Vintage Love (117 page)

She looked up at him. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. I need you so.”

“The business with Raphael is forgotten,” he said. “I don’t even want to hear why you were in his arms that day. It doesn’t matter, that was only for a moment, I want you with me all my life,”

“I shall be at your side, Henry, I promise,” she said tenderly.

His arm around her, he led her to the divan and as they sat down, he said, “Now I want you to tell me all that has been happening while I was away.”

“So much!” she said.

“Let me hear,” he urged her.

So she sat with him until it was very late, filling him in on all that had taken place. She ended with the events of the night and her rescue by Father Walker.

Henry was astounded in the proper British way. “What a scoundrel that Raphael has turned out to be!”

“I know. He had won my trust,”

“And miserably betrayed it,” the young lawyer said angrily. “I should like to make him pay for that!”

“Don’t think of revenge,” she said. “His fate will be bad enough as one of Barsini’s slaves.”

“Your Father Walker sounds like a proper English gentleman as well as a priest,” Henry said. “We surely owe much to him.”

“He has been a grand friend.”

“Raphael had better not show his sneaking face here.”

“I doubt that either he or my sister will return,” she said. “The terrible part is that Barsini and all of them, with the exception of Father Walker, think I have the Madonna or know where it is.”

“So you will still be a target for those greedy madmen,” Henry said indignantly. “My thought is to pack in the morning and take the first available train back to Paris.”

“I can’t,” she said.

He stared at her. “You can’t? I’m afraid I do not understand.”

She said, “I’d like to make a final attempt at rescuing Irma before I go.”

“She’s too involved with Barsini.”

“Not any longer,” she said. “He may even punish her for taking my place in that orgy.”

Henry agreed. “She did risk something for that.”

“I will think of some safe way to reach her,” she said.

“Better that she should come here and we talk it out.”

“Perhaps we can get a message to her at the villa without Barsini knowing. She might come in answer to it.”

“I still think it would be wiser to go back to England. Let the lawyers here try to help Irma if it is possible.”

“There is something else,” she said. “I feel I owe the Cardinal and Father Walker something. They have had faith in me and Father Walker’s efforts have saved me several times.”

“So?”

“I would like to recover the stolen Madonna for the Vatican Museum.”

“Who knows where it is now?”

“Pasquale Borgo must know.” she said.

“The messenger?”

“Yes.”

“But he has to be murdered or hiding out somewhere in Paris,” Henry argued.

“I wonder.”

He showed surprise. “Meaning?”

“He could be hidden away somewhere here,” she said. “I understand the Roman police have a warrant for his arrest.”

“If he were here there isn’t a chance of locating him in that case.”

“There might be,” she said. “For a start you could have the Italian lawyers find out everything possible about him. Where he lives and his relatives. We can then check on whether he is around and his habits.”

Henry eyed her with perplexity. “I’m afraid you are too mixed up with all this. Why not go and leave it behind you?”

“How can you be sure that would happen? Remember the agents Barsini sent to London for the Madonna? And what they did to me when they couldn’t locate it.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said angrily.

“So why could it not happen in England again?” she pointed out. “I say the only way I will ever have peace is for the Madonna to be found. And Brizzi himself told me that this Pasquale Borgo is the key.”

“Brizzi is another scoundrel!” Henry exclaimed. “How can you believe anything he has to say?”

“I can believe that,” she said. “He wants me to produce the Madonna so he can get it back.”

Henry sighed. “What it amounts to is that you’re not yet ready to leave Rome!”

“Let’s not argue any longer,” she said sleepily and pressed herself close to him.

“I’ll not argue nor shall I leave you alone for a moment,” was his decision.

She was lazily delighted to have him stand up and take her in his arms and carry her up the great winding marble stairway. The eerie old mansion with its hidden passages was silent; all the others had long ago retired. The flickering tongues of candles set out at intervals further enhanced the atmosphere of mystery.

Henry carried her into her room and gently placed her on the bed. Then he bent and whispered to her, “I said I would not leave you and I won’t.”

It took a moment for her to sift this through her sleepy head and know that he meant to share her bed. Then she looked up at him with a small smile and held her arms outstretched. She saw no reason for denying herself to this man who loved her so much and whom she loved equally well. This moment seemed as good as any.

Soon they were in bed pressed close together, their naked bodies warming and comforting as they kissed. Henry was gentle in his lovemaking and she responded with a rush of ardor she had not realized she possessed. When it was at an end they fell peacefully asleep in each other’s arms.

For Della the coming of morning meant a departure from ecstatic happiness to grim reality. The most painful thing of all was telling the old prince about Irma and Raphael. She delayed doing this until after Henry went to call on the Italian lawyers in an effort to learn something more about Pasquale Borgo.

Before Henry left, they took a stroll in the lovely gardens behind the palace. They pledged their love for each other and talked a little of their future back in England. If either Prince Sanzio or her aunt guessed Henry had spent the night in her room they gave no sign of it.

When he was ready to leave, Henry took her hands in his and kissed them. He said soberly, “I’ll try to find out what I can. But do not count too much on it.”

“I shan’t,” she said. “But I do think we ought to investigate a little.”

He said, “I’ve just had another thought.”

“What?”

“As long as these thieves believe you have the Madonna, the real possessor of it is having a holiday.”

“A holiday?”

“From being sought out by that band of killers,” Henry said. “You are the innocent decoy protecting him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.

Warming up to the subject, the young lawyer went on, “So you are giving this unknown person plenty of time to dispose of the treasure in bits and pieces.”

She said, “If that is so the most logical suspect from my viewpoint has to be Borgo.”

“Perhaps.”

“So the first thing we should do is find out all we can about him,” she said.

“I’ll find out all the Italian lawyers can offer,” he promised her. “Don’t leave the palace while I’m gone.”

“I won’t,” she promised. They kissed and he left.

Della went to Aunt Isobel’s room for a private chat. She told the older woman, “You were right about Prince Raphael. He is mixed up with Barsini and his criminal crowd.”

“I never trusted him!” Aunt Isobel exclaimed.

“I doubt if you will see him again. He and Irma are living at the villa with Barsini now.”

Her aunt said, “And that Irma is a proper vixen. I can’t think of her as a Standish.”

“She is one,” Della said quietly. “I’m positive of that. I have some hopes she can be saved from her own actions.”

“Not if I’m any judge,” Aunt Isobel said grimly. “Now that Henry has returned I say let us get on to England.”

“In a few days,” she said.

“We could all be murdered within a few days,” her aunt complained. “I want to see London again.”

“You will,” Della said. “I promise it.”

Then she went downstairs and found the old Prince in his study poring over a richly bound book spread out on his desk. He glanced up as she entered the room and said, “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

“And I with you,” she said.

He leaned back in his wheelchair and with a wan smile said, “I’ve been studying your Madonna.”

“What do you mean?” she asked in surprise.

He tapped the book. “There’s an engraving of it here in the volume of fine art. You will notice how exquisite the workmanship is.”

She went to stand beside him and gaze down at the open book. The Madonna of St. Cecilia was shown on a white velvet background in the photo and both its gold background and ornamentation of gems were presented to full advantage. She was awed by the beauty of its design and rows of precious stones.

As she studied it she discovered, “It is not as large as I thought.”

“All the more precious for that,” the old Prince said.

“Really?”

“Yes. The design is more delicate and the gems of the crown of higher value.”

“I see,” she said.

He sighed wearily and closed the book. “We ought not to be admiring the piece. It has caused too much trouble.”

She said, “More than you realize. May I sit for a moment?”

He indicated an empty chair by the desk. “Please do!”

Sinking into the chair, she hesitated then said, “I find it hard to talk to you about my sister.”

“Irma?”

“Yes.”

“There would be great happiness in your being brought together again if she had not been kidnapped,” he said sadly. “This is the final day. That is why I was looking at the illustration of the Madonna. You recall the threat noted this as the final day.”

Her green eyes met his watery blue ones and she wondered what lay in their ancient depths. She said, “It is about the threat and the ransom note which I must speak.”

He frowned. “Has something terrible already taken place? Is my daughter dead?”

“No, she is still all right as far as I know,” Della said. “But the threat is a hoax. She is not staying with Barsini because she is a prisoner. She is remaining there because she was in on the robbery plot.”

The old man’s thin, heavy-veined hand was resting on the desk top and now she saw that it was trembling. The Prince gasped, “Are you telling me my daughter has given herself wholly to that Satanist?”

“Yes,” she said.

The old man seemed ready to weep. “How could she so deceive me?”

“She deceived us all.”

“But I have been her only parent for years. I lavished my love and what little I possessed on her!”

Della felt terribly sorry for the old Prince. She said, “Not all of it was lost. I’m sure that Irma now regrets what she has done. But she is so involved with those evil people it is difficult for her to escape.”

Prince Sanzio said, “What of that rogue, Raphael?”

“He is also a traitor. One of them. I learned that last night.”

“And he led my poor daughter into the house of the Devil!” the old man said with some anger.

“Again I found his betrayal of us hard to believe. But that is how it stands.”

Prince Sanzio said, “If there is any hope of saving my poor Irma I pray that you will do something.”

“I’m considering that,” she said. “I will not return to England until I know that she refuses to leave Barsini.”

“In the meanwhile they still think you have the Madonna?”

“Yes. Even Irma and Raphael appear to think that.”

“So you are in grave danger. Nothing has changed to make things better.”

“That is about it,” she said soberly.

A sudden thought seemed to strike the old man. He gave her a troubled glance and said, “Guido! We must not tell Guido!”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not tell him?”

“About Irma and her behavior,” the old man said. “I pray that you let him think she is still a prisoner of Barsini.”

“Why?”

“He worshipped her,” the old Prince said sadly. “She has been his special delight since she came here. I think he might kill himself if he discovered that she is a Satanist and a criminal.”

“Then he need not know.”

“You will not tell him?”

“No,” she said. “And I’ll warn Henry to be careful not to let it drop.”

“At least for a short while.”

“Aunt Isobel as well,” she said. “I’d forgotten about her.”

“We must all vow silence for a little,” the old Prince said in an unhappy voice. “I’m an old man, sorry I have lived to face this moment.”

Touched, she said, “You cannot blame yourself.”

“Who else? If Irma turns her back on decency I have failed,” he said with a deep sigh.

So the strange agreement of silence on the subject of Irma began. She thought that the tiny Guido sensed there was something wrong of which he had not been informed. He went about his duties tensely and many times when she saw him there was a worried scowl on his wizened face.

It took the Italian lawyers several days to assemble the information she wished on Pasquale Borgo. In the meanwhile she and Henry sought some release from the tension by doing some sightseeing together.

They climbed the broad ramp which led to the Piazza del Campidoglio, designed by Michelangelo. Della was enchanted by the fusion of palaces, fountains, steps, trees and shrubs in a single harmonic whole. They halted at the ramp between the great statues of Castor and Pollux. Before them stretched the Piazza del Campidoglio in its full, magnificent beauty, in its center the bronze, equestrian statue of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.

Henry told her, “I did some reading about the ancient days while I was on my mission in Naples. This statue has a curious history.”

“In what way?”

“It survived the fury of the early Christian bigots because they believed it was a study of the first Christian emperor, Constantine. For centuries it stood near the Church of St. John the Lateran. A pope hanged a rebel by his hair from the horse in 955. And in the fourteenth century some powerful but lunatic tribune celebrated his high office by having the bronze horse converted into a fountain that poured wine from one nostril and water from the other.”

She laughed. “You have been doing some serious studying.”

“That is not the full story,” Henry smiled.