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Chapter 1

Annual Ball, Bullston House, London, 1827

A broken heart patched back together is more whole than a heart that has never broken.

This Lady Charlotte Caldwell knew to be true, or at the least, believed it to be true until she found herself outside of her first ball back in society. Hiding. In a tree.

One could say she had her fair share of heartbreak already by age 24, but there was nothing fair about it. It had been nearly three years since her fiancé, Maxwell Melbourne, passed away from an infection after falling off his horse.

Drat. How did this happen? Charlotte wiped some pollen off her dress as she attempted to compose herself perched on a tree limb, a good 12 feet above the path to the garden below.

It had taken two additional years after her official mourning period ended to reemerge from her baptism of grief. Tonight, five years after her debut in society, she thought she had been ready. She felt resilient when entering the ballroom. How did it all turn south so quickly?

Within the labyrinth of her thoughts, shame and embarrassment danced like a ceaseless quadrille, their intricate steps repeating in endless loops. With a dance card held gently in her hand, she had approached Lord Phillip Rotterdam, her voice trembling with timidity as she posed her innocent question, “Do you, my lord, harbor a fondness for dancing?” To this, he responded with a cutting indifference, “Indeed, I wonder if Lady Annabelle might find a place for my name upon her card. I anticipate that hers will fill quickly.”

Charlotte’s cheeks had reddened with embarrassment at her boldness for asking and at his flippant rejection.

“On second thought,” she mumbled trying to turn her tone cheery. “I’m quite thirsty. Think I’ll fetch a lemonade.”

As Charlotte turned on her heels to leave, she heard Rotterdam ask expectantly, “Lady Charlotte?”

“Yes?” she responded, her humiliation now tinged with a trace of hope, as his attention shifted back to her. Perhaps, she dared to think, he truly wished to dance with her.

However, his next words extinguished that hope with casual indifference. “I am certain that both Lady Annabelle and I will require a refreshment after our dance. Would you be so kind as to fetch glasses for us as well?” Rotterdam’s gaze barely grazed her form as he made this request.

“Gladly! Anytime, my lord,” she found herself uttering in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else entirely. As she repeated those words in her mind, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes, her self-derision growing as she bypassed the refreshment table, gracefully passed through the expansive French doors, and found herself on the terrace outside, far from the demands of the ballroom.

“Rotterdam. Damn rotter,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, her frustration and disappointment palpable.

The crisp night air caressed her, providing a more invigorating sensation than the purest spring water. She indulged in deep breaths, her eyes drifting upward to the vast canvas of the starry sky, each twinkling celestial body offering a glimmer of solace.

Yet, her gaze eventually descended to a tall cedar tree, its presence a curiosity in the English landscape. What foreign species could this be? She examined the distinctive needles, her curiosity piqued. And then, without much forethought, she found herself ascending its branches, her movements graceful and effortless, until she discovered a snug, comfortable nook to sequester herself from the vexations of the evening.

Only once comfortably seated did it occur to her that respectable women didn’t go into gardens unchaperoned at night, and furthermore, they most certainly did not climb trees.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips as she acknowledged her lack of conformity to societal norms. It seems I shall require quite some time to adapt to the intricacies of this society. She mused, her thoughts drifting amidst the branches and the myriad stars above, pondering the complexities of the world she was meant to navigate.

❧

Just then, she heard someone calling for her, “Lottie? Are you out here? Lottieeeeee.”

“Over here,” Charlotte replied instantly recognizing her best friend’s, Scarlett Hill’s, voice.

“Where?” Scarlett asked sounding a bit annoyed at the disembodied voice of her friend.

“Up here,” Charlotte called.

Two warm hazel eyes looked upward and met Charlotte’s in surprise. “Heavens, how did you get up there?”

“I climbed,” Charlotte answered plainly.

“Obviously. Didn’t imagine you sprouted wings since I last saw you.” Scarlett placed her glass of lemonade on the ground and did a quick hop to reach the lowest branch. She was slightly shorter than Charlotte, but clearly just as adept at climbing trees.

Once situated on the branch next to her friend, Scarlett looked as comfortable as if she were seated on a bench in Hyde Park on a balmy spring day. Turning to Charlotte, she commented, “I saw you duck out of the ballroom. Almost missed you. Oliver didn’t think you would be here tonight, but I reassured him you would.”

“Since when does your brother care if I attend a ball?” Charlotte quipped.

“Not that long. Ever since we started wagering on your attendance.” Scarlett answered with a sheepish grin, that both asked for forgiveness and made it impossible for anyone to hold a grudge against her.

“I hope Oliver didn’t lose much,” Charlotte retorted.

“Just an ice from Gunters… and a little pride, which he already possesses in excess,” Scarlett joked.

Lettie and Lottie, as they called themselves, had been destined to become friends since before infancy. Their mothers grew up on neighboring estates in Hertfordshire and continued to be best friends even after they moved to opposite ends of England, married and started families of their own. Despite the distance, Charlotte (Lottie) and Scarlett (Lettie) became best friends as well, enjoying the season together in London and staying in near constant contact through letters the rest of the year.

“You did receive my letter saying I would be here though, didn’t you?” Charlotte asked.

“Of course, but Oliver doesn’t need to know that. If he looked at the wax seal on your letter, he would have known as much anyway.” Charlotte and Scarlett used special wax seals on their letters that hinted at the contents. Charlotte’s most recent letter included a wax seal of a bull, a nod to the upcoming ball at Bullston House.

“I guess you should be grateful he avoids looking at your letters all together,” Charlotte sighed.

“I suppose, but it doesn’t keep him from prying into my other business. Brothers can be so meddlesome,” Scarlett added. “We probably should return before he notices I’m missing,”

❧

Near the grand staircase on the other side of the ballroom, Charlotte and Scarlett joined the rest of their friend group, “The L’s” or “Elles,” as they called themselves. There were Charlotte “Lottie” and Scarlett “Lettie” as well as Lady Elizabeth Clark “Lizzy,” Lady Eleanor Andrews “Lennie,” and Lady Phoebe Hayes “Libby.”

Brought together initially by chance as wallflowers in earlier seasons, now the L’s attended balls mostly to see each other.

“Lottie, did I see you talking with Lord Rotterdam?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes, just briefly though.” Charlotte answered. “I hoped he might want to dance.”

“Heavens, Lottie! Why?” Elizabeth chimed in.

Normally, the L’s abstained from dancing all together, much to the chagrin of their marriage-minded mamas. Dances, even with eligible bachelors, became a nuisance that interrupted the flow of conversation, and worse, it required a skill none of them possessed nor cared to cultivate, dancing.

Charlotte waved her hand at the group as if shooing away a bad idea in the air and said, “It wasn’t so much for dancing as the possibility of conversation. I had heard he’s a brilliant natural philosopher, and wanted to hear about his research in Lebanon.”

“Rotterdam’s been to Lebanon?” Scarlett asked in a doubtful tone.

“Yes,” Charlotte answered, “The Taft Entomological Society just published the most insightful paper of his.”

“No, no, no, that’s his uncle, the Earl.” Phoebe corrected. “The young Rotterdam has amounted to no more than being kicked out of Eton. The Earl, James Rotterdam, is the one who recently published his findings in the Taft Entomological Society. The Earl is whom you’re thinking of.”

Charlotte didn’t like to gossip, but after being snubbed by the younger Rotterdam, she hardly thought it improper to discuss his shortcomings with her closest friends. “Kicked out of Eton?” She inquired, her countenance a curious blend of astonishment and thinly veiled disdain.

“Yes, Rumor has it,” Phoebe added in a low tone forcing everyone to lean in closely. “It had to do with indiscretions…” Then cupping her hands around her mouth, she added in the slightest whisper spacing out her words, “Indiscretions. with. a. goat.”

“A goat?!” Elizabeth barked. The whole group attempted to stifle their laughter behind their glasses of lemonade.

“What type of indiscretions?” Scarlett asked smirkingly, “Do you reckon he was charged with a kid-napping?”

“Or maybe he plagiarized and needed a scapegoat.” Charlotte chimed in.

“Since when do they let goats attend Eton anyway?” Eleanor asked jovially.

“Guess they may finally reconsider letting women attend! I only wish the fairer and wiser sex had been considered before barnyard animals,” Phoebe added. All the L’s looked at each other, and then burst into laughter. Despite the earlier snubbing, Charlotte felt better simply by the light-hearted company of her friends.

As the night wore on though, she sensed an uncomfortable feeling of inadequacy seeping through her veins. Next to her beautiful and radiant friends, she felt dull. She had dawned one of her oldest and plainest muslin gowns, which used to fit so comfortably, but now stretched tightly around her chest. The taut fabric looked oddly rigid on her soft, feminine form. Her mother had said the garment looked fine, which wasn’t intended as a slight, but lacked the adoration a daughter seeks from her mother. With each passing hour, the dress, once innocuous, metamorphosed into a constricting shroud, imbued with discomfort, stickiness, and a tormenting itch that gnawed at her very core.

❧

Eventually Lord Oliver Hill, Lettie’s brother, joined the field of wallflowers, and asked Charlotte to dance. She’d known Lettie had put him up to it but still she didn’t mind. Oliver was like a brother, except dancing with him came without the particular humiliation of being asked to dance by one’s actual brother.

“I’m surprised you had the courage to approach the pack of L’s,” Charlotte remarked to Oliver as he took her hand in his.

“I am too,” Oliver chuckled. “I suppose I just wanted to do some research.”

“Research?” Charlotte asked tentatively, not sure she wanted to know what kind of research he was referring to.

“Yes, the L’s” he drawled, “I’ve never quite understood them. Lottie and Lollie make sense enough since you both have L’s in your name. But what about Phoebe? How on earth did she acquire the nickname Libby?”

“Well, she was the last to join the group,” Charlotte admitted, “And we hardly could be the L’s and Phoebe.” They did a quick spin to avoid another couple. “Besides, once we had our moniker, what name could we have used instead?”

“Phoebe. Phoebe. Phoebe. Hmmm,” Oliver rolled the name over in his mouth. “Phoebe. Phoebs. Thebes. Thieves. Thieves! That would have worked.”

“You’d call Phoebe a thief?” Charlotte asked with her brows knit together quizzically, offended on her friend’s behalf.

“No, the whole lot of you, instead of the L’s. Simple pack of thieves would do.” Oliver Mused.

“Why, because we steal mens’ hearts?”

“No, because you’re are as thick as thieves,” Oliver said and then added, “and twice as dangerous to boot.”

“Oh Oliver, how wicked,” Charlotte beamed at him, her smile belying the sentiment of her words.

“On second thought,” he mused. “It might not be fair to thieves to have you tarnish their reputation. You’re far more dangerous than any band of ruffians I’ve encountered.”

“That carries considerable weight, I must say, especially when considering your close association with Hades himself,” Charlotte retorted with a teasing glint in her eye. Theodore Astley, the 9th Duke of Haid and Oliver’s best friend from their days at Eton, had earned the notorious moniker “Duke of Hades” due to his infamous reputation and conspicuous absence of society. It was as if the man resided in the very depths of the underworld, for he seldom graced societal gatherings. In truth, Charlotte had never set eyes upon the enigmatic Duke of Haid throughout her five years in society, a curious absence that only heightened his mystique.

“Teddy, I mean, Haid,” Oliver corrected himself, momentarily slipping into the familiar nickname, “is probably the least perilous of my acquaintances.”

“Either your circle harbors truly menacing characters, making him appear mild in comparison,” Charlotte conjectured, “or perhaps his notoriety is more a product of rumor than reality?”

“The latter, though I wouldn’t entrust you or Scarlett to his care,” Oliver admitted.

“It’s quite amusing to think that an elusive figure could wield such influence,” Charlotte mused.

“He’s not your ordinary man, Charlotte; he’s a Duke. Besides, I believe he’ll eventually embrace his ducal obligations and reemerge in society,” Oliver added with a wry smile. “After all, even Hades ventured forth from the underworld in pursuit of his Persephone.” Just then, Oliver noticed a speck of pollen on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Charlotte, what’s happened to your gown?”

Charlotte brushed off the golden dust nonchalantly, replying, “Oh, that? Just a bit of tree pollen.”

“I can see that, but how on earth did it get on your dress?” Oliver asked.

“It’s a long story,” Charlotte sighed not wanting to divulge more.

“This long story wouldn’t happen to include you climbing trees to hide from suitors again would it?” Oliver asked already knowing the answer.

Drat. Leave it to Oliver to figure it out. Better him than her family on the carriage ride home tonight. Charlotte thought then said out loud, “Yes, but Oliver, this time was different.”

“I’ve seen the way you show your interest to potential suitors.” Oliver pontificated looking down as her as if he were a priest staring down from a dais during a sermon. “At best, your affection comes across as indifference, and at worse, as an unspoken distain just through the way you look at a man. At some point, you’re going to need to be bold, Charlotte. Take your life into your own hands. You’ll need to let a man know how you actually feel about him.”

“I do.” She objected, “I mean I do, and I did. I really did tonight, Oliver. I asked Rotterdam to dance.”

“Rotterdam? Why on earth would you want to dance with Rotterdam?”

“I confused him for the Earl.” Charlotte said softly.

“The Earl?” Oliver asked in disbelief. “He’s rather stricken in years, don’t you think, Charlotte? And… ” he drawled out in a playful but slightly condescending tone often characteristic of older brothers, “Last I checked, he only has eyes for his wife.”

Charlotte followed Oliver’s gaze to an old couple on the other side of the ballroom. The woman sat comfortably on a settee while the man, presumably her doting husband who only had eyes for her, handed her a new glass of Madeira.

“I had no knowledge of either Rotterdam,” Charlotte remarked, her annoyance beginning to simmer, whether directed at her own past humiliation or at Oliver’s critique of her courting skills, she couldn’t discern. “I had only read about the Earl in the papers and mistakenly identified him as the younger Lord Rotterdam. But, in any case, he had no inclination to dance with me.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Oliver reassured her, attempting to assuage the visible lines of irritation in her face. “I have memories of him from Eton that I wouldn’t ever divulge, and especially not to young innocents.”

❧

As the dance drew to a close, Charlotte realized it was nearly time to meet her family at their carriage, but when she looked down, she noticed she had misplaced her reticule. “Ugh.” She moaned to herself. I reckon it’s outside near the tree. It can’t hurt to quickly pop out there.

Sure enough, placed carefully on the ground next to the tall cedar, she saw the small yellow beaded reticule, that she had unknowingly set down when inspecting the leaves. She pressed the small bag to her chest, almost as a quick thank you hug for it not straying any further. Just then, she heard a group of men laughing boisterously on the garden path below, making their way back up to the terrace. Without thinking, she ducked behind the tree trunk and knelt down. Not knowing the men, it was safer to remain hidden until they passed.

As the men drew closer, their voices became as crisp as the cool night air.

“That Lady Annabelle is a tempting armful, ey, Rotterdam? I’m surprised you didn’t dance with her tonight,” the first man teased jovially.

“I would have,” Rotterdam sighed in frustration. Charlotte couldn’t see his face but she imagined his features plagued with disgust as he added, “That Caldwell chit, Lady Charlotte, distracted me too long.”

“Hard to imagine such a plain, missish thing distracting you,” a third man chimed in. “What did she do? Dangle her dowry in front of you?”

“I was much more distracted by the hideous frock she dawned,” Rotterdam laughed. “It’s almost as though she dressed for a costume ball as a chaste peasant.”

The men’s laughter bellowed through Charlotte’s ears as her stomach turned. That’s it. Charlotte stood up and stepped in front of the men, who were now almost in front of the tree.

“My lord.” Charlotte curtsied, keeping her eyes on Rotterdam who stopped walking and nearly fell back in surprise at the sight of her. “Hope you all have a nice evening.” The steadiness of her voice surprised even herself. She stood as proud and regal as a queen and then turned so smoothly, it was as though some unknown force carried her, possibly the force of her will to not be humiliated or at the very least to not show her humiliation. She had struck them dumb.

Charlotte hurried off the terrace without looking back first through the ballroom and then into the long hallway of mirrors towards the entrance hall. Her indignation disintegrated into sadness. She’d known she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in England, but had always felt her plainness somewhat of an asset since it required people be more drawn to her other qualities. Still, it hurt.

The prospect of not marrying had always seemed as though it were her choice. Returning back into society after her long absence, she thought she’d had her pick of men, but just wasn’t ready to set her cap on one. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that when she wished to be courted she might not find a willing partner.

❧

Charlotte spotted her family’s state carriage out front with its characteristic blue verdites paint, an exceedingly bright blue, which made it stand out from the crowd of other carriages like a glittering sapphire in a lump of coal. A carriage maker on Park Lane had just newly painted and upholstered it, using his finest cornelian blue leather in the interior, giving the whole carriage the mystique of a blue butterfly unfurling its wings.

Bentley, the driver, whose livery included a cornelian blue westcott, matching britches and a fine coal-black tailcoat lined in cornelian blue, noticed Lady Charlotte approaching and climbed down from the driver’s box. “G’d Evenin’, ma Lady,” he said humbly as he tipped his large black tricorne hat to her and carefully opened the door to the carriage. “Thanks, Bentley,” Charlotte answered softly with a gentle smile as she climbed inside.

There, Charlotte met the full smiles of her father and mother, the Earl and Countess of Cranbrook.

“So how was it?” her father asked expectantly, “Have a good time back among Le Bon Ton?” The way he exaggerated the French pronunciation of “Le Bon Ton” made Charlotte realize he was in a particularly jocular mood, most likely from the sweet Madeira wine served at the ball.

“It was fine, I suppose,” Charlotte answered sounding a bit forlorn as she let the last part of her sentence trail off.

“Just fine?” Her father questioned.

It wasn’t clear to Charlotte if her father had exerted such control of his emotions for so long that he could instantly will himself happy, or if by the same control he had numbed his senses over time so that he mistook any feeling, even a quiet discomfort, for happiness. Either way, he extended whatever model he lived by to his family, and expected them to always be as happy as he, much to their annoyance and often to their inward suffering; since they didn’t want to disappoint him by revealing how they actually felt.

In this moment, Charlotte felt the disapproval of her lackluster mood. She usually took pride in her parents’ idiosyncrasies, though, since their unconventional approach to life afforded her far greater freedom than was customary for a young woman of Charlotte’s ilk. At Tillybrook, the family estate in Kent, Charlotte grew up quite similarly to her brother, Gabriel, hunting, fishing and riding astride. She even learned how to swim in the family’s 18th century pool like her brother.

Perhaps the most important gift they gave her, though, was an education — She’d had one of the best governesses in England, and her mother had built a prodigious library filled with any book Charlotte could ever want. At Tillybrook, Charlotte cultivated a rich inner and outer life, which she believed enough for a lifetime of happiness.

The only fault Charlotte found in her family’s approach to her education was that with nothing lacking, the feeling of lack rested solely on her shoulders. She wasn’t able to blame anyone or anything outside of herself when she felt a deficiency, a longing, a loneliness. The world seemed available to her, but yet she couldn’t quite grasp it.

The door nearly burst open as Gabriel jumped inside and Charlotte’s thoughts returned to the present moment. Her brother had shoed Bentley away and opened the door himself, with far less grace and far more noise. Bentley caught the swinging door and then carefully closed it behind Gabriel.

“Why! How do you do?” Gabriel said as if he hadn’t expected to see his family in their own carriage and had just stumbled upon them.

The carriage rocked slightly and then began to lumber through the cobblestones streets of London towards Harrough House, the family’s London estate.

“Charlotte?” Her mom asked in tone that implied she had something serious to discuss but didn’t want it to sound serious.

“Yes?” Charlotte answered feeling her spine slightly straighten.

“I can’t help but notice you’re not your bright happy self. Is something amiss?” her mom asked.

“Not happy?” Her father interjected as loudly as if he were still speaking over the stentorian chatter of the ballroom, and not inside the family’s cozy carriage, “Of course you should be happy. Life is too short to be unhappy.” Her dad smiled with pleasure as his sage advice.

Charlotte’s mother’s brows nit as she glanced at the Earl, willing him to be silent. He grinned apologetically then shrugged. Her eyes we’re back on Charlotte.

“What your father means,” Charlotte’s mom continued letting out a little harrumph signaling her annoyance towards her husband at the initial interruption, “We, both of us, your father and I, we, we want you to be happy, and well…” She paused trying to find the right words to express herself. “We’re somewhat at a loss. We didn’t expect you to necessarily come to London just to find a husband, but we’d hope you’d get your life back. After all, it’s been three years since —“

“It’s not that,” Charlotte interjected. “I mean, it’s not primarily that. Of course I miss Max, but I just don’t want to surrender the remainder of my life to some unknown chance. With Max, I felt like my life was beginning, but finding a husband now,” Charlotte took a deep breath, “Now, it all now feels like an ending, and not necessarily an interesting one.”

The tightness in Charlotte’s chest began to slightly soften as she leaned into what she felt and tried to give voice to it. “Of course—“ she continued, “Marriage is the only logical next step for someone like me, but I don’t want my life to be all about logic. I don’t want it all to be so predictable. I’m neither ready nor sure if I ever would be to just be an ornament to my husband’s drawing room.”

To the surprise of all present, her brother Gabriel interjected with a hint of bewilderment, “I must confess, I cannot fathom how women endure it—endless hours of embroidering handkerchiefs and ceaseless practice upon the piano forte. I dare say, I would scarce retain my sanity after a mere week of such pursuits.”

The countess nodded at her son but then turned back to Charlotte knowing there was more to be said and more to be heard. “You know, Charlotte,” she said. “I always thought I’d be a spinster until I met your father. Maybe you just need to wait to meet the right man.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want it to wait for a man for my life to feel complete. You don’t expect Gabriel just to find a wife to have his place in the world. He is able to go to university and travel to his heart’s content.” Charlotte lamented.

Her father, who hadn’t seemed to be paying much notice to their conversation, blurted out, “If you want to travel, then travel, Charlotte.”

Charlotte turned her gaze to him. “It’s not the simple. I don’t just want to travel to Cornwall or the Lake District, I want real experiences of adventure. Gabriel did a Grand Tour. Only he and God know what he did while there.”

“If it’s a Grand Tour you want, Charlotte,” her father responded. “Go on a Grand Tour. Better than you moping about England anyway.”

The way her father enunciated “moping” would have normally bothered Charlotte, but the idea of Grand Tour and the surprise of her parents supporting a Grand Tour delighted her. Charlotte’s gaze shifted to her mother, asking for her approval as well.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” her mother pondered as her fingers fiddled with a dark purple silk tassel on her reticle, “but a trip to the Continent might not actually be that difficult to arrange. Fox keeps talking about how unhappy she is in England. Maybe she’d want to chaperone you.”

Mrs. Foxcroft, the widow of Baron Childers second son, Colin Foxcroft, on the neighboring estate, continually talked about her travels to Italy as a young newly wed with her husband.

“Oh, do you think she would?” Charlotte asked.

“I reckon so.” Her father answered. “It’s a miracle she’s stayed in England for so long given how much she abhors everything English: the food, the culture, the climate. She’s hated England so long, it’s a wonder that she doesn’t detest herself, an English woman.” The Earl rubbed his chin in contemplation. “If you were to go, Charlotte, it wouldn’t be exactly as a young buck experiences the Grand Tour. I suppose you still would see most of the same things, though: art, antiquities, architecture and the like.”

And with that, Charlotte’s spirits greatly lifted. The plans for a trip to Italy would soon be set in motion.

Chapter 2

“A man who has not been in Italy, is always conscious of an inferiority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man should see.” - Samuel Johnson, 1776

Though it was de rigueur for all aristocratic men to make a Grand Tour to Italy, the recommended sites and experiences varied as greatly as the number of roads leading to Rome. Art, architecture and antiquities drew almost as many to the continent as the other seldom-addressed, though often-indulged, pleasures of drinking, gambling and sex. Well-bred English men of the ton were expected to sample some vices on their travels with the tacit agreement that their sojourn of profligacy be confined to another’s borders and end promptly upon their return to British shores.

Many men returning from the continent proudly unpacked their trunks filled with tapestries, lyres and marbles, while handling other “acquisitions” such as venereal disease, or worse, a tenderness for Catholicism in private. Not long after their arrival in England though, a bronze of Sisyphus or a burn from syphilis was neatly filed away in the fading family lore of men coming home to fulfill their responsibilities as proper, English gentlemen.

It thus shocked the ton, when the young Lord Clarence Astley, the 2nd son of the 7th Duke of Haid, returned with something so wholly unprecedented and perhaps even worse than the aforementioned unmentionables. The young Lord, a veteran of the revolutionary army, toured Europe after returning from his campaign in the Americas. On his grand tour of Italy, the man acquired something he could neither cure nor return. No, instead of experiencing art, architecture, drinking or gambling, the fool had the audacity to fall in love.

Worse yet, his young Italian bride, Francesca, displayed such a warm and open disposition that the cold and distant English aristocracy didn’t know how to receive her. Her beauty, which would have been favored in an English woman, made her, as a foreigner, seem all the more exotic, sensual and dangerous. After snickers, sneers and side-long glances during her first debut, Francesca realized that she couldn’t have shocked them more had she floated in naked on a clamshell like Raphael’s Birth of Venus.

God’s mercy came in the form of her brother in law, the 8th Duke of Haid, whose power and respectability hushed the ton’s disapproval to a near silent murmur, at least in public spaces. Society graciously extended its veneer of tolerance to her much as they did the other vices acquired on the Grand Tour.

The young newlyweds would have much preferred returning to Rome or Francesca’s native Venice if it hadn’t been for the most inconvenient occupation of their beloved Italy by an arrogant French man’s army. At first they believed Napoleon’s siege short lived, but then, it dragged on and on, consolidating power in the entire peninsula of Italy, while looting some of its best treasures for France. Lord Astley re-enlisted to the fight against Napoleon, and at the end of the war in 1815, received the Order of Bath for his bravery at Waterloo.

When the French finally retreated, and normal life seemed possible again, the young couple was neither young nor just a couple anymore. Despite the war, they had flourished into a robust family with eight uniquely brilliant children, all of whom made it to adulthood, seven daughters and one son.

The youngest, their son, Theodore Salvatore Astley, took after his father in all ways but one. Instead of taking a commission in the military, he became a captain of industry, using his mother’s familial connections in Venice to grow a booming import business, bringing fine goods from the East to England.

Since the 8th Duke remained unwed, the youngest Astley became the eventual heir to the dukedom. While he kept his import business somewhat of a secret from the ton, he couldn’t conceal his ducal fate, which shone like a diamond target on his back whenever he entered a Mayfair Ballroom. The whispers of intrigue and approval reminded him how differently they had whispered about his mother. Where she had been an object of derision, he had become a conquest, so desirable that numerous women had plotted to entrap him.

The young lord felt grateful that he had learned of each elaborate scheme in time, keeping him happily unaffianced while never sullying the reputations of the young entrapresses. After all, he concluded, the schemes usually began with their mothers. He wouldn’t want to reward the young women for their filial piety in participating in the odious plots, but couldn’t fault them either.

Fate remained the ever capricious mistress. Like a ship struck by lightening at sea, the youngest Lord Astley’s life changed irrevocably in an instant. In fact, it started with a shipwreck, the SS Ouranos, which floundered off the coast of Sicily carrying his father, who was lost to the sea. Two days after the horrible news had been delivered, another missive arrived at Ravencourt, the family’s country house — The 8th Duke of Haid had passed away in his sleep, thus propelling the youngest male Astley to become the oldest. He inherited the dukedom, numerous estates in West Sussex, and responsibly he neither wanted nor felt prepared to handle.

The panic set in almost immediately. If there had been a foundling hospital for unwanted dukedoms, Haid would have gladly dropped off his newborn title and absconded on the next ship for Calais. He had always risen to new challenges though, and after a week deep in cups of claret while pondering his fate in front of the fire, embers of a new resolve began to burn deep in his core. He had never thought of himself as a brave man like his father, but he witnessed an inner resilience developing inside himself, much like what he imagined his father had felt when preparing for battle.

He began reorganizing his life and taking his expert delegation skills from his business into his new estate. He hired an honest and diligent manager to oversee his properties in his absence, and devised an straightforward schedule, spending half of the year in Venice overseeing his import business and half of the year in England.

Haid fulfilled all his ducal responsibilities: made sure his tenants were well taken care of and that their children were safe, well nourished, and had access to free education, even paying a stipend to the poorest families so their children could attend school rather than work alongside their parents. He stayed in London for most of the season tending to his duties as a Member of Parliament. Although he was well known in society by title, he remained aloof from the social scene – rarely attending balls and only occasionally mixing with his closest friends at White’s. He kept himself busy with his political work, running his estates and overseeing his import business.

Though had fulfilled this ducal responsibilities with diligence and dedication, there was one duty he continually put off - continuing the dukedom by taking a wife and having children to carry on the family line.

It wasn’t that Haid didn’t want children or to start his own family someday, it was simply that he wanted more than what seemed to be expected from him as a Duke. His parents had an incredibly loving marriage; each day they shared passionate embraces and loving words with one another, always showing how deeply in love they still were after so many years together. It made Haid wonder if such true love could actually exist for him, someone of noble status. Would anyone ever truly love him for him, rather than just his title?

As his 30 birthday approached, Haid decided he’d finally enter society and find a bride. Being a Duke, and an exceedingly rich one at that, meant that all match-making mamas would single him out for their daughters. He knew the ton had nicknamed him the Duke of Hades, for his long absence from society and the dark, brooding aspect he affected when forced to attend social functions, but he also knew, they would gladly overlook his bad reputation for sake of his rank and wealth. Their duplicity infuriated him, while the thought of being hunted like a rare bird sent a shiver up this spine.

With the dread of returning to London and all it would entail, Haid decided to gift himself a few months in Italy without work or any other obligations. He set a manager in place for his business so that he’d be ready to return to England, and Percy, his estate manager in West Sussex, already handled his responsibilities better than imagined.

Since he had lived in both Venice and Rome, Haid had never seen the cities through the eyes of a tourist. Sure, he knew the historic sites, but he had never been in Italy for the sole purpose of travel and leisure. Haid didn’t really understand what leisure meant beyond the dictionary definition. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to spend days without any plans. How would he occupy himself? What would he do with his mind? Given the inevitable return to England, a potential betrothal to some unknown lady of the ton, and even more responsibility in his future, Haid vowed to become a disciple of rest and relaxation for a few months. He might not know how to live leisurely, but he could damn well try.

Instead of staying at his sister’s, Serafina’s estate, Haid decided to be a real traveler, and stay in a hotel, the swankiest hotel in Rome, the Hotel de Londres, at Piazza di Spagna 15 in the English quarter.

A day into his trip, Haid sat quietly on the hotel terrace, sipping coffee and pushing a stray olive from his breakfast around the rim of his plate with his knife. The realization dawned; he could get used to this thing called leisure. He only hoped that the next couple months didn’t pass too quickly so he could savor the experience of being a man without worries who could follow every whim.

Chapter 3

“Oh Lettie! If you could only be here to enjoy the sites we’ve seen! Rome has made quite impression on me, and I think I’ve made quite an impression on it too.” Excerpt from Lady Charlotte’s letter, August 1821, Rome, Sealed with a wax seal of a Balloon inscribed “A Good Journey”

By the time Charlotte and “Fox” (Mrs. Foxcroft) arrived in Rome, Charlotte felt as though she had already seen the whole peninsula of Italy. Fox filled the long boat ride across the Mediterranean and the week-long trek from Venice to Rome with near constant story telling of her last journey to Italy with her late husband, Colin Foxcroft.

Though the idea of non-stop chatter would have normally overwhelmed Charlotte, she found Fox’s funny anecdotes and perspicacious observations so deliciously entertaining that the journey sped by without notice. It was as though, Fox’s storytelling stitched the Mediterranean in half allowing the boat to arrive in Venice just after leaving London.

Charlotte secretly noted many funny things Fox said in her journal. The list of foxisms included: “imagine you’re having lunch with a friend only to be rudely int-errupted by a volcano” (about Pompeii), and Charlotte’s favorite: “Stop giggling, Charlotte, it’s not as though I named him.” (When telling a story about the Roman Emperor, Pupienus Maximus, which Charlotte acknowledged was far funnier spoken than written.).

“Of course the art in Rome is worth seeing, Charlotte, but have you seen the artists?” “There are two things all Roman know about, Charlotte, and the Colosseum is the other one.” (Charlotte still pondered the meaning of that one).

The first day in Rome consisted of a long tour in the blazing-hot August sun through the Roman forum and the Colosseum. Charlotte’s feet ached from the miles of hard cobblestone, and the shifting of her hot, slippery feet inside her half boots. On the trek back from the Colosseum to their hotel, Fox insisted that Charlotte would get her “second feet” soon, and that ache was a good sign that her feet were getting stronger. Charlotte wasn’t sure about either assumption, and really just wanted to sit in the shade with her feet in a bath of cold water.

Fox, on the other hand, seemed entirely unaffected by the heat. She wore a tight-fitting pale-pink silk gown, which was carefully tailored to her tall, slender frame. With her perfect posture, and a flawlessly neat coiffure, she had the composure of a meticulous governess. Yet despite her punctilious appearance, Fox had a natural ease about her. Her arms swung by her sides in a mildly playful manner as she walked, and her excitement at seeing the world before her, seemed to pull her forward with an invisible thread of joyful anticipation. Following Fox, Charlotte felt as though she were marching behind a plucky British grenadier, and only half jokingly thought Fox should be recruited for the army. A troop would struggle to keep up with the spry dame, but morale would be high.

Once they returned to the English quarter and were close to their hotel, Fox turned to Charlotte and added, “There is just one more site to see today.”

Oh please no. Charlotte felt like a walking puddle of sweat whose mind had turned to mush from hours of Roman history. It was only their first day, and had already experienced a couple millennia.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Fox softly chided. “I promise it will be a welcome respite from the heat. It’s just up here on the left.”

Charlotte noticed an enormous fountain coming into view with tall, imposing columns, classical-looking statues and a large cerulean pool. It wasn’t for bathing, but she could already feel a welcome mist cooling her skin as they approached.

“Now this,” Fox announced gesturing her hand palm up in presentation of the fountain as if she were a magician unveiling something that had miraculously appeared behind a fallen curtain, “This is the Trevi Fountain.” Staring up in awe, she added, “Isn’t it marvelous?”

It was marvelous. For a moment, Charlotte forgot about the heat and her aching feet. She stared in wonder at the most impressive pool of water she had ever seen with water cascading around the classically carved statues above. Her gaze gravitated to a winged sea horse with its head kicked back in the air, fighting to remain unbridled. It’s tail, which looked more like a fishtail than a horse tail, writhed in the air behind it as it struggled to remain free.

All of a sudden, Charlotte realized she hadn’t been paying attention to what Fox was saying. She blinked bringing herself back into her senses.

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte muttered.

“Many think it’s Neptune, but it’s actually Oceanus.” Fox drawled out slowly while pointing to the main figure in the middle.

Charlotte’s gaze followed to the central figure, a perfectly chiseled Titan with a flowing beard like lions’ mane. He stood in a clamshell chariot with fabric lightly wrapping around his body and billowing behind him in the wind. Charlotte felt as though she had just caught a glimpse of him in the moment as he arrived through the water.

“What is the difference been Neptune and Oceanus? Is one Greek and one Roman?” Charlotte asked.

“No, Neptune is Roman and Poseidon is Greek. Oceanus is perhaps older than either. He was pre-Olympian. He was a Titan, who represented all water: the ocean, rivers, lakes, streams and even the rain. He was said to be the god of the River Oceanus, the primordial body of water that separated earth from the underworld. You’ll notice he doesn’t have a triton like Neptune would. Neptune might control the sea, but Oceanus embodies it.”

“He certainly does appear as the essence of water,” Charlotte remarked as she took in more details of the statue. “Are we allowed to touch the water?”

“Yes, yes, it’s actually some of the cleanest water in the city. It is fed by the only remaining aqueduct, that wasn’t destroyed by the Visigoths well over 1000 years ago.”

Charlotte didn’t care to hear more, though she knew she should. She dipped her hands in the water, feeling the coolness wash over her senses and clear her mind. She filled her cupped hands with water and then washed her face. She laughed at how free she felt in this moment. A ritual, so ancient and so human, was also normally so private. She would have never washed her face in a public fountain in England, or anywhere in public for that matter. Somehow being in this city though, this magical ancient city, freed her of her normal concerns for propriety.

She looked up at Fox who was still lecturing about the fountain, and saying something about virgin waters. As she spoke, Fox dipped her pinkie fingers in the water and then dabbed a drop of water on the inside of each wrist and on her temples. Fox remained the ever consummate lady, without a hair out of place, while Charlotte felt a bit like a poodle who’d fallen in a puddle.

“And that’s why you see the young woman leading the Roman soldiers to the spring in the carving above.” Fox concluded quite pleased with herself for remembering so much history.

Charlotte didn’t want to insult Fox by asking her to repeat what she’d said; so instead, she just remarked again on the glorious beauty of the fountain.

“I guess the legend of the Trevi fountain is true.” Fox added.

“How so?” Charlotte asked knowing she really should have paid attention to Fox’s lecture about the fountain.

“Well, I’m back in Rome! It’s been 20 years, but I’ve returned. The coin I threw with Colin so many years ago must have worked its magic.”

“Is that what you’d wished for?” Charlotte asked.

“Well, it’s what everyone wishes for when they throw a coin in this fountain. It’s the only fountain I know of that has a set wish already prescribed. I’m actually not sure if you can wish for anything else.”

Fox began rummaging through her small, pink embroidered reticule then and placed a tiny, copper quatrino coin in Charlotte’s hand. The coin had a beautiful coat of arms with two keys on either side and a crown above. Charlotte inspected it briefly before tossing it into the fountain.

“Charlotte!” Fox exclaimed sounding somewhat befuddled as if she hadn’t expect Charlotte to make her wish yet. “You need to throw it with your right hand over your left shoulder. Otherwise, your wish won’t come true.” Fox explained before finding another quatrino and handing it to Charlotte.

“Here goes,” Charlotte said as she turned her back to the fountain and threw the new coin over her left shoulder.

“Too another return to Rome,” Fox added with a small toss of her coin over her right shoulder.

❧

The hackney driver dropped Haid off near the Spanish Steps after a visit at his sister Serefina’s villa just outside of the city. Haid meandered leisurely to the Trevi Fountain, where he found a bench slightly shaded from the soon-to-be setting sun. He loosened his cravat and placed his tall, black top hat next to him on the bench.

Though he found the visit with his sister, Serafina, relaxing, she had started grilling him about qualifications for a bride. All of Haid’s family knew he planned on entering society next season to find a wife. He felt loved with their interest in his new search, but also slightly annoyed that his sisters still considered him their little baby brother, who needed protection and guidance. Christ, I’m nearly 30 years old. Haid thought to himself while rubbing his brows.

When he looked up, he noticed two women entering the Piazza di Trevi. The sight of them intrigued him. They looked like pupil and governess, except the younger woman seemed too old to need a governess, and the older somehow seemed too worldly to be a governess. How odd.

Clearly the older woman knew a great deal about the fountain and preceded to preach her wisdom on the unfortunate, younger lady, whose eyes visibly glazed over as if she were about to faint from heat exhaustion. Haid hadn’t realize he was holding his breath ready to jump to to her aid, until he felt himself relax, when she sat down at the edge of the fountain and removed her bonnet.

Her light-brown hair, which he imagined had been perfectly curled in the morning, fell to her shoulders in soft, tousled waves. The way a few stray stands stuck to the sweat on her neck did odd things to his groin, and when she dipped her hands in the water, Haid felt a strong feeling of déjà vu, an unraveling of sorts, as if he were tumbling through time, and rather than being in Rome in 1821, they met at some antediluvian spring where she collected wildflowers and he kissed the side of her neck where the few stray strands had clung.

Suddenly, she started washing her face, and at once, Haid snapped out of his reverie. She seemed as carefree and comfortable as Oceanus above. Christ. Who is this woman?

Haid tried to tear his gaze from her. His fascination, though, had turned his enjoyment of people watching to a singular person watching. He no longer passively scanned the visitors at the fountain; he saw only her.

The older woman placed something small into the younger woman’s palm, which the younger woman gently tossed into the fountain. Haid couldn’t hear what the women were saying, but it appeared that older woman was admonishing the younger woman for not having properly tossed the coin. She looked like a mother hen with ruffled feathers as she gestured which hand to use and how to toss. Haid couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous scene.

The second toss went much better, and it appeared that the older woman was finally satisfied with her pupil’s performance. Maybe they’re sisters. An older spinster sister or widowed sister could possibly serve as chaperone. They looked entirely different though, not at all like siblings. The older woman had platinum blonde hair and was reed thin. The younger woman had light brown hair and curves like Athena, feminine but strong.

Suddenly, a gust of wind pulled Haid’s hat off the bench and carried it on invisible wings towards the women at the edge of the fountain. Charlotte noticed him chasing his hat, and quickly bent down to grab it. Unfortunately in doing so, she knocked her own bonnet off the fountain’s edge and into the water.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed turning her head towards the fountain and running her fingers through her hair as if to help herself think. She handed Haid his hat, and at once felt her pulse flutter. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and so unlike the men she knew in England. His sharp jawline reminded her of a classic marble bust chiseled in stone. His skin was rough and sun kissed, and the stubble on his face indicated that he hadn’t shaved for about a week.

“I’m very sorry, my lady,” Haid said.“Let me get that for you.” Haid reached into towards the floating bonnet but it had drifted just out of reach.

“Here,” Fox interjected, handing Haid her parasol. “You can use the handle like a fish hook.”

“Oh, yes. Good idea.” Haid nodded and grabbed the parasol from Fox. Unfortunately by the time he reached out with the parasol, the bonnet had again drifted just out of reach.

“Right,” he said. “I guess I’ll just have to go in after it.” Haid sat down on the edge of the fountain, took off his coat, and began to remove his shoes. Charlotte picked up the parasol and fiddled with the handle.

“I can’t let you go in on my account,” Charlotte reasoned. “We could just wait and see if floats to the other side of the fountain.”

“It will surely sink before it gets there.” Haid assessed as he watched the bonnet continue to drift across the large pool of water. “It’s no bother. I probably would have gone in anyway if you hadn’t caught my hat for me.”

Charlotte still felt a bit taken back at the sight of him. She thought he was an Italian until he had spoken in his perfectly posh English accent befitting a high-born lord. Who was this man?

“There,” he said as he finished rolling his trousers up. He looked up at Charlotte and then smiled broadly as he stood. She hoped that the flush of color traveling up her neck appeared to be from the heat, and not the out-of-control gymnastics her heart was doing in his presence.

She opened up the parasol to shade herself. Haid lowered one leg and then the other into the fountain. As he began to turn toward the errant, fugitive bonnet, a gust of wind came upon them and caught the parasol in Charlotte’s hand. She tottered slightly forward, stumbled over Haid’s shoes, and then fell into Haid with a high-pitched squeak. Attempting to steady her, he found himself falling as well. He wrapped his arms around her in a spontaneous attempt to protect her as they tumbled together into the water with a grand splash.

Everything had happened in slow motion as if they were moving through treacle, but at the same time, it happened in an instant, so quick that Charlotte had no time to react.

She gasped as she resurfaced above the water, feeling mortified at the realization that she’d tackled this perfect stranger, this perfectly perfect stranger with his perfect eyes and perfect smile. She pushed herself off of him coming to sit in the pool of water. Haid sat up too.

Her eyes scanned his expression for the lines of anger that were sure to etch his face. Haid wiped the water from his eyes and met Charlotte’s gaze. She looked so worried, apologetic…. and wet, thoroughly soaked. Haid had never seen a funnier sight in his life. At once, both began to laugh hysterically. When the laughter hit its crescendo, another bout of giggles and uncontrollable mirth began to bubble as if coming from the same source as the fountain spring, eternal and pure.

“My lady,” Haid gestured with mock solemnity, holding his hand out and helping her rise.

“Why thank you,” she replied dipping into the lowest and most dignified of curtsies, thoroughly drenching her dress yet again.

Haid’s head fell back in a deep, bellowing laugh, just the way he laughed with his oldest and dearest Etonian friends.

Charlotte then glanced at Fox, expecting to see her disapprobation at the scene. Instead, Fox appeared to find the situation just as amusing as everyone else. She held her hand to her mouth, attempting to stifle her unstoppable laughter.

“Oh, Charlotte,” she giggled. “The fountain doesn’t require you throw yourself in too when making a wish.”

“And you, fine sir,” Fox added turning toward Haid, “I doubt you’ll volunteer to help a damsel in distress again. Quite the reward for your efforts!”

“I’m sure she’ll find a way to repay me.” Haid quipped.

“Fiddlesticks,” Charlotte said. “You didn’t even rescue my bonnet. Who would pay for services unrendered?”

“Well, she does have a point there.” Fox chuckled. “Besides, it looks like no one need rescue the bonnet after all.” Haid and Charlotte turned their heads in the direction of Fox’s gaze and saw the bonnet had reached the other edge of fountain. It bobbed happily on the surface like a ship back in port. Fox turned to fetch the bonnet and Haid began to help Charlotte out of the fountain.

First he held out his hand while she stepped up on the edge of the fountain. Then, as if he centuries of practice rescuing women from fountains, he gently but firmly grabbed her waist, and deftly lowered her to the ground.

“There,” Haid said. He lowered his head and wiped his hands on the side of his britches as if to wipe off any inappropriateness of their contact.

“Thanks,” Charlotte also bowed her head and averted her eyes from his. In doing so though, her gaze drifted into much more dangerous and vulnerable territory, down his neck, where beads of water dripped pooled into the notch of his jugular before dripping further down, down, down. His cravat had come untied, and though his waistcoat still covered the majority of his torso, Charlotte could see the wet, white diaphanous shirt underneath, and his tan skin below. This man must have spent a great deal of time with his shirt off to have skin so tan underneath.

Haid noticed Fox returning to them with the mischievous bonnet, and at once, he felt his pulse quicken. The realization dawned that they were about to leave, and without understanding why, he felt a pull to her. He had to see her again.

“You must allow me to escort you to… to wherever you’re staying.” Haid tried to make his voice sound like the calm, consummate gentleman he knew he should be, but his eagerness clenched his vocal chords like a Eagle’s talons wrapped round a live trout.

“That’s very kind of you.” Charlotte began. Then Fox cut in, “But no need. We’re staying just a couple blocks from here at the Hotel de Londres.”

“The Hotel de Londres,” Haid repeated. “That’s where I’m staying.” How had he not seen them before? Surely, he would have remembered her. Always.

“Oh, what a small world,” Charlotte practically cheered, “Well, small city, actually I don’t know how small or large it is, we just started exploring it today.”

English. She was certainly English. She seemed like a lady, but who is she. “I take it you’re visiting from England?” Haid asked in anticipation, feigning an nonchalance he didn’t feel.

“Yes, Kent. Well, actually I was in London for the season, and came straight from there, but I spend most my time in Kent. I take it you’re English too?”

“Yes, well no,” Haid had been wondering about her so much, he hadn’t thought about himself. He hadn’t thought about how she might react to him, or more precisely, how she might react to his title. He imagined telling her who he was, but then foresaw all of the “apologies, your grace” and that simper, that foolish simper, which always spoiled the beautiful faces of women who made his acquaintance. They saw the title, but never the man. She was too natural, too pure, too noble, too beautiful to mar with knowledge of his title. He didn’t want to spoil what time they had together, even if it were just a short walk to their hotel.

“You are… and you aren’t English?” Charlotte looked at him in addlepation, as if trying to understand how someone could be from a place and also not from the same place.

“Well, my father was English…” Haid began while momentarily trying to decide not only what to divulge but how much. Don’t lie to her. “But my mother is Italian, and all of my sisters live here.” True.

“But you don’t live here?”

“I have a home in Venice.” Again, true but not the complete truth. What about not lying to her? “I ummm am… on vacation here. For a while.”

“Oh I see.”

But she didn’t see. How could she possibly see? She couldn’t know who he was, not now, possibly not ever. It’s just a walk to the hotel. She doesn’t need to know your life story. Christ, you don’t even know her name.

“Forgive me for my boldness,” Haid began, “but seeing as we’re better acquainted than most after only a few minutes, I’ll just pretend that the fountain introduced us. I’m ummm” Theodore Astley, Duke of Haid. Tell her who you are. “I’m… Salvatore. You can call me … Signor Salvatore.” Haid quickly decided on using his middle name. “My name is Mr. Salvatore.” Liar.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Salvatore, Signor Salvatore.” Fox bobbed her head quickly. Haid detected something slightly mocking or possibly condescending in her tone. “I’m Mrs. Foxcroft, the late Widow of Colin Foxcroft, who was brother to the current Baron Childers. This is Lady Charlotte Caldwell, daughter of the Earl of Cranbrook.”

Cranbrook. Haid had attended Eton with Cranbrook’s son Gabriel, who was a few years younger than him. Yes, wow, she had the same eyes as him.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Salvatore.” Charlotte smiled openly. “Shall we head back before catching a chill? I doubt it possible to catch a chill in this heat, but something about being totally soaked to the bone feels rather insalubrious.”

“Right,” Haid nodded. As they walked, he kept to his thoughts. Like a pocket watch, he appeared calm and collected on the outside, while inside millions of tiny gears turned and chinked. His brain sifted through all he knew about Earl Cranbrook and his family. He recalled Cranbrook’s son, Gabriel, had been quite a daring horseman, and then remembered Gabriel laughing that his little sister was even more so. Could it be her? How many sisters did he have?

“So do you know the city well?” Fox asked.

“What’s that?” Haid asked returning to the moment.

“Do you know the city well since your family lives here?”

“Yes, quite well. My sister, Seraphina, lives just outside the city. Over the years, she’s made a point of dragging me to everything imaginable: ancient ruins, galleries… she even took me to a reenactment of a gladiator show.”

“Oh a reenactment? They don’t actually kill people, do they?” Charlotte asked.

“No, though many have died for Rome, no one has been willing to die for teaching its history.”

“Dulce et Decorum est pro patria et historia mori just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” Charlotte joked.

Fox cut in, “The reason I ask about your familiarity with Rome, Mr. Salvatore, is because we’re touring the city for a few weeks. I’d love to know what you’d recommend. I have Lady Anna Miller’s Letters from Italy with us, which are nearly fifty years old. I suppose the best attractions haven’t changed in 50 years, or even 500, but I have wanted some more up-to-date guidance.”

“Are you looking for a guide?” Haid asked.

“No, not necessarily. I just thought that you might know which attractions visitors miss.”

“Hmmm.” Haid looked up towards the solids in thought. “Have you seen the other fountains around the city?”

“Not yet, I know about the Four Rivers Fountain, but not many others.”

“Oh. That’s one of my favorites. Bernini was incredibly talented, and his works can be found all over the city. He actually had started the original planning for the Trevi.”

“Oh really?!” For all Fox knew about the Trevi fountain, apparently she didn’t know everything.

“Yes, I’m happy to take you to Bernini pieces I know around the city. I’m free tomorrow if you’d like to go.” Haid offered.

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. I’m sure there are more interesting things for you to do, Mr. Salvatore.” Fox, the ever well-mannered lady, would never impose.

“I really wouldn’t mind.” Haid attempted to model hospitality without sounding too eager to spend more time with them, to spend more time with Charlotte. This is getting a tad ridiculous. I don’t know her.

“Very well then,” Fox said. “If you don’t mind. What time tomorrow?”

“Well it depends on how far you’d like to walk. I’m happy to call a carriage for us as well.”

“Nonsense. We are strong walkers.” Fox insisted, speaking for both without consulting Charlotte. Haid glanced at Charlotte who looked a bit uncomfortable, whether discomfort from the heat, her wet clothes, walking, discomfort, all of the above or him, Haid didn’t know.

“Well, let’s say 10 then,” Haid suggested. With any luck, it wouldn’t be too hot then.

“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Salvatore. Thank you.” Fox replied.

“Yes, thank you, Signor Salvatore.” Charlotte added.

The footman at the hotel spotted them approaching. “Buono Sera, your….”

“Yes, we’re soaking wet. Buono sera.” Haid interrupted the footman before he could address Haid in the honorific.

Charlotte noticed Haid begin to move with more speed and less ease as if he were a footman himself. In the small foyer of the hotel, he gave orders in Italian to the hotel staff, each of whom instantly began moving at his direction like bees in a honey hive.

Before Charlotte even had time to say goodbye, a few maid servants had ushered her to her room, drawn a warm bath and taken her soaking wet clothes to be laundered. Despite the heat, the bath felt wonderful. Charlotte’s muscles relaxed and her feet returned to their normal, non-swollen shape. Best of all were the small, cold towel draped over Charlotte’s forehead that maids had soaked in orange blossom water. Heaven.

Haid, quite the opposite, felt anything but restful. Sure, the hotel staff had also taken his wet belongings, drawn a bath and provided him with refreshing orange blossom water towels in his room, but his mind wouldn’t let him relax. It flipped through the codices of his memory. Charlotte, Gabriel Caldwell’s sister. Isn’t she the one who’s friends with Oliver’s little sister? Last I was there…was that April? I could have sworn Scarlett kept babbling about a friend named Lottie. Could that be her? I know Oliver mentioned they were close with Earl Cranbrook and his family. How will I ever explain my deception?

Haid wondered how they had never met; and then remembered, as if in the distant past, he purposely avoided meeting all women like Charlotte, all young, unmarried women of the ton.

The memory of her in front of the fountain came back to him. Then he remembered the feel of her warm body pressed up against his when she fell. Though only a split second, it lasted long enough to make the water between them feel like it was boiling and evaporating wherever their bodies came in contact. His skin singed from her touch. Then, her laugh… and how diverting she was came to memory. He envisioned her silly curtsy in the fountain and actually laughed out loud again.