Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (27 page)

‘A very great battle, Miss Layton, and a great victory for
Admiral Nelson, too, at the mouth of the Nile River. Not so far from here, you
know—just across the Mediterranean.’ The ambassador smiled proudly. ‘We expect
the English fleet to appear here in Naples for repairs and refurbishing any day
now.’

Abigail tried to smile. Just what she least wished: more sailors,
and fighting ones at that. ‘Then the danger has passed, Sir William?’

‘Oh, not at all!’ His hollow-cheeked face grew studiously grim.
‘We might have struck Bonaparte’s navy, but what that shall do is inflame his
armies to the north all the more. We must remain vigilant, Miss Layton, at
constant readiness—which is why I’d hoped to engage your father’s services. The
last thing I’d wish is to see my collection fall into the hands of those
ravening French devils.’

‘How fortunate it is, then, that I’m able to attend to your
collection in my father’s stead,’ she said, and for the first time she couldn’t
keep the desperation from creeping into her voice. ‘Test me, Sir William.
That’s all I ask. Grant me but one day to demonstrate my skill and my
knowledge, and I’ll prove my worth.’

He frowned again, but she could sense that he was considering her
offer. The expertise she could offer would be rare so far from London. What
choice did he have?

‘I won’t make any exceptions because of your sex, you know,’ he
warned. ‘You will lodge here in the house as our guest, but I’ll expect the
same work from you as I would from your father.’

‘I will not disappoint you, Sir William.’ He was going to let her
stay; she was sure of it now. Relief washed over her like a wave, so strongly
that she felt dizzy. She’d been too uneasy to eat breakfast, and she’d not been
offered so much as a glass of water while she’d been waiting for the
ambassador. ‘I can begin as soon as…as soon as…’

She caught the edge of the mantelpiece to steady herself.

‘Miss Layton?’ Sir William’s voice sounded distant, echoing oddly
in her ears. ‘My dear, are you unwell?’

‘I am…fine,’ she mumbled. She felt herself slipping down, gently,
as if her legs were melting away beneath her, and then she felt nothing more.

‘You’ve not visited Naples before, Lieutenant, have you?’ The admiral
didn’t turn, continuing to gaze towards the faint shadow of the coastline with
the spyglass set at his one good eye. His wispy hair fluttered beneath the
bandage around his head, his black cocked hat still set defiantly over the
wound across his forehead. He was weak and pale, and though he stubbornly
insisted otherwise, every other officer on the quarterdeck stood ready to catch
him if he faltered. ‘It’s a beautiful city, a marvellous city. You will be
enchanted.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Of course Lieutenant Lord James Richardson agreed.
He’d signed on as a midshipman in His Majesty’s Navy as a boy of thirteen, and
now, risen to the rank of first lieutenant after ten years in the service, he
would have agreed even if Admiral Nelson had said there’d be pink bulls and
green monkeys floating in the sky over Naples. But in this James agreed with
his heart as well as his duty. He wanted to be enchanted by Naples.

No, more than that: he
needed
to. He’d fought in many
battles, and seen many men, good and bad, die in horrible ways, but the scale
of carnage—nearly two thousand lost on both sides, with all but one of the
French ships destroyed at the mouth of the Nile River—had been beyond anything
he or the rest of the English fleet had ever experienced. James was one of the
lucky ones—alive and unharmed. But while the horror of battle was never
forgotten, the memory could certainly be eased. In the officers’ mess, there’d
been much discussion of the beauty of the Neapolitan women, and their eagerness
to welcome the English naval heroes.

James had listened, and prayed they were right. With any luck
they’d be stationed in the bay at least until Twelfth Night to make their
repairs, perhaps longer. How much better it would be to hear the sweet sighs of
a willing partner than the screams of the dying that still filled his head.
Better, far better, to lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh instead of
remembering how easily a man’s face could be blown away into blood and bone.

‘Ah, here comes the first committee for hospitality.’ The admiral
smiled wryly as he lowered his spyglass. The English warships had been spotted
from shore, and already a group of small vessels and fishing boats were sailing
out from the bay to greet them. Bright pennants flickered among their sails,
and here and there a mast sported the familiar British red, white and blue. ‘No
boarding, Captain Hardy. I’d rather we didn’t appear in port as a floating
brothel, but made a seemly entrance. There will be time enough for the men to
enjoy the fair sex, eh?’

The
Vanguard
’s captain and the other officers laughed
together, as Admiral Nelson had meant them to, but all James did was smile, and
smooth the snowy cuffs of his dress uniform coat one more time. In recognition
of his courage and resourcefulness during the battle—and because he could speak
Italian—the admiral had invited him to join his party when they called formally
on Sir William Hamilton and his wife at their home, as soon as they’d landed.

It was also assumed that, as the youngest son of the Earl of Carrington,
James would know how to behave in genteel company. But it had been a long time
since he’d dined ashore, and longer still since he’d dined in genteel company,
with rows of crystal wine glasses and silver forks to navigate with each
course, and well-bred ladies—
ladies
!—who’d expect him to make
conversation. The sad truth was that the prospect of dining in the ambassador’s
home worried James far more than facing the French ships-of-the-line.

The
Vanguard
was making its way past the island of Capri.
Off the starboard, James could see the smoke-shrouded volcano Vesuvius, and in
the distance ahead the city of Naples, with the white villas of the wealthy
scattered along the coast. One of them must belong to Sir William, where Lady
Hamilton’s servants were doubtless laying out her linens and silver on the
dining table, like so many traps for him and his career.

But he’d conquer them. Just as he’d conquered everything else
that had stood in his path. And when he had, then there’d be the merry girls of
the tavernas waiting to welcome him.

‘Ah, yes, Naples,’ the admiral said again, more to himself than
anyone else. ‘Our orders—and the movements of the French army—should keep us
here through the holidays, and a good thing, too. Naples, Naples, surely
there’s no more magical place on earth.’

Abigail had never before fainted, nor felt as mortified as when
she wakened on the floor with Sir William’s silver-buckled shoes before her
nose. She tried to explain that it had only been the heat, exhaustion,
surprise, that had made her crumple like a wilted flower, but Sir William
insisted that she be helped by his servants to her room, fed weak tea and a dry
toast, and put to bed with the curtains drawn like the sorriest invalid.

She protested as vehemently as she could, yet as soon as she laid
her head on the pillow she fell into the deepest sleep she’d had since she’d
left home months ago.

By the time she finally awakened, the sun had set and the windows
were dark, though she could still hear voices and laughter elsewhere in the
house. Disorientated with sleep, she fumbled for her father’s pocket watch on
the table beside her, squinting at the face as she tried to make out the
numbers.

Seven o’clock!
Oh, how had she slept so long? Swiftly she
sat upright and threw back the coverlet. How could she prove to Sir William
that she was worthy of his regard by lying about like this? She lit a
candlestick, dressed quickly in a fresh gown, found a journal for notes in the
bottom of her trunk, and hurried out into the hall.

A maidservant—a Neapolitan woman with glossy black hair and plump
cheeks—was using a long taper to light the candles in the chandeliers.

‘Excuse me.’ Abigail smiled warmly, praying the maid spoke
English. ‘Might you show me to the room where Sir William keeps his collection
of antiquities?’

‘No one’s permitted in there, signorina.’ She sniffed for extra
emphasis, making it clear that Abigail’s status, while not exactly that of a
servant, wasn’t that of an honoured guest, either. ‘Not even to tidy. Sir
William’s orders.’

‘But it’s his wish that I catalogue his collection,’ Abigail
said. ‘That’s why I’m here. If you’d ask him, I’m sure—’

‘Lady Hamilton and Sir William are with the admiral now,
signorina, and cannot be disturbed,’ the maid said. ‘Can’t you hear them downstairs,
signorina? The house is full of officers from the navy ships, here to call and
take supper.’

Now that Abigail listened more closely, she could tell that the
voices she heard in the distance had a distinctly male rumble. ‘But surely you
could at least show me to the collection?’

The maid sighed with irritation. ‘I’ll show you to Sir William’s
chambers, signorina, on my way downstairs,’ she said. ‘But I’ll not go in with
you. I’ve duties of my own, signorina.’

Abigail followed her down the stairs and along another hall, to
stop before the furthest door.

‘That’s it, signorina,’ the maid said, already backing away.
‘That’s the door to Sir William’s rooms, and as far as I go. I’ve no wish to
risk my place by disobeying him, and if he asks I’ll swear I’ve told nothing to
you.’

‘Thank you,’ Abigail said, but the girl had already fled. Abigail
took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to back down now; this was why she’d come
all this way, wasn’t it? She turned the latch, pushed open the door, and
stepped inside.

She raised her candle high, and caught her breath in wonder. Tall
shelves and cabinets lined the walls, each filled with more treasures than she
could ever have imagined. Exquisitely painted vases and plates, marble
sculpture fragments and bronzes: every manner of ancient artefact crowded into
a single room. Her scholar’s heart leaped with excitement at the sight of so
many rare and beautiful things, and her only sorrow came from knowing Father
hadn’t lived to see them, too.

She stepped closer to the shelf to set her candlestick down, and
the light washed over a small marble relief: the Three Graces, carved with such
infinite care and loveliness that she sighed with pleasure. Remembering the
maid’s warning, she touched the nearest figure with the lightest possible
fingers. The snowy marble was smooth and cool. A Roman copy of a lost Greek
original, she thought automatically, already beginning to catalogue in her
head. First century, second at the latest, and—

‘Ah, forgive me, miss,’ a man’s voice said gruffly. ‘Didn’t
intend to intrude.’

‘You didn’t.’ Quickly she turned back towards the door that had
opened again behind her. With the brighter light from the hall spilling around
him, the man’s fair hair appeared golden, like a halo, yet his face was in
shadow. ‘That is, it’s not my room, so you could hardly intrude.’

‘No, miss.’ From his speech she realised he must be English, too,
a relief in this foreign place. ‘But perhaps you might oblige me, and set me on
the proper course to Lady Hamilton’s parlour?’

He took a step forward, into the ring of her candle’s glow. He
was younger than she’d first guessed from his voice, close to her own age, yet
already a navy officer, his dark blue uniform coat glittering with gold buttons
and lacing that seemed as bright as his hair, with more gold still on the hilt
and scabbard of his dress sword. And, oh, he was perfectly, effortlessly
handsome in that navy coat and those spotless white breeches, his smile wide
and even in his sun-browned face, his eyes an impossible blue despite the
candlelight.

‘The proper course. I see.’ She nodded, and gulped, ordering her
head to think,
think
, and herself to stop being such a scatter-brained
ninny. Yes, of course, the man was handsome—appallingly handsome—but he’d also
just caught her in Sir William’s collection gallery, touching these priceless
artefacts in exactly the way she’d been warned not to do.

And, to her horror, this officer was now doing it too.

‘I say, what a lot of old things,’ he said, picking up a small
clay statue of Apollo and turning it upside down, as if looking for a price
marked on the bottom. ‘I’d heard Sir William was a collector, but this is
rather like my auntie’s attic. Ha—look, this poor old fellow’s even broken. Mark
the crack—there, across his arm. What’s the point of keeping one that’s been
winged like that, anyway?’

‘Because that “poor old fellow” is nearly two thousand years old,
that’s why.’ She hurried forward and took the little Apollo from him as
carefully as she could, cradling it in her arms like a baby. ‘Because he’s
beautiful and rare and can never, ever be replaced.’

‘You’re young, miss,’ he said, forgetting the statue entirely.
‘You sounded old, there in the dark, but you’re—you’re not.’

She’d next to no experience with handsome gentlemen, and she’d no
notion at all of how she was supposed to respond to such a statement. She
raised her chin, hugging the rescued statue to her chest.

‘I am twenty-one years of age, sir, and if—’

‘The same as I, but two,’ he said. ‘I’m twenty-three.’

Still recovering from being interrupted, Abigail nodded before
she doggedly continued. ‘If I sounded older, sir, then I suppose that’s on
account of having spent so much time exclusively in my father’s company,
sharing his scholarship. Yes, that must be—Oh, please, sir, watch yourself!’

He’d turned, and to her horror the scabbard of his dress-sword
swung against a tall pot on the floor, rocking it sideways on its rim. She
lunged forward to save the pot, somehow keeping hold of the little Apollo as
well, but managing to smack squarely into the man’s chest.