“That’s when the fighting stops and they kiss a bit. Then one of them says something and they’re off again.” Just then Beatrice’s voice rose on a sob and J. J. leapt into action. She held up a glass and positioned it between her ear and the door.
“What are they saying?” I demanded in a whisper.
She listened a moment longer, then shrugged. “Devil if I know. I don’t speak Italian. Here, you listen.”
She pushed me towards the door and thrust the glass into my hands. I took up the post and listened attentively for some moments. The voices had fallen again and I made out only snatches of the conversation. And a single, chilling word: ‘morto.’Dead.It might have been significant, but without the proper context, I could draw no conclusions. And I had no intention of sharing this scant information with J. J. For all I knew, they were discussing bedbugs.
At length, I heard a few stifled sobs and then a long, low sigh. They lapsed into silence and I shook my head at J. J.
“Gone to bed,” I mouthed at her. She pulled a face and I motioned for her to follow me. I led the way back to my room and closed the door softly behind us.
“That wall is shared with his lordship’s suite,” I told her. “You will have to whisper.” She nodded and we settled onto the bed to talk. “Why were you eavesdropping on the Salviatis?” I demanded.
She waggled her brows at me and I peered closely. “Are you having some sort of nervous storm? A fit?”
“I am attempting to arch a brow at you. I am beingscornful,” she said in a lofty tone. “Was that not conveyed?”
“Not in the least. If anything, you looked demented. And why should that question elicit such a response?” I demanded.
“Because you are being deliberately obtuse, Veronica. I am obviously in pursuit of a story.”
“About the Salviatis?” I leant closer. “Are they worthy of a story?”
She shrugged. “Not yet, but I have high hopes. You see, working belowstairs is extremely informative. If you keep your ears open, you can learn quite a lot, and I have been learning about the Salviatis. It’s a terribly romantic tale, apparently. She is an American heiress, you know. Very good family and her uncle is some titan of industry. Railways or some such. He has settled a handsome amount of money on her, and with her looks, she was absolutely besieged by suitors when she made her debut. She has apparently left them all dangling for years. Scores of handsome American fellows with deep pockets and very white teeth all paying court and asking for her hand. But it was not to be.”
She paused—no doubt for dramatic effect, and I suppressed a sigh of impatience. J. J., like all storytellers, could never be rushed.
But she did expect an appreciative audience, and a little rapt attention would not go amiss, I decided.
“Go on,” I encouraged with wide eyes to show I was listening closely.
“She met the Count Salviati, older but very handsome and with lovely, Continental manners. Apparently she has a weakness for all things Italian,” J. J. said, waggling her eyebrows again, but this time to better effect. I understood at once that she meant to imply Beatrice found European gentlemen to be extremely alluring. “The other suitors dangled diamonds in her direction, but all it took was a fewwhispered sonnets from Salviati, and she was so much putty in his nimble hands. They were married a shockingly short time later.”
“There must have been a bit of talk; after all, he is much older than she. Although he does bring the title and the wealth, I suppose. Beauty has been traded thusly since time began,” I mused.
J. J. shook her head. “The contessa is the one with the money. The Salviati family were tremendously important during the time of the Borgias and have been gently declining ever since. There’s no grand castello left to restore or anything like that, but I did hear of a tiny Roman palace, scarcely larger than a town house in Belgravia. Perhaps they’ll use her money to do it up. In the meantime, they like a bit of travel. They’re having a belated honeymoon and slowly making their way to Egypt so they can spend the winter amidst the pyramids.” She stopped, her expression dreamy. “Can you imagine anything more romantic than sleeping under the desert stars, observed only by the unseeing eyes of the statues of pharaohs?”
“And the guides, and the tourists, and the local folk, and rather too many smelly camels,” I told her with some asperity.
“You just want a place that has butterflies,” she said pointedly.
“I do not deny that is an attraction. Now, what else have you discovered about the count and his bride?” I cursed myself silently as soon as the words had flown from my lips. Either my persistence on the subject of the Salviatis or my tone alerted her. She lifted her nose in the air as a predator will when it smells blood.
“Why do you want to know? You aren’t here just for a bloody house party,” she accused. “You are engaged in an investigation!”
The last word rose loudly, and I clapped a hand over her mouth. “Hush! Do you want everyone in the house to know?” I removed my hand to reveal a Cheshire Cat grin.
“But they will know if you do not tell me exactly what this is about,” she assured me.
“That,” I told her in an icy voice, “is extortion.”
“It is,” she agreed happily. “But it’s quite like old times. Now, tell me.”
“Impossible!”
“Veronica,” she said pleasantly, “our friendship is of recently short duration, but I think you know me well enough to understand the depth of my persistence in pursuit of the truth. Now, we can spar and spat until the proverbial cows come home, but in the end, you will tell me because you simply cannot risk what I might do if left to my own devices. Why waste the time and effort when we both know you will tell me in the end?”
It sounded so reasonable when she phrased it thusly. “Harpia harpyja,” I muttered.
