Britain had escaped, but by the skin of its teeth. If Bonaparte hadn’t had lost much of his army in Russia, he’d have focused his attention to annexing Britain at long last.
We debated the topic, which would give historians fodder for years to come. Grenville managed to slide in a mention of Broadhurst—beginning with swindlers in general and moving to specific ones—but from the blank stares of the company, I concluded they’d not heard of him.
The sun was slanting through western windows when Grenville rose and said we’d take our leave.
Grenville knew exactly when to end a call—he’d stay long enough to be cordial, but not long enough to become tiresome. It was a talent I lacked. When I found someone with whom I could be congenial, I wanted to linger and enjoy the conversation. Likewise, when the company was tedious, I’d find any excuse to rush away.
De Luca again clasped our hands in his tight grip before clapping us both on the shoulders. “Godspeed, gentlemen. Call on me when you return from your journeys, and we shall have a fine repast.”
We agreed, I already looking forward to it, and took our leave, making our way down the stairs and to the street.
“Guv.” Brewster emerged from a door a few feet down the lane, this one fronted by an iron grill that he clanged shut. “Best get indoors. There’s those what are hunting for us.”
“Hunting?” I asked in perplexity.
The sound of tramping feet made him grimace. “Too late, that’s a fact.”
A half dozen men I assumed were patrolmen rounded the corner from a wider street and blocked our way.
“You are Captain Lacey?” one inquired of me unsmilingly. “You and your servant will accompany us.”
Brewster stepped in front of me, his bulk between me and the armed men. Their uniforms were a subdued blue, boots dusty from the streets.
“I beg your pardon?” Grenville gave the leader a haughty stare. “We are visitors here and will go nowhere with you. What is the trouble?” Grenville had not been included in the command, but he had no intention of stepping aside and letting me be arrested.
The commander shifted uneasily. “I have not the English to explain. The magistrate will tell you.”
I agreed with Grenville and Brewster that I should go nowhere. Unlike in London, where the Watch kept a somewhat ineffectual eye on the streets, cities on the Continent had more regular police who patrolled with more vigor.
I imagined the magistrate would not be happy that I, a foreign nobody, had resisted going tamely to him for whatever I was supposed to have done. On the other hand, I had no intention of letting myself be jailed until I understood the nature of my supposed crime.
The commander bore a scowl, not at all pleased with us. His soldiers—or constables, or whatever they were—watched with interest, as though curious about the outcome of the encounter.
A rumbling voice cut through our indecision. I recognized Conte de Luca’s baritone, which was no longer amiable. He barked out questions in Italian, and the commander’s expression grew still more irritable.
I heard the nameTrevisan, and de Luca said “Ah,” and bent a stare on me.
“What have you done to upset his worshipfulness, Conte Trevisan?” de Luca demanded.
I returned his gaze in puzzlement. “Nothing. I did visit him this morning, but I spoke little to him.”
De Luca’s brows went up. “I’m certain there is more to it than that. He is claiming you charged in and attacked him. His neighbors did see you entering his house.” His gaze took me in. “They describe you well.”
“Then they will have noted that I am lame.” I tapped my left boot with my walking stick.
“I believe they noted you carried a stout weapon.” De Luca indicated the stick. “And that you left in a hurry.”
My ire rose. “Conte Trevisan was upright and in good health when last I saw him. If someone punched his nose for his arrogance, it was not me.”
De Luca barked a laugh. “So many would like to bruise that appendage, and so many fear to. He is a powerful man. If you promise you did not pummel him, then I will vouch for you.”
“I do promise,” I said. “I did not like the conte, but I give you my word I never laid a hand on him.”
Grenville broke in. “Captain Lacey returned to our rooms as I finished breakfast, and I saw no evidence that he had been in an altercation.”
Brewster contributed nothing. His habitual wariness of any sort of police kept his mouth a thin line, his face hard in his silence.
I was grateful to them both for saying nothing of Proietti, and I wondered if Trevisan had accused him as well. Or possibly he’d chosen me on whom to take out his wrath so he would not upset Proietti’s daughter by having her father arrested.
