Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (34 page)

‘No lady’s ever kissed me like that, either,’ he said, brushing
his fingers lightly over her velvety cheek and along the line of her jaw.

This time she shivered with pleasure at his touch, not at the
pretend snow. ‘It must be the mistletoe.’

‘Or the dancing.’

‘Or my dancing master.’ Shyly she tipped her face towards his,
her lips parted and waiting. ‘Perhaps we need to try a bit harder to discover
the truth.’

‘Merry Christmas, Abbie,’ he said as he bent to kiss her again.
‘Merry, merry—’

‘Miss Layton—Lieutenant Lord Richardson.’ The liveried footman
bowed, unperturbed by what he’d interrupted so long as he delivered his
message. ‘Lady Hamilton wishes your attendance directly.’

‘We must go, James,’ Abigail said hurriedly, slipping free from
his embrace. ‘I should have gone to her first, I know, but I looked for you
instead, and now she’ll know. She’ll
know
.’

‘And what if she does?’ James took back his coat from her
shoulders, watching as she smoothed her skirts and her hair. It didn’t matter
what she did: she looked like a woman who’d been kissed, and who had kissed in
return. Her face was flushed in the moonlight, her lips ripe. She was right:
Lady Hamilton
would
know. She and all the others would see the change in
Abigail in a moment. ‘There’s no sin in kissing.’

‘But I didn’t come to Naples to—’

‘Stay here with me, Abbie,’ he said, his voice rough with
urgency, catching her arm to pull her back. ‘Another five minutes, that is all.
They won’t notice—not among so many others.’

She hesitated, and it pleased him that she was considering. ‘I
can’t,’ she said softly, sadly. ‘
We
can’t. You know it as well as I.’

He groaned, because he did. If the navy had taught him anything,
it was to obey orders and respect his duty, to behave in an honourable way,
even if those same orders and duty and honour would take him away from Abigail
in the moonlight.

She smoothed the front of his coat, running her palms over his
chest—a small bit of female housekeeping that struck him as impossibly
seductive for being so unconscious.

‘There,’ she said. ‘You look respectable again. Now, come with
me…’

He caught one of her hands, lifting and turning it so he could
brush his lips across her open palm, his gaze holding hers prisoner. ‘I will see
you again?’

‘Of course you will,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Tomorrow in Sir
William’s gallery, when we—’

‘I meant alone, Abbie,’ he said, determined to make her
understand what he was only just beginning to understand himself. ‘You and me
and no one else. This isn’t just a single kiss at a ball, sweet. I’m not going
to let you slip away from me. Tomorrow, aye, and tomorrow, and tomorrow after
that, Abbie. This is only the beginning.’

‘Oh, James, yes,’ she whispered, and reached up to kiss him
again.
‘Yes.’

W
ITH
no surprise, Abigail found herself the
only one at breakfast the next morning. The ball had been ending when Lady
Hamilton had permitted Abigail to leave. It had been soon after midnight, but
when she’d tried to sleep it had seemed to Abigail that the festivities had
lasted much later than that. Now the embassy seemed silent as only a house
exhausted by too much celebration could be, and as Abigail sipped her tea
alone, she wondered how many aching heads would not lift from their pillows at
all today.

But she was surprised not to see James. He’d left the ball even
earlier than she, pleading some sort of navy errand. Surely he shouldn’t still
be feeling the effects of too much strong drink? She’d seen him take scarcely a
single glass of wine the entire night. And after how he’d kissed her, and what
he’d said—why, she wouldn’t have slept much even if the revellers hadn’t kept
her awake.

Finally she pushed her plate aside and rose. Likely he was still
following orders or another duty. She couldn’t imagine he’d keep away on his
own—or at least she hoped he wouldn’t. But, with James or without, she could
still make plenty of progress cataloguing.

‘Good day, Miss Layton.’ Sir William entered, and with him James,
their expressions uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve finished
your breakfast, for we’ve great need of your services downstairs directly.’

‘My services, Sir William?’ It was not often a classical scholar
was called on an emergency. ‘Should I fetch my notebook from the gallery?’

‘Yes, at once.’ Sir William glanced at James. ‘I must return
below. Please bring Miss Layton as soon as you can.’

‘What has happened, James?’ Abigail asked. ‘Is something wrong?
Are the French—?’

‘The French are not here, Abigail,’ he said. ‘That much I can
tell you, but little else.’

She’d never seen his face set like this—all grim, almost
ruthless, full of seriousness—and she realised enough to ask no more. This must
be how he was at sea, she thought, her fingers shaking a little as she unlocked
the gallery. This was the side of him that belonged not to her, but to the
navy.

‘You’ll want your apron, too,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over
her white muslin gown as she found her notebook. ‘Next time you’ll want to wear
your old mourning, but there’s no time now for you to change.’

He led her not down the embassy’s main staircase, but down the
servants’ stairs, narrow and twisting, and then down further still, into
cellars she hadn’t known existed. Although there were lanterns hung along the
passage, the murky twilight made Abigail shrink against James, and he slipped
his arm around her waist to guide her.

She didn’t like dark places, particularly dark places under the
earth that harboured mice and rats and spiders, and this hall, she decided with
dismal certainty, was sure to be full of all three. The stucco walls curved
into a crude arch overhead, so low that James had to bend his shoulders to keep
from striking his head, and so narrow that Abigail had to pull her skirts close
to keep the fabric from snagging on the rough, dirty plaster.

Finally they could hear muffled voices, and more light glowed
before them. They turned a corner in the passage and entered a much larger
space, clearly used for the storage of crates and barrels much like the ones upstairs.
Sir William was there already, supervising two of the embassy’s footmen in
prising open one of the crates. As soon as it popped open Sir William reached
inside and drew out a large gold goblet, richly enhanced with fantastic
engraving and rubies around the stem.

‘Here you are at last, Miss Layton.’ He smiled, buffing the
polished side of the goblet with his cuff before he handed it to Abigail.
‘Precious treasure, yes, Lieutenant? Have you ever seen the like, Miss Layton?’

Abigail frowned at her reflection in the gold. ‘Forgive me, Sir
William, but this is unlike anything else in your collection. I should venture
it’s of a much later date, perhaps of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, and
the work of a master goldsmith.’

‘You can write it up like the rest, can’t you?’ asked Sir
William. ‘A catalogue to match what’s upstairs?’

‘Yes, Sir William, of course,’ Abigail said, glancing past him.
‘But to include what lies here with the rest will double my time.’

‘And will double your reward,’ Sir William said. ‘That is
understood. What concerns me is the time involved.’

Abigail shook her head, turning the goblet in her hands. ‘To do
all this justice, Sir William, I could not possibly complete before the
spring.’

‘I’m afraid it must be done sooner, Miss Layton,’ said the
ambassador. ‘What if I were to triple, even quadruple your fee?’

But Abigail wasn’t listening. ‘This engraving—here. That is the
mark of the royal family, is it not?’

‘Tell her the truth, Sir William,’ James said curtly. ‘She has a
right to know, and to refuse.’

‘I see you have a champion, Miss Layton.’ Sir William smiled.
‘Very well, then. These crates contain personal treasures belonging to the
royal family. They are being brought here for safekeeping by night, through the
tunnels in these hills. A few pieces at a time, you see, so no one will notice
their absence in the palace. To stop anyone from questioning, they are to be
temporarily absorbed into my own collection.’

‘A favour in return for the King letting us moor and refit in his
harbour,’ James said. ‘Another favour for the Two Sicilies slanting their
neutrality towards England.’

‘Something like that, yes,’ Sir William admitted. ‘Though it’s
Queen Maria Carolina who is especially concerned about not letting any royal
belongings fall into Napoleon’s hands. Her sister was King Louis’s queen, you
know, and it’s taken all of Lady Hamilton’s charm to win her over to us. A tidy
solution, you must agree?’

But Abigail’s thoughts had already raced on to the next
conclusion. ‘And if the French should invade Naples, then an English ship could
safely carry off the royal treasures with your own.’

‘By Christmas everything must be settled, Miss Layton.’ His smile
now was far from reassuring. ‘That is why I urge your compliance, and your
haste.’

‘You have the right to refuse, Miss Layton,’ James said, his
voice harsh with urgency. ‘This is far beyond your original understanding. You
can request to return to England now, before the danger grows any greater here.
Sir William could find you safe passage.’

‘No!’ Abigail cried, stunned by the prospect of having to leave
him, even if it were for her own good. ‘That is, my lord, I have an obligation
to complete the task my father agreed to. My professional reputation would be
ruined if I did not.’

‘Nor, I fear, would a safe passage be possible to obtain,’ the
ambassador said, without a hint of regret. ‘With Spain having allied herself
with France against England, we’ve only Austria and Russia left to call
friends. I can guarantee nothing.’

‘You should have sent her home before this, Sir William,’ James
said, his frustration bursting into anger. ‘Damnation, you should have placed
her welfare before your wretched collection!’

‘My lord, you forget yourself,’ Sir William said mildly. ‘Better
you should pray that the lady completes her task well enough that your admiral
considers her sufficiently valuable to merit passage on one of his blessed navy
ships.’

‘I accept, Sir William,’ Abigail said quickly. ‘I’ll do as you
ask, as fast as can be managed.’

She looked down at the goblet in her hands, at her face distorted
in the gold and the damp ovals her anxious fingertips had left. She understood
everything now: she’d been caught in the middle of a war that had nothing to do
with her, and even if she did as Sir William wished, she still had no guarantee
that she’d ever see England again. She knew that James cared for her, exactly
as he’d claimed in the moonlight—cared enough that he’d challenge Sir William
in her defence, cared so much that he’d do anything for her.

Beside her, she felt him tense. ‘Miss Layton, you need not—’

‘But I do,’ she said, and tried to smile at him so she would not
weep. ‘For what choice, really, do I have? Now, come. If I’m to finish by
Christmas, I must begin at once.’

‘Well said, Miss Layton, that’s the spirit,’ the ambassador said
and, satisfied, returned to inspecting the open barrel with his servants.

‘Christmas, Abbie,’ said James bitterly. ‘What kind of Christmas
will this possibly be?’

‘For us, the merriest,’ she said softly, and let her hand steal
over his while Sir William’s back was turned. ‘So long as we stay together,
then it will be the best Christmas ever.’

‘There they are, Abbie,’ James said as they stood at the window
and looked down at the English ships making ready in the bay. ‘They’ll sail
with the morning tide, and I won’t be with them.’

‘They’ll sail away, James, but not for long.’ She leaned closer
into his side, her body soft beneath his arm as she shared his warmth. It was
early November now, and even Naples had grown cooler in the evening. ‘They’ve
only to deposit King Ferdinand’s army at Leghorn, and back they’ll come. You’ll
scarce miss them.’

‘Likely not,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s still going to feel deuced
odd to see them clear Naples without me.’

But then, to James, nothing about these last weeks had felt
normal. Finally bowing to the arguments of the Hamiltons and Admiral Nelson,
King Ferdinand had abandoned his cautious neutrality and agreed to retake Rome
from the French. Overnight the city had blossomed into a frenzy of military
patriotism, and tomorrow the English warships were to carry King Ferdinand and
much of the Neapolitan army north, where they would be led by a more
experienced Austrian general before they attacked.

But if the English navy was reduced to little more than a
transport convoy, then James himself was no better. Instead of the fearless
warrior, the first to volunteer for the most daring raids or to hurl himself
into any hand-to-hand combat, he’d been relegated to watching over Abigail
Layton—ostensibly as her assistant, but really as her bodyguard. It was the
longest time he’d been on shore in years, and the longest time he’d spent in
the company of a single woman who wasn’t related to him by blood.

And, to his bewilderment, he’d never felt more honourably
employed.

It was hardly the lark his fellow officers imagined, teasing him
mercilessly the few times he returned to the
Vanguard
. The reality was
far more work, and far less salaciousness. With Christmas as her deadline,
Abigail worked furiously between Sir William’s collection and the boxes that
appeared in the embassy’s cellar each night from the palace. James did whatever
she asked—which was mainly urging the Neapolitan servants to carry the barrels
and crates at less than a snail’s pace.

But he also watched over Abigail herself, never going far from
her side. In addition to the knife he always wore, he now kept pistols tucked
into his belt. War and the army’s departure would only serve to heighten the
instability in the city, which held so many insurgents that more and more
bodies were found in the streets every morning. Allies or not, Englishmen were
foreigners, and no foreigners ventured out alone. If anyone learned what
Abigail was doing—how she was working towards a possible escape for the royal
family—then she, too, would be in peril, from both Neapolitans and French
spies.