I did not have time to ask Bartholomew more about Signora Ruggeri, or even venture a question about Colonel Moreau, because Gabriella appeared in my doorway, dressed in finery, and announced it was time we were off.
Not until we were in the carriage, rolling through gates patrolled by large, hard-faced men to the grandest villa I’d yet seen did I learn the details of our evening outing.
“Who lives here?” I asked Donata as we followed a long drive toward a many-windowed house with two massive towers on each end. The gardens around the villa bore hedges that were trained and tamed into stiff green topiaries.
“The Comte Lejeune,” Donata said. Her gray silk sleeve brushed me as she wrapped her arm through mine, the feathers of her headdress tickling my cheek. “His wife is a dear friend of my mother’s.”
I started at the name. Donata glanced at me quizzically, but I did not want to launch into the tale of the comte’s reviled mistress while Gabriella regarded us serenely.
“It’s a very old house,” Donata went on, as our carriage followed the slow line of conveyances to the front door. “Built over the remains of a castle a few hundred years ago. Kept very fine though,” she finished in approval.
The coach finally halted and I stepped down, then handed out my wife and daughter, not bothering to stem my pride in them.
A host of servants was on hand to welcome us into the chateau, all under the direction of a haughty majordomo. Two liveried footmen flanked the grand front door, and three more footmen inside reached for our wraps. A maid ushered Donata and Gabriella toward withdrawing rooms, and a manservant guided me to a similar one for gentlemen.
There, I found Lucius Grenville, who was staying in Lyon with Marianne, surrounded by a horde of gentlemen already enthralled by him.
“Ah, Lacey.” Grenville nodded at me, while the others turned to see who merited his attention. He continued in French. “Messieurs, let me introduce you to my very good friend, Gabriel Lacey, of Norfolk, England.”
The dozen gentlemen in the room looked me up and down, clearly wondering what Grenville saw in this tall man with unfashionably sunbaked skin and dark hair threaded with gray. Glances went to my walking stick, which I could not move far without, and then dismissed me as no threat. From their expressions, these gentlemen had no inkling where Norfolk lay, nor did they care.
I noted that Grenville hadn’t labeled me as Captain, or mentioned my regiment. He was trying to be diplomatic, I gathered, not reminding those who might have been in Napoleon’s army that I’d done my best to shoot them at one time.
He needn’t have bothered. None of these gentlemen appeared hardened enough to have been one of Bonaparte’s brilliant marshals or even his generals or colonels.
The cream of those hand-picked commanders were now lying low or sadly gone forever. These younger gentlemen, dressed in the latest stare of fashion, their hair carefully waved or curled, had likely stayed home during the long wars, hiding from passing armies.
I greeted them politely, but any interest in me quickly faded. After brisk nods and murmurs of bonsoir, they returned their attention to Grenville.
He was holding forth with amusing anecdotes of his travels from London, including his seasickness on the Channel crossing, which his listeners found hilarious. Grenville, a natural raconteur, exaggerated his wretchedness, including the sounds he’d made, to the alarm of the ship’s captain.
His audience roared. I listened for a few minutes, then bowed and backed out of the chamber.
I had to admit admiration for the house I wandered through and agreed with Donata that it had retained its grandeur. Black-and-white marble tiles in the main hall complemented the marble columns and arches that framed the stone-balustraded staircase. I mounted the steps, ready to reach the ballroom and find a quiet corner in which to sit and watch Donata and Gabriella enjoy themselves.
At the top of the staircase, a floor of polished terra-cotta led toward tall open doors to the ballroom, where people conversed and an orchestra played. The wall opposite me held a painting of bright yellow flowers and pale orange peaches reposing in a basket, the fruit, flowers, and canted basket rendered in exquisite and lifelike detail.
I caught sight of Gabriella lingering near a carved chest at the opposite end of this hallway and quickly went to her.
“I thought you’d have stayed with Donata,” I said in surprise.
Gabriella shook her head and took my offered arm. “She was deep in conversation with other ladies, and I was curious about the villa.”
“Shall we explore together?” I asked.
Gabriella nodded. “It is a lovely house.”
I detected a forced note and pulled her aside. “What is it? Has something happened?”
“Oh, no, Father, nothing like that,” Gabriella answered, then she quieted. “Please do not think me ungracious or spoiled. I know Lady Donata persuaded her friends to include me tonight.”
“You? Ungracious and spoiled?” I asked in amazement. “You do not know how to be either. Now tell me what has upset you.”
Gabriella studied the intricate pattern of stones at our feet. “Nothing I can point to, exactly. But I overheard those in the withdrawing room speaking disparagingly of Emile and his family. Asking Lady Donata if she couldn’t have found a better match for me. I was in the corner and do not know if they realized I was in the room or not.”
My ire flared. “What did Donata say to this?”
“I do not know. I slipped out before anyone saw me.”
