“Mr. Gautier keeps us plenty busy, Captain. He can’t abide idleness. There is a reason Frenchies fought the war so long—doing little drives them spare.”
“So that is the reason for Bonaparte’s ambition,” I said in amusement. “Can you escape Gautier’s strictures to assist me?”
“I’m your man, sir,” Bartholomew answered quickly. “I work for you now, so he can’t stop me.”
“Well, do not upset him—Grenville does not need discord among his staff. What I’d like is for you to chat with maids and other servants. In particular, the woman who did the dusting for Conte de Luca. I realize you don’t speak Italian, so it might be a tall order.”
Bartholomew shrugged his large shoulders. “I’ve learned much already. Matthias, though, he’s very good at picking up other lingos. I’ll take him with me.”
I wasn’t certain how both young men would escape Gautier’s watchful eye, but I’d leave them to find a way.
“Thank you. I’ll discover where Conte de Luca’s maid lives.”
“No bother. I’ll ask in the houses around his. The other servants will know. Probably they can tell me a fair bit as well.”
Bartholomew and his brother indeed had a gift for making others talk to them. They were handsome, personable, and of sunny dispositions, and most people ended up speaking with them readily.
We walked on through dark rain that began to beat down harder until we arrived at the house that, as Denis had told us, lay next to the Palazzo Borghese.
The palazzo itself was massive, lining one side of a square and running along an entire street beyond that. There was more than one house on the opposite side of the square, but I decided Denis must have taken the one that was large and square but with a plain facade. His house in London was equally understated.
Bartholomew and I approached the front door, and I tapped on it with the wide brass knocker.
The door opened after a long interval to reveal a large man with a scar where his left eye should be. He glared down at me, though Bartholomew, straightening his frame, was the same height as this specimen.
“Si?”The one word held disdain.
“Mr. Denis, please.” I removed a card from my pocket and held it out. Easier than trying to explain who I was.
The man glanced at the card but didn’t reach for it.“Non è qui.”
I knew that meantHe’s not here,but I did not budge. “I have important business with him. Perhaps I can wait for his return.”
The man regarded me with his one eye. Whoever had taken his other must have been formidable indeed.
After a moment, he snarled and slammed the door. I exchanged a nonplussed glance with Bartholomew. Before I could ask his opinion on what we should do, the door was yanked open again, this time by a London man.
“Captain.” He looked as much a ruffian as the other, but I recognized him as one of Denis’s bodyguards. “Better come in.”
“I’ll nip to the kitchen,” Bartholomew said. “All right?” he asked the bodyguard.
The man let out a laugh. “Suit yourself, mate. But Luigi, he’ll eat you alive.”
“Never fear.” Bartholomew gave him a confident grin and sought the entrance to the staff area with an unerring sense of where it would be.
Denis’s man shut the door against the rain and led me deep into the house’s interior.
The squareness of the abode was more evident inside. The ground floor hall was an open space between four stone walls, with a staircase leading to a gallery above us. That too formed a perfect square, with rooms opening from it. The large columns of stone that held up the gallery were topped by capitals of flowing elegance, and a frieze of carved maidens chased vines of flowers around the upper eaves. The grandeur was understated but graceful.
The bodyguard took me up the stairs and around to a room that sat in the right front corner of the house. He knocked on the door and admitted me when we heard Denis say, “Come.”
I half expected to enter a study with Denis seated behind a blank-topped desk, as happened whenever I visited him in London. Instead, I found a cozy library lined with bookcases, a thick carpet covering the floor, a fire on a hearth, and Denis rising from a chair, setting aside a book. The only other time I’d seen him look this human was the day I’d caught him eating a meal.
“Lacey.” His greeting was neutral, as though he was not surprised I’d turned up on his doorstep. A large man lounged near the window, as one always did in his London house. Denis was never left alone.
“My apologies for springing myself upon you,” I said.
Denis gave a nod to the man who’d admitted us who then ducked out, closing the door. Denis gestured to a chair near the fire.
