Page 26 of Appointment in Bath

“You’ll make an impression all right.” Ivo turned Ember back toward Beasley Park, leading Ruggiero’s mount along with them. “How is anyone to take me seriously with you staggering about the place like Falstaff? Didn’t I tell you to remain inside?”

“But Master Ivo, the invitation—”

“A mistake, obviously. The vicar can’t expect me to bring you to dinner. His daughter will be there—a gently-bred lady by all accounts.”

Ruggiero perked up. “The parson has a daughter?”

“Never you mind his daughter. It’s Pinnock I care about. He’s an influential voice in the village. I mean to present a serious, sober countenance to the man.”

“Sober,” Ruggiero repeated mournfully. “Why you English don’t like the wine?”

Ivo flashed him a dark glance. “You’re English, too, lest you forget it. And enough with that atrocious accent. You’re not in Italy any longer, trying to gull hapless travelers into hiring you.”

It had worked well enough with Ivo and his companions. For a good six months, they’d all believed Ruggiero to be the native Florentine he’d claimed to be. It had only been later, when the signore was firmly entrenched in their ranks, that Ivo had learned the man’s sad story.

“Is a hard habit to break,” Ruggiero said.

“It would be easier if you’d cease drinking. Would it kill you to abstain for a week? We might dry you out for a time as we did in Venice.”

“Venice.” Ruggiero’s face screwed up with bitterness at the memory. “A sad time, Master Ivo.”

“For you, maybe.” Ivo guided Ruggiero’s horse through a stand of trees. He didn’t trust the signore enough to return the reins to him. “And now this nonsense. Half seas again.” He flashed him an accusing look. “You promised that if I brought you back with me, you’d exercise moderation. At least enough that you might find yourself gainful employment.”

“It’s what I’m trying to do. Find employment.”

“Yes. At my expense. Have you no regard for my ambitions? Or, more to the point, for me?”

“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me,” Ruggiero said. “Your kindness is more than I deserve.”

Ivo dismissed the signore’s thanks. He was sorry he’d ever listened to the man’s entreaties. Ivo’s companions had been wiser. They’d each of them departed, leaving Ivo to handle the settling of accounts with their perpetually inebriated—and increasingly pitiful—guide.

Ruggiero had begged Ivo to take him back to England with him. He’d even wept, saying there was nothing left for him in Italy any longer. He’d claimed he was eager to forge a new life for himself. To finally come home after so many years in exile.

Ivo recalled the conversation with growing resentment. Drat his soft heart! Must he always go about feeling sorry for everyone? The signori of the world. The Miss Burton-Smythes. It wasn’t up to him to solve the problems of everyone he met. For once—just for once—could he not focus on his own aims, with no distractions to derail him?

And he was distracted, particularly by his burgeoning friendship with Meg Burton-Smythe.

They’d left things awkwardly at the river. It was Ivo’s fault, too. He shouldn’t have taken umbrage at her innocent assertions. Who was he to disabuse her of her romantic notions about the origins of the feud between their families? He had no right to be telling her that her father had been a bully. And no good reason, either. Especially considering that he needed to smooth the way to speak with the man.

It wasn’t the first mistake Ivo had made today. He was determined not to make any others. In future, he would concentrate the whole of his attention on furthering his ambitions with the railway. Damn the rest of it.

“I try to stop drinking,” Ruggiero said as they drew closer to Beasley Park. “But the wine—it tempts me.”

Ivo scowled at him. “My father won’t thank you for drinking his cellar dry. And if my mother catches you in this condition, she’ll likely box your ears.”

“Lady Allendale is molto formidabile.”

“Precisely. That gives you less than a fortnight to get yourself in order.”

“Don’t require a fortnight,” Ruggiero said. “I’ll be sober by the dinner.”

“You’re not accompanying me to dinner at the vicarage,” Ivo shot back. “On no account.”

“The parson—”

“I shall tell him you’ve taken ill. You can meet with Pinnock another time, when there isn’t so much at stake.”

“But—”