Proietti gained the next floor and banged open a door. I followed him, my walking stick ringing on terrazzo tile, to double doors leading to a large sitting room, one door swaying on its hinge.
As I entered, my lingering imaginings of a melodrama fled. The chamber was well furnished with lush chairs and settees similar to what Grenville had placed into his tastefully decorated villa. Long windows gave a view of the Tiber, over which rose the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.
The man who’d moved to meet Proietti in the middle of the room was quiet and respectable, older than I’d envisioned, with gray in his hair. He might be in his early fifties, nearer my age and Proietti’s than my daughter’s.
The young lady who’d risen from a divan when Proietti had stormed in was comely, though not of overblown beauty. Her blue gown of fine cotton, without many frills, was what any young lady might wear on a given morning. She’d pulled her dark hair into a simple knot, two curls dangling to her cheeks.
She was about Gabriella’s age, which again made me understand Proietti’s concern. If circumstances had been different, this might be my daughter attempting to elope with an older, likely wealthy man. Gabriella seemed to have been raised with good sense, but the allure of wealth could turn an impressionable girl’s head.
An older woman remained on a chair next to the divan, her back ramrod straight, her plain lavender gown a good canvas for the diamonds that glittered on her chest. More winked in her ears behind her iron gray hair. She bathed Proietti and then Brewster and me with a look of profound disapproval.
The conversation proceeded in Italian, a language of which I knew only the rudiments. I’d learned much Spanish and Portuguese during my time in the Peninsula Wars, but Italian was different enough from those to cause me to lose the thread.
I heard the words,her fatherfrom Proietti, andincapableandinefficient—at least I believed—from the other man. The daughter, with much spirit, moved immediately to the two men and joined the argument. The older woman, by resemblance the gentleman’s mother, planted her hands on her walking stick and glowered at us all. Occasionally she interjected a word or two, and the shouting would pause, only to resume when she fell silent, her mouth in a hard line.
I concluded, as the voices rose, that this was a private house, owned or leased by the gentleman. No landlord came rushing in to complain, and no neighbors in other rooms shouted about the noise.
The gentleman eventually swung to me, a frown on his face. Proietti’s daughter also shot a puzzled glance at me, clearly wondering who I was and why I’d brought along a ruffian.
The man directed a string of words at me. He didn’t snarl or behave like a boor—he was angry but held himself more in check than did Proietti.
Proietti barked something at him, and the older gentleman’s words slid smoothly into English.
“Why have you come here?” he demanded of me.
I gave him a polite bow but kept my tones cool. “A gentleman asked my assistance to retrieve his daughter. I could hardly decline.”
The man’s face creased with displeasure. “You know nothing of this. I have not stolen her away, and my mother, a worthy chaperone, lives here with me.” He gestured to the woman on the chair, who by her expression understood every word.
“He is married to another,” Proietti snapped. “A blackguard, as I told you.”
The gentleman’s chilly demeanor reminded me of James Denis—Denis being a criminal overlord in London. Could this man be as dangerous?
The gentleman lifted his hand. “My marriage is nothing to concern you.”
I wondered if he planned to divorce his wife for this lively young woman. I wasn’t certain of the laws regarding marriage in the Papal States, where Rome was located, but I was certain they’d be strict. I’d read that during Bonaparte’s occupation he’d instigated many reforms over the whole of the Italian peninsula, including legalizing divorce. But once he was gone, I believed laws had returned to what they’d been prior to his invasion.
However, this gentleman could be inferring that his wife was at death’s door—if so, he was rather callously choosing her successor.
“You have no right to keep my daughter,” Proietti snarled.
The older woman spoke from the sofa, her English even better than her son’s. “She is a guest.Myguest.”
The gentleman’s voice grew stern, its iciness deepening. “My mother has invited Signorina Proietti to stay in my home, and Signorina Proietti has made the choice to do so.”
Proietti switched to Italian to appeal to his daughter. I did not understand much, but I knew he was asking her to come home with him.
The daughter lifted her chin. “No, Papa.” The words were clear in any language.
A discreet cough at the door announced the haughty servant who’d admitted us. Several larger young men dressed in livery, likely the household’s footmen, followed him. Brewster stiffened behind me, ready and willing to fight if need be.
The older gentleman turned to me. “Forgive my manners, sir, but you are not welcome here. Colonel Proietti is also no longer welcome. Please leave at once, Proietti. You will not be admitted again.”
Signorina Proietti’s eyes constricted, tears moistening them, as though she’d not meant to have her father banished from the house. Her infatuation for the cool gentleman beside her was clear, but I could see she preferred that her gentleman and her father be friends.
Proietti opened his mouth to argue, but I stepped forward. None of my business, I knew, but I did not want to see Proietti thrown down the stairs. Nor did I need Brewster to be arrested for bashing his fists into the man’s servants.
“Perhaps this can be discussed later,” I said. “At a set time and place, on neutral ground. You can understand, Signor, why a father wishes reassurance that his daughter will be taken care of? And you, Colonel Proietti, want your daughter’s happiness above all things.”
