“Are you all right?”
Gervaise strained his eyes to see more clearly. He heard a young voice, smooth and educated, speak in Italian. He saw a flash of silver as the sword slipped back into its scabbard.
“Si,” he said easily. “Your timing was exquisite, my friend. Christ, Tino, pull yourself together.”
“He is shaken,” the man said. “The thieves are gone. There is nothing more to fear.”
“Who are you?” Gervaise asked him.
The figure before him bowed elegantly at the waist. “The Marchese Pietro di Galvani,” the cultured voice said.
Celestino, feeling more a man now that his belly was emptied of food and fear, straightened and strode toward them.
“What were you doing down here alone?”
The man shrugged. “I was bored. I thank you both for the excitement. The scum didn’t put up much of a fight,” he added with scorn in his voice.
“Bored,” Tino shrilled. “Dio, man, you could have been killed.”
The man gave a low, amused laugh. “Then I would have again escaped boredom, would I not?”
Gervaise said suddenly, “I wish to repay you, sir. Celestino and I were on our way to my house. Join us for a drink.”
The marchese seemed to hesitate.
“Do,” Tino seconded. “Can’t see your bloody face in all this dark and fog.”
He appeared to shrug. “Very well.”
“I am Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, and this is Celestino Genovesi—Conte Genovesi, I should add. Perhaps it will help him regain his balance and his bravery.”
“You are French,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said easily in that language. “I am new to Naples. You have provided me my first taste of sport.”
“Oui, je suis français,” Gervaise said. “Unlike you, mon ami, I have been here for more days than I care to count.”
The three men began their walk in silence, except for occasional blasts from the foghorns and the clopping of their boots on the cobblestones.
“You are a royalist, enfin,” Pietro said.
“Speak Italian,” Tino complained.
“He asked me if I were a royalist,” Gervaise repeated. “Yes, you could call me that. There are many of us here at the court of Naples, outlawed from our country by the miserable Jacobins and that upstart Napoleon.”
“Then I will say good night,” the Marchese Pietro di Galvani said, and spun about on his heel.
“But why?” Celestino said, grabbing his sleeve.
Pietro said slowly, shaking off Tino’s hand, “I am, as I said, new to Naples. I have no desire to consort with”—he nearly spat the word—“with supporters of the Bourbons or Capets.”
“Ah,” Gervaise said softly. “Wait, my friend. Perhaps you should withhold your judgment, if just for tonight.”
“Yes, do come with us. Gervaise is not what he seems—”
“Shut up, Tino,” the comte said pleasantly. “Monsieur?”
“The night is young,” Pietro said.
“And you wish to escape boredom, n’est-ce pas?”