“Thank you,” I said with sincerity as we reached the open vista under a gray sky. “Captain Lacey, at your service, sir. My lodgings are there.” I pointed with my walking stick to another opening across the square that led in the direction of the Pantheon. The house Grenville had taken backed onto those that lined the piazza. “If ever you have need of a bumbling Englishman, you may call on me.”
I was trying to be amusing, having no idea what sort of service I could offer him when I lost myself within a few streets of home.
The man looked me up and down. “Not bumbling. And, in fact …” Another once-over. “At present I could use the assistance of what you English term astout fellow.”
“Oh?” I was not certain how robust I would be if he had need of strength. My leg, injured during the war, had already begun to ache from our rapid pace.
Red stained the fellow’s cheekbones. “It is my daughter. She … If I do not retrieve her, she—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I will understand if you want nothing to do with my family and our troubles.”
“Not at all. I have two daughters myself.” One was a grown young lady, and I had a notion of what sort of troubles he meant.
His flush cleared when he saw that I’d grasped his inference. “Excellent. My name is Proietti, Alessandro Proietti. I was once a colonel, but no longer, although I cannot seem to leave off the habit of giving orders.”
“Indeed? What regiment?” I asked with interest. Bonaparte had recruited and conscripted plenty of Italians when he’d invaded, especially in the northern states, though many had joined the Austrians to oppose him.
“I was in an infantry regiment under the Holy Roman Emperor against the Corsican upstart. Retired as soon as we rid ourselves of him. Now the Austrians have walked into places where the French were, and I’m not certain we’re better off.” His bitterness reflected what I’d heard from many as we’d traveled south from the Alps.
“I too, have retired. Wounded on the Peninsula.” I tapped my left leg with my walking stick, and Proietti sent it a look of sympathy. “Now, as to this errand.”
Proietti’s clouded countenance returned. “A blackguard, as you say in your language, has convinced my daughter he would be a far better husband to her than I am a father. Husband.” He spat the word. “He has no intention of being honorable. Blackguard is a very good word for him.”
As an outsider, I could not judge whether the abductor was right to spirit the daughter from the heavy hand of her father, but the worry on Proietti’s face told me differently. A brutal father would be obsessively enraged and would never have stopped, however reluctantly, to assist a stranger.
I would accompany him and see whether I could help. If it became clear that I was wrong about Proietti, I’d take myself from the fray and hunt up a watchman.
“Very well,” I said. “Lead on, Colonel.”
Proietti’s expression became one of gratitude. “It is not far, I assure you.” He turned toward the alleys.
A heavy tread behind us stopped me before I could follow. “Who’s this then?” Thomas Brewster asked as he reached me, sending a surly glance to Proietti.
Brewster was my bodyguard, tasked to keep me safe in the streets of Rome. I had neatly evaded him this morning, though it had not been on purpose. I’d wakened early and decided to stroll the piazza on my own, never thinking I’d run into mishap on so short a walk.
“Just the man,” I said. “This is Mr. Brewster, Signor Proietti. Another stout fellow.”
Indeed, Brewster, formerly a pugilist, had a fighter’s build and girth, massive hands, a nose that had been broken more than once, and a gaze that would wilt the most resilient opponent.
Brewster turned those hard eyes on me. “What you on about, guv?”
“An important mission, to assist this gentleman,” I said by way of explanation. “Your presence would be welcome.”
Brewster regarded me stonily a moment then heaved a long sigh. “Here we go.”
Proietti, once we finished our exchange, strode from the piazza into the passageway from which we’d emerged. I followed him quietly, and Brewster came behind me, his steps far less muffled than mine.
Proietti tookus through a bewildering array of small streets with tall houses on either side. An occasional fountain burbled in unexpected courtyards that were quickly lost behind us. Grenville had explained that I could drink from any of these fountains and find pure, clean water that had flowed from faraway springs since ancient times.
Signor Proietti finally halted before a six-story house that was a faded shade of green, topped by a mansard roof with dormer windows. He stepped to the black-painted front door and pounded on it with his fist.
The door was opened almost immediately, not by an angry young man or an annoyed landlady, but by a stiff servant with gray hair who stared coldly out at Proietti in obvious recognition. They exchanged no words, and at last the servant stepped aside and admitted us.
Proietti charged in without pleasantries. Brewster and I followed at a more discreet pace.
I’d half expected to find a dilapidated boarding house with a wild and handsome young man declaring he’d never send his beautiful and weeping young lady back to her family, as happened in poorly written melodramas.
Instead, I stepped into grandeur—though one that was waning. The high ceiling, decorated with gilded vaulted arches, framed ceiling paintings that rivaled any I’d seen in nearby churches. A staircase rose in magnificence before us, winding its way to the top of the house.
Proietti ran up this staircase without waiting for the servant. Brewster, who was wont to duck below stairs the moment we entered a grand house, came behind me as I more slowly mounted the stairs. Brewster studied the artwork and small trinkets strewn about the place with a professional eye as we went. He had once been a thief, a good one, and sometimes still was.
