She’d cloaked her sadness in the old familiar fashion and become again that lively, undemanding, and flirtatious person who at Chanteloup-les-Vignes had been so entertaining; though she found that skin now fit her much less comfortably and left small holes and gaps that sometimes showed along the seams.
She tried to hide them now, and answered Captain Hay’s kind reassurance that the dark Castel Sant’Angelo was less oppressive on its upper levels with, “I’m glad to hear it. I feared Mr. Thomson might be inside one of these cells.”
Captain Hay said, “He was for a time, which we had not expected, but luckily he wrote Lord Dunbar to tell us and we were then able to have him moved into more comfortable rooms. As you’ll see.”
It was indeed completely different on the upper levels. From a long, protected courtyard that stood open to the sunlight, they climbed up another flight of steps and into a curved loggia with lovely vaulted ceilings painted with frescoes in beautiful colors, where airy breezes blew through open archways framing views across the hills and roofs of Rome.
Thomson’s new “cell” was a spacious room, soaring and square with fine leaded glass windows and elegant curtains and, set at its center, a table at which he’d been writing. He rose as they entered.
She’d been of two minds when the captain had called at her hotel this afternoon, bringing her word Mr. Thomson was asking to see her. She did not know what to believe about Thomson.
Each time he has spoken of coming abroad he has altered the facts in small ways yet without seeming less than sincere, she had written this morning in her private journal. In truth he is more a chimera than I am, and I know not whether to count him a friend or a villain.
This afternoon, he seemed the same man he’d been when she’d met him in Paris, his pleasure at seeing her genuine. “I am so glad you could come. Thank you, Captain, for bringing her. And for the paper you sent.”
Captain Hay, with a nod at the table, remarked, “I can see you have put it to good use.”
“Indeed.” Thomson’s tone was well satisfied as he looked over the neat stacks of letters and papers himself. “I have written a private memorial for His Majesty’s use, as well as the one for his banker…Signor Belloni, is it? Yes, I thought so. For Signor Belloni to send into England, to Parliament. And I am just now writing to my father, to tell him I’m well and expect to be soon set at liberty.” Turning to Mary, he added, “But I did not wish to depart, my dear, without this meeting.” His eyes, though they held not the depth of loneliness they’d held in Lyon, still craved her esteem.
Captain Hay asked, “Have you reached a decision on where you will go when you leave Rome?”
“I expect I’ll return by the same way I came, though I trust that the journey will be somewhat easier. I’m told there is an order from the cardinal to prevent my being seized in any part of France, so I need have no fear of going back. At any rate, I am obliged to go to Paris, for till I have seen my friend Robinson I cannot know the true situation of my affairs.”
The captain nodded understanding, and seemed on the cusp of saying more when they were interrupted by a short respectful knock upon the outer door. Excusing himself, he went to answer it, and after speaking briefly with the guardsman who had knocked, the captain turned back to them, told them, “Forgive me, I won’t be a moment.” And stepped out.
“An interesting man,” Thomson said. “And a brave one. My brother in St. Petersburg has told me stories…but I wander too far from my purpose.” With a slight and charming smile, he turned as well and crossed the room to where his deal-box sat atop a lacquered table in the corner. “I’ve given up most of my papers and things, for the sake of appearances, you understand—so our king may be seen and believed to have done all he could to restore what the people in England believe I have taken. But some things are left to me still.”
Mary, while he was saying this, took a step closer herself to the table at which he’d been writing, her gaze falling to the still unfinished letter he’d told them was meant for his father. He had a clear hand. It was easy to read.
“Where the devil…ah, here they are.”
Mary looked up and stood waiting while Thomson approached with a tiny bag of softest velvet nestled in his hand.
He said, “These are a gift for you, my dear. To thank you for your help.”
Inside the bag were earrings made of gold and set with opals fashioned as small teardrops. Mary looked at them, and not at him. And then because she could not hold her silence any longer she asked, quietly accusing, “Who in London is now bankrupt for the want of these?”
“No one, I can promise you. They are my own to give,” he told her earnestly. “I bought them years ago as an investment, and I wish for you to have them as a token of my gratitude and friendship.”
Friendship. Mary turned her hand a fraction, watching how the opals changed their colors in the light. “This friend of yours,” she said, “this Mr. Robinson you told the captain you must see in Paris—would that be the Mr. Robinson who came away with you from London?”
She did not raise her head to seek the truth in his expression, for she knew she would not find it there, and anyway, his silence was itself an answer.
Still she carried on, “The man who swindled you? The man you warned me in Lyon was someone I should shun were we to meet for he was nothing but a rogue,” she said from memory, “and a liar?” On that final word she did look up, and met his wary gaze with one that did not try to hide her disappointment. Nor her growing anger. “I am sorry, Mr. Thomson, I cannot accept your gift.” She slid the earrings in the velvet bag and gave it back to him. “Nor would I claim the friendship of a man who could write that,” she added, pointing at the letter on the table.