The musicale was held in a larger room than the one in which I’d first met Trevisan and his mother—this one spanned the front of the house, with high ceilings painted in Baroque splendor. The room was filled with ladies and gentlemen dressed in the finest frocks and well-tailored suits. Shades of blue, green, and violet adorned the matrons, with younger ladies in yellow, ivory, and cream.
All wore the first stare of fashion—neither war nor the unrest it stirred nor the growing poverty outside this bubble stopped them from showing off the latest Parisian modes. Donata, in silver and gold, black feathers in her hair, was admired by all.
Conte Trevisan greeted the guests as they entered the long room, Signorina Proietti at his side. What the creme of society thought about him courting the very young daughter of a war hero they kept to themselves while they exchanged bows and curtsies. As soon as the guests moved out of earshot of their host, however, heads came together, and whispers began.
The contessa roamed the room, moving slowly with the aid of a tall walking stick, halting to greet clumps of guests. She kept her expression carefully neutral, a great lady who’d never betray what she felt to those who tramped through her house.
Her eyes did brighten when she spied me with Donata on my arm, and she stumped over to us.
“Lady Donata.” The contessa gave her a regal nod, no curtsying. She addressed my wife as an earl’s daughter, Lady Donata Pembroke, rather than the widow of a viscount, Lady Breckenridge, or even as plain Mrs. Lacey, the wife of a former army captain.
“Contessa.” Donata made a graceful curtsy and took the contessa’s outstretched hand. “How kind of you to allow us into your home. It is lovely.”
The contessa’s slight curl of her lip dismissed the glittering room. No doubt her son’s palazzo in Milan was much more lavish. “I am pleased you chose to honor us,” she said in her flawless English. “Captain,” she greeted me, an afterthought, then she closed bony gloved fingers around Donata’s arm. “You will sit with me, my dear.”
“Of course.”
I was not to be included in this invitation, I saw. I bowed with as much politeness as I could and withdrew.
Donata glided away serenely with the contessa, who led her through the crowd to a divan that reposed by itself near the pianoforte. The place of honor.
The contessa sank to the divan. Donata made certain the woman was comfortable before she sat down next to her, the contessa reaching for her arm again.
Gisela detached herself from Trevisan, after first gaining his approval to leave his side, and moved to the divan. She curtsied before Donata, then began gently arranging pillows for the contessa, signaling to a passing footman to bring them small glasses of dark red wine.
The contessa accepted all this attention as her due, but I stilled when her gaze fell on Gisela as Gisela turned to the footman. The contessa’s face held not contempt for the chit who’d caught the eye of her son, but a deep fondness combined with profound sadness.
I sipped wine to hide the fact that I was staring, but her expression struck me sharply. The longing in her eyes ceased as soon as Gisela turned back to her, and the contessa became a haughty, demanding aristocrat once more.
Donata caught my gaze and gave me a minute shake of her head. Whether she’d observed the contessa’s manner, I could not say, but I understood. I turned away and left the contessa to her.
Grenville drifted through the crowd on his own, waylaid by almost everyone he passed. His fame reached well beyond London, he the dandy who’d taken over the world’s attention since Brummell had fled a few years past.
No one paid much heed to me, so I wandered toward the tall stove to keep warm. A man lurked in the shadows there, and I found, to my surprise, that the lurker was Proietti.
“Trevisan did not bar the door when he saw you approach?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
Proietti’s morose gaze flicked to his daughter. “I was sent an invitation—I know Gisela insisted on it. Trevisan greeted me quite civilly, if coldly, but his mother froze me out.”
“What do they object to about you? They can’t blame you for demanding the return of your daughter. Any father would.”
“In the world of Conte Trevisan, none would dare. I ought to be honored that my daughter has been so chosen by them.” Proietti exuded unhappiness. “Do I give up? Let Trevisan have her? He’ll take her back to Milan, and we’ll see her no more.” His eyes filled.
“She might be well cared for,” I pointed out. “His mother looks upon her fondly, and Trevisan seems concerned for her well-being.”
“That might be true.” Proietti’s dark eyes held pain. “If it were your daughter, would you be, as you English say, sanguine to let her marry the conte and depart your life forever?”
“No.” My answer was immediate. “My daughter was taken from me when she was a child. During that time, I had no idea whether she was living or not. I found her again a few years ago—she is about the age of Gisela. Now she spends most of her time in France and wants to marry a Frenchman. Ever do I fear I will lose her again.” That emptiness I’d experienced when I’d realized my first wife had gone with my daughter had never quite left me.
Proietti regarded me in vast sympathy. “I am so sorry, Captain. It is no surprise then, that you turned from your path to help me that day.”
“I was happy to.” I set my glass onto the nearest table with a decided click. “Do not give way. Trevisan cannot marry your daughter while he is still married to another, and you will be quite justified in preventing her leaving with him. But I am trying to decide why Trevisan is so interested in Conte de Luca. Who knows? I might be able to pin de Luca’s murder on him, and we will be rid of him.”
I meant to make Proietti laugh, but he shook his head. “He did not, damn him. I saw Trevisan that night. He and Gisela and his mother.” Proietti’s scowl darkened his face. “In a church, listening to a concert. Blast the man.”
Chapter20
In a church. Of course. An impeccable alibi for a highly respectable aristocrat.
