An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
“Yes,” he murmured as he nibbled small kisses down her throat. “Yes.”
The heat washing through her felt so good, so wondrous, so exciting. His mouth at the base of her throat sent delightful shivers through her. “Yes,” she breathed.
His lips moved back to hers. Gently, he parted her lips so his tongue could taste inside her mouth. The intimate caress so thrilled her she dared to return it. He tasted of wine and…Rafaelle. When he pulled back a fraction of an inch, she felt lost until she looked up at his gleaming eyes.
“I think I’ve created my own private tyrant, but I’m not going to be fighting this one,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m entranced by her.” His mouth teased hers.
Her arms slipped around his neck. “Oh, yes!”
That was all it took. He anchored her to him and reclaimed her mouth with a fevered heat she never dreamed existed. And she returned it with the fire she thought could never burn in her.
A quick rap and the door opened. “Uh, wha’?” Chiara’s thoughts tumbled in confusion, but Rafaelle simply held her close. The only sign of his displeasure was the tightening muscles in his throat.
“Oh, my,” Bruna giggled. “I thought this was Chiara’s room, but since you’re here…”
“This is Chiara’s room,” Rafaelle growled. “What do you want?” He turned in place, shielding her with his body.
Bruna shrugged prettily, tilted her head and looked at him through her eyelashes. “Well,” she drawled, obviously understanding his French, “I would love to welcome you to our romantic city. We adore showing visitors our charms.”
Rafaelle crossed his arms across his chest. “Mistress, while we,” he stressed the word, “appreciate your generous offer, it is far more than either of us need. Thank you and good evening.” He gestured towards the door and used his body to move her along.
“Well, if you change your mind…” she sashayed out the door.
“That’s trouble,” he declared.
“Absolutely!”
He snickered.
“Make sure she’s left and then you go. I have to do my hair.”
“I’d be delighted to assist. I believe I’ve already offered.” The devilment in his eyes negated the pout on his mouth
“Out, out,” she giggled as she shoved him towards the door. She guessed that even Bruna could hear his shout of laughter.
Chapter 14
Bruna strode down the hall, hands on her hips. These strangers smelled worse than four day-old fish. They’d spoken French to each other in the parlor, but it wasn’t French they spoke in the bed chamber. She’d listened at the door of the room. Bruna knew French, having used it frequently with Napoleon’s soldiers. Who were they?
Next to a handsome man with a big cazzone and a purse full of coins, Bruna loved a puzzle. Mother Mary knows, she thought, he’s good-looking enough, if you like the rough-chiseled look. Bruna liked all men, but the dangerous-looking ones gave her a special thrill. Plus, something about the way he walked, talked—she shrugged—or scratched his crotch, screamed MONEY. The combination might be amusing, pleasurable, and profitable.
She felt so good, she didn’t even sneer at the fresh-faced stable hand who imagined he was going to get more than one inept poke at her.
“I swear,” Chiara muttered, “every maid in my household will get a raise.” It wasn’t even time for lunch yet, and she was exhausted. She’d dusted three chambers (Who knew dusting was such a meticulous job?) and scrubbed two floors (On her hands and knees, no less; even broad-minded Lindsey would be horrified!).
Catarina said she’d be delivering His Holiness’s lunch to his private apartment. Chiara would have an opportunity to talk to him then. It should be about that time.
“Chiara, leave that,” Catarina snapped from the doorway. She took her role as chatelaine a little too seriously, Chiara thought. “I want you to help serve His Holiness. I can’t spare anyone else. Smarten up and come to the kitchen. Quickly, now.”
Chiara took the tray into the small private room. Her heart went out to the old man who, though he captained one of the largest religious organizations in the world, had only one simple maid servant to serve him a frugal meal, all by himself.
He sat at a bare table, simple implements and a rather thread-bare napkin. His hands folded in prayer as he waited, Barnabà “Gregorio” Chiaramonte looked greyer, thinner, and just older than would be expected since she saw him last. Fate had not been kind to this gentle man, she thought.
However, when he lifted his head, she recognized the spark of determination. It extinguished quickly, and his face took on an expression of bland politeness. “Signorina,” he rose with the exquisite courtesy she remembered, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you.”
She set the tray on the table and curtseyed. “Yes, you have, Padre Barnabà. You may remember a young girl,” she lowered her voice, “with long, blonde hair and a hard-nosed English father.” She waited a moment for the memory to surface and then flew into his open arms.
“Chiara, Chiara,” he kissed her forehead and grasped her face to look into her eyes. “My little yellow bird.” He caressed her face. “I grieve still for your father. We were an unlikely pair of friends, the Catholic priest and the Anglican diplomat. But friends we were.”
“He valued it all the more because of your differences.”
Pius VII nodded slowly. “So why are you here? That’s not to say that I’m not delighted to see you.”
“My companion and I have been sent by the British government to get you out of here.”
“Ah, I appreciate the thought, but that’s a risk I’m not willing to let you shoulder.”
“You’re a little late with that. This is what I do. I’m a British agent. Plans are already in process.”
He took a step back and studied her. “Do I have a say in this?”
She laughed. “Of course, but do you really want to stay here?”
Face scrunched, he said, “No, I must confess I don’t.”
“Well…”
“You get more than your hair color from you father, young lady.”
“I’ll treasure that compliment. But right now you need to eat your lunch, or Signora Catarina will have my head. Yes, she knows.”
He sat down and picked up his fork.
“We’ll talk later. Rafaelle, my companion, will meet us on your walk this afternoon. Buon appetito.”
After lunch, Catarina kept Chiara busy in obscure parts of the palace because French officials usually called on the Pope in the afternoon. Rounding a corner, Chiara caught a glimpse of the back of several elegant jackets and one familiar back in a red uniform.
She whirled back around the corner. Radet was here! Hand clenched to her roiling stomach, she propped against the wall to keep from falling. Every fiber in her body said, “Run!” No, no, think. Think, that’s what she’d been trained to do. If she panicked, she might as well walk up to Radet and introduce herself.
She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Her disguise was good; all she had to do was maintain it. She leaned her head on the wall and closed her eyes for a moment. Merciful God, I just want to go home.
The memory of a beaten-down, but still resistant, old man in his threadbare white cassock supplanted that wish. She’d see this through, Radet be damned.
The French left, and Chiara breathed easier. She “accidentally” met the pope and offered her arm to escort him on his daily walk. “Entertained guests today, did you?” They strolled down the long, winding staircase to the entry area. A big, wide undercroft, it was designed to allow the carriages of visitors to enter and turn around. Furniture heaped higgledy-piggledy next to the staircase made a pile as tall as a man and three arms’ breadth wide. A massive gate led to the street and a smaller one to the garden. Three open doors to service areas flanked the staircase.
“Today and everyday. ‘Sign this, sign that. Now, now.’ They are really quite predictable.”
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“Ah, Signor Napoleon is very annoyed with me. I refuse to agree to his Concordat. It would allow him to appoint bishops and abbots, instead of the Holy See. He thinks to control the souls of his empire’s people as well as their bodies. I’m afraid that my slight frame stands in his way.
“The roses are lovely here. Luciano, my head gardener, takes special care of them.” He pointed to the blossoms near the door and nodded at the French guard.
After a few steps, Chiara snorted softly, “It’s not your body in the way, you stubborn old dear.”
He laughed and patted her hand as they entered the graveled paths of the Episcopal Palace’s gardens.
“This plan of yours, it is very dangerous, no?”
“Yes, but we think it is worth the risk. You are too important to sit and molder in this gilt cage.”
“When you are ‘important,’ my child, any place is a cage.”
She looked at him with a small smile. “Still damning the College of Cardinals that elected you?”
“Not exactly damning them,” he pursed his lips, “but I would impose a very severe penance on each of them if they came to me for confession.” She laughed and he continued, “But as to this scheme of yours…”
“Eventually Napoleon’s agents will threaten or browbeat or cajole you into signing. They have all the time in the world. The body and mind can only withstand so much. It will happen. Do you want that?”
He stopped to admire a bed of roses. She let him think. Knowing him, it wasn’t his personal safety he considered, but all the risks and benefits for others, including the Papacy he embodied.
“As you say. Now, this companion you mentioned, he is trustworthy?”
“Absolutely,” she felt a grin grow at the memories of other times that word had been used. “He’s a former naval captain. I know he served with distinction at Trafalgar, and he’s proven himself brave and resourceful. He’s a good man. He’s also experienced at…this kind of work, as am I.”
Pius VII smiled sadly, “I’m sorry to hear that, my child.”
She knew exactly what he referred to. “So am I, Padre Barnabà, but we deal with life as it is presented to us.” She checked the direction of the sun and turned the next corner. “Rafaelle will meet us on the west side.”
He cocked his head in a bird-like motion. “This, Rafaelle, he is…special to you?”
She bit her lip before answering. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to one who knows you, my child.”
“He’s asked me to marry him, and I want to do so desperately.”
“But…”
“But there are things I haven’t told him about myself that I don’t think he could accept.”
“There is a patent solution to this problem, is there not?”
“Of course, but there’s a reason it’s not common knowledge.”
“If he loves you, he will accept that, even if he cannot bring himself to like it.”
“I know.”
Rafaelle looked down at his hands and his clothes. “Not exactly suitable to be entertaining a lady, are you old man,” he muttered to himself, then looked around for nearby ears. Seeing none, he blew out a relieved breath. An honest, well somewhat honest, day’s work shouldn’t have made him careless. Thoughts of seeing Chiara, which had been wandering through his brain all day, shouldn’t either, but they had. Several times. He’s been lucky that his day-dreaming and patently foolish expressions each occurred when he was forking over the manure pile or on his hands and knees weeding.
Just the thought of his work day made him shrug his shoulder to stretch out some hither-to under-used muscles. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath and a large brandy!
Since it was late afternoon, the Pope would be taking his usual stroll, accompanied by the new maid who wished to make her confession.
Chiara rounded a corner of the hedge holding the arm of a frail old man in a white cassock. At first glance, Pope Pius VII didn’t look strong enough to stand up to a squalling child, let alone the most ruthless tyrant the world had even known. Goes to show you, he thought; looks can be deceiving. He pushed his shovel into the dirt.
“There he is.”
Rafaelle turned over the soil in a bed of flowers in a secluded corner of the garden. He had thrown his jacket and waistcoat over a nearby bush. As they drew closer, she could see the shine of sweat on his face. “I believe this is a new experience for him.” At Padre Barnabà’s quizzical expression, she said, “Working.”
“No, not working, just a new kind of work,” Pius VII observed.
Hearing their voices, Rafaelle stopped and rammed his shovel into a pile of dirt. He wiped a shirtsleeve over his face and stepped up to meet them. “Your Holiness, I’m honored. I am Rafael FitzHenry.” He stopped, indecision as to how to proceed written on his face.
“Chiara calls me Padre Barnabà, as I hope you will. Others have less polite names for me.” His eyes twinkled as he offered his hand to shake. After a second’s hesitation, Rafaelle accepted with a grin tugging at his mouth. “He has good hands, your friend,” Padre Barnabà said to Chiara.
“Can we talk?” Chiara asked.
“Yes, Luciano kindly assigned me here by myself.”
“What are these plans of Chiara has spoken of?” Padre Barnabà’s voice held gentle command.
“As soon as our ship is sighted, we will instigate a demonstration nearby, disguise you, and slip out by way of a secret entrance that Luciano knows. We’ll make our way to the coast for pick up. Your relatives will be found later, bound and gagged, in their house and prepared with a story of our perfidy.”
The pope strolled over to examine the greenish-white flowers of a mignonette. “They are agreed?”
“Yes.”
“When will the ship arrive?”
“If all goes as planned, two days from today.”
“Do you have confidence in her captain?”
“Absolutely. I do, and have, trusted him with my life and honor.”
Padre Barnabà looked up at him. “Well said. And you, Chiara?”
She nodded, “I helped draw the plan up. I have every hope and confidence it will work.”
He picked a bellflower and carefully threaded its stem into Chiara’s hair. “Well, I could say that I’ve accepted my incarceration here as penance for my sins, but why add the sin of lying to all my others? What do you wish me to do?”
“Prepare and hide a small bundle of absolute necessities. Do you have common clothes?” When the pope shook his head, Rafaelle continued, “We’ll smuggle some in tomorrow. In the evening, wear them under your cassock. We may have to move quickly.”
Raising his hand in blessing, Padre Barnabà said, eyes twinkling, “Bow your heads my children, like good Catholics. God be with you and hold you in the palm of his hand. I must continue my walk.” He continued on his way alone.
They decided to stroll around the streets of Savona on their way home. Rafaelle wanted to explore the layout of the town. The Episcopal Palace and Cathedral were about four streets from the harbor, so they headed off in that direction.
They stopped in at the Cathedral. “We can take a few minutes to play tourist,” Rafaelle commented. “If we can, I’d like to get into Sixtus IV’s Sistine Chapel that Catarina mentioned at dinner last night.”
“Lord FitzHenry might have easy access, but a couple of peasants aren’t too likely to get in.”
“Umph.” He took hold of her hand as they walked up toward the white marble of the columns arcing around the main altar.
Somehow her hand in his felt right. “Let’s find a shrine or something to say a prayer at,” she whispered. “Tourists in peasant clothes aren’t the usual sight.” They found a black slate bas-relief of Mary’s Assumption and stopped for a quick prayer.
“What did you pray for?” he asked as they walked away. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I prayed that I sail home from
She smiled because she’d prayed for the same thing.
They continued on toward the harbor.
“He’s not exactly what I expected,” Rafaelle said thoughtfully.
“And he was on his best behavior for a stranger.”
He looked sideways at her, wondering. “Definitely not what I expected, but I guess he must be doing a great job if the Little Corporal is making his life difficult.”
“Indeed, the Emperor considers him a threat on a par with Wellington. The power of faith can put the might of armies to shame. Napoleon knows that and he wants to control that power. It’s all that will save him if his armies fail.”
The short, square tower known as the Torretta lorded over the harbor area. Rafaelle stared up at it with some consideration in his eyes. “A lookout tower. I wonder if it’s still in use. We’ll have to talk to Luciano about preventing messages from leaving here if the soldiers sight the Swiftsure.”
“More likely they have lookouts on the Priamar fortress there on that finger of land sticking out from the harbor.”
“That ruin? I suppose so, although I suspect they may lose a fair number of men in the rubble.
“I want to get a look at the strand area there to the north of the town, see how long it will take us to get there.”
From the harbor, they walked around to the rocky finger of land crowned by the ruins of the Priamar. Rafaelle casually surveyed the area. A couple of French soldiers lounged near the base of the rickety bridge across the shallow ditch. The other end of the bridge led into the cold, grey stone of the fortress. This side of the battlement was rounded, the other side was angular. The men glanced around but otherwise paid more attention to the young woman flirting with them.
Chiara and Rafaelle continued across the ditch to the base of the wall and around to the west side. They sat down, trying to look like a young couple seeking a few minutes of privacy.