An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
She walked in, shaking Paolo’s hand off her arm. He whispered in her ear, and she turned back to him. “I said ‘no!’ I meant it, Paolo.”
“But…”
“The answer is still no! It will always be no. You’re like a brother, but it cannot be.”
“But you know…”
“How many languages does she have to say ‘no’ in, Chiaramonte?” Rafaelle growled.
Startled, Chiara whirled towards the voice. “Oh, it’s you. I thought you’d gone up.”
“No, there’s not a lot to do in this town so I stayed here with the excellent wine. You should have kept us company.”
“No thank you,” Paolo said, “we had other things to attend to.”
“Ah, yes, that brings us back to my original question. Do you not understand the meaning of ‘no’?”
Paolo walked up to Rafaelle’s chair and looked down on him. “I don’t need language lessons from someone who doesn’t know ‘sop’ from ‘sot.’”
Rafaelle erupted from his chair, but Chiara moved faster. She stepped between the two snarling hounds. “Paolo,” she said to the bulldog, “would you do me the honor of removing to your chamber?” She watched Rafaelle, the wolf hound, the whole time.
Paolo’s fist opened and closed and opened again. “Paolo.” In the end, he complied.
When he left the room, Chiara turned on Rafaelle, fire in her blue eyes. Rafaelle sat back in the chair and ran his fingers through already-tousled hair. “Don’t…” he began.
“Don’t? Don’t what? Don’t tell you that you’ve just make a fool of yourself, stepping in when things were completely under control and…and throwing grease on the fire? Don’t point out that you are alienating one of the vital few allies we have on this mission? Don’t tell you that you will probably have the devil’s head tomorrow and will most likely be useless if there’s a problem? Or maybe, just don’t interfere in my affairs?”
He raised a hand and turned his head in surrender.
“Go to…,” she shook her head. “No, do what ever you want. But know this. We’ll leave bright and early tomorrow, even if Paolo has to kick you out of bed and into the carriage in your night gear.” She turned on one heel and headed for her chamber.
Rafaelle closed his eyes and shook his head. The movement hurt. He heaved himself out of the chair and went to Paolo’s room. When Paolo answered the door, Rafaelle crowded so close that he could see the small mole on the man’s ear, even in the dim light. “Do something stupid,” his voice was barely a whisper, “like that again, and you can walk home right then. We’re working, not sightseeing or courting, you young fool.”
Paolo’s smile did not convey friendship. “Care to place a small wager on that?” He closed the door in Rafaelle’s face. Rafaelle turned and walked down the hall to his own, inevitably flea-ridden, bed.
The next morning, Rafaelle’s head pounded and his eyes seemed to have a layer of grit in them. Keeping his luck consistent, he met Paolo in the hallway. The Italian’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he’d at least had a decent night’s sleep.
Rafaelle’s hand sliced through the air. “Don’t even start. I get the distinct impression that she kicked both our asses from here to China last night. Let’s leave it at that.”
Paolo’s guffaw echoed in the hall and he slapped Rafaelle on the back of the shoulder. “D’accordo.” Rafaelle barely caught himself from falling flat on his face.
“Absolutely.”
After a few steps towards the parlor, Rafaelle stopped. “I forgot something.” They parted with, if not with amity, at least with understanding. Rafaelle went to the chamber Chiara shared with Francesca and knocked. Chiara answered. When Rafaelle looked into the room, he didn’t see Francesca. “May I come in?” Without waiting for permission, he gently, but inexorably, pushed his way into the room, shut the door, and threw the bolt.
Chiara backed up a few paces and glared at him. “I thought I made myself clear the last time, Rafaelle. This is more…intimate than I wish to be with you.” He strolled over to her, pleased that she held her ground. “Saving my life was very intimate, as far as I’m concerned. In some cultures, if you save a life, it belongs to you.”
“I freely and completely relieve you from that bond.” He heard exasperation and a little fear perhaps, in her voice.
“What if I don’t wish,” he trailed a finger down the soft curve of her cheek, “to be released?”
She didn’t flinch, only looked at him with wide eyes. He saw the beginnings of understanding glimmering there.
“I feel an over-whelming need to thank you.” He bent and gently kissed her lips, soft as a butterfly taking that first, testing sip of nectar. When she didn’t object, didn’t resist, a surge of elation swept through him but he ruthlessly reined it in. He’d put his boot in the muck too many times with her already to make a mistake this time.
He deepened the kiss slightly and had the delight of watching her eyes fall to half mast. Much as he hated to, he broke off the sweet contact. “We have to get going.”
Breakfast was a quiet affair. If anybody had anything to say, they didn’t want to say it.
When it was over, the group headed for the door. Before they got there, a shabby, slew-eyed crone entered. She looked around, probably for the innkeeper, and sidled over to Francesca to beg.
Francesca took one look at the old woman and screeched “Maloccio, maloccio!” She gestured frantically with her forefinger and pinkie. “Maloccio, maloccio!”
Chiara rushed over. “Francesca, that’s enough. Basta!” she hissed.
Rafaelle saw the commotion. Ordinarily, he would have ignored a beggar, but some hitherto unmobilized angel urged him to intervene. “Basta, Francesca!” Although his voice sounded moderate, it held authority. Francesca backed away, her gesture now hidden in the folds of her skirt.
Rafaelle drew out a healthy supply of coins and placed them in the woman’s hand. He opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. Turning to Chiara, he said in French, “Ask her to pray for us.” Then he walked out.
Francesca and Paolo sat opposite each other for this leg of the trip. After a space of sparse conversation, they both seemed to decide a nap looked expedient. Chiara’s needles clicked softly. She looked up at Rafaelle. “That was a very generous thing you did at the inn.” She spoke quietly in French.
Rafaelle shrugged. “A few coins.”
“Ah, but those few coins not only helped a poor old woman, but they allayed Francesca’s fears about the maloccio.”
“Yes, what was that?”
“The evil eye. Those hand gestures, the cornus, ward it off. It is one of the more feared of the Italian superstitions.”
Both Rafaelle’s eyebrows went up; it seemed a strangely artless gesture. Chiara knit a few more stitches. “I see that you and Paolo are not at each others’ throats this morning.”
“Humm, we decided that one thrashing each from the lady of the manor was quite enough for both of us.
“Paolo asked you to marry him, and you turned him down, I gather.”
“Uh huh.”
“You never got around to telling me why you refuse to marry.”
She concentrated on a few stitches. “And I won’t, but I never said I refused to marry. I will not marry for the usual reasons members of the ton marry: expedience, convenience, inheritance, things like that. I don’t need to.
“If I can find a man who loves me for myself—not my inheritance or my connections or my ability to bear children—and with all that has happened to me, I very well might marry. But since I have no intention of publishing my life history, I doubt I will find the man, even if he exists. I have not led the life that Lady Chiara Brownlee should have expected to lead.”
“Paolo isn’t that man? He knows what you do.”
“He knows only part of what I am, and that part he heartedly disapproves of. You heard him.”
“Umm. I admit, ah, espionage is not the usual occupation for a woman
She looked up under her eyelashes at him.
“I have. Your fighting skills, for one, are formidable.”
Her mouth twitched. “Well, it’s nice to be appreciated for one’s accomplishments.”
He stared out the window for a few seconds. “You do this because of your father, don’t you?”
“At first, yes. Patriotism played a part, but basically it was for him. As the years passed…things happened. I do it now for myself. I guess you could say I have a score to settle.”
“Oh?”
She glanced up. “What about you? You did your duty and more, I suspect, in the navy.”
He shrugged. “Habit, patriotism, wanting to see Napoleon trounced, even if I wasn’t in the navy,” he grinned. “I don’t like unfinished business. Always comes back to bite you.”
Thinking for a moment, she said, “Those are good reasons, but not compelling. After all, you have a duty to your title.”
“Title, maybe, but not family.”
“Well…wouldn’t it be …ah, commensurate for you, of all people, to insure passage of the title.”
“A little revenge?” He grinned, and his chest shook with silent laughter. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I like the idea. Maybe I will get out of the spy business after this mission.”
A small smile flickered over her mouth. “Title not withstanding, I think you would make an excellent husband and father.” She hadn’t meant to blurt out the thought. The knitting now required her complete attention.
Of all the things he’d expected to hear from her, that was the absolute last. A good husband and father, indeed. He had no idea of what made a good husband and father.
Lord knows his own provided no shining example of either. His father doted on his older son, spoiling him and taking great delight in polishing his mirror image. He even coddled his daughter beyond any expectation. He younger son sometimes ate only because the servants were eating.
Fields and farms passed, unseen, outside the window. He tried to look at the situation logically. Dispassionately, he knew that was next to impossible. But still, he wondered what it would take to make that paragon. He knew this much. It was exactly the opposite of his father.
A good father saw to his children’s needs. Not too extravagantly. Needs and wants were different things. His brother had everything he could possible want: money, possessions, power, women, and valued none of it.
Who was a good father? Bloody hell, he wasn’t sure which of his acquaintances in society even were fathers. Well, who could he envision as a father?
Of course, Captain Barnham! Rafaelle remembered the quiet man’s smile, not an easy, careless thing, but all the more valued when it appeared. His smile was worth more praise than everyone else’s on the ship. His frown, well, you never wanted to see it, because it meant you’d really mucked it up and disappointed him. Mostly, though, you got the feeling he enjoyed your company.
That was the opposite of his father.
At lunch, Francesca insisted on serving the spaghetti and meatballs. Rafaelle watched her scrupulously count out the large meatballs out over huge plates of pasta. For a moment, the tomato sauce she poured over the plates looked like blood. He shook off the crotchet. Now was not the time for gory imaginings, he told himself. There’d already been enough of the real thing on this mission, and there might well be more.
He wished he could protect Chiara from it. Right on the heels of that thought was the self-mocking horror of what her reaction would be. Chasing that thought, he knew he would never again dishonor her status as a warrior. She’d proven her skill and valor. No man could do better.
That didn’t, however, mitigate his desire to protect his partner. Partner, partner. The word rolled around his mind as he watched Francesca count the meatballs she’d dished out.
“Aiyee!” Francesca shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” chorused in two languages. Paolo pulled his dagger from his sheath and looked around for a target.
“There are 17 meatballs!” Francesca pointed at one of the offending spheres.
“Well, it is what it is,” Rafaelle shrugged. “You can get some more if you need.”
Paolo reached over with his knife, speared a meatball and popped it whole into his mouth. After a few moments chewing the ball the size of a child’s fist, he said, “Problem solved. Now there are 16.”
“Mother of God, the damage is done”
“What damage?” Rafaelle asked.
“The number 17,” Chiara said as she moved one of the meatballs from her plate to another and gave that to Antonio, “when it is written in Roman numerals, is XVII. If you rearrange the letters, to VIXI, that is Latin for ‘I have lived.’ In other works, ‘I’m dead.’” She traced a number on the table. “They also think that ‘17’ looks like a man on the gallows.”
Rafaelle took his plate and sat down. “Seventeen, huh?”
The rumble of the wheels combined with the swaying of the carriage to produce a mind-numbing listlessness. The meatballs, despite the fuss, turned out to be quite tasty, and the wine surprisingly drinkable. Rafaelle allowed himself to slip into that pleasant state of not-quite-awake-and-not quite asleep. The click of the knitting needles and the occasional snore from Paolo provided the only punctuation to his comfortable haze. The not exactly rhythmic clicking sounded very domestic to him, the sort of thing a wife might do when she made socks for her husband or a blanket for her infant.
He doubted his mother even knew how to knit. Ah yes, his fashionably unfaithful mother. She’s given her lord his heir and then given him, or someone, a spare. Her wedding vows, love, honor, and obey, were empty promises to her.
A pothole in the road opened his eyes and brought a disgusted hiss from Chiara.
He looked at her from under lowered eyelids. If she made those promises, something told him she would love and honor to the end of her days. Obey? Well, maybe not, but that didn’t bother him.
How did that thought get in there? He didn’t know, but he found it strangely comfortable.
Chapter 12
Outside Voghera, just as Chiara began to nod off, she heard rapid hoof beats thud behind the carriage. The number of horses caught everyone’s attention. Paolo quietly took the pistol out of the door pocket and laid it along side his leg. He gestured to Rafaelle to do the same, but the road held Rafaelle’s attention.
Half a dozen or so French soldiers passed on the left. The lead riders kicked up a great deal of dust, making it hard to see the followers. One of the riders caught Chiara’s eye. He sat his horse very strangely. It was just a passing thought until he turned in the saddle just before he went out of view. “Oh my God! That’s one of the thieves in Piacenza! What’s he doing…? It’s a trap! He must be here to identify us.” She opened the hatch door to the driver’s box. “Stop here, Antonio, now.”
The soldiers headed around a curve where the road went through a pass in the rocky foothills before them.
“Si, Signora, I saw them. That piazzaiolo from the inn rode with them.”
Paulo snickered at Antonio’s expression: turd head.
Chiara looked around the coach. “Francesca, go over into the field and look like you have to pee.”
“But…”
“Now. Quickly!”
Francesca hauled herself out of the carriage. The last soldier looked around just in time to see her plop out the door.
“I’m betting on an ambush,” Paolo commented as he checked the pistol. “Rather than reporting ahead, the officer in Piacenza would want the glory of the capture of an Englishman all for himself.” He pulled out extra powder and shot.
“But why?” Chiara asked.
“I spoke English during the fight,” Paolo snarled his self-disgust.
Rafaelle nodded. “I’d hoped they wouldn’t notice, but obviously the leader recognized it and decided he could use it as a bargaining chip.
“We’ll have to fight,” Paulo’s
Rafaelle nodded as Francesca clambered back into the coach. Paulo called up to Antonio. “There’s going to be a fight. Do not try to drive through it.” Antonio frowned and then leaned down for his own pistol.
“A fight! A fight! I knew those meatballs were bad luck!” Francesca bawled.
“Quiet!” Paolo ordered. “Stay out of the way.” He pushed her legs to the center of the carriage so he had access to the door. The temperature inside the carriage rose significantly.
Chiara pushed her garrote into the top of her bodice and checked the action of her knife in its arm sheath. Then she pulled the pistol from her door’s pocket, checked the load, and laid it next to her leg.
Paolo gave Antonio the order to go. The occupants of the coach looked at each other in silence. Francesca’s rosary beads appeared and flew through her fingers.
The coach started back up again. Rafaelle looked thoughtful. “Let’s see if we can bluff our way through this first. Tell Antonio to do nothing aggressive.” Paolo opened the hatch and relayed the instructions. Antonio acknowledged it by sliding the gun under his leg. Paolo’s own gun went into the back of his pants.
As they rounded the turn at the rock, Chiara could see the soldiers. “They’ve ranged across a narrow spot in the road. Rocks on both sides.” She stood up to speak to Antonio. “Get right up to the line. Use the horses as weapons if you have to.” As she sat back, Rafaelle gave her a hard smile of approval.
“Halt!” the officer bellowed. Antonio drew the team up so that the horses could almost nose the bores of the soldiers’ rifles. “Get out of the carriage!”
Paolo got out the right side. Chiara could see the thief, his horse tethered to the officer, whispering and pointing frantically toward Paolo.
Rafaelle quickly checked the twist release on his cane. He looked up at Chiara. Calm, prepared, confident, the searching eyes wandered over Chiara’s face as if burning the sight into his memory. He opened the door, and Chiara’s heart clenched. He might be facing a firing squad. That’s intolerable, she thought. She would prevent it, even if it cost her own life. She didn’t question that thought, only watched him.