He glared at her She guessed she was poking holes the size of rabbit warrens in his plan.
“Did you think your marines could just march up and rap on the door?”
“I am of the opinion that it’s our best option…”
“The coastline in that area is rocky and treacherous. Even if it was completely undefended, a clandestine landing, itself, could take several hours.”
“I’m aware of how long a landing takes,” he growled.
“An open assault on an Italian fortress house would take at least two days to land, reconnoiter, assault, and get out. Your plan only gives us 10 hours at best. Are you going to lodge a troop of marines at the local inn?”
His eyes narrowed and his fingers drummed on the table. “We’ll take them in dressed as natives.”
“Ah yes, a bunch of butter-headed, milk-faced Englishmen are going to fit right into the population. You might as well have them dig their own graves while you’re at it because they’ll get hung as spies if anything goes wrong. And it will. Are you willing to risk their necks, literally and figuratively, as well as ours? We are one thing. A bunch of soldiers that are ordered in is quite another!”
The rapping was from his knuckles, now. “We’ll use sappers to tunnel into the palace from…”
“Didn’t you listen to me? That area is rock! I haven’t been to Savona, but I know Genoa is solid rock. You wouldn’t be digging, you’d be blasting.”
He said nothing for a moment. Things were obviously not going the way he’d planned. “I’ll take a group of volunteers and seek an audience with the pope. We can take him out then or…”
“But…”
He overrode her “…cache some people inside and get him out later. We’ll then need to head out of town to a rendezvous point somewhere, to get out of Italy.”
For a moment, she drew meaningless lines in the corner of the wax tablet. He was finally starting to make sense. The only problem was that there were still some major holes in the general idea.
He took a sip of tea. The delicate china cup should have been incongruous in his large hand, but he handled it like an antique knife with a poisoned blade. The look in his eyes was just as sharp. Chiara wondered what he was thinking.
“My lady,” he stressed the word, “I find intelligence work a…an unusual occupation for a gently bred lady. I mean,” his expression took on a bland, almost paternal cast, “it is not considered quite the thing for a gentleman to do. I imagine it would be much less acceptable for a lady.” Again, he stressed the word. “There are not a few in society who would consider such activities beyond the pale for a lady.” He stressed it again. “It would be catastrophic to your reputation if knowledge of your activities leaked out, wouldn’t it?”
Chiara narrowed her eyes and sat up straighter. “Are you trying to blackmail me into relinquishing my duty, sir?”
“Absolutely not.” His expression wouldn’t melt butter. “I’m simply trying to point out the hazards of your activities.”
Chiara smiled, two could play at this game. “You relieve my mind. And I appreciate it more than I can say.” She knew her toothy smile didn’t reach her eyes. “But I don’t foresee any problems. Only three people know the true nature of this operation. If Wentworth suspects that my…activities…have been published abroad, he’ll know where to look. Do you remember what happened to the young buck who ferreted out Vole’s identity and operations and used the knowledge to entertain his friends?”
The clenching of FitzHenry’s jaw told her he was familiar with the “unfortunate” murder of the young man by unknown footpads a week after Vole was killed on a mission. Chiara knew Wentworth’s only regret was not finding the spy who collected and transmitted the intelligence.
Chiara smiled serenely, “As to your very kind,” she batted her eyes, “and informative reminder that I am a lady, let me ask you,” the smile faded to cold purpose, “if that precludes my defending my country in its need?”
He crossed his arms and glared at her. “No.”
“As to the ‘green chit,’ I’ve been involved in intelligence gathering since I was in the schoolroom. I have planned and completed two overseas missions and several here. Perhaps your ‘green chit’ has a bit more bronze than you realize?”
Narrowed eyes were his only response. She let the silence grow.
A knock at the door startled them both. His expression implied that he blamed her for the interruption. “Enter.”
Hyde came in and bowed. “Your pardon, madam, sir.” He gestured the footmen in; they quickly cleared the debris and brought in luscious-looking lemon tarts. He filled the glasses and bowed out of the room. Chiara suspected that there was little serendipity about his timing.
“Well?” FitzHenry demanded.
“Well, what?”
“Since you’ve taken great pleasure in ripping my plans to shreds, let’s hear yours.”
“It gives me no pleasure, Lord FitzHenry. But I suspect the fact that you are looking for other options says that you, too, see the flaws in your plans. I fully expect my ideas will need refinement or rejection.
“I think our best option for the rescue will be stealth and deception. If we want muscle, we can recruit from the local population. We can get access to the Palace via the laborers, suppliers, or staff. Once we make initial contact with His Holiness, we can enlist his assistance.”
“What about the house, itself?”
“Getting a plan of the palace should be fairly easy from priests or staff, maybe former staff.”
“How are you going to meet all these people? As you said, you don’t know anyone there, and you can’t very well just walk up and ask the locals to help. Can you?”
“No.” She looked at the remains of the tart as she though for a moment.
“The risks of involving…”
She waved him into silence while she worked through the ideas. “Yes,” she breathed. Looking up, her eyes twinkling, she whispered, “Family.”
“What?”
“Family. Families are everything to the Italians. Popes Pius VI and Pius VII were from the same town. There’re families are friends, besides being related by marriage at at least one point.”
“So?”
“Pius VI appointed the current bishop of Savona who is still alive and probably not living in the Episcopal Palace. Members of one or both families have visited or worked there. They’re familiar with the building. They would also know who can be trusted to assist us in Savona.”
“Where do we find these fonts of information?”
“Well in…humm. We may have to go to Cesena.”
“Where?”
“I happen to be good friends with His Holiness’ family, the Chiaramontes. They live in Cesena.”
“Where?”
Chiara stood and went to the large globe in the corner of Wentworth’s library. One of her uncle’s prize possessions, the top of the C-shaped frame sat about even with the top of her head. She had spent many hours here after her return to England, spinning the huge ball, dreaming of exotic climes, and remembering the land of her birth.
A small push set the globe spinning lazily until she stopped it. Leaning over, she quickly found Italy and Ravenna on the Adriatic Coast. “Here’s Cesena.” She used one elegantly manicured nail to locate the small print and even smaller dot thirty or so miles south of Ravenna.
FitzHenry rose from the chair with the lazy grace she had come to associate with him. He stood in back of her and bent forward over her to examine the map. She looked over her shoulder and nearly stopped breathing. He was closer to her than even Betsy, her maid, dared to be. His mouth brushed the topmost hair in her coiffure; his breath caressed her cheek. When his eyes left the globe, they seemed to capture hers: they held her gaze in a gentle prison.
She started to rise, but his body blocked the way, and he didn’t move. For a moment, she just stayed there, bent under his imprisoning body. “My lord,” she murmured, “this is a most uncomfortab
le position.”
Immediately he straightened, putting his hand under her elbow to assist her. “My apologies, Lady Chiara.”
He continued to watch her, and she had the feeling that his words contained absolutely no contrition.
She gestured him back to their chairs.
Desperate to regain what ever control of the situation she could, Chiara launched into her plan. “Cesena will be the best place to gather information and contacts.”
“Why not Rome? You know people there.”
“Yes, and they know me. Their loyalties to the Pope and their faith may be less strong than their loyalties to Napoleon and his inducements.”
“Good point. But how long is this going to take?”
“Once we round Italy, the trip will be fairly easy. Napoleon sets relatively little store by the Balkans—too fractious for his tastes—so the Adriatic Sea is lightly guarded. A day or two in from the coast, a few days in Cesena, a week to ten days to get to Savona.”
“That is, assuming everything goes smoothly.” He took a long look at the globe.
“Yes, but I think we can count on a great deal of cooperation. Family is everything, and a pope in the family is like having the king for a cousin.”
“What about the actual rescue?”
“Some variation on your idea of infiltrating the household, I suppose. We’ll have to play that one as the cards fall. What worries me is how to get him out of the country.”
“The best way is to have someone else send a pre-arranged signal at one place. We meet up with the ship at another place. For that we can consult with the ship’s captain later.”
Chiara thought for a moment. “Very well. Now we need to plan some of the more mundane things. Do you have clothes?”
He glanced rather pointedly down at his breeches. “I believe so,” he drawled.
Chiara blushed as she realized how a perfectly professional question had gone awry. “Forgive me. That wasn’t impertinence. Do you have Italian peasant clothes?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I have French peasant clothes. I assume those will do.”
“They will if you wish to be arrested. I’ll see to them.”
“I assure you that I can arrange for my own…”
“Do you even know what an Italian peasant wears?”
“Mercifully, no, but I expect I’ll be learning.”
“Indeed. Can you get a hold of French and Italian money?”
“Certainly. And I will see to the ship.”
“Hasn’t that already been arranged?”
“Possibly, but I have a very specific ship and captain in mind. She’s very fast, and he’s a fire-eater if I’ve ever known one. If anybody can get us out and back, Harley can.”
“He’ll need some good maps.”
He tapped his finger on his knee. “I’ll arrange for a couple of volunteer,” he stressed the word, “marines to come along.”
“Lord Fitz…”
“I’ll make sure they’re black as bedamned, too.”
Chapter 4
The next two days passed in a flurry of activity. With no measurements in hand, she and Betsy rough-cut the clothes FitzHenry and his escorts would need. Most of the clothes she had used for her last mission would do nicely for her.
Instructions and messages, both of the mundane and the if-the-worst-befall type, had to be written. She detested doing both. The first set because she wanted to be organizing and doing the things herself. The second set, well, she had done most of them at least once already. Topmost on that stack was the letter to her uncle. She knew that, despite his matter-of-factness, he worried about her missions. She wanted to do everything she could to waylay his inevitable guilt.
FitzHenry sent word that he had succeeded in obtaining the ship and captain he desired, as well as completing his other tasks.
Tomorrow they left. Tonight, though, Chiara decided she would attend the Russell’s ball. Lindsey would be there.
For now, all that mattered was that her silver-shot shawl sat just so over her arms and that her dress, the teal of a duck’s wing, set off her eyes. Tonight would be just for fun; perhaps the last enjoyment she would have in a while.
The Russell’s ballroom shone with the light of hundreds of candles. Chiara sipped the too-sweet lemonade as she looked around the room. She couldn’t stay too long; the ship sailed at dawn with the tide. Hopefully Lindsey would arrive soon.
“Will you be able to make the sailing after a night of dissipation?” The soft, masculine challenge sounded near her ear.
Chiara looked quickly over her shoulder. Damn, she thought. “I’ll be there, just like you will.”
A youngish man with a most serious expression bowed in front of her. “Good evening, Lady Chiara, Lord FitzHenry. May I have this dance, my lady?” He held out his arm.
“Of course, Lord Bolton, I would like that very much.” She placed her hand on the elegantly tailored jacket sleeve. Behind her, she heard, “Oh Lord FitzHenry, I’m so happy to see you again. Felicity talked of nothing else but you after the Tillman’s ball.”
The ship, a 90-gun, three decked frigate, bobbed gently at the dock, grey in the foggy dawn’s half-light. Even to Chiara’s untutored eye, she looked fast. The crew bustled around, loading, fixing, organizing. Her own trunks already on board the Swiftsure, she dawdled until the last minute. The ship’s bulwarks would define the limits of her life for a significant number of days. She wanted to treasure every moment of solid ground.
As she strolled along the dock, the sailors going about their tasks were curious but respectful. The British Navy was not known for its tolerance of disrespect, as well they all knew. A carriage piled high with trunks approached the berth. She recognized the crest even at that distance, complete with its discrete bar sinister, on the side of the vehicle. The FitzHenrys were proud of their royal blood, and by this time, the wrong side of the blanket was just as distinguished as the right side.
“He always did like to make an entrance,” the cheerful, masculine voice behind her said.
She turned to see a man of tanned, roguish countenance dressed in the dark blue uniform of His Majesty’s naval officers.
“Captain Thomas Harley, at your service, my lady.” He swept off his bicorn hat to reveal light brown hair and bowed deeply. “At Trafalgar he brought his frigate about just as I was ready to finish a Spanish fourth rate frigate off.” The carriage stopped, and FitzHenry stepped out. Harley raised his voice slightly, “I did all the work holding the San Justo, and he comes in to snatch my prize from me. Miserable bugger.”
FitzHenry looked at the captain with a wry smile. “Indeed, you sodden incompetent; I saved your ungrateful arse in the process. A 50-gun frigate shouldn’t have given you all those problems. Half a prize ship was a small price to pay.”
The two men embraced and clapped each other on the back. “Good to see you.”
“Pleased to see your unrepentant hide is still in one piece.”
Chiara’s confusion began to ease. These were fierce competitors and even fiercer friends. She wouldn’t have to spend the entire voyage keeping them from each other’s throats, as she’d feared for a moment.
FitzHenry bowed to her. “Has this ungrateful slacker been regaling you with his fish stories?”
“Nothing but the truth, Rafe, nothing but the truth.” The captain put his hand to his heart and grinned. It seemed to Chiara that his tanned face held a constantly happy mien. “However, we need to get aboard if we are to leave with this tide. My lady?” He gestured her toward the gangplank.
Two men pulled a number of trunks from the carriage’s boot and roof while a third saw to their disposition.
Harley lowered his chin and looked up at FitzHenry. “Traveling light this time, old man?”
“Absolutely,” the earl drawled.
Harley looked pointedly at the luggage.
“Two marines, my man, and myself: weapons, clothes, and supplies. Not extravagant, do you think?”
/> “Humph. Well and away. Let’s be off as soon as you’re aboard. My lady?” He offered Chiara his arm. She looked up at the ship, gulped and put her hand on his sleeve. Harley grinned at FitzHenry then turned to Chiara. “I assume your maid is already on board. I’ve made arrangements…”
“No, I did not bring a maid with me.”
He stopped midway up the gangway. “No maid? But how will you manage? What of the proprieties?”
Chiara smiled. The male of the species was entirely predictable: one woman was a lady and one was definitely not. “I can manage dressing by myself. As to the proprieties, I believe I can entrust my virtue to His Majesty’s finest. Besides, she would be here alone when I went on the mission. No, a maid would be just one more mouth to feed. I shall do nicely without Betsy’s services for awhile, thank you.”
Harley lifted his eyebrows, but made no response. Wise, Chiara thought. He could show himself an insufferable prig or a God-forsaken libertine. For a captain of his repute, the second would be only slightly more acceptable than the first.
Her quarters turned out to be the captain’s own cabin, recently vacated. A second rate frigate’s captain’s cabin held all the luxuries: wood paneling, comfortable chairs and tables, wardrobes, and enough wall sconces to light a ballroom. “Captain Harley, I cannot possibly displace you from your private quarters! This is intolerable!”
Harley bowed as he waved her into the spacious cabin. “Ah, my dear lady, I insist.” The twinkle returned to his eyes. “I exist to serve you. If offering my poor quarters for your comfort makes your voyage with us any more enjoyable, then they are yours. I only beg that you will dream of me as you slumber in my bed, as I will of you, even after you have left us.”
“Bloody hell!” FitzHenry stood, ignored, in the doorway. “What he means to say is that Wentworth laid down the law to him. Since this is the only lockable cabin on the ship, it’s now yours. He’s bumped his first and second officers from their cabins for the two of us,” he pointed to Harley, “and so on down the line.”
Harley smirked and shrugged. “My steward will be pleased to assist you in anything you require. Mr. Pearce, if you please!”
“Aye, cap’n, m’um, sir,” the short, bandy-legged man replied from behind FitzHenry. “Be’s right ‘ere, sir. No needs t’shout.”