“But Miss Lacey has a good head on her shoulders. Not flighty, prancing after the first bloke she meets with money and a fancy title.”
I agreed with Brewster, and was pleased he said so, but I always held a father’s worry. “I do wonder what Conte Trevisan was hinting about his marriage. Does he mean to divorce and remarry? Or simply have Proietti’s daughter as his mistress?”
Brewster shrugged. “Who knows? Rich blokes can do anything they like, can’t they? Or maybe he didn’t know the right words in English.”
“He spoke very well. I’ll wager he’s fluent in several languages.”
“Aye, well. None of our business, is it?” Brewster’s tone held annoyance. He was here to keep me out of mischief, which I’d proved in the past too apt to dig myself into.
I said nothing more as we crossed the piazza, weaving our way through vendors, beggars, tourists, and others who were emerging to begin their morning. Brewster sent me a chary glance but fell silent.
The house Grenville had hired lay across a narrow street from the church of San Luigi dei Francesi. Beautiful paintings by Caravaggio adorned that church, which I’d gazed at for a long while the day of our arrival. Such stark realism in Caravaggio’s works, at the same time depicting the mystical and sublime.
Grenville had risen while I’d had my morning walk, and he breakfasted in a small room on the second floor of this narrow house.
Lucius Grenville had enough wealth, I suspected, to buy the conte I’d met this hour twice over, but one would never know it by the modest home he’d let and the subdued suit he wore. He had, however, immediately employed a chef so we would eat the finest meals possible during our sojourn.
Brewster had absented himself to the kitchen, and I seated myself at the table in Grenville’s breakfast room, accepting coffee in a small cup from Grenville’s valet, Gautier.
“Had an adventure this morning,” I began.
Grenville had patted his mouth with a napkin after he greeted me, and now the eyes above the white cloth filled with irritation. “Of course, you did.” Grenville lowered the napkin. “Because I lingered in bed and then decided to sit down to a lavish breakfast.”
“It was not as exciting as all that.” I had to be amused, Grenville always adamant that my life was far more interesting than his. I took a sip of coffee, which was quite rich and good. I had already decided that the best thing about Rome was its coffee. “I will start with catching sight of an Englishman. I have been trying to remember his name— Ah, I have it. Broadhurst. His given name … Norris, I believe? Yes, it was. Was introduced to him at a racing meet, or some such, that I attended with you.”
Grenville had gone very still. “Norris Broadhurst?” he repeated, an odd note in his voice. “You could not possibly have seen him, Lacey.”
I raised my brows. “I am willing to wager he was the man I spied coming out of that church. I tried to greet him, but he vanished.”
“Well he might have, my friend.” Grenville regarded me gravely. “Norris Broadhurst is dead. Has been this past twelvemonth.”
Chapter2
Dead?” I repeated in astonishment.
“Quite.” Grenville reached for his own cup, which Gautier had instantly refilled the moment he’d set it down. “Sadly, unlamented. He swindled many before his demise. I escaped his machinations, fortunately, because my man of business is astute.”
I listened in surprise. I was good at remembering faces, and I was certain I’d seen Broadhurst’s. His countenance was round and somewhat plump, his hair going to gray and close-cropped. Today he’d dressed in old-fashioned breeches and boots topped by a rich brown greatcoat, an ensemble for tramping through streets on a February morning. He’d been clapping on a hat as he’d emerged from the church, a broad back turning to me as he’d made for the lanes behind it.
“Was he a religious man?” I asked. “Catholic?”
Grenville blinked. “Good Lord, no. Did his churchgoing on occasion for the show of it, I believe, but I’d not say he was devout. And he was firmly C of E. He’d not have schemed so much money out of his friends if he hadn’t been.”
True, much of thehaut tonregarded anyone not of the Church of England with grave suspicion. However, a person visiting a church in Rome did not mean he’d converted to that faith. He, like me, might be viewing paintings, friezes, ceilings, and tombs of notables long dead.
Grenville studied me, intrigued. “You are convinced you saw him. Was this the whole of your adventure?”
“Not at all, but now I am curious. Did Broadhurst have a brother?”
“He might have. He was not in my circle, and attended Oxford, while I’m a Cambridge man. Gautier?”
Grenville directed the question at the valet who had gone to the door to retrieve another coffee pot from a footman.
“Mr. Norris Broadhurst indeed had a younger brother,” Gautier informed us, setting the silver pot on its warmer. “I believe his Christian name is Alistair. Whether he resembles the late Mr. Broadhurst, I cannot say.”
“There you are.” Grenville opened his hand. “You saw the brother who has come to Rome to see the sights, perhaps to console himself for his loss.”
“That will be it.” I sipped more coffee, glad the minor mystery had been cleared up. I wondered, though, where the man had been hastening off to on the back streets of Rome so early, and if he’d had anything to do with his brother’s swindling.
