I must have made some sound, because Donata was next to me, a cool hand on my face. Her lips pressed mine a moment later. I longed to be alone with her, to cradle her body next to me and kiss her hair, drowsing in her warmth, but she withdrew, leaving me bereft.
“I am alive,” I croaked, my throat still dry as a desert. “Barely. Is there any water?”
A clink and a trickle sounded and soon Donata handed me a blissfully cool glass beaded with moisture. I drank the cool Roman water that had poured through aqueducts for centuries, soothing my parched mouth and easing my throat.
The contessa looked weary but far better than I must. From her poise, she might have simply gone for a long ride in the country instead of being abducted and locked into a gladiator’s cell.
“Brewster did not perish, obviously,” I said to Donata as she returned to her place beside the contessa. “Is he unhurt?”
“He is faring far better than you. The contessa told me what happened, so do not strain yourself. She has been most worried about you, as have I. You were raving by the time you arrived here this morning and we felt you ought to remain until you were well. I had to explain who Mr. Cockburn was. Apparently, he was quite the rescuer.”
“He should go on the pugilists’ circuit with his technique,” I tried to speak lightly but my voice was scratchy. “I must put Pierce Egan on to him.” Egan was a journalist who loved all things boxing and wrote eloquently about it.
“Mr. Baldini has been arrested,” Donata said. “While you were pummeling your way out of the cell, Mr. Brewster encountered him. As you might imagine, Mr. Brewster was quite furious with him. Mr. Cockburn turned up and helped him subdue the man. The watchmen couldn’t ignore what was going on, and Brewster convinced them Mr. Baldini was a dangerous madman. The police hauled him away before Brewster could explain that he’d lost you in the dark, but Mr. Cockburn went searching. A mercy he did.”
“Poor Baldini,” I said. “I am not happy with him, but perhaps he should be looked after. Lent a solicitor if nothing else.”
The contessa’s eyes were flinty. “No. I’ll not forgive him for what he did to me—and to you—this night, trying to make my son bow to his wishes. He is mad. He murdered Conte de Luca, did he not?”
“No,” I said. In the cell and during the fight outside, my mind had showed me the incident in stark clarity. “You did.”
The room went silent, save for the steady pop of the fire inside the stove. Donata’s lips parted, but the contessa did not move.
“I began to realize it after the musicale,” I said when neither woman spoke. My throat was still parched, and I took another sip of the beautiful water. “When I listened to the soprano—one of the best I’ve ever heard, by the way—I was enraptured. All others could have vanished from the room, and I’d never have known until she finished.” I lifted my hand but barely had the strength to gesture. “You went with your son and Gisela to a concert at a church the night de Luca died. Proietti saw you there. He told me that you sat with friends. His eyes were for his daughter, and Gisela and your son were focused on the music, which I imagine was as fine as what we heard at your musicale. Neither Proietti nor the conte nor Gisela would have noticed you slip from that church—the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte. Conte de Luca’s house is just around the corner from it.”
The contessa closed her eyes once. When she opened them, her defiance had gone, and I saw only resignation.
“He conspired with Bonaparte,” she said. “Formoney. De Luca was always a greedy man. Yes, I went to speak with him. My son had asked him to give back what the Corsican stole, and de Luca refused him. Laughed. I went that night to beg him to reconsider, to tell him that my son would shame him to no end if he did not. He dismissed me. He said he’d sell the things on to the highest bidder. He even told me that he’d met you and Mr. Grenville, and that Mr. Grenville had the wealth to purchase whatever he wished. De Luca wanted my praise for being so clever as to find an English buyer for his stolen things.”
“You are a strong and courageous woman,” I said. “You had no qualms last night about picking up a stone and striking a man attacking me. De Luca would not have feared you—he’d have turned his back on you without worry. Did he admit you to the house himself?”
“He did. No one else was there—he answered my ring at the gate.”
“And saw no reason not to speak to you in one of his well-furnished rooms on the ground floor. Where there were many heavy vases standing at the ready.”
The contessa listened without blinking. “I did not know he would die.”
“You likely did not,” I agreed. “You were angry and wanted to hurt him. He refused to cooperate with your son, and you picked up a vase and hit him.”
The contessa smoothed her skirt. “So you say.”
Donata did not leap to her defense. She listened quietly, her face still.
“You are also cool-headed,” I went on. “You wiped your hands of any blood, laid down the vase, and walked out of the empty house, closing the door and gate behind you. You went back to the concert so you would be sitting in the enclosed pew with your acquaintances when it finished. I imagine you had some excuse for them for stepping out a few minutes, that you’d needed air shut up in the crowded church, or the like.”
“I am elderly,” the contessa said, pride in her voice. “Sitting for long periods is difficult for me.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” I said. “But now your son will have de Luca’s inventory—Grenville and I are happy to hand over his records, and Conte Trevisan may continue with his mission.”
The contessa studied me, not making any attempt to excuse her actions. “And me? Will you be pleased to give me to the police captain?”
I sank back into the chair, more weary than I’d been in a long while. “I do not work for them. But even if I did tell the captain the truth, I doubt you’d be convicted, or even arrested.”
The contessa was too well connected, Trevisan too respected. The law worked differently for aristocrats, and de Luca, after all, had been in coercion with Bonaparte.
The contessa rose. She was every inch a great lady and had experienced both joy and deep sorrow in her life.
“It will not matter,” she said to me. “I am an ill woman and will not live past six months. I know this because I watched the same thing happen to my mother. God will be my judge for my crime. Good day, Captain. Lady Donata.”
