The Chaotic Miss Crispino. Kasey Michaels

However, if you don’t mind, we’ll pass over that for the moment and get on to the reason for my presence here.”

      She sighed, her impatience obvious as she rolled her eyes upward. “Very well, if you insist. But I have not the time for a long story.”

      Valerian spoke quickly, sensing that what he had to tell her was rough ground he would wisely get across as rapidly as possible. “I am not here to employ you. I have been sent here by your English grandfather, to fetch you home. How wonderful that your mother taught you her native tongue. It will simplify things once you are in Brighton. Excuse me, but what is that smell? There are so many vile odors in this room, but this one is new, and particularly unlovely.”

      “Smell? How dare you!” Her hands came up as if she were contemplating choking him, then dropped to her sides. “Mia madre? I don’t understand. What do you know of my dearest madre signore? Or of my terrible nonno, who broke her poor heart?”

      The hands came up again—for the urge to remove Valerian from the room had overcome her temporary curiosity. “Magnifico, signore! You almost deflected me, didn’t you? But no, I shall not be distracted. I have no time, no interest. It’s those terrible Timoteos. I must pack. I must leave here, at once. As soon as I eat!”

      So saying, she reached into the low-cut bodice of the white peasant blouse Valerian had been eyeing with some interest—Miss Crispino might be a mere dab of a girl, the top of her head not quite reaching his shoulders, but her breasts were extremely ample—so that his disappointment could be easily assumed as he watched her retract her hand, holding up a foot-long string of small sausages.

      His left eyebrow lifted a fraction, his disappointment tempered by the realization that the blouse remained remarkably well filled. “At least now I know the origin of that unpleasant odor I mentioned earlier. How devilish ingenious of you, Signorina Crispino. I should never have thought to keep sausages in my shirt.”

      She waited until she had filled her mouth with a lusty bite of the juicy meat before replying, waving the string of sausages in front of his face, “You never would have thought to steal them from the stall on the corner either, Signor Fitzhugh, from the look of you. But then you don’t give the impression of someone who has ever known hunger.”

      “You filched the sausages?”

      She took another bite, again thrusting the remainder of the string up near his face. “Ah! I congratulate you, signore. You have, as we say, discovered America—asked the obvious. Of course I filched them. I am a terrible person—a terrible, desperate person.”

      “Really.” Valerian remained an unimpressed audience.

      “This filching; it is a temporary necessity.” She stepped closer, the nearly overpowering aroma of garlic stinging Valerian’s eyes and aristocratic nostrils. “But I do not sell my favors on the street for food—or for anything! I make my own way, in my own way. You can tell il nonno, my grandfather, that when you see him—which will be in Hell, if my prayers to the Virgin should be answered. Now get out of my way. I must pack.”

      She turned to pick up the scuffed leather case but was halted by the simple application of Valerian’s hand to her upper arm. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he commanded softly. “I have wasted nearly a month chasing you from one small città to another. I have stood here patiently and watched as you displayed a lack of good manners that would have distressed your dear mother to tears. Now you, signorina, are going to hear me out.

      “Duggy—your grandfather—is dying, and he wants to ease his way through Heaven’s gate by leaving his fortune to his only grandchild. You, Signorina Crispino, more’s the pity, are that grandchild. I am here to offer my assistance in returning you to Brighton, to”—he could not resist a glance at the bodice of her blouse—“the bosom of your family.”

      “Basta!” Miss Crispino turned her head to one side and very deliberately spat on the scarred wooden floor. “Enough! I spit on my grandfather! I spit on my mother’s family—seed, sprout, and flower!”

      “How utterly charming,” Valerian remarked, unmoved. “Your aunt Agnes will positively adore you, I’m sure—once she has recovered from her faint. Now, if you have finally done with the overblown Italian theatrics, perhaps you will take a moment to listen to what I have to say. Duggy may have disowned your mother for marrying your father, but he has lived to repent the action. He’s dying, signorina, and he wants to make amends for his sins.

      “If you can’t bring yourself to forgive him, perhaps you can screw yourself up to the notion of inheriting every last groat the man has collected over the years. It’s not an inconsiderable sum, I assure you.”

      She pulled her arm free of his grasp and picked up the satchel. “You begin to interest me, but belle parole non pascolano I gatti, signore—fine words don’t feed cats. How do I know my fickle grandfather won’t have had yet another change of his dark heart by the time I reach this place, this Brighton?”

      Valerian answered truthfully, his job done—at least in his mind—now that he had delivered Lord Dugdale’s message. “You don’t know that, I suppose. It is also true that a woman—even one of your obvious, um, talents— would perhaps find it difficult to make her living in England alone. So, as you seem to be getting on so swimmingly here in Italy, I can see that you might be reluctant to trade all this luxury for the chance at a fortune.”

      “You make fun of me, signore; you doubt me. But I do not care. My talent it is not inconsiderable.” She busily pulled various bits of clothing from the dresser drawers and flung them into the open satchel. “I inherited it from my magnificent papá, who was the master of his age! I am a most famous cantante— an opera singer—and I am in great demand!”

      Valerian watched as she unearthed several rather intimate items of apparel and wadded them into a ball before stuffing them into the satchel, doing her best to keep her back between the undergarments and Valerian’s eyes.

      “Really? Then I stand corrected,” he remarked coolly, peeking over her shoulder to see that her hands were shaking. “But I have been in Italy for two months. Isn’t it strange that I have not heard of you?”

      “I have been resting, signore,” she said, wincing, for the term was one that many singers used to explain why they were unemployed. She could find work every night of the week if she wanted to—if it weren’t for those horrible Timoteos, curse them all to everlasting damnation!

      “It’s my throat,” she lied quickly. “It is strained. But I will be performing again soon—very soon—in Roma.”

      “Which of course also explains your rush to quit this charming pensione in the middle of the night,” Valerian said agreeably, wishing he was not interested in knowing why the girl was in such a hurry, or why her hands were trembling. “I should have guessed it. Perhaps you will allow me to transport you safely to the nearest coaching inn?”

      She pulled a length of rope from the drawer, using it to tie the satchel closed, as the clasp had come to grief months earlier, not by accident but merely by rotting away with age. She hefted the thing onto her shoulder. “You’d do that, signore? You aren’t going to press me about accompanying you to England?”

      Valerian shrugged indifferently. “If you’re asking if I’m about to carry you off will-nilly against your wishes, I fear you have badly mistaken your man. I’ve been most happily traveling across Europe in a long-delayed Grand Tour of sorts, and interrupting it to play ape-leader to a reluctant heiress was not part of my agenda. No, Signorina Crispino, I have wasted enough time with this project. It is time I continue my journey.”

      She looked at him carefully, piercingly, for the first time, taking in his well-cut, modish clothes, his tall, leanly muscular frame, and the healthy shock of thick black hair accented by snow-white “angel wings” at the temples—although they didn’t make him look the least angelic, but rather dashing in a disturbing sort of way.

      “Naturalmente. If I had looked harder, I should have seen more. Like overcooked pasta, Signor Fitzhugh, you are appealing to the eye,