“You mustn’t rush away,” Mrs. Stanbridge told me as we ate. “Signor Baldini will not have time for you today, I think—I hear he has had to head off on some errand for Conte Trevisan. You must visit with us, and we can arrange a guide if you insist on returning to the ruins. Or remain here and enjoy the views with us.”
“Indeed,” her husband chimed in. “This house was built to resemble the Roman villas of old. We even have an ambulatory—a columned walkway overlooking the sea. Do say you’ll stay.”
I shook my head, trying to show regret. “My man was hurt, and I must make certain he is well.”
“We can bring him here,” Mrs. Stanbridge said at once.
I imagined Brewster’s reaction to an enforced stay in a villa that might contain people who wanted to kill us.
“We are on a timetable,” Grenville said, also making a show of reluctance. “We begin the return journey to Rome tomorrow, stopping at Napoli along the way, then back to our ladies. They will be adamant that we do not linger.”
“What a pity.” Mrs. Stanbridge brought her hands together. “Such a treat for us to meet fellow Englishmen, especially those who were on the Peninsula with us.”
“Not the same regiment, of course, but that can’t be helped.” Stanbridge chuckled. “Now that you know where we are, you must return, Lacey, so we can reminisce until Mrs. Stanbridge and Mr. Grenville are at their wits’ end. Come back to the bay and bring your ladies with you.”
I had fully planned a second journey with Donata and family, but I only nodded noncommittally. The Stanbridges were very likely exactly what they seemed—a retired army couple lonely for company but making the best of their exile. Once I determined who was threatening Broadhurst, I could be more amenable to a visit.
After more protestations as well as thanks for their hospitality, Grenville and I at last took our leave.
We elected to walk back to our inn, as it was not far and neither of us wanted to wait for Stanbridge to order a coach or horses for us. It was a pleasant morning, the rain and wind gone, blue sky welcoming.
“They are either very friendly, salt-of-the-earth people, or very clever villains,” Grenville said. “I’d never suspect them of sending our attacker after you, but for the fact that the man knew exactly where to find us, and the Stanbridges were swindled by Broadhurst.”
“The man chasing us might have nothing to do with Broadhurst,” I said. “I have also offended Conte Trevisan, who many seem to think is a nonpareil. Perhaps our follower is bent on teaching me manners.”
“Farfetched.” Grenville adjusted his hat against the sun and scanned the fields on either side of this stretch of road. They were empty, fortunately, except for a trio of farmers digging on the far side. “This fellow is English, in any case. Why should he care about a Milanese conte?”
“There is another motive to consider—I have a commission to fulfill for Denis. Perhaps this man does not want me to get my hands on the forged statue. Ishethe forger? And fears that Denis will discover his ruse?”
“Again, farfetched. We only have Conte de Luca’s word that it is a fake. Perhaps de Luca simply does not wish to sell it to Denis.”
I made a gesture of defeat. “I can think of no other reason this gentleman should throw knives at me or wrestle you into a hole in Pompeii.”
“The hole was my own fault.” Grenville reddened. “I had nearly caught up to the man when he turned to fight me. We exchanged a few blows, then I slipped and fell. He could have finished me off—I thought he would for a moment—but he fled. No matter how much I cried out, no one heard. I honestly thought I’d be another body found in Pompeii by excavators.” He shivered.
“There are enough people crawling over the ruins that you’d have been discovered eventually.” I tried to sound reassuring. “By us, certainly, if the Stanbridges hadn’t pulled you out. Baldini was conducting a thorough search.”
“Thank you, Lacey.” Grenville adjusted his hat again. “Kind of you to indulge me in my fears.”
“Pleased to assist you, my friend,” I said, keeping my tone light. Grenville sent me a tight smile, and we spoke of it no more.
We continued our walk, keeping sharp eyes out, and reached the inn without incident.
Brewster was up and in the common room, his left arm in a linen sling the surgeon had fashioned for him.
“Dining in the lap of luxury while I were laid low, were ye?” Brewster shoveled a large helping of chopped mutton and a round of thick bread into his mouth, an indication that his sprain hadn’t hindered his appetite.
“We hadn’t much choice,” I told him. “Safer to stay, wasn’t it?”
“That’s as may be.” Brewster mopped up the mutton’s juices with the last of his bread. “And they might have cut your throats in the night.”
“We thought of that.” I told Brewster what we’d learned of why the Stanbridges had moved to their villa, and he huffed, wiping his mouth on his hand.
“Lucky you walked out whole, weren’t it? An English bloke keeps trying to bash at you, and nice helpful people who’ve been swindled by the very man you’ve vowed to save offer you a bed for the night? You have an angel looking after you, guv.”
“Perhaps, when you are not available.” I allowed myself amusement at his exasperation. “Never mind. We are returning to Rome, as planned.”
Adhering to our schedule mollified Brewster somewhat, and he readied himself to depart.
