After they had both hastily cleaned up and were downstairs dining on turbot and broiled squab, Rodrigo reported that several of the gentlemen currently residing at the Blue Parrot matched the description of Sir Henry Wallace, but none of the guests came close to resembling Pietro Alcazar.
“Maybe my mother is wrong,” said Stephano as the dishes were cleared away. “Maybe Wallace has nothing to do with Alcazar.”
“A possibility, I suppose,” said Rodrigo, ordering a snifter of brandy. “Though I might venture to remind you that your mother is never wrong.”
Stephano only grunted, then asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Sit here and drink brandy,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano shifted restlessly in his chair. “I don’t want to sit here. We should be doing something!”
“We are doing something,” said Rodrigo. “We are watching for Sir Henry.”
“Who might be disguised as anyone from the blue parrot in the lobby to that venerable old woman haranguing the wait staff. And we’re looking for another man who is apparently not even in the hotel. That sounds like a prosperous night’s work,” Stephano said.
“You’re in a bad mood, so you’re obviously feeling better,” Rodrigo observed, ordering more brandy for himself and one for his friend. “Miri’s yellow goo may offend the nostrils, but one has to admit its effectiveness.”
“I don’t like leaving our friends on their own,” said Stephano. “Not with demons around. I keep thinking about that poor murdered girl-”
“Lower your voice,” Rodrigo said quietly.
Stephano picked up the snifter of brandy, drank it, and motioned for a refill. “God! I wish I hadn’t seen her!”
“It was pretty awful,” said Rodrigo, pouring more brandy.
“I’ve seen worse on the battlefield,” said Stephano, tossing down the biting liquid. “But I keep thinking about what Father Jacob said, about that man drinking her blood-” He poured himself another glass.
“You might want to take it easy on the brandy,” said Rodrigo.
“This is the last,” said Stephano. A clock in the hallway chimed ten. He drank the brandy and stifled a yawn. “I’ve got to get some sleep. If Wallace was ever in the hotel, he’s probably gone by now.”
“I will remain here with this excellent brandy,” said Rodrigo, taking his time to savor a mouthful.
Stephano was rising to his feet when the doorman entered to announce that the coach for Count Fairhaven had arrived. The doorman summoned the page, who went dashing up the stairs to alert the count. The landlord, hearing his distinguished visitor was departing for the opera, came out of his office to bid his well-paying and noble guest a good evening.
Stephano decided he might as well wait to see this Count Fairhaven. He glanced at Rodrigo, who raised his eyebrows. They both watched as the count came down the stairs, escorting his female companion.
Stephano studied the count. The brim of his hat and the feathers that adorned it concealed much of the man’s face, as did the curls of the white powdered wig and the frilly white lace at his throat. Stephano caught a glimpse of an aristocratic nose and thin mouth, a black mustache and goatee. The count was elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a red waistcoat with overlarge sleeves embroidered with gold stitching, an embroidered weskit, lace cuffs, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He had one hand solicitously on the arm of his lady. He was speaking to her in Rosian, his accent indicating he came from the eastern region, perhaps somewhere around Haerigan. His voice was high-pitched, thin, affected.
“That’s not him,” said Stephano.
“But that is her!” Rodrigo exclaimed.
“Her? What do you mean her?” Stephano asked, puzzled.
“The love of my life,” said Rodrigo.
“Oh, good God!” Stephano looked at his friend in exasperation. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can. I am!” Rodrigo gazed, smitten. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful creature!”
The count’s lady was slender and graceful. Long curling locks of blonde hair fell over white-powdered shoulders. She wore an elaborate headpiece with feathers and jewels that artfully concealed her face and was dressed in an exquisite gown. Her eyes, what could be seen of them behind the large feather fan she held, were lustrous. Her face was powdered and rouged, her lips touched with red. She seemed shy and timid, for she clung closely to her companion.
The count and his lady reached the bottom of the stairs and were crossing the lobby. The count stopped to assist the lady with her cloak, then walked over to exchange greetings with the landlord. The lady stood a short distance from him in front of the parrot’s cage. She looked exceedingly pale and nervous. The hand holding the fan trembled.
The parrot had been asleep with his head beneath his wing. A sudden noise-perhaps the landlord’s loud laughter at something said by the count-woke the bird. He let out a loud and raucous squawk. At the unexpected sound, the lady gasped and dropped her fan.
Like an arrow shot from love’s bow, Rodrigo leaped from his chair and ran to the lady’s side. He picked up the fan and, sinking to one knee, held it out to her.
“I give you your fan, my lady,” he said and added in a low voice, meant for her ears alone, “And with that fan my heart, if you will take it.”
The lady stared at Rodrigo with wide, frightened eyes. She was trembling all over now, probably terrified of her lover. But the count was either not the jealous type or he did not consider Rodrigo a threat. He glanced with some irritation at his lady and said sharply, “The gentleman has picked up your fan, Imogene. Thank him, my dear, and allow him to get up off his knees.”
The lady stammered something incoherent. She took the fan from Rodrigo with a hand that was shaking so much that she nearly dropped it again. Rodrigo rose to his feet, made a gallant bow to her. He bowed to the count, who bowed back.
The count took hold of the lady’s arm and guided her firmly toward the door and their coach that was waiting outside. Stephano went to join Rodrigo, who was standing by the parrot, gazing after the woman with love and longing.
“She comes into my life for a brief moment and is gone,” said Rodrigo.
“Funny how that always seems to happen,” Stephano remarked. “I’m off to bed.”
He had his foot on the marble stair. Rodrigo remained in the lobby, yearning after his lost love, who was standing on the sidewalk. The coach driver was opening the door, when the count gave a loud shout, “Assassins! Help!”
Men armed with clubs were attacking the count. He had drawn his sword and was fending them off, all the while trying to drag his terrified lady toward the coach. One of the thugs grabbed hold of the woman and tore her away from the count. She cried out in terror and dropped, senseless, to the ground. The other thugs redoubled their attack on the count. He clouted one with his fist and thrust his sword at another.
The doorman rushed out in the street, shouting for the constable. The landlord stood in the lobby wringing his hands. The parrot screeched. The page boys went running to the windows to see the fight. The maids screamed in horrified delight, and Rodrigo went bounding out the door to save the lady.
“Rodrigo!” Stephano cried. “Are you mad? Oh, for the love of-He’ll get himself killed!”
Drawing his sword, Stephano ran after his friend.
The count’s blade flashed in the lamplight. He jabbed and stabbed with expert skill, but he was hampered by his efforts to protect the lady, who was lying on the pavement. The coachman was on the box, yelling for the count to get in. The horses were stamping, their eyes rolling.
One of the thugs made a dart at the lady and grabbed one arm, apparently with the intention of dragging her away. Rodrigo seized the lady by her other arm and a tug of war ensued, both of them pulling at the poor woman, yanking her back and forth.