Chapter 31 A Discussion with a Valet
A Discussion with a Valet
Meanwhile...
Patrick McAdams stood still as his valet undid the knot of his cravat and wondered if Giovanni would realize it wasn’t finished exactly the same as when he had tied it earlier that morning.
When he had finally left Armenia’s bed late that afternoon, it had taken some time for him to dress himself. Despite his post-coital euphoria, his limbs had felt rubbery, his movements made as if in slow motion.
Apparently Armenia had noticed, for she had seen to wrapping the length of silk around his neck, careful to pleat the fabric the same as it had been before she had stripped it away. However, Patrick hadn’t paid any mind to the finishing knot she used.
That moment when she stood before him, dressed only in a silk robe, the fabric hugging her luscious curves, her hair completely free of its pins, and her face still flushed from their last round of lovemaking, had reminded him of Signora Ricci’s assessment of Armenia D’Avalos.
Whore.
Hiding his wince from Armenia’s brown-eyed gaze had been difficult. Pulling her into his arms and kissing her with one last open-mouthed kiss had only made him wonder once again as to why Signora Ricci would make such a claim.
What did the woman know?
To his credit, Giovanni didn’t comment on the cravat, but from his furrowed brow, Patrick knew the young man had noticed it was different from how he had knotted it that morning.
“How long has your mother been a widow?” Patrick asked, curious as to how Giovanni would respond.
The valet pulled the silk cloth from around his neck. “My father died five… six years ago, signore.”
“I am sorry for your loss. What did he do for his living?” Patrick asked, pulling his shirt over his head. Rather than tossing the garment onto the bed, he gave it to the valet.
Giovanni froze, his eyes downcast. “Nothing.”
Patrick gave a start. “Was he… unable to work?” He couldn’t think of another word to describe someone too injured or addled to perform labor.
“I do not know,” he replied. “We did not live with him.” He busied himself with folding the cravat and shirt.
Nodding, Patrick moved to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. “But you knew who he was?”
Giovanni dipped his head. “Sì.”
“Did he know you?” He visibly winced asking the question—he knew it was far too personal, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if the manservant refused to answer.
A shrug preceded the servant’s response. “I do not think so.”
Patrick swallowed as Giovanni pulled the boots from his feet. “I apologize. I did not mean to pry,” he murmured. “But I do like to know more about those I employ.”
Giovanni lifted a shoulder as if he didn’t mind the questions. “May I ask you a question, signore?” He set aside the boots and went to work on removing Patrick’s stockings.
“Of course.” Patrick steeled himself in anticipation of an uncomfortable query.
“Do you have a son?”
Patrick nearly chuckled. “I do. He lives in Boston and runs our office there,” he replied.
“Does he live with his mother?”
Shaking his head, Patrick said, “We both did until she died last year, and I have not remarried.” Yet, he almost added.
“So… he... he knows you?”
Patrick gave a start and briefly wondered if he misunderstood Giovanni’s English. “He does. My move to Rome has meant this is the first time we have not lived under the same roof since his birth.”
Giovanni seemed to think on his response for a time before he said, “I am a bastard. It is why my name is my mother’s and not...his,” he added.
“If it had been his, what would your name be?”
Lifting his chin, Giovanni replied, “D’Avalos.”
His suspicions confirmed, Patrick remembered the name Armenia had used for her older brother. “Enrico?” he guessed. He had no idea how many other men might have been part of the D’Avalos line living in the palazzo.
Giovanni’s eyes briefly rounded. “Sì. How did you...?” He glanced towards the door, as if he worried their conversation might not be private.
“Donna Armenia D’Avalos... uh, your aunt, implied it was a possibility.” Patrick watched as the manservant rose from his knees and stood staring at something in his mind’s eye. “It is my intention to take her to wife,” he added, curious to see how the young man would react.
“Marry her?” Giovanni repeated.
“Yes. I... uh, find myself quite in love with her.” He cleared his throat. “Which is why your mother’s comment about her this morning has me... rather concerned.”
Taking a step backwards, the stockings still hanging from one hand, Giovanni shook his head. “My mother is a... a busybody,” he said, as if he struggled for the English word. “A gossip. Do not heed her slander.”
Narrowing his eyes, Patrick regarded his servant for a time before he finally nodded. “All right. But usually, where there is smoke, there is fire,” he murmured, hoping Giovanni would understand his point.
For a moment, the servant glanced about the room, his manner becoming that of a caged animal. “I will tell you what I know, but...”
“But... what?” Patrick prompted.
“I should not.”
“Because you are a loyal servant?”
Giovanni nodded vigorously.
“But you are employed by me now. Who was your employer before I hired you?” Although there had been a character provided to him by the service registry he had used to hire the Riccis, he hadn’t read it. At the time, he didn’t think he could understand the derivation of Latin used in the document.
Now he knew better.
“I heard things. Overheard things when I worked at his lordship’s residence.”
Patrick inhaled sharply. “You worked for the Conte Enrico D’Avalos?” he asked in surprise. “I thought your mother had been dismissed—”
“Sì. She worked in another household,” Giovanni said. “When I was old enough, I went to the butler at Villa D’Avalos and was hired as a footman. I worked there until...” He lifted a shoulder. “Until I was mistaken for his lordship’s son.”
Patrick sighed. “Having met the current conte last evening, I can say there is definitely a family resemblance,” he murmured. “And these conversations you overheard? Were they injurious to Donna Armenia?”
Giovanni once again glanced towards the closed door.
“Not because of anything she did,” he whispered.
“Of her own accord, I mean to say,” he quickly added.
“The conte, though, he...” Here Giovanni swallowed.
“He allowed his friends to court her even though they had no intention of ever marrying her.” The way he said the word ‘court’ implied an entirely different meaning.
“I once saw him accept a purse full of lira so a visiting aristocrat could spend the night with her.”
Bile rose in Patrick’s throat before he could swallow it, the bitter aftertaste a perfect companion for the rage that swept through him.
“It is fortunate for the late conte that he is already dead, or I would see to it by my own hands,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“He was supposed to be her protector. Not her... her pimp.”
“Sì,” Giovanni agreed. “I do not believe the current conte—”
“Your brother,” Patrick interrupted.
“—is like his... our father.”
“He had better not be.” Patrick was briefly reminded that the ball he had attended the night before had been in honor of Edoardo’s daughter’s come-out.
Until the girl was married, Armenia would be assisting with her attendance at various entertainments.
She had invited him to dinner, which meant there either wasn’t something already scheduled or it was due to start later that night.
“I have been invited to dinner at Villa D’Avalos tomorrow evening,” he added.
“If you could be sure my dinner clothes are brushed out, I would appreciate it.”
“Sì,” Giovanni replied. “Do you require anything else, signore?”
Patrick shook his head. “That will be all until morning.” Before the servant could reach the door, he asked, “Did you ever tell your mother what you discovered about Donna Armenia?”
Giovanni turned around, his head dropping so his chin nearly touched his chest. “I did not.”
Patrick winced, realizing it was the gossip among the household servants that had led to Signora Ricci’s assessment of Armenia.
She might have been no better than a prostitute—a courtesan—in the eyes of the aristocrats who bedded her with her brother’s permission, but that didn’t make her a whore in his eyes.
The proof would be his proposal. At some point during his appointments on the morrow, he would have to pay a call at a jeweler.
He needed a betrothal ring. And roses. Lots of roses.