The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (9 page)

Intrigued by this late arrival, and now even more wide awake, Alethea was about to close the window when she heard the sound of more hooves and of carriage wheels. Another late arrival? Was it like this every night at the inn? No one but her stirred; how could they be so soundly asleep?

It was another man, this time in a long drab coat, who descended from the chaise. He, too, was accompanied by a servant, and he, too, knocked on the door. His knock was loud and peremptory, the knock of a man who knows he has to arouse a sleeping house and does not care, thought Alethea.

Once again, the door opened. The voices were louder this time, and the language spoken was English. The man in the coat cursed the landlord for keeping him waiting, flung an order over his shoulder to his manservant, and entered the inn.

Alethea could not contain her curiosity. She pulled the shutter back across the window, flung her coat over her nightshirt, and quietly opened the door of her bedchamber.

The rooms in this part of the inn were arranged around three sides of a gallery, and Alethea looked down into the hall. There was the landlord, still in his night-cap, and a sleepy chambermaid in a dress she had clearly dragged on over her night shift.

The tall man, the first one, was talking now, in English, which was clearly his native tongue. He knew the second man, that was clear.

“You're making the devil of a row, Warren. This is an inn, not a bear house.”

Warren ignored this remark. “A large chamber, your best room, if you please,” he said to the landlord.

Alethea judged that the landlord was more than used to such requests; he spoke to the chambermaid in the dialect of the region, unintelligible to her and probably to the two men below. The tall man had the prior claim, but the landlord knew which of the two new guests was a troublemaker, and he was wise, Alethea reckoned, to want to be rid of him as soon as possible, although she'd wager that the tall man got the better room.

She shifted her weight from one bare foot to another, and then took a step back into the shadows as the slight noise she had made caused the tall man to grasp a candle from the table and hold it aloft. Keen eyes met hers for an instant, and she felt herself go hot to be discovered like this. And at the same moment, she fancied she knew the man, his voice seemed familiar. Good heavens, it was the man who had sent Lord Lucius packing in Paris. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it; was half of England bent on crossing the Alps by the same route, and had they all travelled here from Paris?

He was coming up the stairs now. She darted back into her room, pushed the door to, drew the bolt across, and stood, back to the door, breathing hard, as the masculine footsteps came along the gallery, paused for a moment on the other side of the door, and then continued on their way.

Two more for breakfast, then, she thought as she gave a great yawn. Suddenly sleepy, she rolled into bed and drew the covers up around her.

Silence descended once more upon the inn. Alethea slept soundly, her sleep only broken for a moment by the crash and rumble of distant thunder. A storm, she told herself, turning over and paying it little heed. No rain lashed at the window, and no lightning flashes illuminated her chamber; there were no pyrotechnics in the night sky to disturb her slumbers further.

Figgins came into the room in a high state of excitement. “And I didn't wake you earlier, Mr. Hawkins, sir, because—”

In a second, Alethea was wide awake and grasping for her repeater watch, bought from a shady jeweller by Figgins, and checked the time. She sprang out of bed.

“Whatever are you thinking of, Figgins? We were to be well on our way by this time, not lying abed.”

Figgins poured the hot water from the jug in a splashing stream. “That's what I was about to tell you, if you'll give me half a chance. No one's going to be on their way today. There's been what they call an avalanche, which is, so that supercilious man of Mr. Manningtree's who arrived like a heathen in the dead of night tells me, a kind of fall of snow where snow has no right to be. It's barred the road and all the paths, and neither man nor beast can get through until it melts or is shifted. There's ever such a hullabaloo downstairs, they're afeared lest people were caught in this avalanche and buried in the snow.”

“Or swept away down the mountainside,” said Alethea, patting her face dry with the towel. “It is a kind of landslip, when a huge sheet of snow breaks loose and slides down the mountain, carrying all before it. I have heard of such a thing, only why, oh why, did it have to happen here? I dare say another year, we could stroll over the pass, with no snow underfoot at all. Well, we shall have to retrace our steps and travel to another of the passes.”

“They said in Bern that the others are closed from heavy falls of snow. This way was supposed to be our best chance of getting across the mountains.”

“What a fix this leaves us in. Hurry up with those clothes, there, Figgins. I must consult with the landlord.”

There was a little crowd gathered around the landlord when she descended a few minutes later. “What is this all about?” Alethea enquired of Signore Lessini. “I trust no lives have been lost?”

“They do not yet know, but all those who live in these mountains go in the greatest dread of the avalanche, and all too often, such an event has no very happy outcome. However, we must hope for the best, and the fact that no carriages came through from the other side yesterday afternoon or evening gives us hope that they had some suspicion on the Italian side that this might occur. I believe they can judge by the temperature and wind and so forth as to the likelihood of a great shift of snow.”

“How long does he believe the pass will remain closed?”

Signore Lessini shrugged. “It is too big a fall for any attempt to be made to clear the way. The only hope is for a thaw, and there is some expectation of that, he says. Indeed, that may be why the snow has shifted, it seems; the cause may be a rise in temperature.”

“I cannot wait. I shall have to retrace my steps.”

At those words, the tall gentleman who had been deep in conversation with the landlord turned and looked at Alethea. His cool eyes appraised her. “As to that, sir—”

“My name is Hawkins,” Alethea said with a slight bow. “Aloysius Hawkins.”

The eyes were thoughtful, but the man resumed: “I am Titus Manningtree, at your service. Herr Geissler here informs us that we are cut off at both ends, as it were. Ahead there is the snow, and behind there are floods. There has been a sudden rise in temperature; I dare say you may find that out for yourself should you step outdoors. The resultant thaw has filled the mountain streams and sent a positive torrent of water rushing down into the valley.”

Alethea stared at him. “Then we are stranded here in this inn?”

He bowed. “There are worse places to be stranded, believe me. Here we have an excellent inn and food and fires.”

The other midnight arrival had been listening hard. “True enough, Manningtree, though I don't doubt the ladies will be put out. Ladies always complain if things don't go just as they have planned. Landlord, where is the breakfast parlour?”

“That is Mr. Warren,” Titus informed Alethea as she hesitated, wondering whether to go directly into breakfast, for she was hungry, or whether to wait in her chamber until the other English guests had finished.

Titus settled it by holding the door for her. She followed him in, with a word of thanks, and took her place beside Signore Lessini. He addressed himself to Titus with a frown on his face. “Mr. Manningtree?”

“Yes, I am Titus Manningtree.” He waited for the Italian to introduce himself.

George Warren, piling his plate with cold meats, raised his eyes, looked from one man's face to the other, gave a crack of laughter, and took a roll. He sat back in his chair, fork poised to attack the meat. “Allow me to introduce Signore Lessini,” he said. “I believe you are well acquainted with his wife, Emily Thruxton as was.”

To Alethea's surprise, Titus Manningtree went pale and his mouth tightened. “Indeed? I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

“Signora Lessini is with you?” George Warren went on. “I was sure she would be, so recently married as you are. A honeymoon trip, one gathers.”

Titus rose, dashed his napkin down on the table, and stalked out of the room. Alethea stared uncomprehendingly from Warren's mocking face to Lessini's red one. Before she could say a word, Lessini, too, rose and hurried from the room.

“A pretty state of affairs,” said Warren. “And you are, sir? Although I might put a name to you, surely you are a Darcy?”

Alethea was appalled. Her likeness to her father was unmistakable, but she had never dreamed she might find herself in company with anyone acquainted with her family. What a piece of ill luck! Warren was looking at her curiously, a curl on his lip. “My name is Aloysius Hawkins,” she said abruptly. “My uncle is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Warren nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Knew I wasn't mistaken. You'll be his sister's son, I dare say.”

He didn't wait for an answer, but addressed himself to another helping of food. “Excellent ham, this. The reason for our friends' abrupt departures, should you not, by reason of your youth, be au fait with what goes on in London, is that Lessini's new wife was once very—how shall I put it?—close to Titus Manningtree. What a strange chance that brings the three of them together in this inn, especially now that we are likely to be here some little while. Tell me, are there any other English travellers?”

“Two,” Alethea said. She reached out for a roll and began to butter it, willing her fingers not to shake. “A Mrs. Vineham and Lord Lucius Moreby.”

“What,” cried Warren, “Lavinia Vineham staying here? And Lord Lucius, a fool if ever there was one, but a damned fine card player. Ah, then it will not be so very boring, after all.” He gave Alethea a hard look. “You will no doubt have charmed the noble lord, you are just such a morsel as he will fancy. My word, yes, I think we may pass the idle hours very pleasantly after all.”

 

Damn Warren's eyes, Titus said to himself, for provoking him into revealing how he felt about Emily's marriage to that Lessini fellow. The olive-skinned man with the large eyes must be Lessini. How could Emily marry such a mountebank? One look at the man and you could tell he was nothing but a fortune hunter. How could she have been so naive, so foolish, so downright stupid?

And now he was shut up with her in this God-forsaken village, and with her new husband, and with Warren, not to mention that unpleasant pair, Mrs. Vineham and Lord Lucius. There was that supposed boy, too, that woman masquerading as a member of the opposite sex. What was she doing here? He had taken her for a whore, but whores didn't end up at Alpine passes at this time of the year, quite at home in well-bred company. What was her game, for game there must be?

He frowned, puzzling where he had seen her before. Paris, yes, but even then he had felt a fleeting sense of recognition. No, he had met her before, in England. Not recently, he thought. No, it didn't come back to him. It would; he was certain his memory would duly deliver up the information he wanted from it. Meanwhile, he had to face up to the prospect of several days in this vile company. He was hungry, too; he had been quick to walk out before he was tempted to wipe that supercilious smile off Warren's face, and now he was breakfastless and therefore bad-tempered. “Bootle!” he called out. “Cut along to the kitchens and bring me up some breakfast. Quickly, now.”

Bootle was likely to prove a good source of information, as always. He'd have the gossip out of all the other English servants in a trice. Was that girl dressed as a boy travelling alone? He'd never heard of anything so scandalous. She could hardly travel with an abigail, however, and if she had a manservant, then that was even more shocking.

Bootle was swift to enlighten him. Young Mr. Hawkins was accompanied by a manservant, he told Titus as he spread a white cloth on the table next to the window. “A civil-spoken, genteel kind of a servant, although on the small side for a gentleman's gentleman. One as had been in the service of Mr. Hawkins's family for some considerable while, so he understood. Mr. Hawkins was travelling to Italy to visit a member of this family.” He straightened a knife, and whisked the cover off a plate of ham. “All perfectly respectable, although I do not remember having heard of a Mr. Hawkins, or of any Hawkins, being among those of the ton.”

Titus made a dismissive gesture. “He's the sprig of some self-made man, I dare say. An iron master or someone in city. That's where the money is these days, and such men send their sons off to Harrow or some other school for gentlemen's sons, and they come out indistinguishable from their fellow students as to manners and dress.”

“But not as to name, sir.”

“No, not as to name.” And this particular sprig had never set foot in Harrow School, unless to visit a brother there, of that Titus was certain. He'd make it his business to find out what the wench was up to, something smoky, he'd be bound; that at least might provide some entertainment until the snows melted.

It amused him that Warren hadn't noticed that the young gentleman Mr. Hawkins was nothing of the kind. So much for his vaunted keen eye and keener wits. He wondered if Emily—no, he wasn't going to let his thoughts stray to Emily. He'd find himself in her company, sooner or later, that was unavoidable, but he wasn't going to let her intrude on his thoughts meanwhile. That whole affair was behind him, a closed book, a healed wound. “Bootle,” he called out. “Hurry along with that coffee there.”

Refreshed, but hating the prospect of enforced idleness, Titus roamed restlessly about the inn. He wanted to be on the move, not cooped up at this wretched inn, his plans thwarted by the elements. He sent Bootle for his greatcoat, and took himself outside to walk off his ill humour. It was a raw day, with a wind whipping down from the mountains, and angry clouds scudding overhead. The sullen weather matched his savage mood and his sense of oppression.

Oblivious of the majestic scenery on every side, his mind turned yet again to Emily. What a misfortune to meet her here, and in Lessini's company. He reasoned with himself: Whom else should she be with but her new husband? Yet he would be oh so much happier not to have had this encounter. He had told himself that his feelings for her, his affection and his anger at her betrayal of him, were under control. Now he discovered that they were no such thing.

He quickened his pace. He would not think about her.

Warren. Let him think about Warren, damn the man. How much did the man know about the painting he was after? To him it surely meant no more than a fat commission and the favour of the king; he had carried out several such purchases for ardent collectors in the last year or so and had earned himself the reputation of a connoisseur. Titus was sceptical; he knew full well that in the London of 1820, a few fatuous words about light and shade and the placing of a composition were enough to set yourself up as an expert on art.

He climbed up the rock-strewn path, up and up, through the pine trees that still grew at this level. He disturbed a group of goats, extraordinary parti-coloured creatures with magnificent curved horns. The sound of rushing water was everywhere. What in the summer would be a mere trickle over the boulders was now a rushing torrent of mucky, icy water. This was a bad season to make such a journey.

Curse Warren for not waiting a few weeks, when this journey would have presented no such hazards or delays. Such haste spoke of unusual eagerness on Warren's part, perhaps the receipt of news about the painting, for he had chosen to leave London at the height of the season. He might have a doubtful reputation, but he knew everyone and was invited everywhere and relished the social round, even though his flirtations caused most of the mothers to caution their debutante daughters against falling for his dashing Corsair looks.

Poseur, Titus said crossly to himself. Fool, for finding anything to enjoy in the gatherings at Almacks, the balls, the routs, the receptions, the drums.

He had walked off most of his temper by the time he clambered down a precipitous path that came out to the rear of the inn. It was better, after all, if he had to be held up by the weather, that he had ended up in Warren's company. A couple of days sooner, and Warren might well have crossed to Italy with little trouble. Then he would have been days ahead of Titus, might have made contact with the rogue who had his picture before Titus had so much as set foot in Italy, let alone reached Venice.