The retainer guided me at a slow pace around the outer perimeter of this garden and opened another door. A flight of stairs awaited, and I bent my protesting knee to follow the man upward.
The stairs ended at a gallery much like the one in Grenville’s house in Napoli. The retainer took me partway along this and opened a door. Beyond that was warmth, a sitting room, carpet, and soft furnishings.
The chamber also held Grenville.
He sprang up from a chair when I entered. “My dear chap. I tried to return, and they would not let me.”
Grenville’s face bore faint bruises, but it had been washed, and his hair, which had been mussed by the wind and dust when I’d last seen him, was combed and neat. His suit bore rents from today’s ordeal, but it too had been brushed, as had his gleaming boots. From the look of him, the most exertion he’d done today might have been a stroll in the garden below.
I could only stare, my heart pounding in relief. Then irritation took its place.
“I see I worried for nothing.” I pretended to joke, but I heard the annoyance in my voice. “Brewster has been tended and put to bed, thank you. I was about to return and search the ruins for you.”
“Not a good idea, Captain Lacey.” A hearty and very English voice assailed me. “Pompeii is treacherous after dark. Not only holes to fall into, but thieves to rob you.”
The man I faced was tall and broad of torso and had a thick shock of blond hair going to gray. A military man, I surmised, from his bearing and the voice that was used to roaring commands.
“Lacey, this is Colonel Reynold Stanbridge,” Grenville intervened. “He and his wife fished me out of a very bad place indeed. Stanbridge, Captain Gabriel Lacey.”
Stanbridge laughed, the noise resounding through the room. He was an officer in the style of Colonel Brandon, very hearty with his friends, every inch the commander.
“He means that quite literally, Captain,” Stanbridge boomed at me. “Now, come in, come in. Fetch the man some wine.” This last was directed at a lackey, who bowed and moved to a sideboard to pour out.
“Do shut the door, Colonel,” a woman’s voice came from across the chamber. “I can’t see the captain from here. You gentlemen are blocking my view.”
Stanbridge laughed again and obliged. “Always keen to meet new neighbors, is my wife. Especially if they are fellow countrymen. And army men at that.”
Once my eyes adjusted to the candlelight, I found myself in a comfortable sitting room, with carpet on the tiled floor and a fire crackling on a hearth. The furniture was of heavy carved wood, but plenty of cushions and rugs softened every surface.
The lady who rose from a chair near the fire was plump and middle aged, her gray hair covered by a lacy cap. She wore a fashionably cut gown of a dark color I couldn’t make out in this light—brown or maroon possibly—enhanced with an embroidered jacket. Her face was round and pleasant, and she smiled amiably at me.
If Stanbridge was similar to Colonel Brandon, his wife was nothing like Louisa. Louisa Brandon was steely but delicate, while this lady exuded robustness.
“How do you do, Captain?” Mrs. Stanbridge extended a hand, and I bowed over it. “Mr. Grenville had fallen into a hole near one of the bathhouses. Possibly it was a well, or maybe another bath. The colonel found some rope, hooked him, and reeled him in.” She chortled.
“They very kindly brought me home and leant me a valet who helped me refresh myself.” Grenville’s tone was light, but I saw exasperation in his eyes. “Then they kept me prisoner, declaring I must take supper with them. Only great pleading allowed me to send word to you.”
“Isn’t he a one?” Mrs. Stanbridge crowed in delight. “As though tramping through the dark to a rough inn is preferable to a meal by our chef. He’s a wonderful cook, Captain Lacey, as you will see.”
“What about Baldini?” I asked Grenville. “The poor man is tramping all over Pompeii, searching for you.”
“No longer,” the colonel broke in. “I sent a chap to intercept the scholar and send him home. Baldini should know better—Pompeii is treacherous after dark.”
“You know Signor Baldini?” I asked.
“Everyone who is interested in Pompeii knows the man. He’s a foremost expert on the place, that and Herculaneum. The ruins in Rome too. He’s loaned me some literature to help me understand them. A pleasant young man.”
“I hear you gained the favor of his patron, Conte Trevisan.” Mrs. Stanbridge gave my arm a coquettish tap. “Lucky Captain Lacey. He is quite wealthy and well connected. Anyone in his favor will do very nicely, thank you.”
I could think of no reply, so I nodded politely. More who thought Trevisan a great man. It was curious. I wondered if Trevisan was as good a confidence trickster as Mr. Broadhurst had been.
There was nothing for it but that Grenville and I sat down to supper with Colonel and Mrs. Stanbridge.
The meal was quite good, the colonel’s wife not exaggerating about their cook’s talents. The chef sent up several meats, including sausage-stuffed veal, along with a flatbread coated with a sauce made from crushed tomatoes and a mild cheese melted over the top. I quite liked the flatbread, which I had seen vendors selling on the road from Napoli.
The conversation turned to our thoughts on Rome and the rest of the peninsula.
“There are those who like to say that things are back to the way they were,” the colonel remarked philosophically. “A foreign king again rules Napoli, the Austrians are administering in the north, and the pope has regained his Papal States. But it is different. The average man got a taste of life in a republic when Bonaparte was here. Mark my words, they won’t forget.”
