The marchese shrugged. “Very well.”
“Where do you come from?” Celestino asked, puffing slightly to keep up with the swift stride of the two other men.
“Sicily,” the marchese said shortly. “Yet another part of the Bourbons’ kingdom.”
“Then why, my friend,” Gervaise said, “did you come here to Naples?”
“I came for business reasons, and—”
“And?” Celestino prodded.
“To see that harridan of a queen and her lecherous fool of a husband fall to Napoleon. It cannot be long now.”
“Ah,” Gervaise said. “No, I suppose it cannot be much longer. The Treaty of Amiens that keeps Naples safe will fall soon. Then we shall see.”
The three men turned onto a lighted street, wide and surrounded by tall, elegant houses. The stench of the dock was behind them.
“My humble abode,” Gervaise said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate. He withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the narrow oak front door. “My servant is asleep, or at least the fool should be,” he said over his shoulder. He led the two of them through a narrow entrance hall and stepped inside an adjoining room to light a branch of candles.
“Quite cozy,” the marchese said, gazing about. The drawing room was long and narrow, and furnished with cherrywood pieces of delicate beauty. He watched the comte walk to the sideboard and lift a decanter.
“Brandy?”
The marchese nodded and unfastened his cloak.
Gervaise watched him unbuckle his sword and place it with careful precision by his cloak on a tabletop. He eyed his rich clothing and his tall, powerful body. When the marchese turned, he stared into his black-bearded face.
“You look like a bloody pirate,” Celestino said.
The marchese shrugged. “I am from Sicily,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.
“Your brandy, sir,” Gervaise said, handing him a crystal goblet.
“A toast,” Celestino said, raising his glass. “To the rescue of two of Naples’ finest young noblemen.”
The marchese arched a thick black brow, but said nothing. He sipped his brandy and moved to seat himself on a brocade sofa.
Gervaise continued to drink his brandy, studying the young man. “You have odd coloring, monsieur. Your eyes. Never have I seen an Italian with blue eyes.”
For the first time, the marchese smiled, displaying even white teeth. “That is what I told my father,” he said, smiling still.
Celestino gave a shout of laughter. “I’ve heard much about the Sicilians.”
“And you speak French well, monsieur,” Gervaise continued, disregarding Tino’s comment.
“Of course. What man of education does not?”
“See here,” Celestino sputtered.
The marchese’s smile alighted on Tino’s face. “You did not allow me to finish, my friend. A man of
education who wants above all to free the rest of Italy must be able to speak the language of its liberators.” He saw that the Comte de la Valle had stiffened, and added pleasantly, “But I insult you, monsieur. Tonight that is not my intention. Had I realized that you were a royalist, I would still have joined the melee.”
The Comte de la Valle proffered the marchese an elaborate bow. “You are honest, if nothing else,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice.
“Don’t be too certain of that,” the marchese said, tossing a smile, as if it were a careless bone, toward them. “You, monsieur le comte, are blessed with fair looks. I have never seen a Frenchman with hazel eyes and light hair.”
“Touché,” Gervaise said.