Wicked (37 page)

Beau and Berry slept in the hills that night, needing daylight to better survey the army's strength. At dawn the French army broke camp and continued east.

"Jesus, there's at least fourteen or fifteen divisions." With his field glass raised to his eye, Beau scanned the troops strung out for miles on the road below. "And they're marching on Milan, I'd guess. Bonaparte's going to leave Massena to perish."

"Bonaparte needs artillery to fight a war."

"And the Austrian arsenal is only ninety miles away at Milan.
Merde"
Beau swore.

They rode the forty miles to Turin in record time, stopping frequently to buy fresh mounts. But when they reached Melas's headquarters, the seventy-year old commander-in-chief dithered for two frustrating days, still not entirely convinced that an army of that size had moved into the Po valley.

Shocked at the irksome, plodding mechanisms of authority in the Austrian chain of comman
d
—
i
t could hardly move without orders from the Au
l
ic Council in Vienn
a
—
B
eau talked to anyone who would listen, exhorting them to speed. But not until the morning of June 1, when two of Melas's commanders relayed news of French attacks, did the commander-in-chief send orders to Ott to
l
ift the siege of Genoa immediately and march northward to join him. He finally had to act with the French approaching Milan and Turin.

At Genoa, Ott had just received word that Massena would consider terms of capitulation. He put Melas's order in his pocket and ignored it. After eight weeks, he had no intention of lifting the siege hours short of victory. He would have Massena's capitulation. But Massena procrastinated with the negotiations, allowing Napoleon the time he'd said he needed until June 4. The final terms of surrender were signed
that day.
¹⁴

By then Napoleon had entered Milan and now stood squarely in the line of Austrian retreat.

When Beau heard of Milan's fall a moment of panic assailed him. Full-scale war would soon spread over all of northern Italy. And Serena was in Florence, perhaps not in the first line of attack, but certainly in danger.

During the days he and Berry had ridden in search of the enemy, he'd considered the threat of invasion to Florence, the thought a small, persistently suppressed rumination. Perhaps the campaign could be contained in the rich valleys of the Po, Venice and the Cisalpine regions that offered bounty and riches to the conquerors. But when Milan fell so quickly, all of Italy could soon be overrun.

How deeply was he concerned ... or responsible for Serena's safety? Was he in even the remotest sense her keeper?

He'd done what he'd come here to d
o
—
w
arn Admiral Keith and Charles Lock, he reflected, punctilious, exact in gauging his liability. The rest was out of his hands. He was under no obligation to save Serena Blythe.

After making his farewells to the admiral, Beau set sail for Palermo and from there, with a brief detour to Di Cavalli for his horses, the
Siren
would chart course for England. But as the
Siren
cruised nearer to Leghorn, Beau grew increasingly restless. He paced the deck, silent, high-strung. Berry notice
d
but kept his counsel, knowing his comments wouldn't be appreciated.

They passed the harbor, the city only a distant prospect on the port side, the sea lanes busy as they approached the hub of English commerce in Italy.

Beau abruptly went below.

Stalking into his cabin, he made straight for his" liquor cabinet, his hand shaking slightly as he poured himself a drink. In the past weeks he'd not allowed himself to dwell on his personal feelings. He and Berry had been constantly on the move in any event and while he'd thought occasionally of Serena, any opportunities for lengthy reflection had been curtailed by more immediate problems of staying alive.

And he'd neatly reconciled his sense of obligation in the last few days; he had none.

But as Leghorn became visible, he found himself obsessing again. And no matter how he forced away the images from his mind, they returned lush and provocative, demanding. He had no explanation for their intensity; he'd thought them gone after Di Cavalli. He'd thought himself restored to his familiar habits, his casual ease, his undemanding assessment of himself and his world.

Even if on impulse he gave into his obsession, he mused, staring into his brandy, and suddenly appeared at Serena's door, what would he say?

Just thinking about it sent a chill down his spine as if he were committing himself to some unknown, unwanted, unacknowledged feeling he'd always instinctively resisted.

Emptying his glass, the liquor burning his throat, he quickly poured himself another drink. Consuming the brandy with brusque outrage, tumult boiling in his brain, he sat slouched in his chair, regarding the bed where he'd first made love to Serena. And he wanted her again, no
w
—
m
ore with each passing moment.

Her image lured him like a Lorele
i
—
a
n enchanting apparition, her seductive witchery amplified with each glass of brandy consumed. He imagined meeting her again and when she saw him standing on her threshold, he would simply say, "Be my mistress. I'll give you anything .. . and safety from the French." Or perhaps, he cynically thought, bitter and disgruntled at his hungry need, reality shredding away the veil of illusion, he could more practically say, "I can't marry you, Miss Blythe, but whatever else you want is yours. A house, an estate, a ransom in jewels, entry into the Royal Society." In the mercenary world of the ton, nothing more had ever been required of him. And if some ladies wished for his title, they'd always settled for his wealth in the end.

But not Serena, he thought with a discontented grunt.

She wasn't for sale.

An unpalatable, stinging concept.

Damn her. He opened a second bottle.

Not till he'd broached his third bottle did he rise from his chair, hie himself up to the sun and breeze above, and lazily stroll across the deck with that careful, inebriated walk of a man well into his cups. "Where are we?" he drawled, standing beside his captain, scanning the distant shore with a distracted gaze.

"Nearing Piombino, sir."

"New shipping orders, Berry," Beau said with a smile, although his eyes were flint hard. "We're back for Leghorn."

The Castellis had returned to Florence a month ago and Serena was now enrolled in two ateliers: the studio of a fashionable portrait painter and that of a landscape painter of note. She was intensely busy, arriving at the studios very early in the morning and, once her workday was over, often painting at home again in the evening.

She'd discovered her rent had been paid for the entire year when she went to tell the landlady she was moving at the Castellis return. So she'd stayed in her own apartment rather than impose on her friends. It was a kindness she much appreciated and her eyes had filled with tears at Beau's thoughtfulness. She might despise him for his selfishness, for not caring enough, but his generosity couldn't be faulted.

Julia and Professor Castelli had introduced her to all their friends in the course of the past month, their weekly salons filled with intellectuals, with lifelong friends, with cousins and relatives of all descriptions. And Serena had been besieged by suitors. A young lawyer had been paying assiduous court since she first met him, and Julia's cousin Sandro, a celebrated sculptor, had offered his heart should she want it, he'd said with his glorious smile. Two younger sons of a local count, splendid in their Austrian uniforms, were faithful in their attendance at the Castelli salon and in their attentions to Serena. The local prefect sent her flowers daily and a young priest was struggling with his conscience over Signorina Serena. So she wasn't without entertainments or friends and she partook of the festive amusements with good grace. But she never offered more than light flirtations to her many suitors. None had captured her heart like Beau.

She still cried over him on occasion, but there were fewer days now that she fell melancholy over her unrequited love. Each week hastened the task of forgetting or made her loss less devastating. Or perhaps she kept herself too busy to notice that Beau St. Jules was missing from her life.

Reports of Napoleon's triumphant entry into Milan reached Florence shortly after the event and the utter defeat of the Austrians at Marengo twelve days later meant France was once again in control of Italy. And those Florentine citizens with something to fear from the French began packing or hiding their valuables. The Austrian Grand Duke's household, for instance, installed in the Pitti Palace, and those local officials under the hegemony of the Austrian government left the city.

Julia explained the history of the French investiture of Florence in 1799, and after warning Serena of the possibility of mob violence that could be avoided by staying in at night, she noted that the routine of life for ordinary people was generally unchanged.

Lulled into a sense of security with no French army marching through the gates of Florence and the war far to the north, Serena was shocked by the sudden appearance of a troop of French soldiers in the Tribuna of the Uffizi one afternoon in mid-June.

She was copying Bronzino's Mannerist depiction of
Lu
crezia Panciat
i
cbi
along with several other students as an exercise for her portrait class, her easel set up in the Tribuna.

The officers in the forefront were splendidly dressed hussars, their leopardskin pelisses slung over their shoulders, fur caps embellished with plaited cords and tassels set at a jaunty angle on their heads, their richly embroidered dolman
j
ackets resplendent as a sultan's garb, their swords and sword belts chased in gold.

The small troop moved swiftly into the octagonal room, taking no notice of the students' astonished glances. The senior officer pointed at one of the paintings on the wall and then another, a clerk beside him writing rapidly on a small pad while soldiers lifted the selected paintings from the wall and carried them out.

The party paused briefly beside the
Lu
c
r
e
zia Panciatic
h
i,
admiring Bronzino's loving depiction of the elegant beauty.

"That one too," Serena heard the officer say to the clerk at his side. And when he turned away from the painting, he saw Serena.

He stopped, put a hand out to stay the men behind him, then half turned his head to murmur something to his colleagues.

All the magnificent hussars stared at her.

And then the young officer in charge walked up to Serena, his spurs clinking delicately in the sudden quiet. "Bonjour, mademoiselle." He bowed gracefully. "You look very much like someone I've met before."

"You must be mistaken, sir," she politely said, answering him in French, trying to present a calm facade, setting her brush down so he wouldn't see her hand shaking.

"You speak French?" His statement was in the form of a question.

"It's the language of Europe, sir," she neutrally replied
,
hoping he wouldn't ask her more, desperately hoping he would turn and leave as abruptly as he'd appeared.

"General Massena will like that you speak French. She speaks French," he repeated, turning to his fellow officers. "We'll take her too," he briskly said to the clerk.

"No!" Serena cried.

"No one will hurt you, mademoiselle," he gently declared, his gaze swiveling back to her. "General Massena likes blond women." He didn't say she looked the twin of Countess Gonchanka, who'd given the general such pleasure in Zurich last year. In the pillage of Europe, all beauty was fair game. He nodded to the soldiers to seize her.

"Where are you taking me?" Serena's voice was trembling, the soldiers holding her arms guiding her toward the door.

"To the general," the officer mildly replied.

"I have to tell my family." She tried to keep the hysteria from her voice. "Let me at least send a note."