Whether it was her action or her words, the two men looked at each other, then gave mutual shrugs of acceptance. The older man took the woman's hand and kissed it lingeringly, murmuring a baritone "Bellis-sima." The handsome youth, anger vanished as if it had never been, bobbed his head to Randolph, then offered a sunny smile.
The woman turned to Randolph. "Act as if you know me," she murmured in native-born English. "Smile graciously, bow to the young lady, and we can leave."
Randolph retrieved his hat and obeyed. Obviously recovered from her fall, the girl gave him a bewitching smile while her father beamed benevolently. Accompanied by a chorus of good wishes, the two Britons crossed the piazza. On the way, the woman collected the canvas bag that held her sketching materials, thrusting her umbrella into loops on the side. Taking Randolph's arm, she steered him into a street leading down the hill.
When they were out of sight of the square, he asked, "Would you care to explain what that was all about?"
The woman smiled and released his arm. "The two gentlemen are the father and betrothed of young Filomena, both of them stonemasons. They were returning home for lunch when they found Filomena in your arms. Being protective and volatile, they feared the worst.
"If it were just the father, he would probably have chastised Filomena for immodest behavior. But since her intended, Luigi, was present, her father could not admit that his daughter was a designing baggage. Hence, any fall from grace must have been your fault." She gave a gurgle of laughter. "It would not have been as serious if you were not so handsome, but I'm afraid that Luigi was expressing his regret for the fact that he will never look like Apollo."
Randolph found himself blushing. "Why should Luigi have regrets? He looks like Michaelangelo's David."
"Very true," the woman said with an unladylike amount of approval.
"But that kind of male beauty is not uncommon here, while you have the charm of novelty." Taking pity on his blushes, she continued, "Incidentally, I am Miss Elizabeth Walker."
"I'm Randolph Lennox, and very much in your debt." He gave her a rueful smile. "I was imagining the London headlines: 'English Tourist Accidentally Murdered in Naples.' "
"That's better than 'English Tourist Assaults Innocent Italian Miss and Is Executed on the Spot.'"
"Definitely. What did you say that convinced them of my harmless-ness?"
A hint of color showed on Miss Walker's cheek. "Since they were unwilling to accept that you were motivated only by a spirit of helpfulness, I finally said that you were my husband, that we were on our honeymoon, and how could they possibly believe that a gentlemen like you would dishonor me by making improper advances to a young girl right in front of my face?" She held up her bare left hand. "Fortunate that Luigi and company were not close observers, or they might have doubted my story. I'm sorry, but strong measures were called for. Rational arguments weren't working."
"No harm done," Randolph said, amused. "You said that the girl was a designing baggage?"
"Oh, she is. I'm a governess, you see, and I'm up to all a young girl's tricks. Filomena watched you from an upstairs window for a while until she struck on a way to further her acquaintance. You should have seen her expression—like a cat watching a bird."
"Surely a girl so young would not behave in so forward a fashion!"
"You would not say that if you knew many young females," Miss Walker said feelingly. "But I doubt that she was interested in serious immorality—merely a bit of flirtation. My most recent charge was a girl much like Filomena, and let me tell you, getting Maria safely to the altar was a challenge to make Hannibal's crossing the Alps look like a stroll in Hyde Park."
Randolph remembered how Filomena had conveniently fainted into his arms, and how rapidly she had recovered when her menfolk appeared on the scene. "I thought that Italian girls were very modest and strictly brought up."
"They are, but human nature being what it is, some are modest while
others are the most amazing flirts." She glanced at him. "Now I am shocking you. I have lived too long in Italy and quite forgotten proper English restraint. I could give you a lengthy dissertation on Italian behavior, but it is a rather warm lecture and, as I said, quite lengthy."
Randolph laughed out loud. It occurred to him that he had not laughed like this since . . . since September. Preferring to think of this refreshing female rather than the past, he said, "I should like to hear your dissertation some time. I know we have not been properly introduced, but if you are willing to overlook that, perhaps you will let me take you to lunch as a sign of appreciation for your most timely rescue? You can explain Italian behavior to me."
A wise woman would not casually accept a stranger's invitation, so she hesitated, studying his face as if looking for traces of dangerous derangement under his respectable appearance.
"I'm a very harmless fellow," he said reassuringly. "Besides, knowledge of local customs might save my life. Look at what almost happened."
"How can I refuse such a request? A luncheon would be very pleasant. Did you have a particular place in mind? If not, there is a trattoria near here that has good food." Her gaze flickered over Randolph's very expensive coat. "That is, if you are willing to eat as Neapolitans do."
It was easy to guess her thoughts. During his first days in Naples, Randolph's guide had insisted on taking him to boring establishments that specialized in English-style cooking. "Do I appear to be such a paltry fellow that I cannot survive on native fare?" He took her canvas bag. "I would be delighted to broaden my culinary horizons."
The trattoria was about ten minutes' walk away, on a market square. Unlike the residential square on top of the hill, this piazza bustled with activity. The trattoria's proprietor greeted Miss Walker with enthusiastic recognition and hand-kissing, then seated them at an outdoor table.
After the proprietor had bustled off, Miss Walker said, "I trust you don't mind alfresco dining? Raffaello wants everyone to see that his establishment is frequented by discriminating foreigners. Also, while the day is rather cool by local standards, he assumes that it will seem warm to Englishfolk."
"A correct assumption," Randolph agreed. "It feels like a fine summer day in Scotland."
Miss Walker chuckled. Then the proprietor returned with two goblets and a carafe of red table wine. After pouring wine for both of them, he rattled off a spate of suggestions. Miss Walker responded in kind, with vivid hand gestures, before turning to her companion. "How adventurous are you feeling, Mr. Lennox?"
Randolph hesitated. He had never been the least adventurous, particularly where his stomach was concerned, but when in Naples ... "I throw myself on your mercy. I will attempt anything that will not try to eat me first."
Eyes twinkling, she gave an order to the proprietor, who bowed and left. "Nothing so fearsome. What I ordered is a simple Neapolitan dish. Peasant food, really, but tasty."
For a few minutes they sipped their wine in silence. As he swallowed a mouthful, Randolph gazed over the piazza, enjoying the shifting throngs of people. Housewives, cassock-clad priests, costermongers, and workmen, all moved to a background of joyously conflicting street musicians. This was what he had come to Naples for: sunshine, exotic sights, enjoyable company.
His gaze drifted to Miss Walker, who was looking pensively across the square. Her appearance was unremarkable but pleasant, with nut-brown hair, a faint gold dusting of freckles, and spectacles that did not manage to conceal fine hazel eyes. She looked like the sort of woman who should be raising children and running a vicarage. She would counsel the villagers, help her husband with his sermons, and all would agree that the vicar was fortunate to have such a capable helpmeet. What had brought her so far from the English countryside? "I gather that you have lived in Italy for some time, Miss Walker."
She glanced at him. Very fine hazel eyes. "Over six years now. At first I lived in this area, but for the last two years I was entirely in Rome, teaching—or rather, standing guard over—the young lady whom I mentioned earl
ier."
"How did you come to Italy in the first place?" he asked. "That is, if J you don't mind my asking."
"After my parents died, there was no reason to stay in England, so I jumped at the chance to become governess to a British diplomatic family that was coming to Italy. When they returned home, I decided to stay on. I am quite valuable here, you see. Aristocratic Italian families like having English governesses, both as a mark of consequence and in the hopes that cold English temperaments will act favorably on hot-blooded daughters."
"Do you never miss England?"
Her gaze slid away from his. "A little," she admitted softly, taking off her spectacles and polishing them, a convenient excuse for looking down. "A sad consequence of travel is that the more one sees of the world, the more impossible it is to be satisfied with any one location. Sometimes— especially in the spring and summer—I long for England. Yet, if I were there, I should pine for Italy. Here at least I command a better salary than at home, and there is more sunshine." Then, almost inaudibly, she added, "And fewer memories."
It was a motive Randolph could understand. To change the subject, he said, "I envy your command of the language. I wish I had studied Italian, for I find it very strange to be unable to communicate. When someone addresses me, I find myself starting to reply in French, because that I do know."
Miss Walker replaced her spectacles and looked up, collected again. "The Italian taught in England would have been of limited value in Naples. Standard Italian is really the Tuscan dialect, for that was used by Dante and many of the other great writers. I knew Tuscan when I came here, but learning to communicate in Naples was almost like learning a new tongue."
"Not just tongue—also arms, torso, and facial expressions."
"Very true. One cannot stand still and speak properly. Italians are so expressive, so emotional." Absently she tucked an unruly brown curl behind her ear. "I suppose that is one reason why Italy fascinates the English."
"Fascinates, yet repels," Randolph said slowly, thinking of the flagellants in the religious procession. "I've seen more visible emotion in Naples than I have in a lifetime in England. Part of me envies such freedom of expression, but I would probably die on the rack before emulating it."
She regarded him gravely. "Is it that you could not, or would not, act in such a way?"
"Could not." Wryly Randolph thought that it was typical of his English reserve to find himself embarrassed at what he was revealing. Fortunately a waiter appeared and set plates in front of each of them. He studied the dish, which was some kind of salad consisting of vegetables, olives, and less definable substances. "This is the local specialty you warned me of?"
"No, this is antipasto, a first course consisting of bits of whatever is I available. Antipasti are served throughout Italy."
The salad was lightly dressed with olive oil, herbs, and vinegar. After finishing, Randolph gave a happy sigh. "This is the best thing I've eaten since I arrived."
"Either you have been most unfortunate, or you are new to Naples." 1 She neatly speared the last bite of her own salad. "The Italians, like the French, take food very seriously indeed. The main course will not appear I for some time, for our hosts do not believe in rushing anything as important as a meal."
"I've only been here for four days," he explained. "I came on impulse looking for some sunshine for Christmas, and felt sadly betrayed to arrive in Italy and find rain." As the plates were cleared away, his eye fell on her portfolio, which was peeping from the canvas bag. "Are your drawings for public view, or do you prefer to keep them for yourself?"
She eyed him doubtfully. "They are not private, but neither are they very interesting."
"If they are of Naples, I'm sure I will enjoy them."
"Very well." She pulled the portfolio out and handed it to him. "But remember, you have been warned."
Randolph smiled and opened the portfolio. The not-quite-finished drawing on top was the one she had been working on when the altercation broke out. Most of the sketch was devoted to a hazy, atmospheric rendering of the bay and the volcano beyond—how did she achieve such an effect with only pencil?—but what made it unusual was the skinny cat in the right foreground. The beast sat on the wall, sinuous tail curling down the weathered stone, its feral gaze fixed on the city below.
Randolph began leafing through the portfolio. It was amazing how I much she could convey with a few deft lines, but far more remarkable was the imaginative way she viewed the world. Over a Roman ruin arched the gnarled, ancient trunk of an olive tree, fishing boats were seen through a I veil of nets, and the massive medieval bulk of Castel Nuovo was framed I by its Renaissance triumphal arch.
Most striking of all, Vesuvius was drawn from the point of view of a bird looking down on drifting smoke and stark craters, one powerful wing angling across the lower part of the picture. "You have great talent. It's extraordinary how the viewpoints you choose enhance and intensify the scenes."
Her cheeks colored becomingly. "Drawing is a common accomplishment, like embroidery or music."
"That does not mean it is always well done." He turned back to the first drawing, admiring how the thin, restless cat symbolized the passionate, demanding life of the city's slums. "But you have more than skill. You have a unique artist's eye."
Miss Walker opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment she said, "I was going to make a modest self-deprecating remark, but what I really want to say is 'Thank you.' That is a fine compliment you have given me, and I shall cherish it."
"Do you do watercolors or oils?" he asked as he closed and returned the portfolio.
"Watercolors sometimes. I would like to try oils, but I have little time." She made a face. "It would be more honest to say that I'm afraid that if I started serious painting, I would lose track of the world, and lose my situation along with it."
A pity she lacked the leisure to develop her gift. With his independent income, Randolph had the time to cultivate talent, but unfortunately he had none. Perhaps he should follow a fine old Italian custom and become her patron so that he could bask in reflected glory. But, alas, with a male patron and a female artist, the modern world would put a different construction on the arrangement, even though Miss Walker was an improbable choice for a mistress.
The waiter returned, this time placing a sizzling platter in the middle of the table. On it was a crispy circle of dough spread with herbs, sliced sausage, dried tomatoes, and hot bubbling cheese. Randolph regarded the dish doubtfully. "You are sure this fulfills my minimum condition of not attempting to eat me first?"
Miss Walker laughed. "I've never heard of anyone being assaulted by a pizza. I think you will be agreeably surprised."
And he was. The pizza was gooey, undignified, and delicious. Between the two of them, they managed to eat almost the entire platter, and he was eyeing the last slice speculatively when someone called, "Lord Randolph, what a pleasant surprise."
He looked up and saw a female detach herself from a group crossing the piazza. It was a woman whom he had met at the ambassador's dinner. As he stood, he ransacked his memory to identify her. Mrs. Bertram, that was her name. A lush blond widow with a roving eye, she lived with her wealthy merchant brother. Both were prominent in the local British community.
Ignoring Miss Walker, Mrs. Bertram cooed, "So lovely to see you again, Lord Randolph. Are you enjoying your visit?"
"Yes, particularly today. Mrs. Bertram, may I make you known td| Miss Walker, or are you already acquainted?"
The widow gave Elizabeth Walker a sharp assessing glance, then dismissed her as possible competition. Randolph saw and understood that glance, and felt a small spurt of anger. So had his wife, Chloe, reacted whenever she met another woman. "Miss Walker and I are old friends," he said pleasantly, "and she has been kind enough to show me some of the sights of the city."
Mrs. Bertram's eyes narrowed in irritation. "I should have been delighted to perform that service. I have lived here long enough to know what—and wh
o—is worthwhile." She looked at the last congealing section of pizza and gave a delicate shudder. "One cannot be too careful. There is a distressing lack of refinement in much of Neapolitan life."
Randolph's expression must have warned her that her cattiness was not being well received, for she went on, "I do hope you will be able to join us for Christmas dinner." There was a smudge on his sleeve from the earlier altercation, and she reached out and brushed at it, her fingers lingering. "One should not be alone at Christmas. You are very far from home. Let us stand as your family."
"You are most kind," he murmured, "but you need not be concerned for my welfare. I have other plans. Pray give my regards to your brother."
It was unquestionably a dismissal, and Mrs. Bertram was unable to ignore it. After a venomous glance at Randolph's companion, she rejoined her group, which was entering a jeweler's shop.
Relieved to be free of her, Randolph sat down again. Miss Walker regarded him thoughtfully. "Lord Randolph?"
He nodded. "My father is Marquess of Kinross." He wondered if she was going to be either awed or intimidated: those were the two most common reactions.
Instead, she planted one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm, her hazel eyes twinkling. "I presume that you did not use your title when you introduced yourself because you weary of being toad-eaten. It must be very tedious."
"It is," he said fervently. "And I have only a meaningless courtesy title. My father and brother must tolerate far worse."
"In fairness to Mrs. Bertram, I imagine that it is not only your title that interests her," Miss Walker said charitably. "By the way, am I an old friend on the basis of my advanced years, or the fact that we have known each other easily two hours?"
He pulled his watch from his pocket. "By my reckoning, it is closer to four."
"Good heavens, is it really so late?" She glanced over at the ornate clock suspended over the jewelry shop. "I must be on my way." She began to collect her belongings. "Lord Randolph, it has been an exceptional pleasure making your acquaintance. I hope you enjoy your stay in Naples."