The Chaotic Miss Crispino. Kasey Michaels

in this part of town. Yer wants ter drop ’em? Oi gots the one on the right.”

      “Not yet, Tweed, but I thank you most sincerely for the offer,” Valerian answered. “Signorina Crispino—tell your hulking friends here to be on their way, per favore, or it will be the worse for them.”

      Allegra immediately launched into a stream of colloquial, Italian like none Valerian had ever heard before, the whole of her speech punctuated by exaggerated arm movements and eloquent gestures that made him momentarily wonder, were her hands ever to be tied behind her back, if she would then be rendered speechless.

      Giorgio and Alberto twisted their heads about to see Tweed—the man extremely unprepossessing with his small stature, skinny frame, and black patch that covered his right eye. His blunderbuss, however—the barrel of which was steadily pointing first toward one of them and then at the other—was another matter, and the two Timoteos exchanged speculative glances before turning back to look at Allegra.

      “Bernardo?” Giorgio questioned worryingly. “Dove posso trovare Bernardo? M-m-morto?”

      Allegra jabbed Valerian in the ribs with her elbow. “Isn’t that wonderul? Giorgio thinks his brother is dead. Look at him, Signor Fitzhugh—his knobby knees quiver like the strings of a plucked violin. What shall I tell him? Shall I tell him you killed his brother? That you made meatballs of his pretty face? It would serve him right, capisci, for what they have tried to do to me.”

      “You’re more than usually animated when you’re bloodthirsty, signorina, but I don’t think I can allow you to do that,” Valerian answered, watching as a single large tear ran down Giorgio’s cheek. The young man’s features were almost as perfect as his brother’s, although the youth standing next to him, Alberto, must have been hiding behind the porta when the family good looks had been handed out, for he was as ugly as Bernardo and Giorgio were beautiful. “Tell me, just for the sake of intellectual curiosity—are all three of them brothers?”

      She shook her head. “Alberto is a cugino, a cousin. His mother must have been frightened by a tarantola, don’t you think?”

      “A tarantula? He is as darkly hairy as a spider, Signorina Crispino,” Valerian agreed, looking at the unfortunate Alberto, “although I doubt he is as poisonous. But enough of this sport, diverting as it is. Tell them where they can discover their beloved Bernardo so that we may be on our way. I wish to leave the city at dawn, before these pesky Timoteos of yours can launch yet another sneak attack, as repetition has always held the power to bore me.”

      Allegra gave a mighty shrug, clearly not happy to end her sport so soon, and told the men that Bernardo was back at the pensione—“sleeping.”

      As the pair hastily disappeared down the narrow street, their heavy shoes clanging against the uneven cobblestones, Valerian thanked Tweed for coming to their rescue so promptly and helped Allegra into the closed coach.

      “We will return to my hotel, rest for a few hours, bathe, and be on our way. Perhaps, signorina, you will amuse me as we travel to Naples by telling me why these Timoteos are after you—and most especially why Bernardo Timoeteo called you his ‘love.’”

      Allegra burrowed her small body into a dark corner of the coach, her full bottom lip jutting forward in a pout. “Sì, signore, if I must—but I warn you, it is not a pretty story!”

      Valerian, his long legs stretched out on the opposite seat, his arms folded negligently across his chest, chuckled deep in his throat. “Somehow, signorina, I think I already suspected as much. Oh, and one more thing, if you please. When we reach my hotel you will enter it from the rear with Tweed—discreetly—then join me upstairs in my rooms.”

      Allegra sprang forward, her eyes flashing hot sparks in the dark. “Impossible! You would treat me like a prostituta—a harlot? To sneak into your rooms like some filthy puttana? Never! I shall not do it! I should die first!”

      Valerian did not move except to slide his gaze to the left to see Allegra throw back her head in an already familiar gesture of defiance. “You’re a tiresome enough brat, aren’t you?” he offered calmly. “I am not treating you like a prostitute, signorina, even if your manner at the moment would insult one of that ancient profession. If you must know the truth, I do not wish to be seen strolling through a lobby with a barefoot young woman who smells like a sausage. If that is poor-spirited of me, so be it, but I do have some reputation for fastidiousness to uphold. Comprende?”

      She shrugged expressively yet again, suddenly calm once more. “It is understood. You are meticoloso—a conceited prig.”

      Allegra subsided into the corner, her hand going to her bodice, where the remainder of the sausages still resided. “But I will hate you forever for your terrible insult, signore. Forever!”

      CHAPTER TWO

      “IT ALL BEGAN about six months ago, signore, shortly after my papá died.”

      Valerian sat at his ease on the facing seat of the coach as Allegra began her story. They had spent an uneventful evening at his hotel on the Via del Prato, with Allegra retiring to her rooms without a fuss, her bare feet all but dragging with fatigue.

      That was not to say that the morning had been without incident, for she had refused to budge an inch from the hotel without bathing from head to toe in a hip bath she charged Tweed to procure—a sentiment Valerian sincerely seconded—and until she had been served a herculean breakfast of cappuccino, bisteca alla fiorentina, and tortino di carciofi.

      Valerian, accustomed to a lighter breakfast since coming to the Continent, denied himself the opportunity to likewise partake of the thick sliced steak but did sample the eggs with artichokes, a dish whose aroma could not be ignored.

      Besides her hygienic and epicurean commands, Allegra harbored only one other demand she wished imparted to Valerian. She had thought long and hard about it during the night, she had told him, and she was not about to travel along the road with him for the days and nights it would take the coach to reach Naples, no matter that no Englishman feels he has seen Italy unless he can claim to have bravely run down the inner slope of the long-dead Mount Vesuvius.

      It was out of the question, this constant, unchaperoned togetherness, and so she told him—just as if she hadn’t been running about Florence without so much as a cameriera in attendance! They were instead to make straight for the coast and the town of Livorno, whence they could hire a small boat to take them to Napoli.

      She had even presented Valerian with a crudely drawn map listing a suitable stop along the way where they could sleep (in separate rooms, of course; this part was heavily underlined), change horses, and be assured of a decent meal of Chianti, minestrone, and funghi alla fiorentina al fuoco di legna. Allegra’s appetite, it was becoming more and more obvious to Valerian, knew no bounds.

      Once he had acquiesced to this plan (for any idea that would serve to lessen the amount of time he must spend inside a closed coach with only Allegra for company could only be looked upon as a blessing), they were on their way. Now, an hour later, the coach moving forward at a brisk pace once they had left the city behind them, Allegra finally seemed ready to tell Valerian about the Timoteos.

      “Yes,” he said, watching as her lower lip began to quiver at the mention of her father. “I learned of his death shortly after I began my quest to locate you. An inflammation of the lungs, I believe?”

      Allegra nodded, averting her eyes, then lifted her chin. “It was that terrible Venezia. So beautiful, you know, but so damp. He died in my arms, just as my dearest madre breathed her last in his three summers earlier in Modena.”

      Smiling again, she raised her hands, palms up. “But enough of that! I am the orfana—the orphan—but I make my own way. My fame had already begun to spread and my voice was in demand everywhere. I could have been a prima donna—I could still be a prima donna—the best! If only it weren’t for that stupid Erberto. Erberto was my manager, you understand.” She spread her hands wide, comically rolling her eyes. “Erberto’s mouth, signore—tanto grossa!”

      Valerian