100. A Rose In Jeopardy Read online

  A flood of passionate Italian words poured out from her, as the monkey leapt from his shoulder into her arms.

  “Caro mio! Piccolino Pepe, sei troppo cattivo!” she cried and then she turned to Lyndon.

  “Grazie tanto, Signore,” she said and then looked closely at him. “Sei Italiano?” she asked.

  “No – I am English!” Lyndon replied, hoping that he had understood her correctly.

  “Aaah. Capisco. I thought from your cloak and your hat – you were Italiano.”

  She must be very old, Lyndon thought, for the curls that were piled up on her head were almost white, but her black eyes blazed with a fierce energy.

  And she was clearly someone of great importance, as heavy gold rings gleamed on her fingers and her shawl was thick with swirls of gold thread.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

  Lyndon was thrown into confusion. What should he say? Why had he not thought of a name for himself?

  She asked again, her tone imperious and impatient. She was not someone who was used to being kept waiting.

  “Mr. Jones,” Lyndon now mumbled saying the very first name that came into his head.

  “Oh – Signore Jones! How can I ever repay you for bringing back my naughty child?”

  She caressed the monkey’s little head and spoke to one of the mob-capped maids who stood beside her.

  One maid took the creature and ran off.

  “It was nothing, really,” Lyndon said and he would have turned to go, but the old woman touched his sleeve.

  “This is my first time in England. And I am here for business matters and to see all the sights of your great City,” she was now saying, struggling with the unfamiliar words. “Signore Jones, you must dine with me tonight!”

  She reached into a small embroidered bag that hung at her waist and took out a white card and a gold pencil.

  She scribbled something on the card and gave it to Lyndon.

  Printed on the card, in gold letters he saw the words La Contessa Allegrini.

  So the old woman was from the Italian Nobility – a Contessa! There was an address as well, Ca’ degli Angeli, Venezia.

  Beneath these words, the Contessa had written in a large sprawling hand, The Palace Hotel, Bayswater.

  “Tonight! Stasera,” she said. “I will give you the finest dinner in London. And you will tell me about your City, for I know nothing. I need a friend who will help me around and teach me your ways in England.”

  Lyndon hesitated.

  He could not possibly go to the old woman’s hotel and dine with her, as he would surely be spotted at once by someone who knew him and yet she was looking at him so fiercely that he did not dare say ‘no’ to her.

  The Contessa laughed.

  “Ah, you inglesi! I have heard about your famous shyness. Your silences, your lack of words. So different from we italiani!”

  She tapped him on the arm.

  “Until tonight, Mr. Jones.”

  And she then turned to the sailor who stood by the gangplank and allowed him to help her onto dry land.

  The crowd of onlookers parted respectfully as she walked towards the coach.

  A hand gently touched Lyndon’s arm. It was the maid who had gone into the cabin.

  The monkey was safely on her shoulder and he saw that it now had a red ribbon tied around its waist, the other end of which was attached to the maid’s wrist.

  “Signore,” she whispered and pressed a twist of paper into his hand. “Grazie tanto.”

  And then she hurried away to join her Mistress.

  Lyndon unfolded the paper to see, nestling inside, a handful of golden coins.

  The Contessa had rewarded him well for rescuing her pet.

  *

  A sledgehammer was beating away at the inside of Algernon’s head and, just to add to the pain, a whole army of birds were assaulting his delicate ears with loud shrieks and trills and warblings.

  Where the hell was he? He groaned in agony and forced his heavy eyelids to open.

  He closed them again quickly as, to his horror, the bedroom where he lay was flooded with brilliant sunlight. Why had his valet opened the curtains?

  And then he remembered where he was. He had come down to Hampshire to be with Lord Brockley.

  That was why the birds were being so noisy, he was in the middle of the countryside with trees and bushes all around instead of the bricks and stones of London.

  It was simply impossible for him to sink back into the restful sleep that was the only cure for a headache such as the one that was threatening to split his skull open.

  Why had he thought it such a good idea to come to the country?

  Reluctantly, Algernon opened his tired eyes and sat up, clutching his forehead in his hands.

  Now he noticed that the same useless servant who had opened up the curtains and who clearly did not know about his preference for late rising had left a tray of tea and toast on the small table beside his bed.

  Tea. Perhaps that would help to clear his throbbing head. He reached for the teapot, but it was quite cold.

  He must have slept very late indeed this morning. Lord Brockley, who never seemed to suffer quite so badly from the after-effects of over-indulgence in brandy, would be waiting for him.

  Algernon gave another groan and heaved his legs over the side of the bed.

  There was a full jug of water on the washstand and he staggered over to it and poured himself a glass.

  Then, feeling just a little better, he went over to the window to draw the curtains against the frightful glare and to shut out the awful noise the birds were making.

  Outside a soft breeze was stirring the tops of the tall trees that surrounded the gardens below his window.

  He was just about the tug the heavy curtain closed, when something caught his eye – a flash of gold, moving among the flowers.

  It was the pretty girl who had sat opposite him at dinner last night, the little angel who he could swear had brought him luck in the dice game at the inn.

  She was down there in the Rose Garden, a basket over her arm, cutting blooms.

  She moved so prettily in her violet-coloured dress and he saw that her long golden curls reached almost to her slender waist.

  He noticed the sunlight gleaming on her curls and remembered how the soft candlelight last night had shone on them, making a pale halo around her sweet young face.

  She had been so shy and quiet all through dinner, as if she did not want to attract any attention to herself.

  Algernon normally preferred lively and flirtatious girls, like the delicious dark-haired creature, who had been engaged to Lord Brockley’s son – nothing reticent about her at all!

  But there was indeed something about the shyness and reserve of this girl, Rosella, that was very enticing.

  As he watched her reach up to cut a white rose from a tall branch, he suddenly thought how delightful it would be to slip his arm around her waist and draw her to him.

  And the touch of one of her soft little hands on his forehead would completely cure his headache.

  He had no memory of being helped from the dining room last night and almost carried up the stairs by Rosella and Mrs. Dawkins.

  Nor did he recall the expression of revulsion on Rosella’s pretty face as she looked down at him where he lay on his bedroom carpet.

  For he was never able to remember anything that happened to him when he had taken too much brandy.

  There was a loud rap at his bedroom door and then it flew open.

  “Get up!” Lord Brockley growled as he strode over the carpet. “Luncheon will be served in a few moments.”

  He scowled at Algernon still in his nightshirt.

  “What have you been doing all morning? I want to place a bet on the big race this afternoon and I should like your opinion on the runners.”

  “I’m almost up, Carlton. I was just admiring the wonderful view of the gardens.”

  Lord Brockley came to
join him at the window.

  “Ah! I might have guessed,” he said.

  And, as he too looked down on Rosella, making her way through the Rose Garden, a thoughtful expression came over his face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Thomas – wait,” Rosella called out, as she saw the gardener’s boy hurrying down the drive through the misty summer rain.

  “My Lady?”

  Thomas stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, raindrops clinging to his thatch of fair hair.

  “I have not seen you for so long,” Rosella said. “Is everything all right with you?”

  Thomas hesitated a moment before he replied,

  “Yes, it is, my Lady.”

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I am going to the bookmakers to place a bet for his Lordship.”

  “But surely that is not your job, Thomas.”

  Thomas looked uncomfortable.

  “Well, my Lady. Things ’ave changed ’ere. I don’t spend so much time in the garden. I have other duties. The gentlemen are always findin’ things for me to do.”

  Rosella sighed.

  That would explain why there were so many weeds pushing up through the path that wound through the Rose Garden and why dead heads still clung to the bushes.

  “My Lady, you should not be out in this weather, you’ll get soaked,” Thomas remarked.

  Rosella could feel cold water leaking through the sole of her right shoe and big drops were sliding from the edge of her umbrella and splashing onto the grass.

  “You are right, Thomas. I suppose I had better go in and you must go on your errand.”

  She watched him walk away down the drive and wondered why Lord Brockley had not thought to order the pony and trap for Thomas, for it was several miles into Winchester.

  Or why, indeed, he had not sent his friend Mr. Merriman to run the errand.

  Mr. Algernon Merriman, who, at this very moment, was lounging languidly on the sofa in the drawing room, doing absolutely nothing except to recover from too many helpings of roast beef and gooseberry pie at luncheon.

  She had seen him there every afternoon for the last week, sipping brandy – ‘for my digestion’ as he liked to say and reading the newspaper.

  If Rosella was there, he would ask her to read to him. She had never known a man so lazy – or so greedy.

  Even Lord Brockley seemed somewhat impatient and exasperated with the slothfulness of his companion.

  But in truth, Rosella reckoned, she preferred Mr. Merriman like this.

  For sometimes, when he saw her, he would rouse himself and become full of energy and enthusiasm, which was very unpleasant.

  This was the reason that Rosella was out in the Park now despite the rain, as she simply could not bear to be in the same room as Algernon.

  Over the last week he had followed her everywhere, calling her endlessly ‘my little angel’ and constantly trying to kiss her hand.

  She shivered at the memory of his plump fingers against hers and then the wind shook the tree above her and icy drops slid down her umbrella, soaking her dress.

  The rain was falling more heavily now and Rosella was getting very cold from standing around so long in it.

  Perhaps if she was very quiet, she might be able to creep into New Hall by the back door and escape to her bedroom without anyone noticing her.

  At first her plan seemed to be working. Rosella slipped through the back door and was just about to go up the narrow back staircase, which was usually only used by the servants, when Mrs. Dawkins came out of the kitchen.

  “My Lady!” she called. “Thank goodness. You’re wanted in the study.”

  Rosella’s heart sank. The study! So Lord Brockley wishes to speak to her.

  What could he possibly have to say? She had kept out of his way all week and, although she had caught him watching her sometimes with his hooded eyes, he had not made any further remarks to her about her fortune or the necessity of her finding a husband.

  She had kept Pickle out of earshot in her bedroom and she had been quiet and respectful at table, despite the rude and unpleasant behaviour of him and his companion.

  Every evening after dinner she and Mrs. Dawkins had helped the drunk and helpless Algernon safely to his bedroom door.

  Surely there could be nothing for Lord Brockley to criticise in her behaviour.

  “Does he look – angry, Mrs. Dawkins?” she asked.

  “For once, he seems quite cheerful,” Mrs. Dawkins replied with a little sigh.

  Several new lines had suddenly appeared on the housekeeper’s face, giving her an anxious tired appearance.

  “But you must not keep him waiting any longer – I have been looking for you for ages.”

  Rosella handed Mrs. Dawkins her wet umbrella and made her way to the study.

  “Come in!” Lord Brockley’s deep voice growled, as she tapped on the door.

  She stepped inside, her heart beating fast and stood on the carpet in front of him.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she began, her voice a little shaky, as it always was when she had to speak to him.

  “I am very pleased,” he said, after a long pause, “to have found a solution to two difficulties which have been bothering me this last week.”

  His hooded eyes gleamed at her through the fog of cigar smoke that always surrounded him.

  “I am sorry, sir. I don’t understand,” Rosella said, holding herself as straight as she could, as her knees felt very weak.

  “You are one of my difficulties, Rosella. You have no fortune. No place to go. And – if you stay here in this house, an unmarried girl of good family, there will be talk – scandal even.”

  Rosella’s skin prickled with unease.

  Lord Brockley was still talking,

  “I don’t much care what people think, but I could do without the fuss and bother of it all.”

  “I would not dream of causing any – trouble – ” she stammered.

  “I should hope not,” Lord Brockley replied. “I have been watching you. You are a good girl. You rise early, you don’t over-indulge at table and you do everything you are asked to do, you are happy to be seen and not heard.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But you are still a problem for me. I am plagued with so much indolence, intemperance and unpunctuality. Unecessary irritations preventing me from enjoying myself while I am here at New Hall. I think you could help me to stop all this. Would you do that, Rosella?”

  “Of course, sir,” Rosella replied, although she was not at all sure what he meant.

  “Excellent.” he smiled benignly. “Then surely your own good qualities of industry, restraint and punctuality will cure these irritations. Is that not common sense?”

  “I – suppose so, sir.”

  “You would like to stay here at New Hall, would you not?”

  “Oh, yes!” Rosella’s heart gave a great leap of joy.

  “Of course you would.”

  Lord Brockley stood up and pulled the tasselled cord that hung by the fireplace.

  A young parlourmaid came to the door.

  “Tell Mr. Merriman I want him,” he said, “you will find him, no doubt, half asleep in the drawing room.”

  The parlourmaid bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

  “May I go now, sir?” Rosella asked.

  “No! You may not leave. I don’t think you have understood. If my solution to the problem is to be carried out, it is absolutely necessary that you stay.”

  Lord Brockley gave short bark of laughter and went to the door.

  “Ah – Merriman!” he greeted his friend, who was just about to come in. “She has agreed. I shall leave you to it!”

  And with that Lord Brockley left the study.

  *

  It was getting dark and the wharf was quiet now – the sailors were either resting on board or enjoying a night off in one of the many inns and taverns around the docks.

  Lyndon walked slowly along by t
he river, keeping to the shadows.

  He did not want anyone from La Maschera to recognise him. But the beautiful ship was silent and no lights shone, just one lantern at the masthead.

  He gazed up at the figurehead, the lovely carved woman with the jewelled mask over her eyes.

  In the twilight she looked even more mysterious than before, as the rays from the ship’s lantern cast alluring shadows over her face and glinted on the mask.

  Who was she? Someone real or a character from a story?

  Lyndon closed his eyes and pictured row upon row of old buildings, their painted and gilded shutters reflected in the dark waters of the canals that flowed beneath them.

  The Palazzos of Venice – he had seen so many paintings of them and now he longed to see them for real and see too the famous masked balls he had read about.

  Maybe in Venice there were a great many beautiful masked women just like the voluptuous figurehead.

  He could dance with these masked beauties, hold them in his arms, perhaps even kiss one of them and he would never have to know who they were and never have to give them his heart, as he had done to Marian.

  He had felt afraid at first of the strange magnetism that seemed to be drawing him to the City that rose like a mirage out of the Venetian lagoon.

  But tonight he felt braver. Why should he not give in to this mysterious attraction?

  He left the silent La Maschera and headed back to the crowded bar of the inn where he was staying.

  The sailors who came regularly to drink rum at the inn had grown used to the frequent comings-and-goings of the mysterious black-cloaked man and they shouted out to him to come and join them.

  “Don’t be a stranger!” one man yelled. “Sit down, take the weight of your feet. I’ll stand you a pint of ale.”

  Lyndon squeezed himself onto the wooden bench next to the man.

  The ale, when it arrived, was dark in colour and tasted very strong, but he found that he quite liked it.

  And it felt very good to be in the company of these friendly sailors, who seemed to want nothing from him but that he should enjoy himself.

  He had drunk two pints of the ale and was feeling rather merry, when the brawny man leaned over and said,

  “You’re a good fellow, sir, there’s no doubt. But you’re a man of mystery! What brings you here and why do you stay among us? What is your business?”