“He was defeated,” I finished. “Rendering your document null and void.”
“I made certain the promise applied only if he remained in power. Ah well. As your poet says,The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft aglee.” He delivered the line by Mr. Burns in fine Scots.
Conte de Luca had certainly proved to be an interesting man. I’d been reluctant to run Denis’s errand, but I softened to the task because it let me meet de Luca, who I could count as a very intriguing acquaintance.
We finally madeour excuses to de Luca—Grenville had other obligations that night as well as our early start—and we dragged ourselves away, the sky now dark. De Luca made us promise to visit the moment we returned from Napoli, and we agreed with enthusiasm. He again stated he and Gian would comb the rooms for the Cupid statue, and we departed.
We returned to Grenville’s abode and dressed for the evening, then I followed Grenville to a soiree hosted by another Englishman. The ladies there were likewise disappointed my wife was not in attendance, and also made do with asking me questions about her.
Those I met this evening were similar to Lord Matthew Roberts and his circle—ladies and gentlemen related to aristocrats, or retired army and naval officers who had found nothing to do with themselves now that the long war was finished.
Mentions of Broadhurst were met with shrugs and indifference, except one brother of a baron asking, “Wasn’t he the chap who vanished with everyone’s money? No, that was his partner. This chap died, didn’t he? Hard luck. Well, if he was a swindler, he got his comeuppance.”
That was the extent of knowledge about Broadhurst. If the letter-writer was among these people he kept himself very quiet.
We departed after Grenville had decided we’d stayed the requisite amount of time. Brewster met us outside, he emitting a small belch.
“They have a chef here,” he said. “Fellow from Sicily. He decided I should taste all the dishes he’s cooking tonight. Apparently, those upstairs have no idea what’s good and what’s not. He’s not happy, but the pay is too much to chuck.” Brewster wiped his mouth with the backs of his fingers. “He’s a dab hand, I must say. When one of the lackeys told him I worked for Mr. Grenville, he came over all eager and shoved food into me.”
Brewster did not, in fact, work for Grenville, but neither of us admonished him for not correcting the chef. Likely the man hoped Brewster would convey his skill to Grenville, who might be looking for another cook someday.
“He spoke English?” Most of the servants I’d encountered so far had little English, and many spoke the dialect of their region, rarely using even the Italian that I recognized.
“Not as such. But we managed to get our meaning across. Mostly it was me eating. Even the ale he found me weren’t bad.”
High praise from Brewster. “You can stay if you like.” I gestured to the door that led to the servants’ area. “We’ll call for you in the morning.”
Brewster sent me a dark look. “Very amusing. Happen I also found out where that fellow, Proietti, has his lodgings. One of the maids in this house is acquainted with one of the maids in his. In case you wanted to visit him and explain how we were nearly arrested for storming into the house of that ice-cold bloke.”
“He might have been threatened as well,” I said, though the police captain had made no mention of Proietti. “I ought to see whether he is all right.”
“Perhaps Trevisan blamedyouso the father of his beloved wouldn’t be dragged to prison,” Grenville suggested.
“Saw that on the stage.” Brewster’s sniff was derogatory. “It’s like we’ve landed in one of them operas.”
“Rome is where they all began,” Grenville tried to joke. “Though I doubt Conte Trevisan would do anything so dramatic. From what you said of him, he seemed a cold fish.”
“We shall ask Proietti,” I decided. “We will not have another chance to visit him until we return from Napoli, and I feel I should make certain he is well.”
Grenville agreed, and we followed Brewster, who had not agreed but not argued, into the streets.
That Brewster had pried out the information of exactly where Proietti lived and knew how to reach the house did not surprise me. He’d had plenty of time to speak to locals today while Grenville and I took our time visiting expatriates. I remembered him gesticulating with the shoe boy in the square—no doubt he’d recruited helpers in this city already who’d told him exactly what was where.
We tramped down the hill and followed the river south toward the Piazza Navona, passing the mausoleum of Augustus along the way. Any other time, I’d want to linger at the crumbling building and have a look at it, but Brewster hurried us on. Darkness coated the city, and predators roved the night.
Where the river bent to the west, Brewster took us into a warren of streets, pitch dark and packed with houses. A taverna would open abruptly from a corner, the room inside filled with a glow of warmth and voices.
“Here we are, guv.” Brewster stopped before a black-painted door that looked no different from the others in the lane through which he’d led us.
There was nothing to say who lived in this dark house, but cracks of light shone from an upstairs window behind the shutters of chipped green paint. Brewster, without compunction, pounded on the door.
After a moment, a bolt scraped back, and flickering candlelight revealed the suspicious countenance of a thin man, not Proietti. He stared at us without recognition and barked a question.
Grenville tipped his hat and spoke in Italian. As the nameCaptain Laceyslid from his tongue, the man became suddenly deferential.
“Ah, si, si, si. Il capitano inglese. Mi segua, por favor.” The manservant gestured us in, his candle waving wildly, and slammed the solid portal once we were inside.
The floor beneath our feet was hard stone, but the staircase that rose at the end of the entrance had polished wooden steps. The servant led us upward without waiting, and we had to hurry to keep within the glow of the candle.
