled once and lay still, breathing heavily. She fell to her knees.

Sam Goode hurried up behind her. As Lacey moved to lift Rafael, Sam yelled, "No! Wait a moment!" He dropped to the ground. "My lord, can you move yer feet?" The shoes wiggled. "Yer hands?" The right fingers flexed easily, the left less so.

"Is it your shoulder?" Chiara asked. He nodded through clenched teeth. "Lift him so he can sit up," she instructed the men. "Careful!" Rafael's face whitened at the jarring. With gentle fingers, she examined the arm bone and the shoulder. "Shoulder separation. We need to get him into the house. Get Dunham out here."

"I can walk," Rafael growled through clenched teeth.

Chiara nodded to Lacey. He and Sam levered Rafael to his feet. Given the nature of the injury, Sam was superfluous. "I'll see to the gig, m'um."

"Thank you, and send a groom to Lady M. Get some of his clothes and tell her what happened. He'll stay here tonight."

"Right ye are, my lady."

The passage into the house took even more time than she thought it would. Once she had his coat and shirt cut off him, the swelling and bruising around his shoulder were evident. "We will need Dunham after all," she said to Lacey. "Quickly, and have Taylor bring bandages, water, and towels." The young man sped off. Rafael breathed though his teeth. "We'll get it back in, and you'll be a lot more comfortable." He nodded as Lacey barreled back in, followed closely by Dunham.

"Good. I need you to help me. Rafael, sit forward a bit." Dunham, several years younger than his co-worker, paled but stood his ground. She pointed at him. "Take him firmly around the rib cage, as close to his armpits as you can." He moved to grab Rafe. "Wait until I finish. Lacey I want you to hold him here," she pointed to his own arm, "and here at precisely this," she used her hand to make a line, "angle. When you are both positioned, I will say 'go.' Lacey will pull. Dunham, you will attempt to keep him where his is. Don't pull yourself. Understood?" Both men nodded. "Are you ready, Rafael?"

"Just do it."

Taylor slipped into the room with the supplies.

"Get into position. Ready? Go!"

Rafael let out a strangled cry, but she heard the small, distinctive pop of the arm bone slipping back into place. Taylor handed her a damp towel, and she wiped Rafael's sweat-streaked face.

"Can you move your arm, just the slightest bit?" He complied.

She looked at Taylor. "Let's start cold compresses on the shoulder before we bind it up. That will help with the swelling. Then we'll strap it to his body so he won't thrash it around during the night. Also mix me up four drops of laudanum in a glass of water."

"No laudanum." Rafe's voice sounded stronger, and his color looked better.

"It will ease the pain."

"I know what it will do. It will also make me woozy. No laudanum. Get me a large brandy."

"You both did very well." She nodded dismissal to Lacey. "Dunham, the brandy. Taylor, have a room prepared for his lordship." Dunham's cheeks flushed pink with pleasure as he poured a glass full of brandy.

"That's the thing," Rafael said as he took the glass in his good hand and tossed back the majority of its contents.

Sam Goode entered the room. "My lady, can I have a moment of yer time?"

"Not now, Sam."

"I'm afraid, now, my lady."

"Sam, what is it?"

"Jeffries and I were looking at the carriage. We found something. The thing is, m'um, it shouldn'ha come off."

"What do you mean?"

"He means," Rafael rumbled, "That I heard a faint snap as I turned."

"Aye, my lord. That's exactly what I mean. T'axle was sawn nearly 'alf way through."

"You mean someone sabotaged the gig!"

"Aye."

Sleep proved elusive for Chiara. After lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for what seemed like forever; she lit a candle and put on her wrapper and slippers. She added a few coals to the fire to chase off the worst of the winter's night chill and sat at the small desk in her chamber. The knowledge that the wheel had not come off accidentally disturbed her like few other things could. She could have been in the curricle, too, when the wheel fell off. Her hand cradled her belly in the age-old protective gesture of all pregnant women.

Someone sought to hurt or kill. The curricle belonged to Rafael, so he would be the first candidate for a target. The thought bothered her almost as much as the possibility of harm to her baby. She forced it aside in an act of will. Why Rafael? He only recently returned to the country from a clandestine mission, known to only a few. To the rest of the world, he had no connection to her and none to this part of England. No one here knew Rafael, particularly, so it was most likely a newcomer to the area. Some of the guests at the Meriwethers' might know him from London, but he'd mentioned no one especially. Except his mother. Was she capable of attempting to murder her own son?

From their brief acquaintance, Chiara had to say yes. Admittedly, that wasn't much to go on. Drawing a fresh paper to her, she decided she needed more information and dipped the quill in the ink pot. Uncle Geoffrey might know more about her mother-in-law.

She'd written the first line of the letter when Chiara heard something in the house. The sound was indistinct. She listened for a second and continued writing when she heard nothing else. There it sounded again. Chiara got up to investigate. She took her candle and went down the hall and down the stairs. Halfway down, she smelt the faint acrid smell of smoke. She hurried down.

"What's going on?" she shouted.

"Fire! There's a fire in the kitchen!" One of the young housemaids, Chiara thought.

He stood in his chamber with only a few walls separating him from Chiara, under the same roof. They would meet at breakfast like a normal married couple. He might kiss her good morning, a gentle husbandly kiss that could be remembering the night's delights or looking forward to the evening's. He might caress her gently rounding belly where their babe grew. The very thought of the commonplaces of married life, the casual intimacies had him hardening. "God's blood, I've got it bad," he muttered, looking down at himself, "if the mere though of breakfast together gets it up."

Shirtless because he'd removed the restrictive bindings, he began to gently exercise his injured left arm. Slowly, he moved it to the point of pain and then moved it in a different direction. As he found the limits of free motion, he gradually began to push them, working his arm up and back.

As he exercised, he though about his wife, only a few feet away. His flight out of Italy had been a desperate race to see her again, to repair the damage he'd wrought, and to reclaim what was his. Memories of his bitter-sweet wedding night raged sharp and pungent in his mind. Even in the midst of his fury, he still wanted her with a fierceness that overrode thoughts of disproved betrayal. After he rode from the beach, satisfied beyond his deserts that she was safely on her way to the _Swiftsure_ , only then did he have the leisure to contemplate the great wrong he'd done his beloved.

Wooing her a second time would be even harder than the first. A challenge, but he could handle challenges. Fate even handed him the first advantage. He was here.

He shook his head and crawled into bed, wishing briefly that his wife shared it with him. He left the candle burning and propped the pillows behind his shoulders, throwing his good arm in back of his neck as he sat there. The damage to his curricle was deliberate. He was the logical target. But why? Chiara could have been hurt or killed. The thought had him lowering his arm in shock. He shook away the sick feeling, and thanked God she hadn't been in the vehicle when the axle finally failed.

And why here and now? He didn't lack enemies, but why would any of them suddenly find the urge to kill him. After all, so few people even knew he was back in the country. Who was on that list? The number of individuals he'd seen made a very short tally. They, in turn, may have told servants, acquaintances, government functionaries... the list suddenly grew geometrically.

He began to work through the possibilities when he heard shouting.

"Get out!" Chiara ordered. "Warn the others!" The kitchen was on the main floor next to the kitchen staff's quarters.

"All right!"

"Then get out!"

Chiara ran back up the stairs, yelling as she went. "Fire! Fire! Get out of the house. Everybody out!"

Sleepy figures, still in their night clothes, caps askew on their heads, came down the stairs from the upper servants' quarters. "Betsy," she shouted to her maid, "Get everybody out!" She shooed them down the stairs.

"Taylor," she yelled. "Check that everybody's outside."

Rafael came out, clad only in his pants and boots.

"Get out!"

"After you!"

She did a quick mental count of those with bedrooms above stairs and followed them down towards the back with Rafe at her heels.

Once outside, she found Taylor. "Is everyone safe?" She could see flames in the ground floor window.

"Dunham has gone around the house to tally those in the front."

"Good. Let me know. We need to get a bucket brigade going."

"Lacey is already attending to that."

Dunham raced around from the left. Winded, he bent down. "Flora, Mary, Ethan, and Joe."

Taylor nodded. "That's everyone."

"Good, that's what's important." She jerked her head up. "Oh, my God!" She ran back into the house.

"Chiara, get back here!" Rafe shouted, but she ignored him. "Damnation, woman! What are you trying to do?"

Hoisting the skirts of her night gown, she pounded up the steps. The main hall already filled with smoke. Up the stairs she flew, Rafe barking at her heels. In her room, she headed straight to her dresser. Rafe caught her and yanked her back.

"We have to get out! Now"

She grabbed a small bag with an attached ribbon and stuffed it in the wrapper's pocket. "Yes, now!"

They headed down the hall. Both started coughing. Smoke, thicker than when they came up, filled the stairs. It rasped the back of her throat. Chiara saw bright flickers near the bottom of the steps. Rafe pushed her back, took a few steps down, and looked around. "We're not getting down that way." He coughed again. "Cover your face. Is there another staircase?"

She used the sleeve of her wrapper to filter out the worst of the smoke, but Rafe had nothing. "From here, no."

"Back to your room!" They closed the door on the worst of the smoke. He ran to the window and threw it open. Fresher air filled the room. "Come on! This is the only way." He waved her over.

"Rafe, I can't jump. The baby!"

"Damn, you're right." A wry grin spread on his face. "I'm barely used to thinking for two, let alone three."

Smoke crept under the door.

"The sheets!" She ripped the top sheet off the bed. "They're not long enough...ah!" She grabbed a letter opener off the desk and stabbed the sheet near one end. Ripping it to the edge, she handed one side to Rafael. "Pull." She handed her piece to him. "You're a sailor, knot it." Pulling the second sheet off the bed, she repeated the process.

Hanging the new rope out the window, he could see that it lacked about ten feet to the ground. "We need some more length."

"My lord!" Sam Goode yelled from the ground. "Tie it off and slide down!"

"It's too short! She'll fall!"

"I'll catch her!"

Smoke curled up under the door, making that wall a hazy phantasma.

Rafe pulled her over to the window. "Get out!"

"What about you?"

"I'll make it!"

"You'll have to tie it off!" She looked around for a place to secure the sheet rope. Her desk could be moved, but it was too fragile. The bed? Not even with the two of them. The remaining chairs and tables were all too light to hold his weight. Wildly, she searched the room as a fit of coughing gripped her. The antique armoire was close to the window, but flush to the floor, with no place to secure the rope. No place now! She grabbed the fireplace poker and smashed a hole in the side of the massive piece of furniture. Then she smashed a hole in the door.

"Tie off point!" She pointed to her handiwork.

"You're handy to have around."

"I'd rather not have my husband in small pieces on the ground."

"Chiara!" His eyes lit, and he pulled her close to kiss her passionately.

She pushed away. "Later. I promise."

"I'll hold you to that. Go! I'll hold it until you get down. That'll give you some more length."

Smoke rendered the door invisible.

She climbed over the sill. Her night gown rode up her legs.

"Come on, my lady. The whole house is engulfed."

A brief thought made her giggle. Modesty went out the window along with herself, especially with Sam down below. And they thought her pants were brazen!

Smoke poured out the window above her.

Hand over hand yielded to slipping as she left the sill. It was faster. Then there was nothing. She shrieked, but Sam's arm caught her.

"Are you all right?" Rafe yelled.

"Yes. Tie it off and get down here!" The fresh air felt wonderful.

"Yes, ma'am." They moved away from the drop site. He disappeared for a minute. Every second seemed like forever to her. Smoke billowed from the window. Finally his legs appeared over the sill, and he lowered himself down with a great deal more control than she did. With his arms extended from the end of the rope, the fall was fairly short. He let his knees buckle and landed in a crouch.

He stayed down, gulping huge breaths of clean air and cradling his injured arm. She ran over and knelt beside him, throwing her arms around him. "Rafe, Rafe!" He coughed then enfolded her. Lifting his head, he leaned his forehead on hers.

Sam touched her on the arm. "Come this way, m'lady. We need to get ye out of the cold. It's not good for the likes of ye." Rough blankets, not all that clean or sweet-smelling but warm, materialized around their shoulders by unknown hands.

"Thanks, Sam, but I need to help."

Rafael rose and pulled her up. "He's right. You need to get warm. I'll take care of this."

"But I need..."

"Remember the part about 'obey'? Now's the time. Go."

With Sam's arm around her waist, gently leading her to the stables, she didn't have a lot of choice.

In the end, nothing could save the house. The fire turned the wing above the kitchen into a pile of ashes. The other side, partially spared by the collapse of the Great Hall ceiling, smoldered pitiably but still stood.

Most of the servants found shelter in welcoming tenant cottages or in the stables. Under more usual circumstances, Chiara would have gone to Lady Meriwether's for shelter. The presence of the other Lady FitzHenry made that uncomfortable. Lacey, therefore, drove Betsy and Chiara to the Abernathy's. A none-too-happy Rafael took one of the horses and a groom's borrowed shirt back to the Meriwether's.

"Don't argue," Chiara told him. "Tonight we just need to rest and regroup. We have a lot of tomorrows to sort the rest out."

His arm functioned perfectly when he kissed her before mounting the horse. "Tomorrow, then."

Chiara felt sorry for Sam Goode, she really did. The look on his face put her in mind of a mouse that fell into a fox's den: afraid to move and afraid not to. He perched on the edge of one of the elegant chairs at the table in the salon where Mrs. Abernathy let them set up a sort of headquarters. He wrote a list of things to do on a wax slate in his careful, newly-learned letters. Chiara felt quite proud of him, actually. Before he arrived at Stoneacre, he didn't even know how to hold a pen.

"I'll have the house staff going through the house, soon as we're sure it's cool. They'll pull out what is salvageable, though I don't think there'll be much." Sam's mouth pulled almost hair thin.

Chiara double-checked her own list as she said, "I'll be over to help as soon as I finish here."

"Ye won't be setting so much as a toe inside that house."

Chiara's hear snapped up. "What?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Ye won't be wandering through the wreckage, my lady. Not in you condition, you won't. And I suspect his lordship'll back me up on this."

"What will I do?" Rafael swept off his top hat and stuck it under his arm as he strode into the parlor and over to Chiara's chair. After brazenly planting a kiss on her mouth, he looked at Sam who stood respectfully. "Well?"

Sam took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and said, "I just told Lady Chiara that she wasn't to set foot inside her house and that ye'd back me up on that."

"Absolutely." Sam let out the breath.

"Now see here, it's..."

"Not open to discussion." Rafael poured a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. He held up the pot to Sam who proffered his cup.

"Much obliged, my lord, much obliged."

Chiara watched the male solidarity with growing disgust. They reminded her of a pair of guard dogs, large, tail-wagging dogs capable of ferocious growls and fearsome bites.

Rafael perched his hip on the corner of the table. "There is one thing you need to be aware of. Last night, before I returned to the Meriwethers', they found a groom in one of the empty stalls with a mighty sore head."

"Oh no!"

"Mother of God!"

"Indeed."

"Do ye think it be connected to the wheel coming off?"

"Could be. I don't believe in coincidences." Rafael sipped his coffee.

Chiara looked from man to man. "If someone was trying to kill Rafael, killing a groom would be insignificant." The social structure of England being the way it was, that statement held a great deal of truth.

For several minutes, they contemplated the uncomfortable reality and its consequences.

"Rafe, who would hate you enough to want to kill you?"

"M'mother?"

"She may dislike you," Chiara refilled her coffee cup, "But that in itself isn't reason to try to kill you. Would she be any better off if you were dead?" He shook his head. "She's not a small woman, but even if she hated you enough, but I seriously doubt that physically she could notch the axle and bash a groom hard enough to knock him out."

Rafael rolled his coffee cup in his hands and contemplated her over its edge. "You could."

Sam, in the middle of taking a drink, nearly spewed his coffee.

Chiara looked at him repressively.

"Coming from his lordship, my lady, that's high praise. I just didn't expect it being said in a toff's parlor."

"Be that as it may..."

"Ye're right, though, Lady FitzHenry, the other Lady FitzHenry, couldn't. I'll find the menservants who came with her and see what they have to say, just to be sure, though."

"You know, just before the fire started, I was thinking of people who were new here, and your mother was on that list. I actually started a letter to my uncle seeking any information he had on her when I realized there was a problem in the house."

"Um, he might know something, perhaps some gossip."

Sam had a far-away look in his eyes. "My lord, you know there's one aspect of that incident we haven't considered. Lady Chiara was in the curricle with you." Two startled pairs of eyes faced him. "There's the possibility that she was the target." He scratched his chin. "Or both of you."

"Bloody hell," Rafe's eyebrow went up. "That settles it. Goode, you will arm yourself, and if Lady Chiara so much as sets foot outside the door, you will be there like her shadow! Understood?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Now see here, Rafael. You do not have the ordering of my servants."

Rafael held Sam's gaze with perfect man-to-man understanding. With a small grin, Sam pulled back his coat to reveal a knife in a shoulder holster under his left arm. "I've been carrying this ever since you got back." Rafael's eyebrow rose again but he remained silent. "I'll be taking care of things directly from here."

"I don't need..."

"Don't even think about trying to circumvent Mr. Goode."

"I can take care of myself!"

"Are you as fluid in self-defense as you were on the _Swiftsure_? Would you take the same risks as you did then?"

He was right, damn him, she thought, and slumped into a sulk.

"I thought not. Mr. Goode is protection for both of you." He pointed at her tummy. "Remember that."

"Very well," she said with ill-grace.

"Absolutely. Now, when are you leaving for London?"

"Leaving for London? Are you joking? I can't leave for London now! I have too much to do. I have to get the factory fully functional before spring, I have my house to rebuild, and on top of that, you've just reassigned my foreman for me, thank you."

"You're welcome. I want you in London, where I can keep an eye on you. There's been one attempt on your life, maybe two..."

"Two?"

"The fire."

"The fire was probably a kitchen accident. And the curricle wheel may be nothing to do with me."

"Nevertheless, you're going back to London!" He pulled out the chair next to her and slouched into it with the insouciant grace of someone who knew his rightness would prevail.

"No!"

"May I remind you, madam wife..."

"May I remind you, my lord, that you cannot prove that I am you wife?"

"Would you like me to tell you what you risked your life for when you went into a burning house?" His voice had the charming, sinuousness of a viper.

"My lord, my lady! I don't want to get in the middle of what is obviously a very private...uh discussion. However, I'm obliged to point out that, no matter who was the target of the sabotage, the list of possible suspects is smaller here than in London. Locals are known, and strangers stand out like turds on snow."

Rafael's laughter barked. "You're absolutely right, damn your eyes.

"I might add, my lord, that if only you are the target, announcing that Lady Chiara is your wife may actually put her in danger."

Rafe rested his elbow on the table and put his forehead in his hand as he shook his head. "A pox on you, Sam Goode, a pox on you!"

### Chapter 20

Lacey drove Sam Goode and Chiara to Stoneacre. Rafael rode alongside. The grey, lowering sky seemed to Chiara to be the perfect counterpoint for her first view of the corpse of her beloved home. She spared a thought for all the history and memories that now lay black and smoldering.

"Stop, please, Lacey." The carriage halted as Chiara took in the sight. From the distance, people scuttled around like field mice.

Rafael reined his horse beside her. "I'm so sorry, Chiara. It's terrible to lose your home."

"Yes," she sighed, "but at least no one was hurt. We can rebuild a house. We can't replace friends." She took a deep breath. "Let's go."

As they approached, people began to gather. Stable hands, tenants, and house staff crowded around the carriage. Sober faces looked up at Chiara. She heard a few sniffles. From the back of the group, a cry rose, loud and strident.

"Hush, ye nodcock, ye've nothing t'wail about." The sobs faded into whimpers.

Chiara stood up in the carriage. She looked out over the sea of faces. Most of them had been born at Stoneacre. Some of the families had been there as long or longer than hers. The fire was not just a personal tragedy for her. It was a monumental loss for the entire community. Part of their birthright, as much as hers, was gone forever.

"My friends," whatever murmur remained in the crowd ceased. "I want to thank you all for your help and support during this tragedy. I want you to bow your heads and say a silent prayer of thanks that no one was seriously hurt during the fire." Brown, blond, red, black, and white hair replaced the faces looking up at her. After a few moments, she said, "Now we need to look to the future. My first priority is not the house, it's the factory. I want it fully functional for the May berry harvest. Remember, you have a stake in this venture from both your labor and your investments. I'm looking forward to a profitable enterprise."

"Hear, hear!" came from the crowd, as well as applause.

"In the meantime, I'm going to have designs drawn up for the new house. As soon as they are finished we will begin construction. I suspect that there will be plenty of work to do in the next year or two. If you have friends or family looking for a job," applause and whoops burst from the crowd, "Mr. Jeffries will be supervising the factory construction from now on, and Mr. Kingston will be in charge of the house. Direct any workers to them. We'll also need people working the fruit." She looked at Sam. "Who can we...?"

"Charlie Waters, my lady. He's young, but he knows what he's about."

"Very well."

While Chiara laid out her plans and instructions to her newly-deputized foremen, Rafe strolled around the grounds. The acrid stench of burnt wood stung his nostrils. He remembered other fires, fires aboard ships where the smell of burnt flesh added a fillip that made you gag. Thank God the air was clear of that malodorous tang. He looked up at the sky. If his years on the quarterdeck were any gauge of his ability to read the weather, they were due for a storm. That would settle the worst of the ash and cool any remaining embers.

The gardens around the house lay trampled and broken. Some of the larger bushes and trees still stood, soot covered if not singed. He rather thought they looked like mourners at a funeral.

Even with the house still smoldering in places, workers pulled rubble out, piling partially burnt wood to the right, trash to the left and a pitifully small pile of salvaged items on a tarp in the middle. Rafe nudged a silver candlestick with the toe of his boot. His marvel was two-fold. First the silver survived the fire, second it survived looters. His lady's regard for her people obviously returned to her.

He glanced up to see two men trying to move a fallen board. The far man dropped his end with a yelp. Cradling his hands, he allowed his companion to lead him away. Chiara wasn't going to be happy about her people getting hurt in her service.

He spotted the butler and called him over. Handing Taylor a small pile of sovereigns, he said, "Men are getting hurt handling the debris. Have someone ride into town and purchase all the work gloves they have. I'll make up any difference."

"Very well, my lord," Taylor turned to wave someone over then turned back. "Thank you, sir. If I may be so bold, my lord, I believe that you will make a fitting lord for my lady."

Rafe bowed. "I'm honored." A young man ran up to Taylor who sent him on his errand.

Rafael examined the house. The west end still stood while the east side, where the kitchen was, collapsed to a pile of smoldering timbers. "Taylor, instead of attacking the house from the burnt end, let's get some ladders and a bucket hoist into one of the west windows. We'll cool off any hot spots from there. Maybe there'll be something we can save in there."

"Excellent idea, my lord. I'll see to it immediately."

Rafe shrugged his beige superfine coat off with some small difficulty. Cut by Weston, it fit without a wrinkle, like a second skin. Even with assistance, it came on and off about as easily. He smiled as he tossed it over a fairly clean bush. Jones, he thought, will keel haul me if the coat sustained damage. His valet upheld the adage that if you met a valet and his employer, the more top-lofty of the two should be the valet.

Some time later, he stood in an upper floor window's frame, hooking an empty bucket to the hoist rope. He looked down to see Taylor staring up at him, open-mouthed. Rafe grinned and waved. Taylor returned a weak salute. He shook his head as he walked away. Jones might arrive tonight. Rafe thought he'd be wise to burn the shirt and trousers before his man saw them.

The next time he went to the window to trade buckets, Taylor signaled him. "Lord and Lady Meriwether's barouche approaches, my lord."

When Rafael reached the ground, Taylor presented him with a damp towel and a dry one. After Rafe washed his face and hands, he tried to brush off the dust and soot with the dry towel. With great diffidence, Taylor moved to take the towel, "If I may, my lord?" He got off the worst of it, and the coat covered the grimy sleeves. When he finished with the boots, they wouldn't pass muster in a London drawing room, but then, he wasn't in a London drawing room, he was at the site of a house fire.

"I'd button your coat, my lord. It will conceal most of the soot on your shirt."

"You're a handy man to have around, Taylor."

"Just so, my lord."

Substantially cleaner, Rafe strolled around the house to greet his hostess.

The Meriwether's elegant, stately barouche slowed to a halt in front of Chiara. Dunham, none too clean, pulled his white gloves from his waistband under his jacket, to assist Lady Meriwether to alight.

"Oh my goodness, Chiara." She rushed to embrace her friend.

Lady FitzHenry's head poked out of the barouche's door. She wrinkled her nose before she gingerly accepted Dunham's hand. She pulled her skirts aside to avoid brushing his clothes.

Lord DuBois stepped down next. From the distance, Rafe thought he detected the trace of a smirk on the dandy's face. Though DuBois was a relation of James Simmons, Rafe couldn't help but harbor a growing antipathy for him. Dandies always made his skin itch.

Lord Meriwether got out last. He saw Rafe and sidled away from the rest of the barouche's passengers. "Sorry about the tag-alongs, FitzHenry. Tried to discourage them, but they insisted." He turned to the house. "Damn shame, Stoneacre burning like this."

Rafe watched his mother cover her nose with a delicately laced handkerchief. "Absolutely." He nodded as Lady FitzHenry approached.

"La, Lord Meriwether, come join us. We're getting a guided tour of the new Appertizing factory." She ignored Rafe.

"The what factory?"

Lady FitzHenry tapped him gently on the arm. "Why they put food in glass jars, of course."

"Oh, of course. Be right there."

She finally looked at her son. "You don't look fit for polite company, but then you so rarely did anyway." She strolled off.

Another vehicle came up the drive. Meriwether squinted for a moment. "Ah, our good Parson Underwood and his wife."

Rafe's eyes narrowed, and his jaw hardened.

"Don't worry. The Reverend Mr. Underwood minds his manners as long as I'm here."

"And when you're not?"

"Give me some proof. I've a young nephew who's just taken holy orders and is looking for a living. You may have met him the other night."

Rafael shook his head.

The parson and his wife didn't alight, but made fulsome greetings to Lady Meriwether and the others, the barest of civilities to Chiara. "We heard about your, um, misfortune. I came to see...if my services would be needed."

"Thankfully, Parson, no one was seriously injured or killed, but I appreciate your solicitude." Rafe could see that Chiara caught the hesitation in the parson's words.

"By God's mercy." His tone said he thought God misguided in the extreme. "I will bid you good day, then." He turned the cart and went back the way they came.

Meriwether snorted rather loudly. "Just as well he left. Now, the fire, do you know how it started?"

"No. We think it was in the kitchen area, though."

"Humph. Wouldn't be the first house fire started in a kitchen."

"Indeed, but coming on the heels of my curricle's wheel coming off, one has to wonder."

Meriwether's eyes narrowed. "You don't think that..."

"I'm thinking."

"Aye, I'll bet you are. Let me know if I can help. Any thing at all. We think very highly of Lady Key." He took a step toward the factory building, and then stopped. "Of you both." He stepped back to brush a bit of ash from Rafe's sleeve.

Lady Meriwether, engaged in a spirited conversation with Chiara, looked up as Rafael approached. "My lord, perhaps you can talk some sense into the stubborn chit."

He made an expression of mock horror. "Most merciful lady, I'd rather face Villeneuve with two corvettes and a fifth-rate frigate. But tell me how I can be of service to you."

"Be a good lad and convince her that she should come to our dinner party this evening. She still has to eat." She grabbed the brim of her hat as a playful breeze tried to send it sailing.

Chiara snickered, "Yes, be a good lad and try."

Lady Meriwether and Rafael smiled at each other with complete understanding. "She's right, you know. You may as well go and clear your head of smoke fumes."

"But I have, literally, nothing to wear."

Lady Meriwether frowned at her and lowered her voice as Mr. Jeffries walked toward them, looking through a sheaf of papers. "I know for a fact that dress you have on is Ann Abernathy's. It fits tolerably well. I also know that she and Roger have a previous engagement tonight with the Shavers. You have no excuses. I will expect you both at five." She walked off to join the others already on the tour.

Jeffries nodded to Chiara. "Um, my lady, um did you take one of the, um, factory drawings form the, um, work area?"

"No, why?"

"Um, one of them is missing. Perhaps it, um, blew off, or Mr. Goode was using it. I'll, um, check again. Not to, um, worry. I'm just, um, getting things sorted, um, out here."

A few raindrops plunked on the roof of the carriage as it pulled away from the Abernathy's house. Rafael moved close to her on the seat as he drew the carriage blanket over her knees. He lounged back and turned to look at her with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. The front of her dress peeked out from the enveloping winter cape. "I must say, my dear, that Mrs. Abernathy has done a splendid job of turning you out, especially on such short notice."

Much as Chiara loved Ann Abernathy, that lady tended to wear her dresses with a little more panache—as Chiara thought of it—than she could carry off. On Ann, the low cut neckline that seemed almost to meet the high waist of the pale green evening dress looked perfect. Pregnancy enlarged Chiara's breasts to the point that she feared they might fall out of the bodice. She wanted to put a fichu in the neck, but Ann vetoed that idea in the strongest of terms. "You wear it as it is or you go naked," her friend said. "Besides, with your newly improved bosom, it's perfect." Rafael seemed to agree with Ann, but then he was a man.

"Thank you. She's been an angel, but I'm sure she's already tired of me raiding her clothes press. I have the dressmaker coming in tomorrow. She knows my size and the styles I prefer, and she has some partially finished items for me to try on. Plus, some clothes are coming from London. I wrote to Lindsey Alder, too. She'd originally planned to come down tomorrow, but that's not possible. Much as I'd love to see her, I have no place to put her, and I certainly can't impose my guests on Ann. My man of business is coming down, too, but I can put him up in the inn."

"You've been busy this afternoon."

"I also sent word of this...mess to my brother."

"Your brother," Rafe winced.

"Yes, he should have whatever information my uncle has on Lady FitzHenry." She looked at Rafael and whispered, "I'm sorry, but she's an obvious..."

His hand sliced across his body. "Not a problem. Any family feelings on either side died a long time ago."

"I know, but..."

"No 'buts.' The only family I have is right here in this carriage." His eyes held hers, calm and serious despite the slight smile that played around his lips. He leaned towards her. "And I have very close..." A finger slowly traced down from the base of her throat. Chiara swallowed, and his smile grew to a grin. "...loving..." His finger stopped at the top of her gown. She couldn't breath. "...feelings for my..." He kissed the base of her throat. Her lips opened to draw air in on a long "ahh."

In a heartbeat, his mouth captured that small sound. At first, he sipped at her lips, small sips that teased and delighted her. With one hand pinned between him and the seat, she lifted the other and curved it around his head. Like tinder flaring under a spark, he wrapped her in his arms and deepened the kiss.

Over the long months alone, the months she thought herself widowed or simply abandoned, that bonfire kindled inside her in Italy felt like a funeral pyre. In self-preservation, she'd beaten it into ashes, leaving only the smallest scintilla to remind her of the love that created her child. That tiny ember now flared incandescent when he added his heat.

She struggled to pull him closer, to touch and be touched.

The drone of the wheels on the dirt road changed abruptly to the crunch of gravel. With a groan, he pulled away. With a wry smile, he reached up to tweak a curl back into place. She likewise smoothed back the disorder in his hair. As the carriage drove under the _porte cochere,_ they looked almost presentable, except for a sparkle in their eyes that only the discerning might see.

The dinner guests gathered in the drawing room. Not a large party, it consisted mainly of the houseguests and Chiara. Two couples stood talking to Lady FitzHenry. Chiara knew them slightly and bowed to them when she and Rafe entered. Lady FitzHenry ignored them. Lord DuBois sat talking to the Underwood's.

"Mistress Pollinger promised me some 'plain but serviceable' dresses tomorrow," Chiara told Lady Meriwether as they awaited the summons to dinner.

"She's a good soul. I have her make all my staff uniforms, but I can't say she sews much for me." Lady Meriwether excused herself to speak to a waiting servant.

Felicity Lowell came up to offer her condolences to Chiara on the loss of her house. Her mother looked on from a short distance, obviously pleased with the new, elevated connections her daughter made.

The young man from the musicale approached the three of them. Miss Lowell smiled and blushed.

Rafael looked at her. "Would you do the honors, Miss Felicity?"

"Of course."

"He's a nobody who hardly needs to be introduced, let alone be in the company of his betters."

"Mrs. Lowell!" burst from Chiara.

"On the contrary," Rafael's eyebrow went up and his voice took on a chill that Chiara remembered all too well. "Mr....." He looked at Felicity who answered "Day." "Mr. Day seems like an unexceptional young man. Plus, if he is a connection to the Meriwethers," he nodded at young Mr. Day, "I suspect that he is not simply unexceptional, but is, in fact, an excellent catch for the parents of any young lady who wish to see to her future happiness as opposed to using her marriage to fatten their own pockets."

Mrs. Lowell sputtered as Lady Meriwether, on the arm of her husband, rejoined the group. "There you are Quentin. I was hoping you'd make it. You all know my nephew? He's recently been ordained, and we are most proud of him."

"Yes," Lord Meriwether looked pointedly at the Lowell's, "a few years of seasoning, and we'll be looking into several avenues of advancement in the Church for our young man."

The butler announced dinner, and the group moved into the dining room. The new Reverend Mr. Day stopped Rafe as he offered his arm to Chiara. "May I speak with you, sir, alone if you please, my lady?"

"Anything you wish to say to me can be said to her."

Mr. Day swallowed. "As you wish, my lord." He swallowed again. "I want to thank you for your defense of me to Mr. and Mrs. Lowell. Felicity, ah, Miss Felicity and I, that is, we would like, I mean, I would like..."

"I understand. Your chances may have just improved."

"Yes, thank you. But that isn't all I wanted to say to you. I...I'm the one who scored the axle of your curricle."

Rafe didn't look terribly surprised, Chiara thought. She was, however. "Why did you do it, Mr. Day?"

"I was...I was..."

"Jealous?" Rafe asked quietly. When Day nodded, Rafe turned to Chiara. "The Lowells have been rather relentlessly pushing their daughter at me."

"Yes," Day said. "I had the impression that you were beginning to take them seriously."

"I understand," Rafe said. "However, do you realize that Lady Chiara was in the vehicle with me?"

Mr. Day paled. "I didn't think. I'm sorry, my lady."

She nodded and looked at Rafael. His expression, however, gave her a moment's pity for the young midshipmen and lieutenants on his long-ago ship. "And the groom?" he asked.

Day studied his shoes. "He rushed at me with a...a thing in his hand. I thought he was going to brain me. I pushed him, and he fell against the wall." He scuffed his toe around. "He was just doing his job. It was wrong of me from start to finish."

"Yes, it was." He studied the young man. "You will apologize to the groom. You will also present him with very generous reparation for his injury. I will feel myself compensated with that."

Hope and gratitude shown in Day's eyes. "Than you, my lord. I won't disappoint you."

"See that you don't. One more thing. Why?"

Day didn't pretend to misunderstand. "The Lowells said you were going to marry Felicity, one way or another. I just wanted to embarrass you, to get you out of the way, even for a while, so I could convince Felicity to accept my offer. She's afraid of her parents and a little fascinated by you. I just wanted a chance."

Rafael nodded.

Lord Meriwether poked his head around the door frame, a quizzical expression on his face.

"My apologies," Rafael said. "We're coming."

"I can understand his concern," Chiara whispered. She laid her hand on Rafe's proffered arm.

Chiara sometimes thought Barbara Meriwether concealed an evil genius beneath her grey curls and cherubic face. Felicity sat across from Chiara, with Mr. Day between her and Lady Meriwether at the end of the table. Lord DuBois sat on one side of her and Mr. Pansy, no Parsley, sat on the other. It was a smaller group than might have been expected because Lady FitzHenry dined with friends and Mr. Pomfrey kept to his sick bed. Mr. Pan...Parsley had about as much conversation as his namesake, unless the subject was horses. She wondered briefly if Lady Meriwether had lost her touch in selecting guests for a house party. She looked down the table at Rafe. He seemed to know her thoughts because he smothered a smile and turned to speak to Mrs. Pan...Parsley.

Mercifully, Chiara thought, hunger replaced conversation through the soup, which was just as well. Barbara's chef always did have a delightfully light hand with soups. During the red mullet with Cardinal sauce and well into the roast saddle of mutton, horses dominated the conversation.

Although she knew it was rude, Chiara turned most of Lord DuBois's conversation gambits aside with single word answers. She even made a great to-do over the beets rather than talk to him. She detested beets. For the rest of the dinner, she incited Mr. Pa...rsley to declaim on his favorite subject. The fruit and the meringues à la crème might as well have been hay-flavored.

From across the table, Felicity caught her eyes. "Did you ever find out how the fire in your house started?"

"Yes." Conversation around the table ceased. "My butler found that a kitchen maid, prostrate with tears now, took her candle and went to the kitchen for a drink. She set her taper on the table while she got a glass, and the candle fell into the grease bucket under the table. In her panic, she kicked the bucket across the stone floor where it splashed the wood for the stove. That and the grease flashed, sending flames through the kitchen. Cook and some others have rooms there." She took a deep breath. "They were lucky to get out."

"Your household is extremely lucky," said Lord Meriwether from the end of the table. Chiara just nodded and conversation around the table turned to fires they had known.

Just as the ladies headed for the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and cigars, a footman went to answer the door. Lindsey and James, trailed by Lindsey's maid, made their apologies to Lady Meriwether for the hour. Barbara told them not to be nodcocks.

Lindsey gravitated to Chiara. "I didn't want you to come down to this mess."

"I had to come. We had to come." She grasped Chiara's hands. "Jamesaskedmetomarryhim andIsaidyes."

Chiara blinked a couple of times. "That's wonderful, I guess. However, my first thought is that you are the victim of some mesmerist."

James laughed. "I can assure you that the only one under a spell is me, and Miss Alder cast it." He picked up his fiancée's hand and kissed her fingers. "I am absolutely delighted to be thus enchanted."

FitzHenry joined them. "Caught at last, my lad?" James nodded happily.

"Well," Chiara began thoughtfully, "if you know what's good for you, you will ensure that Lindsey never has a moment of grief because of you. FitzHenry can tell you that I'm quite capable of making your life miserable or simply very short."

James laughed a bit nervously and looked at his friend. Rafael nodded rather sagely, and James quickly developed a sickly expression. Chiara continued, "Do your level best to make Lindsey happy, and I can be a very good friend."

Lady Meriwether sent James and Rafael with the gentlemen and sheparded Lindsey to the drawing room with the promise of trays to come.

"What is happening here? A fire, a real fire, not just a story?" Lindsey demanded. Chiara nodded. "And what's this about you and Lord..."

"Shush!" She checked for nearby ears. "I'll tell you everything later, not here. Everyone's all right but the house is half gone. Kitchen fire."

"Oh, Chiara!"

Mrs. Pa...rsley joined them, and the conversation turned to the weather.

Shortly after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, another guest arrived, David Brownlee. Between hugs and kisses, he explained to his sister that her maid and some clothes followed tomorrow. "What the devil happened to your house?"

Chiara's eyelids began to drop, but she placated her brother.

Turning to her hostess, Chiara whispered, "Barbara, I'm exhausted."

"I know, my dear, I won't keep you." Rafe escorted them downstairs when the sky opened with a mighty crash.

In the empty foyer, Barbara Meriwether, mother and grandmother, looked at the one dinner guest who had to travel to her bed. "You're not leaving."

"You know I can't stay here." Rafael, standing a few feet away, wisely kept his mouth shut.

"And why not?"

Chiara just looked at her. "For one thing, you don't have any more rooms."

Her hostess glanced at the dark man nearby. "Somehow, I don't think that's going to be a problem."

"But, Barbara..."

"You're very kind, Lady Meriwether." Chiara could almost see his wisdom evaporate. "Let me assure you," his voice dropped, "that it is all perfectly legal, although for reasons I can't explain, we're not announcing it."

Barbara looked at Chiara's stomach, "And a good thing it is. Don't wait too long, or you'll be sending out birth announcements and wedding announcements at the same time." She hugged her friend. "I'll send up a night rail for you." She took a step, then turned with a twinkle in here eyes, "On second thought, you probably don't need one."

Rafael took a quick look around and stepped close to his wife. "I never asked if you wanted to. I can still get you back to Mrs. Abernathy's if you wish."

"Do you want me to go?"

"You might as well ask if I want my right arm cut off!"

"Do you think we can get up there discretely?"

"Where is the servants' stairs?"

"Only you would think of that." She led the way, checking for other traffic. They made it to his chamber undetected, and he closed with door with a quiet, but decisive, snick.

The fire flickered merrily. Chiara had once stayed in one of the Meriwethers' guestrooms. They were large enough to be comfortable but small enough to heat efficiently. In the dim light, she couldn't quite make out the décor, but she knew it would be tasteful. A painting of the local landscape always graced one wall. The curtained bed along the inside wall would be comfortable.

With the door closed behind him, he stood there watching her as he shrugged out of his jacket. "Remember the wedding dinner at Luciano and Catarina's?"

She nodded. "Quite a different menu from this evening. How many different bottles of wine did they pour?" She laughed. "I love Barbara, but she has a generous hand with the wine."

"I still remember that simple Chianti with great fondness."

"I think we just had our real wedding dinner, only none of the other guests knew it."

He walked to her, put his arms gently around her waist, and laid his forehead on hers. "I think you're right. What are the chances I can get through this night without making a complete arse of myself?"

"You didn't make an arse of yourself; you just...didn't have all the facts."

"What did I do to deserve you?"

She caressed his cheek. "You bought gloves for my workmen."

He shrugged. "Small thing."

"Not from where I stand, it isn't." Her arms looped around his neck.

"Well, let's see if I can continue my high standing with you and exchange dark, old memories for bright, new ones." Pulling the pins from her hair, he let them fall on the carpet. There weren't many pins, but then there was only the faintest tinge of brown dye left at the tips of the short, honey-blonde strands. "Are you going to let it grow long?" He threaded his fingers through the hand's breath length. "I've recently developed a fondness for blonde hair."

"Well, that's wonderful, since I know a blonde who has this fairly new-found passion for black hair." She pulled his forelock down. His head followed the gentle pull. He kissed her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips.

Her mouth blossomed open under his tender urgings. His tongue caressed hers, then teased the tip and pulled back. Wanting more of that velvety caress, she used her lips to urge his mouth open. She could feel his arousal pressing into her belly. He groaned. With his mouth never leaving hers, he whirled her waltz-like, swaying and turning toward the bed. "There are times when I truly envy your maid's job." Long, capable fingers started work on the buttons at the top and worked their way down. He brushed the gown from her shoulders and stepped away just enough to let it fall.

Her fine lawn chemise acquiesced to the demands of Ann Abernathy's dress. As a result, it skimmed the tips of Chiara's breasts. She smiled and lifted her hand to untie the lacing. His hand stopped her and drew hers to her side. He tilted his head to study her. Cupping her breasts through the material, he teased the already taut nipples. "While I didn't have any complaints before, they seem bigger than I remember."

"Babies do that to a woman."

A splash of icy water couldn't have thrown him back any faster. He stepped back and flexed his hands, his face gaunt and a little white under his usual color. "The baby! I forgot! I don't want to hurt it." His mouth opened and closed, rather like a fish, and his eyes looked a bit frantic.

Chiara stepped close, so close that their bodies touched from the shoulders down. She had a pretty good idea of what he felt through his shirt. Smiling as she reached up to loosen his cravat, she said, "I'm pregnant, not ill. You're not going to hurt the baby. It has its own cozy cocoon." He gulped and grinned and wrapped his arms around her. "That's not to say you don't get to enjoy the virtues of celibacy the months before and after the baby's born."

He slowly knocked his forehead against hers. "There's a price to pay for everything. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, though, we have more interesting things to do." He bent his head and licked the hard berries through the thin material. Chiara gasped as the sensation skittered down to her belly. "I rather like this. I may just have to work hard to keep you pregnant."

She snorted. "Why don't you try being pregnant next time?"

"No, you look cute with a tummy. I'd just be fat."

"Hum, let's see." She reached up and undid the first button. He stood stock still under her fingers as they crept their busy way down his shirt. With the job finished, she put her hands on his chest and spread the open shirt. He took a deep breath. The crisp hair and the flat male nipples fascinated her. She worked her hands down to his belly. Strange, she'd never thought of a stomach as being muscled until now. It felt wonderful.

"I think I've created a monster."

"Do you object?"

"Absolutely not. However, why don't we move over here to discuss the situation further?" He moved her back towards the bed. "And I think for maximum communication, we need to..."

A soft knock on the door stopped him. "Bloody Hell! Who's that? You wait here, out of sight. I'll get rid of them quick enough."

He strode to the door and wrenched it open. "Whatever it is..."

"Good evening, my lord. I...I though you might like some company this evening."

### Chapter 21

Chiara ducked behind the bed hangings as Rafe strode to the door. With any luck, she thought, he'd send the visitor off with a flea in the ear. She wanted, no needed, him back her arms. Peeking through a gap in the heavy material, she saw that Felicity Lowell stood there bold as brass in a wrapper and without a nightcap. Well, maybe not exactly bold as brass. The young woman seemed intent on studying her toes. Something strange was going on here, and it told Chiara that Felicity didn't play a totally willing part in this drama.

Then Felicity looked up. Chiara could almost see the drool forming in Felicity's mouth at the sight of Rafe with his shirt unbuttoned and pulled out. And his trousers, Chiara didn't want to think about what they looked like. Any pity for Felicity that might have been welling up dried on the instant. That was her exclusive territory for drooling!

Chiara gathered herself to go and slap that little would-be light-skirt all the way to Scotland when Rafe said, "Miss Lowell, you do not belong here, now or at any other time." With his feet braced and his hands on his hips, she knew he looked formidable.

She dared another look through the curtain. Felicity walked in the room with a smirk on her face. She reached back to close the door and leaned against it. "Oh, but I think I do."

"Felicity, open the door now."

"But it's so much cozier with it closed."

A violent pounding sounded on the door. Rafe crossed his arms over his chest and gave his head a small shake. "Now you can open the door."

As Felicity reached for the handle, the door popped open. No surprise! Mr. and Mrs. Lowell stood there, fully dressed with outrage on their faces.

"What is the meaning of this outrage, FitzHenry? I didn't take you for one to debauch innocent young girls, but there you are. You will arrange for the nuptials immediately, or I will blacken your name throughout Society!"

This play had rapidly degenerated into comedy. Chiara pushed on the bed to get up. Under her hands, some maid had thoughtfully placed a dressing gown for Rafe. She put it on. Felicity began to cry, long, blubbering sobs. Mrs. Lowell declaimed over her ruined daughter, and Mr. Lowell demanded satisfaction. The highest possible volume served for all comments. Some small sprite told Chiara not to show her hand, that is herself, just yet. She looked out again.

From the hall, someone bellowed, "What, ho? Who's doing all this caterwauling?"

Lord Meriwether pushed his way through the growing crowd and into the room. "What's going on here?"

Rafe looked at him with a disgusted look on his face. "Close the door, please." With the crowd outside, he continued, "I believe that Mr. and Mrs. Lowell are trying to force me into offering for their daughter."

"Not at all!"

"You lying blackguard!"

Rafe took a step and silenced them both with a stare. "Miss Lowell knocked on my door and pushed her way in. Not a minute later, her parents did likewise."

"Lying bastard! We found him trying to seduce our daughter!"

"While I'm not going to argue with 'bastard,' I do take exception to the rest of that statement."

"You see him here," Mrs. Lowell screeched. "Look how he's dressed. He has my poor innocent babe in his clutches."

Meriwether looked at the group. "Miss Lowell, can you tell me what happened?"

Felicity gulped and glanced at her parents. "Lord FitzHenry came to my room and..."

Enough, Chiara thought. She stepped out from the shadow of the bed. "Felicity," she said softly.

All heads except Rafael's turned towards her. Felicity burst into real tears and rushed to the succor of the nearest chest, Rafe's. His arms still across his chest, he pushed her off. She turned and blindly found her mother.

"You beast!" Mrs. Lowell hissed.

Chiara pulled the dressing gown a little closer and reached down to gather up the hem. "I think, Mrs. Lowell, that Rafael is the one real innocent in this little skit you've concocted. Felicity will be the one to suffer, however. A goodly number of ears have been flapping outside that door since you so unceremoniously raised the curtain of your little play."

She turned to Lord Meriwether, "My lord, will you clear the hall and fetch Mr. Day here."

Before he could move, Mrs. Lowell screeched, "How dare you? She's been forbidden to see him, I don't care who he's connected to!"

"Given that you have effectively ruined her reputation yourselves, if Mr. Day is amenable, I think this would be a perfect solution for everyone. I think you can depend on Lord Meriwether to lend his countenance to Mr. Day's advancement in the Church. Who knows? Your daughter might be wife of an archbishop some day."

Felicity sniffed. "Mama? Please?"

Meriwether looked thunderous. Rafe looked as malleable as a block of marble. Mr. Lowell worked his jaw, obviously weighing the advantages of compliance with the disadvantages of irritating several powerful members of Society. "Very well."

Meriwether left to fulfill his charge. Silence filled the room until he returned with Quentin Day in tow.

The young man took a long look at the cast of characters he stumbled into. "Ladies, gentlemen." He sketched a small bow as elegantly as possible without cravat, hair in disarray, and a jacket slightly askew. Chiara gave him credit for composure. "How can I be of service?" He watched Felicity, as if sensing that, somehow, she stood at the center of this unlikely farce.

"Mr. Day," Rafe began, "A short while ago, Miss Felicity came to my room with the obvious purpose of dalliance."

Mrs. Lowell screeched, "How dare you?"

"He does have a witness," Meriwether commented, inspecting his fingernails.

"That whore?"

Meriwether put out his hand to stop Rafael's charge. "Mrs. Lowell, Lady FitzHenry," he emphasized the words as he glanced pointedly at Rafael, "is unimpeachable."

"Lady FitzHenry?" Mrs. Lowell looked like she was going to faint.

"Yes," Rafe growled, "and for reasons of state, you will keep silent on that piece of information. Failure to do so may see you facing charges." His glower encompassed the group.

"As I was saying," Rafael continued, "this final desperate attempt to throw Felicity in my path failed. You wanted it a public performance, and you got it. Option one is obviously closed. Even if I was not married, I would not offer for Miss Felicity. Option two is that you give your acceptance to Mr. Day's suit and make plans for a spring wedding. I would recommend that you publish it as a love match that has your every blessing. The third option is for me to show the lot of you out the door and let the gossips maul Miss Felicity's reputation to the point that a stable hand might think twice about marrying her. Choose."

Mr. Lowell heaved a sigh, "Very well."

Rafael looked at the two young people. "Is this acceptable to you?"

Quentin faced Felicity, hope and uncertainty written on his countenance. "Felicity, nothing could make me happier."

"Oh, yes!" She threw herself into his arms.

"I swear I'll make you happy," he promised into her hair.

Rafe cleared his throat.

Day took a step back from his beloved, a silly grin on his face. He turned to the Lowell's. "I would like to request the honor of Miss Felicity's hand in marriage." His tone was formal. "I promise you I'll spend the rest of my life making her happy. I will do my best for her and love her forever."

Mrs. Lowell began to sniffle, and her husband cleared his throat. "Well, yes." Day extended his hand. With a quick glance at Rafael and Meriwether, Mr. Lowell took it.

Quentin's uncle looked at the future father-in-law. "You could do a lot worse than that for Felicity, and you know it."

"Very good," Rafe crossed to the door but didn't open it. "Since there are probably still people in the hall, I recommend that you all go out with smiles on your faces and whisper the news of the betrothal to the other guests. And remember, not a word about Chiara and me." He opened the door and patted the backs of the men as everyone left.

"Reasons of state?" Chiara snickered.

The furor of voices outside muffled his snort of laughter. "It worked." She shrugged. "Might as well play this farce to the hilt."

"Ah, no. Comedy, I think." He cocked his head and looked at her. "In a comedy, the boy gets the girl he loves."

"Absolutely. Is the boy going to get the girl is our little comedy?"

"Absolutely, but we may have to hurry before the next interruption," she giggled as she opened her arms and went to him. He met her half-way and picked her up, cradling her in his arms.

"Heaven help anyone with the temerity to knock on that door." He set her down next to the bed and slipped the robe off her shoulders. She watched his glance sweep over her.

"I wanted this perfect for you," his expression was rueful.

"Just shows you that you don't always get what you want."

"Oh, I don't know that perfection is unattainable, just delayed a bit."

"Yes, after all, every good play needs a bit of humor in it."

"Well, this is the part that is generally off-stage. But since this is our own private play, it's center stage." He framed her face with his hands and brushed her lips with a soft, warm breeze of a kiss.

It teased and tantalized her, reawakening desire. Wanting more, her arms reached around him, contending with his shirt to reach the warm skin of his back.

Her hands began to explore the hard places of his back when he jerked away. Bereft, her glance shot up to his face. What was wrong?

Twisting violently, he ripped the shirt off and tossed it away. She smiled and closed the gap between them. Instead of his back, her fingers explored his chest. The coarse, black hair sprinkling his chest fascinated her. She ran her fingers through it until she reached the flat, male nipples. Her fingers circled them, then explored the hard nub in the center: how like hers and yet how different. The texture fascinated her. The freedom to explore his body entranced her.

Suddenly, he grabbed her hands. "Enough, my love, else you'll have me begging for mercy." He lifted her hands to his mouth.

"Sounds like a delightful dilemma." She slipped from his grasp to make a close study of the ridged expanse of his stomach.

He sucked air and gasped, "Two can play at this game." He bent and found the thinly veiled tips of her breasts. His tongue circled the tips of her breast as her fingers had him. Round and round it tasted and teased. He turned his attention to its twin. Chiara felt her breasts swell and her body arched towards him, willing him to taste more. When his mouth closed around the tight nub, she though she'd explode with delight and pleasure.

He drew back to examine the damp marks of his tasting. She glanced down to see her pregnancy-engorged breasts and nipples straining against the gossamer fabric. His thumb flicked over the sensitized flesh. It was like a jolt from an electricity machine. She caught her breath and sank her fingers into his belly.

"Ah! The little cat has claws!" He drew her hands up to kiss them then spread them to her sides. He reached for the lacing of her chemise and tugged it loose. The slightest wiggle of her shoulders sent it slithering to the floor.

Around her waist, a thin ribbon held a flat pocket close to her body. "What's this?" He fingered the small pouch. He untied the pocket from her waist and opened it. First he took out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he scanned it, nodded, and refolded it. Then he removed a green ribbon. "The fair at Cesena." She nodded. Up-ending the pouch, a simple gold ring dropped in his hand. He held it up with two fingers. "I don't think just putting this back where it belongs is going to be very effective just now." He replaced the items and pushed the bag under a pillow.

"I used to put it on only at night, but I always have it with me."

"How long were you going to put me through hell?"

"Honestly, I don't know. I wasn't sure if I wanted to say anything at all until after I knew if you were dead."

He took a deep breath. "I can't say I blame you, but I will forever be grateful you changed your mind."

Reverently, he lifted her breasts in his hands. He bent his head and fell to suckling like a starving man at a banquet. Wanting to give more, she pulled his head closer. Without letting go of his prize, he lifted her as carefully as he might his new-born babe and again settled her in the bed. He knelt on the bed near her knees.

Unfastening an embroidered garter ribbon, he wrapped his hands around her thigh and rolled the silk stocking down as he caressed her leg. When he reached her foot, he tossed the stocking aside. He gently nibbled on each of her toes as he massaged her foot.

"Mother Mary! I'll keep you around if only for that," she breathed.

"I endeavor to make myself useful." He repeated the process on the other leg. Chiara wondered how feet could be so erotic.

"Come here," she demanded. "You're too far away, and you have too many clothes on." She leaned over to draw him to her, but he captured her hands. Scooting over, he nudged her legs apart and nestled between her knees.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Let go."

"Oh no, my dear. This time is just for you." He pushed her hands under her hips, locking them together in his left hand. Fingertips traced a meandering path down her left hip to her knee and back. Flutters of delight skittered up and down her leg.

She drew in a breath. "I think you missed your calling, FitzHenry. If you'd gone into interrogation instead of espionage, you'd have every female spy in Europe begging to tell you her secrets."

"There's only one lady spy I'm interested in and only one thing I want her to tell me." He nuzzled the curls at the apex of her legs.

"Rafael!"

"That's a start." His nimble fingers spread the petals guarding the core of her femininity.

"What are you doing?" Heat pooled low in her belly.

"Not quite the response I want from you." He eased one finger into her, then two then his thumb began a rhythmic caress. Chiara could feel the exquisitely sensitive nub emerge from its nest. Every fiber of her body converged at that point. "Ah!"

"Better, but still some to go." He bent his head and replaced his fingers with his tongue.

The sun and all the stars converged on the bit of flesh he caressed and tasted. The most lambent of grazes, they had her twisting and arching into his mouth. The explosion of those luminaries forced a strangled shriek from her.

When he surged up her body, she saw his taut features and intense eyes, midnight black in the firelight. "Oh, God, Rafe!"

He rolled off her and stripped off his pants. Surging back over her, he braced himself on the bed with his hands. She could feel his erection pressing without weight into her belly. His eyes held hers as he hesitated, as though he waited for some sign. She reached up to loop her hands around his neck and thread her fingers in his hair. "Yes" came out on a breath.

With a groan, he thrust into her then stopped. She felt the faint tremor in his arms and knew he again sought reassurance. Her fingers slipped down his back, and the small claws dimpled his skin. His mouth found hers, violent and gentle, claiming and bestowing. Even withdrawing from her warm, damp passage triggered the delicious friction. He set up a passionate cadence. Her body tightened, straining towards the promised ecstasy.

Just as her body tumbled into that glittering climax, she tried to speak, but his mouth and the tumult of her own body swallowed the words. Her body contracted around him, small delicate shivers. With his own inarticulate words, he shuttered to completeness.

He rolled off her to his side. After a few moments with the only sounds their lungs straining to pull in air, he ran a finger down her cheek. "What did you just say?"

For a moment, she just laid there, eyes closed. "I love you."

With one finger, he tilted her face towards him. "I'm glad, because I would really hate to be in love alone."

A knock at the door sent him bolt upright. Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains. Getting his bearings, he gazed down at his slowly awakening wife. His wife. The knock sounded again. "One moment." Grabbing the dressing gown Chiara made use of last night, he went to the door.

A maid curtseyed and handed him a rather large, wrapped package. "Lady Meriwether sent this with instructions that it be delivered first thing, my lord."

"What is it?"

"I don't know, my lord. She just said to bring it by." She curtseyed and went off down the hall.

Chiara wrapped the blankets around her as he closed the door. "Birrr!"

He dropped the package on the bed and went over to build up the fire. "Open it up."

Chiara stripped the string and linen towel off to find a set of women's clothes. "God bless Barbara. It seems that I am to be clothed by every lady in the neighborhood." Below that, and still slightly damp, lay her shawl, the one she'd started in Italy.

"I found that in the house. It wasn't damaged, but it smelled of smoke, so I had Lady Meriwether wash it."

"Oh my!"

They arrived at breakfast to the news of Quentin and Felicity's engagement and the Lowell's morning departure to the City to begin preparations for the grand spring wedding. Lindsey, usually the latest of risers, amended her habits in order to hear the latest _on dit_ generated by the hubbub last night. As soon as Lindsey had broken her fast, Chiara dragged her friend up from the table.

She smiled as she watched Lindsey delicately pat her mouth to hide her yawn. Chiara knew her friend found country hours an abomination. Not only were they up, with the sun only just over the tree tops, but they were walking—walking—in the Meriwethers' garden, a small gem designed by "Capability" Brown, himself. Although heavy clouds sat over the western horizon, the prior storm had left during the night, leaving a searingly clear, crisp day. Raindrops still glistened on the leaves, and Chiara and Lindsey had to skirt a few puddles.

"So when did he ask you? I mean when we left, you two were sworn enemies," Chiara demanded.

"Three days ago! And I know. When the two of you left all of a sudden like that, we figured that something important was going on."

Chiara looked sideways at her friend.

"Well, you have disappeared like that before, with no word of explanation even after you came back. James noticed it, too. A fire, you said!" She looked daggers at her friend and shook her finger. "Anyway, you both disappeared at the same time and in the same fashion, and we, well, we started to commiserate with each other on the hopefully temporary loss of our friends. We began talking. He's really quite nice, you know." Chiara smiled as Lindsey rather self-consciously wound down. "I'm babbling, but I'm so happy!"

Wrapping her friend in a hug, Chiara said, "I'm delighted for you. Rafael likes him, so he must be a good man. You deserve a good man."

"Speaking of, what's going on with FitzHenry?"

"Well," Chiara drawled, "what I can say is that this baby," she patted her burgeoning tummy, "is quite legitimate." Lindsey squealed and hugged her. "We haven't told the families yet, so don't say anything." They turned back towards the house.

"Oh, I would love to know how this came about."

Chiara gave her what she hoped was a repressive look.

"Oh, James and I may have been snarling at each other, but you two looked ready to come to blows."

Chiara looked into the distance. "Well, it did come to that once or twice."

"Did he hurt you?" Lindsey sounded scandalized.

Chiara couldn't resist. "Who says he won?" They approached the back steps of Squerryes Court.

Before Lindsey could demand an explanation, a voice called down to them.

"La, Lady Chiara. I've been looking for you." Lady FitzHenry stood at the top of the steps looking exceptionally animated. A midnight blue velvet cape covered her from head to toe, with the hood folded down to reveal the ice blonde of her hair. She was actually smiling.

Chiara blinked. Lady FitzHenry had just said more cordial words to her in the last seconds than she had the whole duration of their acquaintance. "Good morning, my lady. What can I do for you?" She and Lindsey climbed the steps.

"I know I have to apologize to you for my behavior at the musicale. It's such a beautiful day; I thought I'd take a drive. We haven't had much opportunity to talk, so I thought you might like to accompany me." She looked apologetically at Lindsey. "Unfortunately my carriage only seats two comfortably."

Lindsey nodded, "I understand."

Chiara debated for a moment. She didn't like the woman and didn't want to spent time in her company. However, it didn't hurt to be polite to one's mother-in-law, and Lady FitzHenry obviously had something to say. Might as well get it done with. Despite her ladyship's smile, Chiara didn't think the drive would prove to be all that enjoyable. "Very well, thank you." She turned to Lindsey. "I'll see you at lunch."

"Shall we go?" Lady FitzHenry waved towards the stables.

For someone who wanted to talk, Chiara thought her companion was surprisingly quiet. She hadn't said a single word to Chiara on the way to the stables or now that they were out of sight of the manor. "You said you wished to talk to me."

"Did I? Well, I suppose I could ask you why you have the poor taste to be seen in the company of my son."

Scathing works rose to Chiara's lips, but she beat them back ruthlessly. This was more in character for her mother-in-law. But why the charade? She shrugged. "I find him somewhat amusing."

They drove on through the woods. The trees, denuded of their leaves, stood dreamless in their annual slumber. The muffled clop of the horse's hooves on the muddy road and the whirr of the wheels provided a background for the occasional bird call. Other than that, there were no sounds.

"Lady FitzHenry, I've had conversations with French officials more amusing than this drive."

"We can remedy that."

"We?" If Chiara were a cat, her whiskers would be on full alert.

"We're almost there."

"Where?"

A small house, somewhat the worse for wear, came into view. "There."

Chiara knew trouble when it stared her in the face. "Turn around, Lady FitzHenry."

"What? And miss the fun? Never."

### Chapter 22

"What are you doing?"

"Why we're just going to meet some friends."

A gig and a closed carriage stood before the house. Two saddled horses cropped the grass around the house. As they approached, Chiara could see the door hanging drunkenly on its remaining leather hinge. Every instinct in Chiara's arsenal screamed. She leaned over and ripped the reins from Lady FitzHenry.

The lady shrieked, the horse whinnied, and a voice came from the house. "Good morrow, Lady Chiara." He mauled her name as usual. "Please don't consider springing the horse. I am considered a tolerable shot." Lord Wilfred DuBois lounged in the doorway with a sword at his side and a pistol trained on her. Lady FitzHenry grabbed the reins back and slapped Chiara across the face with the free end.

"Now, now, Lady FitzHenry. You'll be quit of her soon enough. Lady Chiara," he approached the gig and offered his empty hand. "Be pleased to join us." He nodded back to the house where three men stood near the door. One, splay-legged, folded his arms. The other leaned against the jamb, and the third sat on a nearby stump. All sported pistols and swords.

With no visible option, Chiara stepped down from the carriage, distaining DuBois's proffered hand. He gestured her towards the house with the gun.

"Thank you, Lady FitzHenry. Your services have been invaluable," DuBois smirked.

Lady FitzHenry's mouth tightened at the hint of trade in his words. "Not completely 'invaluable'," she retorted.

"No, not completely." He pulled a clinking bag from his jacket and tossed it to her. She caught it easily and turned the gig without another word.

Chiara watched her drive away, hoping that she herself would be alive to extract some justice from her perfidious mother-in-law. Thank God Lindsey witnessed their departure. When Lady FitzHenry returned without her companion, all hell would break lose. If worse came to worst, Rafael would follow her trail.

The lounging guard stepped aside, and DuBois nudged her into the gloom with his pistol. For a moment, Chiara saw only a black, yawning chasm. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized Mrs. Underwood seated near a shuttered window, her girlishly pastel gown accented by a neckline that almost reached her chin. Her husband, the Rev. Mr. Underwood, stood next to her. Identical pleased, sanctimonious expressions graced their faces. A short, bulky man, not as extensively armed as his companions, sprawled on a bare cot. Chiara glared at the unctuous parson, with a growing inkling of this party's purpose.

The coach pulled away as DuBois sprawled in the seat next to her. "I think, my dear, that the first thing we shall do is change your name. I find this 'Chee-air-a' all too foreign. Those bloody Italians take a perfectly good name like Claire and foul it up. I think you will henceforth be known as 'Claire' with an 'e.' That's the good French spelling. I myself will be changing my name to a most distinguished French one. After all, we will be going to France until L'Emperor makes this island the French possession it was meant to be. Then we shall return as its rulers."

"My name is what it is, and I answer to nothing else. And I have no intention of going to France."

"You are my wife, and you will do as I direct."

"Do you think a refusal and a forged signature makes us married?"

"Indeed I do. And so will everyone else."

Chiara said nothing. This was not the time to play her cards. He thought he had them all. What was the purpose of this charade? She didn't have enough money to make her that tempting of a target for a fortune hunter. This wasn't even Gretna Green, the preferred spot for a fortune hunter's nuptials. And what was this about going to France?

"France? If you expect to take control of my estate, France isn't going to be the most efficient place to do it from."

"Ah, my dear, but everyone will think the lovebirds have flown to a small Scottish property I have. At least that is what I have written your beloved uncle. I neglected to give him a direction, mainly because I don't have a Scottish property, but no matter. Perception is everything. We will smuggle the directives into the country via Napoleon's very efficient courier system and deliver them to the proper people. By the way, those people will be replacing your own here. I will simply extend my food chandlery contract for the navy to cover your preserved fruit. The Admiralty is oh-so-grateful for my patriotic and very cheap supplies for their ships. Of course, it will be a very specially spiced, preserved fruit, but there's no need to worry your pretty, little head about that." He chuckled. "If I work things correctly, I can feather my nest and thumb my nose at England at the same time."

"You think I will agree to this. If you're saying what I think you're saying, it stinks of treason."

"Of course you think its treason. I, on the other hand, look on it as my patriotic duty."

"Patriotic? You're mad!"

"No, simply French."

Chiara looked out the window. She knew this road. It headed east, toward the coast and Dover. Did he really think the Royal Navy would let him blithely board a ship for France? "Where are we headed?"

"I have a yacht anchored at a little coastal town called Margate. We will embark from there. Unfortunately, Lady FitzHenry took her time about bring you to me, so if we don't hurry, we will need to spend the night at an inn along the way."

The idea of spending a night with him turned her stomach.

"I am looking forward to our wedding night, my dear. From what I understand it will be most entertaining."

Chiara went still.

"Oh, by the way, did I tell you the new name I'm adopting? It is Etienne, in honor of my beloved Etienne. Your remember him, don't you, Etienne Radet, my dear, departed Gallic angel. He said you were quite amusing. Dare I hope that it's his babe in your belly?"

Twisting towards the window so he wouldn't see the disgust on her face, she let him read what he would into her silence. Which was worse, an Englishman with access to sensitive information being the lover of a French spy or the idea of carrying Radet's child? She had no good answer.

"The most beautiful specimen of humanity, cut down by that bastard spawn of England. It is my dearest hope that FitzHenry will pursue us. God knows I've laid enough bread crumbs for a blind man to follow. My escorts are the cream of Napoleon's army, skilled in all types of combat. They will deal with that murdering scum."

Chiara didn't bother to tell him that she had also gone on the mission and had helped in the death of Radet. He must be aware that she'd gone, after all, he worked with Uncle Geoffrey, but she wasn't going to remind him. One did not go and deliberately bait a rabid dog.

A thought struck her. "Did you murder Vole?"

He smiled sweetly. "No, but I did point him out to my precious angel. The little bugger knew too much about me. My angel...he was so efficient at those things. It was a pleasure to watch him work."

Chiara closed her eyes for a moment. She thought of her own anguish with the human wreckage of combat. This monster took pleasure in it. But then, so did Radet.

"I will enjoy thumbing my nose at the English. Your self-righteous uncle is going to loose two more of his agents. Your Admiralty will be dealing with shiploads of violently ill sailors, now and for the foreseeable future. And I will have the honor of removing two thorns in the side of my Emperor.

"It will be amusing to share you with my angel, my dear. I don't know how long I will keep you, but, for however long it is, you will probably not enjoy it as much as I will."

She turned towards the window to stop the conversation. Oh, he knows she was in Italy, she thought. The only question now is whether Rafael will arrive before I have to take care of matters myself. The idea of combat while five months pregnant daunted her, but it might be the only way out of this mess.

Rafael spent a goodly part of the morning placating Jones, his valet. Last night, that worthy suffered banishment to the servants' hall shortly after his arrival with instructions not to intrude on his master unless the house tumbled down around their ears, or he was summoned. In addition to bruised feelings, the sight of his lordship, put together by his own devices and therefore no where near Jones's standards, was enough to engender the valet's resignation. Almost.

Well-used to the polite histrionics, since Jones had served the family since before memory, Rafael assuaged his man with hints of a new mistress for Oakleaf Abbey. That and the promise of the babies Jones prayed for were enough to calm the turbulent waters.

Rafael left the interview whistling. The old man meant more to him than his blood kin. Making him happy was a joy in itself. In fact, Rafael toyed with the idea of asking his old friend and employee to stand as godfather to the baby. It would raise some eyebrows, Jones's included, but it felt right. He'd have to brush it by Chiara, but he didn't think she'd mind when he explained things.

Speaking of, where was Chiara? Although he'd breakfasted long ago, he strolled through the empty dining room. Food still sat on the side boards awaiting any late risers. A manservant cleaned away the remains of someone's meal. "Have you seen Lady Chiara?"

"Lady Chiara, sir? She left some time ago with Miss Alder. I believe they spoke about a walk around the garden."

Muttering acknowledgement, Rafael went out to the steps facing the large English-style garden. From the rise the house sat on, he could see the grounds down to the lake. Graveled paths wound among raised garden beds. A few spots of color played in the beds. No yellow or brown heads bobbed along the paths.

He went back into the house. There were worse things in life, he mused, than chasing his woman to ground. Or better yet, to bed.

Quentin and the Meriwethers waved off the Lowells as he slipped into the drawing room. Miss Alder and James sat a little too closely on the sofa, holding hands and talking softly. They jumped and then relaxed at the sight of him. "Miss Alder, have you seen Chiara? And if your parents catch wind of this little tête-à-tête, Miss Alder, they'll have the two of you before the local parson with a special license in hand before you can blink."

James came lazily to his feet after kissing the hand he held. "Sounds good old man. But you should talk. What's this havey-cavey with you and Lady Chiara?

Lindsey frowned as she rose. "Lady FitzHenry, I mean the Dowager, I mean, your mother didn't appear to know anything about you and Chiara. At least I didn't get that impression when she asked Chiara to go for a ride with her when we returned from our walk."

"A ride? Rafael frowned.

"Yes, she said she had a gig with only room for two people ready. She wanted to talk to Chiara. Said she hadn't had a chance."

"Talk to her? That doesn't sound like m'mother."

"Not in this life-time," James agreed.

"I'd better go and see what she's up to. When it comes to women like that, Chiara's a complete innocent."

Striding out to the stables, Rafael's irritation grew. His mother. That witch would slip poison into the Prince of Wales's wine just to watch the ensuing chaos.

He spied Sam Goode talking with a groom. "Have you seen Lady Chiara or Lady FitzHenry?"

Sam shook his head, "Is Lady Chiara still in the big house?"

"No," the groom interjected. "The two ladies look a gig out about an hour ago."

"Where'd they go?"

"Hum, headed out by t'north road, I believe."

Behind them hooves clattered into the stable yard. The groom looked over Rafe's shoulder. "There she be, m'lord."

The gig and its occupant drove into the gloom of the stable. "Here, you, take care of this," Lady FitzHenry ordered to the bodies in the darkness. She tossed the reins, never looking to see if they were caught and gave her hand to the man waiting to assist her out of the carriage. Only when Rafe didn't release her hand did she actually look at him.

"What are you doing here? Playing groom as well as sailor?"

"Where's Chiara?" he demanded, his voice soft.

Unaware of her precarious situation, Lady FitzHenry tried unsuccessfully to jerk her hand away. "La, how should I know where the chit is?"

"That 'chit' is my wife, and she left with you. Now where is she?"

"I don't..."

Rafe used the leverage of her arm to throw her against the side of the gig. Her hat landed, crushed between the wheel and Rafe's boot. The groom yelped, but Sam's good arm restrained him.

"Where?"

"I don't..."

"Where?"

Lady FitzHenry crumpled under the pressure of his hand. "A cottage about a mile away."

"Who's there?" He increased the pressure to forestall any dithering.

"DuBois and his men."

"How many?"

"I saw three."

Rafe dragged her out of the stable and called over his shoulder, "Saddle several horses."

Striding into the house with his mother stumbling behind him, he shouted, "James, David, get out here!"

James opened the drawing room door, "What the devil?" Lord Meriwether followed him. "David's gone to inspect the house. Why are you manhandling..."

"This witch has helped DuBois kidnap Chiara."

Mr. Day wandered down the hall, his expression confused.

Rafe looked at Meriwether. "Keep her secure. If any thing happens to Chiara..." Meriwether nodded.

"This is absurd," Lady FitzHenry asserted as her son handed her off to Lord Meriwether. She tried to twist out of the older man's grip, but found it a manacle similar to her son's. Finding both force and umbrage unproductive, she tried again, "My lord, I'm only a woman. How could I possibly be involved in something as nefarious as this? Rafael is daft in the head to even suggest it."

Her son glanced sideways at her. "I don't put anything past you, Madam. However, I don't have time for this. Meriwether, I need weapons. I doubt DuBois has accomplished this on the force of his personality."

Day spoke up, "I'll get them."

"Hurry," Rafe ordered. "Swords and pistols."

"I'm with you," James said, his voice grim.

"It may be a bloody long search." Rafe warned.

"Let's get our coats then."

Rafe and James strode to the stables, followed by Quentin, his arms full of steel. He passed swords and pistols to Rafe and James. They belted on the swords then stuffed the pistols into their great coats.

"This could get ugly," Rafe warned.

"I know" was the simple reply.

Sam Goode led out two horses and the groom led out two more. "Ah'm coming, too," Sam asserted. Quentin handed him the pistol. "Ain't never shot one o' these. Only rifles. Guess the trigger works the same way." He declined the sword, pointing to the wicked-looking cudgel tucked in his waistband. Rafe, James, Quentin, and Sam mounted up. Sam, the pistol cudgel tucked beneath his stiff left arm, got up a bit awkwardly.

"There ain't much I wouldn't do for young Lady Key, even getting' up on one of these bloody beasts."

"She was taken to a cottage off the north road."

"I know it," Quentin snapped. "Follow me!"

It didn't take them long to reach the abandoned house. The windy harbinger of the approaching storm thrashed the tree branches. A horse dozed in the traces of its gig. It lifted its head at the approach of others. A welcoming whinny brought a man to the door of the cottage: Rev. Underwood. He retreated into the doorway and tried to close the door, but Rafe kicked it open, throwing both Underwood and the door backwards. His companions followed him through the doorway. Mrs. Underwood stood next to a small table, a piece of cake on its way to her mouth. The dregs of the platter of food littered the table. One wine bottle stood empty, another full.

"Where is she?" Rafe demanded.

"I don't know what you're..."

Rafe's fist smashed into Underwood's face, and his wife screamed.

"Shut up," Quentin snarled and gestured her to the chair.

Blood dripped from the side of Underwood's mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

Rafe looked around the dim room. The wind, given entry through the open door, rattled the shutters. After a long glance at the decrepit bed, he walked to the table and picked up the full bottle. Lifting his arm, he smashed it against the table edge. Wine and glass splattered. Mrs. Underwood whimpered, but Quentin's step towards her insured her stillness.

"Hold him," he ordered Sam and James. Underwood's arms, jerked back, gave him the look of a trussed chicken. Rafe lifted his portion of the bottle, jagged as a Scottish mountain peak and dripping blood-red wine, to Underwood's chest. Mrs. Underwood mewed and worried her reticule. Underwood, suddenly pale, yelped and sputtered.

"What happened here?" Each of Rafe's words reflected a brush of the glass points across Underwood's shirt front.

"Nothing, nothing..." The bottle's teeth dented his shirt front.

"I performed a wedding, that's all. I married that brazen Brownlee hussy to that fine gentleman, Lord Wilfred DuBois. At least now her shame will be covered."

"You married my wife to another man?"

Underwood mouthed an instinctive denial, and his wife moaned.

"Well?"

"He had a special license, and all the papers were in order."

"Did Chiara consent to this farce?" Underwood's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "Did she sign the papers?" Again no sound came from Underwood. With a flick of his wrist, Rafe slashed Underwood's jacket's sleeve. The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he turned to dead weight in his captors' arms.

"Lester!" Mrs. Underwood squeaked. Rafe turned to her. She shirked back in her chair. "They were already signed! Lord DuBois copied her signature from some building plans he had."

Rafe digested this for a moment. "Where did they go?"

Mrs. Underwood looked at each of the men, scrupulously avoiding her limp husband. "He mentioned that they were going to Margate for their honeymoon."

Weak sunlight shown through the leafless trees outside the carriage. The shadows, still small, lengthened eastward, but the quickly gathering clouds promised to make everything shadows before sundown. The shadows and her rumbling stomach told Chiara it was well past noon. The other pressure, lower in her belly, insisted on stopping even more urgently.

"We need to stop."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, my dear. We need to make good time to Margate."

"This isn't a request. I need to eat. More importantly, I need to use the necessary."

"You'll just have to wait, I'm afraid." His smile told her just how much he enjoyed her discomfort.

"Listen to me!" She barely avoided adding "you fool." "I'm pregnant. The baby makes it so that I have to relieve myself every few hours."

His mouth formed a moue of distaste, and he brushed at the sleeve of his brown superfine coat. Chiara realized, in passing, that, no matter how well-cut his clothes, they would never look as good as Rafael's did on him.

"Such topics are not the sort of thing a lady of quality discusses in public."

"But we aren't in public, are we?" Honey dripped from her words. "And if we don't stop very soon, I shall be forced to relieve myself all over your excellent buff breeches!"

Something in her expression must have convinced him because he lifted the hatch and ordered the coachman to stop at the next post house.

Satisfied, if not currently more comfortable, Chiara turned back to the scenery with the privacy of her own thoughts.

Where was Rafael? If he was at the Meriwethers', wondering and worrying, at least he was safe. If he was, even now, following DuBois' "bread crumbs," he was in mortal danger. Five against one, no two, wasn't good odds.

Part of her wanted him following them, mounting a rescue. Part of her wanted him safe at home.

If he was safe, she would lose him, never to be held in his arms again, never to see him cradle their babe. But he would be safe.

If he followed, she might lose him to the grave.

Scylla and Charybdis.

Leaving the Underwoods in Quentin's capable hands, the three of them spurred their horses along the road to Margate. The rain caught up with them, and fat raindrops, driven by the wind, pelted their backs.

They rode in silence for awhile. With nothing but his thoughts to divert him, Rafe allowed his mind to wander. What if they couldn't find her? What if she was dead? How could he face existence without her? The black miasma of loneliness and abandonment that surrounded his past rose up on the fringes of his future. She had banished it, he thought, forever. To lose her permanently, after just finding her again, would destroy his very soul. She'd shown him that honor could be unstained by the worst ugliness its fellow man could inflict on it. She'd shown him good and selflessness in herself and others. Most important, she'd shown him that he had those qualities within himself, no matter that he'd been raised in a world devoid of them.

What would happen if DuBois tried to claim his "rights" as her "husband?" He knew she would fight DuBois, but she was pregnant, not as fast or as agile as before. She also had the baby to think of. Fighting might save her but hurt the babe. Oh, God, would he have to lose one to keep the other?

Unaccustomed panic filled his mind. He spurred his horse on faster in reaction to the awful possibilities. James and Sam fell behind him.

"Rafe! Rafe, have a care for the horses! We can't help Chiara if we break our necks in this rain."

He slowed to a more moderate pace. He noticed that the rain seemed to be stopping as quickly as it started. It did succeed, however, in refilling the puddles left from yesterday's rain. Solitary horses could travel faster on wet ground than a carriage. That was the one bright spot.

James pulled up along with him. "Did you catch the remark Mrs. Underwood made just before we left?"

Rafe glared over at him. "About one of the men speaking French? Yes."

"What does it mean?"

He thought for a moment. "I think it means that my wife has been kidnapped by Napoleon's mole in Wentworth's office."

### Chapter 23

The coach slowed as it entered the inn's courtyard, pulling sideways to allow the mail coach, horn braying its right-of-way, through. Holding the lifeline of the strap, Chiara silently thanked whatever far-sighted person built the way-house here when she was in her hour of need.

The coach shuttered to a halt, belying the coachman's expertise in handling the traces. Chiara reached for the door handle, too needy to wait for the customary service. DuBois's hand manacled her wrist. "Do nothing foolish, my dear. I shall escort you."

He stepped out of the carriage, so he didn't see the disgust on her face. He lifted his hand to assist her down. Distaining the courtesy, she headed through the inn's public rooms to the back yard. He had to trot to keep up with her pace.

Granted a few moments of peace and quiet, Chiara finally found the leisure and comfort to think. Between DuBois and his henchmen, escape wasn't going to be an easy option. She could, however, make herself remembered. Luckily, they had to traverse the public rooms on the way to and fro. Sympathy from the landlady and guilt from DuBois would buy her remembrance, if not some time and food.

Three steps out of the privy, DuBois grabbed her elbow with mock solicitude.

Inside, Chiara spotted the innkeeper's wife, tall, gaunt, and constantly moving. "I'm hungry," she said, pitching the words just loud enough for the woman to hear. "I'm pregnant, and I'm hungry and if I don't get something to eat, I'm going to faint."

The proprietress looked over, and Chiara directed her pleas to her. "Can I get something to eat, mistress? He," she nodded to DuBois, "just doesn't understand what it is to eat for two."

The landlady left her other customers, locals by the look of them, and with coos and pats, escorted Chiara to a quiet corner. "I'll fix ye just the thing me self. Won't take but a trice." She smiled at Chiara and gave DuBois her best "take care of your lady" look.

Out-gunned, DuBois gave in with ill-grace. "You have ten minutes, and then we leave. Food or no food."

True to her word the proprietress promptly returned with a tray. Bread, butter, cold chicken, a mug of ale, and a couple of apples filled it. "There ye go, luv. Eat hearty, now. Gots to keep up yer strength."

"Indeed," Chiara replied. "To think of making the trip all the way to Margate without food was daunting. Thank you."

Chiara saw DuBois smirk at her own bread crumb out of the corner of her eye. No matter. She had her food and her time. And she could dawdle with the best of them.

Rafe could feel his horse starting to flag. The beast had strength and valor, but a full-on gallop of this distance would tire any creature. He could hear James and Sam behind him. They must be struggling to keep up. He detested the necessity of taking the time to change horses, but the option was having one or more of their current mounts founder, losing even more time. At the next posting house, they'd have to change.

As he made the decision, he peered down the road, wondering how far they'd have to go. Coming around the next bend, he saw the distinctive red of the mail coach. For a moment, he stared at it. It was coming up the road they were going down. The same one DuBois was going down.

He slowed his horse so the others could catch up. "Spread out! Stop that coach!" James frowned, but obeyed as did Sam.

The coach kept its pace so Rafe drew his pistol. The lumbering vehicle drew to a halt a few yards from them.

"What ho?" the driver demanded. "You'll be hung for this, lads."

Rafe replaced the pistol in his greatcoat pocket and urged his horse closer to the driver. "I have no interest in robbing you. I only want information. Have you passed another carriage in the last hour or so? It may have had two or three outriders."

The driver lifted his hat as he scratched his head. "Aye, one such pulled into The White Dove just as we pulled out. T'is the next inn on the road."

Rafe nodded his thanks and motioned the coach on.

The cheese tasted surprisingly good. Chiara cut small pieces and savored each bite. Paired with thin slices of apple, it was sheer delight. Unfortunately, she couldn't concentrate on the gustatory pleasure. If she was going to procure the knife she was using, the chorography for its pilfering would have to be flawless.

DuBois paced the public room; he hadn't even bothered with a private parlor. He stalked the room from the window, to the back door, to the clean but scarred table where he chipped a piece of wood out with his thumbnail. Then he went back to the window. He angled himself to look down the road they way they'd come. Back at the table, he plopped down on the bench opposite her and drummed his fingers, a brooding expression on his face.

"Let's go." He jumped up and waved her to the door.

"I'm not finished," she snapped.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm still hungry!"

"Now!"

The dance began.

She pushed away from the table and stood, righteous indignation flashing from every pore. "I said I'm not done!" She picked up the half-eaten apple and threw it at his head. He ducked. In one set of movements, she sleeved the knife and swiped the remaining dishes backwards from the table. "All right, all right, all right." She stomped out of the inn and over to what she thought of as her prison.

If there was an audience, she thought, the applause would be deafening.

DuBois's henchmen lounged around the coach, a mug of ale in everyone's hand. No one assisted her to climb in so she did it herself. As they assumed their places, she heard the metal tankards strike the inn's door.

As she sat down, she regretted that she hadn't thrown the mug of ale at DuBois.

DuBois took his seat opposite her, a grin splitting his traitorous face. "I can see why my dear angel favored you. He always did enjoy a challenge. I believe I will enjoy you, too."

Chiara prayed she'd bought enough time.

Rafe's cohorts urged their mounts close to him.

James's elation showed on his face. "We'll take them at the inn!"

"We don't know if they're still there," Sam pointed out.

Rafe looked at the ex-marine. "They don't know you. Ride up and see if the coach is still there. Signal when you get near. We'll watch from down the road. If they're there, keep going. That would be the best scenario. James and I will ride around through the fields here. We'll meet you and set up an ambush. If they've left, wait for us. We'll have to catch them and attack from behind."

James frowned at his friend as Sam rode up ahead. "Why not take them at the inn?"

"Several reasons. They may not all be inside the inn, which means a fight on several fronts. Second, these are desperate men. They are French agents or soldiers, not just farm boys. Either way, they all face hanging. They're not going to sell themselves cheaply. The people at the inn are just that many targets or shields for them. Third, inns are pretty cramped quarters for a fight."

Up ahead, Sam signaled that he'd come on the posting inn. He kept riding.

"All right, through the hedgerow here." A hole in the roadway growth made an easy egress from the lane. They met up with Sam a ways beyond the inn. It wasn't long before they rode past the coach on the road.

"Tie your cravats around your face. Let's be highwaymen for real this time." Around a bend in the road, they arranged themselves across it just as they heard the carriage approach.

"Stand and deliver!" Rafe roared as the coach came within shouting distance. Rafe and James aimed pistols at the carriage and outriders. Sam balanced his on his gimpy arm, pointed his pistol in roughly the same direction.

The coach slowed. "What the devil are you doing?" DuBois bellowed from within. The outriders drew their guns but kept them across their saddles.

"Stand and deliver," Rafe repeated in a more normal voice. "On second thought, just stand. We'll do the deliverance."

DuBois poked his head out the window and saw Sam on the right beyond the outrider. He obviously didn't recognize him. "Stand aside you blackguards, or I'll blast you to hell. That's where outlaws like you belong!"

Rafe urged his horse in front of Sam, muttering, "shift." "I, on the other hand, want to take a treasonous bastard such as you back to stand trial and hang. However, since you've kidnapped my wife, I think I can see my way clear to saving the hangman the trouble." He pulled the cravat from his face and the others followed suit. "Either way, hell will be your ultimate destination."

"FitzHenry!" DuBois snarled and looked quickly at Chiara.

"No, DuBois," Rafe drawled, "Wolverine."

DuBois paled in the watery winter sunlight then his cheeks flushed with rage. " _Tuez-les!"_

Opposite Rafe, the outrider raised his pistol but it caught in his coat. Fighting it out cost the man precious seconds.

Rafe fired.

It also cost the man his life.

Rafe drew his sword. The second outrider drew up next to the left of the carriage. Rafe knew he was there, but couldn't see him.

A shot boomed from that side of the carriage, and James clutched his left arm.

"James!"

"I'm all right. Graze." He looked up. Sam's horse danced in fright. Cursing, Sam left off aiming his pistol in his fight to keep his seat.

"Guard!" Rafe yelled in warning. Sam, defenseless, could only fumble with his gun. James's pistol barked, and the guard toppled from the box.

"Thanks, mates," Sam shouted.

"Any time," James replied as he shook out his bloody arm then drew his sword. Charging the outrider who wounded him, James yelled, "St. George and England!"

DuBois hauled Chiara into the front seat so he could shuttle back and forth between the carriage windows easier. His muttered French curses intermixed with good old Anglo-Saxon expletives.

She kept her hands ostensibly folded on her lap as she watched him slide laps along the seat. In reality, her right hand kept a firm grip on the knife up her left sleeve. She watched and waited.

Sweat gleamed through his thinning, dirty-blond hair. The bravado of his orders contrasted sharply with his obvious anxiety.

Unless the knife would give her a definitive tactical advantage, she didn't want to reveal it. So she sat. Shots and shouts and scuffles made her stomach twist. Still, she sat.

DuBois stopped his oscillation and looked at her. "You're his bloody wife? Why didn't you say something, you stupid bitch?

Willing calm, she replied, "I tried to. You refused to listen."

He hunched his head down between his shoulders. "Well," he grinned evilly at her, "we'll just have to insure we send FitzHenry to hell. A few hours overlap between your weddings shouldn't make any difference." He slid to the right and cautiously looked out the window. Raising the pistol to the sill, he angled himself to see the front of the carriage.

He's aiming for Rafe, she thought. The knife hissed softly as she pulled it from its temporary sheath. She lunged at DuBois, knowing full well that, even if she made contact at this angle, the damage would be minor.

He must have seen her move because he whirled back, slashing down with his pistol. Twisting her arm to block it, the outer edge of her wrist took the blow. She didn't drop the knife, but her hand froze. She was defenseless.

DuBois didn't bother to examine the consequence of his blow. He threw open the carriage door, choosing to challenge FitzHenry in the open.

Chiara was acutely aware of the still-loaded pistol.

Sam, in control of his horse and his pistol now, sat at a bit of a loss. DuBois charged out of the carriage, straight at Rafe, probably assuming a man with a gun equal to a swordsman on horseback. Sam mentally shrugged. Traitor's loss.

Swinging his attention back to the coach, Sam looked at the unarmed coachman. Only the driver wasn't unarmed any more. He had a big, black, ugly pistol trained squarely on Lord FitzHenry.

Without a single conscious thought, Sam lifted the gun and fired. He didn't know who was more surprised, the coachman who looked down to see red blossoming on his chest or Sam himself.

Sam watched the man stand halfway then slowly topple forward, his body bumping the hindquarters of the left horse. Already nervous from the gunfire, the horse bolted, taking its team-mate and the carriage with it through a gap between the horsemen.

For a moment, Sam watched the carriage thunder drunkenly down the road. The reality of the situation struck him, and he shook his head to clear it. Tossing the spent pistol aside he grabbed the reins and turned his horse. Kicking its sides with a viciousness borne of panic, he gave chase.

The coach seemed miles down the road. "Move yer arse, ye bleeding mule." All too slowly, he gained on the carriage. As he finally drew alongside, the directionless course of the coach sent it careening into him. He caught a glimpse of Lady Chiara's fear-whitened face as she clung onto anything fixed.

The coach edged closer. Any moment now, he'd have to back off and go around, or get shoved off into the ditch at the side of the road. Sam leaned forward, trying to get as much speed out of his mount as possible. The cudgel he'd stuck in the waist of his pants jabbed his belly. He glanced down in surprise then grinned and pulled it out.

With a measured flick of his wrist, he threw the weapon at the near horse's hindquarters. It swerved a bit to the right, not much, but enough. He urged his own horse up along side far enough to grab the trace of the beast that started all the problems. He hauled on the leather. Gradually all three horses slowed and finally stopped. He swung over onto the box and set the brake.

Lady Chiara tumbled out of the carriage by herself, faster than her dignity or condition warranted, just as Sam jumped down.

She launched herself at him. "Oh, Sam, oh, Sam!" and buried her face in his shoulder.

With some hesitation, he folded his good arm around her. What did one do to comfort a lady, especially one as self-sufficient as this? "There, there, m'lady. Ah've been owin' ye this an' much more for t'longest time now. Jus' payin' me debts."

With a watery laugh, she leaned her head on his chest then pulled away. She wiped her tears before he could bring the pain they engendered in him to full sail.

"Consider it paid in full with my thanks." She glanced over the horses. "Merciful heavens, I hate feeling helpless."

Sam nodded. "Think you can get back in if I'm on the box?" He moved off to grab his own horse who'd found a small patch of grass at the edge of the road.

She looked at the coach and lifted her hand to the door handle, then withdrew it. "I think I'd rather ride up on the box with you, if you don't mind."

Rafe pulled his horse sideways as the carriage lumbered by, gathering speed with every turn of the wheels. With a quick prayer for Chiara's safety, he turned his attention to his immediate threat. DuBois's gun looked big and black from this distance.

It also made him a target that even an amateur like DuBois could hardly miss. With a yank of the reins, he set the horse rearing up, pawing the air. DuBois backed from the flashing hooves. He shifted to the right to get a clear shot. Rafe countered with the horse. For a few moments, the three of them engaged in a game of bob and weave like a couple of prizefighters. Rafe could see the frustration on DuBois' face.

With a feint to the right, DuBois pulled left and fired.

Even prepared for it, Rafe couldn't react fast enough.

Time slowed. The horse screamed in pain. A lance of agony ripped through Rafe's thigh. The horse reared in pain and panic, determined to rid itself completely of the tormenting humans. Rafe sailed into the mud and rocks of the road. His sword preceded him in his slide through the muck. Rafe rolled one more time and grabbed the hilt. He twisted again to surge to his feet, but his left leg wouldn't cooperate. It only got him to one knee.

Seeing his advantage, DuBois pulled his own sword and attached with a blood-curdling yell. Rafe blocked the blow over his head until he was able to strike in a horizontal arc at DuBois's legs. He let the momentum of the sword carry him over onto his back and then, with a strangled yell, onto his feet.

DuBois eyed him warily, and that gave Rafe a chance to catch his breath and assess the situation. "Taking swordsmanship lessons in between your treasons?" Rafe baited.

While both swords circled, looking for an opening, Rafe realized that, while DuBois was only a talented amateur, the hole in his own leg effectively leveled the field. It was a strange feeling, to be on a par with someone obviously inferior in ability. Chiara frequently found herself in this position and learned to use it to her advantage. Maybe something from his wife's repertoire would work; if only this blasted leg cooperated for a few minutes more.

His wife!

With that thought, he timed DuBois's next stroke, dove under it and slashed the man's hamstring. With a scream, DuBois's sword cut the mud just in front of Rafe's face as he continued rolling away. He stopped, facing his opponent and another groan brought him to his feet, this time more slowly. DuBois's leg had collapsed under him as he twisted for that last stroke. The traitor sprawled in the mud in a welter of limbs, blood, and a wail.

Rafe stepped on the muddy sword and kicked its hilt from the owner's hand. He lifted it on his boot toe and tossed it aside. Looking over at James, he saw his friend had the outrider off his horse with his hands laced on his head. James appeared exceptionally proud with himself. Looking up the road, Rafe spied the carriage approaching at a much more sedate speed than it left. Chiara waved at him from the box. He wanted to do more than just wave back, but circumstances prevented it.

Rafe knew the second she saw the blood on his leg. She pounded on Sam, and he sprang the horses. Sam hauled the horses to a halt at the edge of the battlefield.

"Rafe! Rafe!"

Before he set the brake, Chiara clambered down, none too elegantly but quickly. She ran to him, hands alternately reaching for him and covering her mouth.

Rafe raised a restraining hand. "Softly, my sweet. I can't handle you and the sword at the same time." She fluttered around him with—wonder of wonders—tears in her eyes.

He pulled off his cravat. "Here, tie this around my leg. The bleeding's slowed substantially, but this will help."

She knelt in the mud to tie the cloth around his thigh.

"Now, my love, take the sword to insure that my lord DuBois keeps his traitorous ass firmly planted in the muck while..." He swayed and found Sam's shoulder under his arm. "...I sit down for a moment." Sam helped him the few steps to the carriage. Then, untying his horse from the carriage, Sam said, "Be back in a trice with help, m'lady," mounted, and rode off.

"You murdering Judas!" Chiara struck DuBois with the flat of the sword, and he curled into a tight little ball. "I ought to kill you right now. However, as satisfying as that might be, I believe I'd like to see you in the dock for treason first."

James urged his captive over to sit next to DuBois. He saluted Chiara with his sword. "If you would be so kind as to watch this one, too, I'll check the others." He moved away to inspect the other outrider. "Dead."

As he reached the guard, the surviving outrider shifted to rise.

"Sit," Chiara commanded. The man grinned evilly at her and started a lunge. Chiara slashed his shoulder open, and he fell back with a scream.

"Fool," Rafe commented as he hobbled over to her side. "She's taken down better men than you. I should know." He looked over at the wound. "It's just a scratch. You'll have no problem hanging."

James pronounced the driver dead and the guard barely alive before he relieved Chiara of guard duty.

The innkeeper's wife glared at the lot of them: the English, the French, and the yardmen Sam recruited. "Now see here! Ye traipse in 'ere, spreading yer muck all over an' after ye foulin' me parlor and me front door. Ah runs a clean and proper house now, Ah do, an' Ah don't want the likes of ye givin' it a bad name."

Rafe limped to a bench and sat heavily as the prisoners were brought in and secured. Chiara bent to check his leg.

"What's the meaning of this?" the woman demanded. The guard, stretched out on a door serving as a stretcher, was deposited on a table by the local men. More crowded in behind them, craning to see the excitement.

"What ho? Ye can't..."

"Peace, madam," Sam ordered. He bent to check the guard. Straightening, he looked at Rafe and shook his head. "This one won't hang."

"Here now, what's this talk of hangin'?"

Chiara stood. "Mistress, I require hot water, tweezers, towels, and bandages."

"Ah'll not be takin' orders in me own house!"

Chiara bent to retrieve the sword she'd dropped at Rafe's feet. The blood on it looked black in the dim light. "You will have your explanation after I have the items I require. However, if I have to wait..." She tapped the sword on her hand. "I'll also need a sheet to cover him." She nodded at the guard's body. Their hostess flounced off.

Materials in hand and the body decently covered, Chiara set to work on Rafe's leg. As she gently sponged the wound, she said to no one in particular, "Without going into all the details, let me just say that Lord DuBois over there is a kidnapper, murder, traitor, and saboteur. The others are probably French soldiers."

"Bloody hell! Crikey! String 'im up now and save t'Crown t'trouble," came from the growing crowd.

"Traitor?" Rafe asked on an indrawn breath as she removed a piece of his trousers from the wound tract.

"Saboteur, murder?" James added.

"While Radet was in England, he and DuBois were lovers."

"A bloody nance boy!" Sam exclaimed.

"Um. Radet seduced him and got the name of Vole, the agent who was murdered, from him. My kidnapping and your murder were to be revenge for Radet." She looked at Rafe. "He's also supplied tainted food to the fleet." She tied the bandage around his leg. He caressed her cheek as she rose to attend to the Frenchman.

"Well," Rafe shifted his leg to a more comfortable angle, "Meriwether can start the legal process since he's a magistrate, but it will go onto Whitehall soon enough. James, you're still mostly whole. As soon as we get back, I want you to ride to London."

"Do I have time to change my clothes and kiss Lindsey first?"

### Chapter 24

The music began. Chiara gave her silver-trimmed royal blue gown one last twitch. Luckily the fashionable high waist hid the bulge in her tummy. She looked at her brother on her right and her uncle on her left as they started up the main aisle of St. Paul's Cathedral. The organs glorious cadences filled the inside of Sir Christopher Wren's masterpiece.

Aunt Ada, capable of working miracles it seemed, gilded the altar with Christmas greenery and bunting. She also filled the church pews, a considerable feat in the middle of winter.

Chiara knew family and friends packed the seats. The only face she focused on was at the foot of the altar, watching, waiting. In formal black, she didn't think he'd ever been handsomer, except that day when he stood, in workman's clothes, with her in front of Padre Barnabà.

Chiara's kinsmen escorted her to him. They each kissed her then took their seats. Rafe took her hand, and they turned to the altar. The bishop who'd granted DuBois's special license stood on the steps. He'd fallen head over heels in trying to make amends. He agreed to make the arrangements and perform the Renewal of Vows ceremony. Dressed in gold-embroidered white vestments and miter, and smiling broadly, he bade Rafe and Chiara come forward. Mr. Day, one of his assistants in black cassock and white alb, winked broadly.

"Your Royal Highness," the bishop intoned. Chiara looked at Rafe in confusion. She didn't realize the Prince Regent was in attendance. Rafe gave a miniscule shrug. "My lords and my ladies, ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered here today to allow you to join in the happiness Chiara and Rafael have in their marriage that was solemnized far from the support of friends and family. Although everything is in order, they want to reaffirm their vows so that you may have some share in this joyous event. Therefore, let us begin."

"Yes, let's," Rafe whispered. "Pompous old git." Chiara squeezed his hand, partly in agreement, partly in remonstrance then gave him a tug in the direction of the bishop.

"The bishop hauled him over the coals, officially and unofficially." Rafe came along side Mr. Day as the young man spoke to Lord and Lady Meriwether at the wedding reception. Day nodded a greeting. "Congratulations and felicitations, if somewhat belated." He lifted his glass in toast, the Meriwethers joined in by lifting their glasses.

"Underwood, I presume?" Rafe inquired.

"Um, yes. There was some talk of defrocking him, but I argued against it." Rafe's eyebrow went up. "I, I hope you don't object too strenuously. I argued that perhaps his punishment should be tempered with mercy. I suggested, and the bishop agreed, that he be made an assistant pastor..." he finished in a rush, "...at a mission in India."

Rafe's laughter sent heads turning as he thumped Day's shoulder and strolled away.

Passing through the crowd, he briefly wondered just how many people Lady Wentworth managed to shoe-horn into the ballroom. And where did she find them? Sweet Christ, it was winter. Of course, the hints of scandal almost guaranteed a sad crush, even more than the presence of the Prince Regent. After all, His Royal Largeness presented himself at many events. Treason, with a hint of romance, now that caught Society's interest.

As he passed through the crowd, people greeted and congratulated him with the delight of old friends. Some of them he even knew.

Against the wall, trying their best, he knew, to be inconspicuous were the god-fathers-to-be, his valet Jones and Sam Goode. They were both thoroughly mortified to be included in the festivities, not to mention the christening, but Chiara prevailed on them. Sam was already warm butter in her hands, and Jones quickly followed suit.

Rafe only wished Tom Harley could have come. The _Swiftsure_ 's assignment took it to the United States with the Royal Navy's blockade of that upstart excuse for a nation.

One interesting, if unexpected, guest was his sister, Georgina. Her greeting was civil, not quite cordial, and the slightest bit hesitant. Chiara took one look at her, extended both hands and announced that as soon as all the "foolishness her aunt had organized" was over, the two of them would have to sit down to a comfortable coze

Wonder of wonders, Georgina actually smiled.

During his perambulation, he looked for his wife, but even his superior height helped little. There were just too many people. Lord Blackstone, noting his glances, said, "Saw the gel near the window with Prinny. She may need rescuing by now."

"I am in your debt, Blackstone, and so, I suspect, is she."

A direction made the hunt much easier. Soon he saw her, sitting in a secluded cove of the ballroom while the Regent bent to say something in her ear. Stopping behind the future king, he said, "Good day, Your Highness. Thank you for gracing our celebration."

The Prince jerked upright, his corset stays protesting mightily. Rafe exerted iron control over the bark of laughter that threatened. The expression on Prinny's face could only be described as "guilty."

"Ah, FitzHenry, our congratulations. However, we are most downcast that you have purloined perhaps the loveliest lady in the kingdom. We were forced to carry her off to this quiet corner for a few moments of private conversation." His fingers flipped at his jacket lapels like a cock preening his feathers.

Rafe knew that Prinny felt it should be a great honor to have one's wife seduced by the Prince Regent. With a bow, Rafe replied, "I absolutely understand your dilemma perfectly and sympathize, Your Highness. The only problem is that, with my wife so recently kidnapped, I take a very dim view of anyone trying to carry her off anywhere. I would find it most distressing if a...misunderstanding forced me to again defend my wife's honor. I demonstrated my ability to do so quite recently, if you remember."

"Um, yes, indeed, most intrepid. With Lady FitzHenry, I quite understand. Speaking of Lady FitzHenry, I haven't seen your lady mother in awhile."

Rafe glanced at Chiara. "My mother is currently traveling abroad. I believe she mentioned something about the possibility of emigrating, perhaps to America."

"Indeed? That's a pity. Always enjoyed the company of Lady FitzHenry."

Rafe held his face perfectly blank for several seconds before he replied, "Indeed."

Lord Alvanley, one of Prinny's inner circle, joined the group. "Lord FitzHenry, Lady FitzHenry, pardon me. Your Highness, you wished to leave for Greenwich before nightfall?"

"Yes, yes. By your leave, my lady, my lord." Chiara slowly rose to offer her curtsey. He sailed off toward the door, with curtseys and bows lining his progress.

"I truly regret having to be grateful to Alvanley. He's such a fool. But, I do appreciate him removing Prinny before people begin making pointed comments about the Hunt brothers."

Chiara looked at her husband. "Did the trial end? I hadn't heard."

"Yes, they gave them each two years. Now I'm no bloody Whig, but I object to punishing good men who tell the truth. Prinny may not have liked being called 'a corpulent gentleman of fifty,' but that's exactly what he is."

"Indeed, it doesn't say much for British principles. Napoleon does the same thing." She hesitated. "Makes you wonder what we fought for."

"Humm. I may have to do something to ameliorate John and Leigh's situation. I'll think on that." He grinned over at her. "Later."

Lord Wentworth ambled towards them and lifted his glass. "Uncle George, this is fantastic. You and Aunt Ada worked miracles."

"Don't look at me, girl. I just said, 'Certainly, dear' to whatever she wanted and stayed out of the way. I'm not stupid, you know." She laughed and hugged him. He gave Rafe a man-to-man look. "You were bloody brilliant to be out of town for the duration. She would have driven you barmy." He shook his head.

"Oh, but she did a magnificent job and on, what, two months notice. Besides, you worship the ground she walks on." Wentworth regaled his niece with a heavy-lidded stare, tempered by a wry smile.

"And speaking of being out of town," Rafe said, "we haven't heard the latest. I imagine you've been busy."

Wentworth edged them back into the secluded corner and lowered his voice. "Stupid bastard left enough records to convict him thrice over, even without either of your testimonies."

Rafe's eyebrow went up. "Pity he can only hang once, then."

"Aye, but hang he will. He used his contacts at Whitehall to get into the ship chandlering end of things. He'd supplied five ships. Four of them were still in harbor so we off-loaded all their consumables and checked the gunpowder. We've sent a fast, little cutter after the last."

"Hopefully not too much damage has been done," Chiara said.

"Absolutely," reaffirmed Rafe.

Wentworth wandered off, and Chiara urged, "Rafe, come sit with me. I know your leg has had a long day." She led him to some chairs near the windows. "It's our party. Let the world come to us."

"Indeed, I need to rest so I'll be in top form to perform my husbandly duties." He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Have you ever had a problem?"

A man approached them. He was tall, with graying black hair and deeply tanned skin. "Lord FitzHenry, Lady FitzHenry." Ireland sang on his tongue. Black Irish, she thought, a descendant of Spanish Armada sailors washed ashore in west Ireland.

Rafe stood slowly. He looked the man in the eye. Chiara sat very still. It was like looking at brothers or...father and son.

"Thank you for inviting me. I am Lord Nigel Flannerty of County Galway in Ireland. I had my suspicions years ago, but Eleanor said nothing so I dismissed the possibility. Now that I see you, it's like seeing myself 30 years ago." He extended his hand.

Rafe looked at it and then at Chiara. She smiled. He reached for the hand.

Chiara got to her feet and offered both hands. She's heard only good things about Nigel Flannerty, a widower with no children. "I hope you plan to spend a great deal of time in England. You'll be the only grandparent." She patted her tummy that bulged from her wedding dress.

"Oh, girleen, 'tis a wonderful thing."

"Absolutely!"

### For The History Geeks

After Pope Pius VII officiated at Napoleon coronation in 1804, relations between the two heads of state degenerated. General Etienne Radet arrested Pius VII at Rome in June of 1809 and took him on a circuitous trip to Savona. The old man was housed in the Vescovale, the Episcopal Palace, there until he was moved to Fontainebleau in 1812. Only one piece of evidence hints at a British plot to rescue the pope. Napoleon wrote to the Prince Borghese in Turin on May 21, 1812 that he feared English ships off the coast were part of a plot to rescue the Pope.

Pope Pius lived to see the fall of his nemesis.

Chiara, pronounced "key-are-a," is the Italian version of Clare or Clair. The most famous holder of the name was St. Clare, the friend of St. Francis of Assisi. The diminutive is Chiaretta. A somewhat less famous, but certainly no less beloved, holder of the name is my granddaughter, Chiara, aka ChiChi.

"Platter-faced" was a term used by Lord Clancarty to describe Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, sister of Alexander I, Czar of Russia.

The statue described in the Duomo of Cesena, St. Bartholomew by Marco d'Agrate, is actually in the Duomo of Milan near the front door. FitzHenry's response is quite appropriate. I can vouch for that.

For the purposes of this story, I blackened General Etienne Radet's character. For the record, I found no evidence of villainy. Not quite DuBois's angel, he had curly hair, a long blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and a dimple in his upper lip. He served as the Commander in Chief of the Imperial Gendarmerie, Napoleon's State Police Force. In reality, Radet transferred custody of the pope to another in Savona. Napoleon made him a baron and later major general. The Bourbon restoration saw Radet imprisoned for nine years. Released, he died in Varennes in 1825.

Chiara's house is actually Stoneacre Garden in Kent. It dates from 1480 and is now owned by the National Trust. It still stands (never having actually been burnt) and has been restored as a recreation of a Tudor timber-framed house. Lady Meriwether's house is Squerryes Court, also in Kent. Built in 1680 by Sir Nicholas Crisp, it has been owned by the Ward family since 1731. The formal gardens are at the back of the house while the area down to the lake is lawn. Squerryes Court is "near" Hever Castle, but not at all near Stoneacre Court.

Kitchen fires were a major problem in pre-industrial houses, so much so that kitchens were sometimes placed in separate buildings.

Michelangelo's wonderful _Slaves_ can now be seen in the Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence along with their more famous cousin, David.

An oast house is a drying facility for hops and other grains. Appertization, a predecessor to our canning, came to England in 1812. Tin cans became common in the 20th century.

The Hunt brothers, _The Examiner_ newspaper publishers, were tried twice and finally convicted for printing articles critical of the government and the Prince Regent. Their incarcerations were fairly comfortable, and Leigh continued to edit the newspaper from his "cell."

Very few Spanish sailors who wrecked on the west of Ireland lived to have progeny. If they weren't killed in the wrecks, the English executed them. A few did survive, though.

###
