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‘I am off to see the representative of the King of Naples and this is the correct outfit for a formal call.’ He interpreted the lift of her eyebrows correctly. ‘It is always good diplomacy to make oneself known where possible and not attempt to slink in and out of port. That only raises suspicions.’
Cleo glanced down at her limp skirts, made by bemused Cairo seamstresses in approximation of the newly fashionable high-waisted gowns of France and England, as described by madam. This city with its Bourbon king and flourishing trade would be certain to have fashions that were up to the minute. There was no time to have anything made up, but she might be able to buy fabrics and make sketches and sew something herself.
Quin must have heard her sigh. ‘I am going to be busy all day. I do not have time to escort you, Cleo, so you will just have to make up your mind to amuse yourself on board.’
She would not put it past him to tell the captain not to allow her on shore, Cleo thought, watching Quin talking to the man as he waited for a rowing boat to be brought alongside.
Infuriating, but not impossible, she decided, as she made her way down to her cabin. ‘Maggie!’
‘Yes, miss?’ Maggie emerged from the cabin she shared with madam’s maid. ‘Madam’s lying down, she’s got a headache.’
‘Maggie, are you still friendly with that sailor you were flirting with?’
‘What, the first mate? Yes, you could say we were friendly-like.’
‘Friendly enough for him to have us rowed ashore without, shall we say, advertising the fact to the captain?’
‘His lordship not co-operating? I’ll see what I can do.’
* * *
Half an hour later the rowing boat bumped against the quayside and Cleo scrambled ashore, her hand held out to steady Maggie. ‘Straight up there,’ she pointed. ‘That’s where Lord Quintus went. If the king’s representative lives in that area then that is where the fashionable quarter will be, I have no doubt.’ She unfurled her parasol. ‘And there should be pastry shops where we can have coffee before we start.’
The street curved uphill, filled with a crowd of local people. Cleo dug into her memory for her rusty Italian and tried to understand the accent. There were intriguing little shops and stalls, people seemed cheerful and busy and there was nothing alarming as Quin had suggested. He was just trying to keep me on board, Cleo thought as they came into a long, rectangular open space with towering stone buildings on their right.
‘There,’ Cleo said, nodding towards a small group of elegant ladies entering a shop. ‘Can you smell the coffee? We will start there. I might even buy some cakes for his lordship to show him I bear him no ill will for making such a fuss about nothing.’
* * *
Quin strolled out of the palazzo into the cathedral square and started to write a dispatch in his head while he eased his stiff shoulders. Stifling Bourbon court etiquette, the need to think about what he was hearing through layers of subtlety and misdirection, and the heat of an Italian afternoon, all served to put a dull ache behind his eyes and a stiffness in his neck. The square, surrounded by its golden stone buildings, and paved with the same material, threw back light and heat in a burning dazzle.
He felt restless and dissatisfied, even though the meeting had gone well. Trapped, that was the word. Ridiculous, because he enjoyed the diplomatic cut and thrust, the subtleties and the deception and knew he was good at it. He even enjoyed the formality and ritual when it was done well.
It was probably lack of hard exercise, Quin told himself as he took a side turning into a shadowed alleyway. A swim would be good, but the water in the harbour was not enticing. Perhaps there time to take a rowing boat, go along the coast a little, find a cove with clear water over sand...
The cry was faint. It might have been the call of a child or a seagull and yet there was something about it that jerked him out of his reverie of cool water. It came again, louder this time. ‘Aiuto!’
Help! It was a woman. He would have responded anyway, but there was a familiarity about the voice, even raised, even in Italian, that brought the hairs up on the back of his neck. Cleo. Quin began to run, cursing his stiff formal shoes as they slid on the cobbles and in the rubbish of the gutters. He cannoned off corners, ignoring the pain of bruised shoulder and skinned palm. The voice came again, closer, unmistakably Cleo, informing someone in vehement, confident Italian that their ancestry involved a donkey and a camel and they would regret ever crossing her path as their doubtless pathetically small balls would not survive the experience.
Quin was grinning as he rounded the final corner and found himself in a square so small it was almost a large courtyard. It was deserted except for four men who looked like fishermen and, facing them, Cleo, a knife in her hand. At her feet Maggie was crouched, her teeth bared at the men. Above his head a shutter banged closed. There was going to be no help from the locals.
