“A local tough letting his anger at foreigners get the better of him,” I suggested. I started off in the direction of Grenville’s, but in spite of my words, I hurried my steps, my leisurely stroll spoiled.
Brewster strode beside me, though there wasn’t much room in this lane, and his bulk hemmed me in. “Not likely. You’ve started interfering in things again, haven’t you?”
I could not argue with him. Conte Trevisan had apologized last evening …so that an attempt on my life today wouldn’t be blamed on him? Or perhaps whoever was writing threatening letters to Mr. Broadhurst objected to my assistance. Then again, maybe I was correct that it was a disgruntled Neapolitan, tired of foreigners swarming into his city.
In any case, going indoors was the best thing I could do.
We reached the house and passed through the solid gate into the courtyard. Brewster pushed the gate closed behind us, earning him the wrath of the doorman, who I imagine wanted it open to allow air to circulate.
Brewster shot home the bolt, bringing the doorman’s shout of protest. I left the two of them to argue and made my way into the house.
Upstairs, a private sitting room rested between our two large bedrooms, reachable via a double-door into the gallery. I entered the chamber to find Grenville seated at the round table by the open windows overlooking the courtyard, sipping coffee. The remains of his breakfast lay on a plate before him.
“Everyone all right?” I asked as I hobbled swiftly into the room.
Grenville set aside his cup and rose, his eyes alight with excitement. “We are indeed. We stumbled around a bit, and the crockery rattled, but no one was hurt. How was it on the street?”
“I didn’t note any damage,” I told him. “Lots of people gabbing about it, but nothing more.” I produced the knife, and thunked it to the table. “Someone took the opportunity of the quake to chuck this at me.”
“Good Lord.” Grenville stared in horror from the weapon to me. He had once been stabbed and lain near to death, and the shadow of that had never left him. From the tightness around his mouth, he recalled the incident even now.
“They missed,” I reassured him. “Thanks to the unsteady earth and Brewster. Brewster gave chase but found no one.”
“Do you think Trevisan sent him?” Grenville’s brows rose. “In spite of his smooth words to us last evening?”
“I thought of that, but I don’t believe so. As you pointed out, he has learned that I have connections to powerful people who could make life difficult for him.” I sat down at the table, giving Matthias a nod of thanks when he set a cup of coffee before me. “If Donata decided to sink her teeth into him, she wouldn’t stop until he was whimpering for mercy.”
Grenville’s tension eased, though only slightly. “She is formidable, is your wife. A lovely and splendid lady.”
“I think so.” I agreed with both sentiments. Matthias reappeared with a plate piled with slabs of ham, toast, and pastries. The cooks in the houses we’d stayed in so far were used to English guests, and we were usually served a mixture of local and English cuisine.
I fell upon the food, hungry after my walk and unnerving adventure.
“I had a note from Trevisan this morning, in fact.” Grenville returned to his place at the table. “He has arranged for us to meet a gentleman who excavates the ancient cities. We will find him waiting at a tavern near Herculaneum—he even sent a map so we’d not mistake it. Why should he do that and then try to kill you?”
“Why, indeed?”
“Well, no matter what, we will be on our guard,” Grenville said decidedly.
I finished my coffee and did not object when Matthias instantly refilled my cup. “I haven’t had a chance to look into Broadhurst’s problem yet,” I said. “None of your acquaintance in Rome seemed to know much about him.”
“I noted that, but many in London did. Broadhurst was quite good at talking gentlemen, who should have had better sense, into handing him pots of cash. Do you remember the swindler who convinced many to invest in nonexistent canals?”
I did. A young gentleman swearing there would be canals through the Berkshire countryside where none had been planned had been very persuasive. He’d also been responsible for Grenville’s stabbing injury, which was likely why he’d sprung quickly to Grenville’s mind.
“Was Broadhurst doing the same sort of thing?” I asked.
“Broadhurst and Cockburn,” Grenville corrected me. “Two very respectable men of business who’d given many of my friends excellent returns on the Exchange. Or so my friends thought. It turned out Broadhurst and Cockburn had simply moved the money around, paying dividends to some with others’ money, while pocketing the lion’s share. When they were found out—and of course couldn’t pay the money back—quite a few who couldn’t afford to lose the funds were ruined. Alvanley invested a bit, but he is wealthy enough to shrug when he sees thousands gone. Others are not so fortunate.”
“And then Broadhurst was killed.”
“Indeed. Waylaid by street ruffians as he walked home from his office, as the story went. But now we know better.” Grenville frowned over his coffee.
“Was no one angry at Mr. Cockburn? Did no one try to take revenge on him as well?”
“Cockburn was able to convince everyone that he was as innocent a dupe as the investors,” Grenville said. “True or not, he claimed he did only what Broadhurst told him to, and never had a good look at the books. He believed in the investments. When the swindle was revealed, he tried to pay the money back, but of course, there wasn’t any. Broadhurst had either salted it away or lost it.”
So Broadhurst had told me. “What type of investments?” I asked in curiosity.
