Page 63 of Tempted By the English Marquis
She has to know I am serious about taking Augusta home, yet she conducts herself as if nothing is about to change.
Gideon rose from the bed, splashed some cold water on his face, and downed the remainder of his glass of wine. Eleven o’clock was an odd hour. In London, he would normally have been at the theatre or a party; here in Rome, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.
I might just take a walk and go and stretch my legs.
He checked the note from Flynn. Trajan’s Column wasn’t that far from Palazzo Lazio. When he and the girls had departed earlier in the morning, they had turned right into the street. Then they had gone all the way to the end of the block and turned right once more. Trajan’s Column had been visible from that point.
How hard can it be? If I walk to the end and follow my nose, I should be able to find the church.
He didn’t speak Italian, nor did he know his way around the city, but the call of adventure couldn’t be ignored. Gideon popped on his coat and made his way toward the entrance of the palace. He passed through the various galleries and rooms, quietly congratulating himself when he spied the front door. His sense of direction could be trusted.
The armed guards let Gideon out, and one of them made to follow him. He stopped and shook his head. “No. I don’t need protection, thank you.”
He patted his coat pocket, then quietly swore. He was disappointed, but not surprised, he had left his phrasebook behind.
I’m always doing that. Dashing off without checking that I have what I need.
Pointing down the street, he then made a motion with his hands, trying to explain as best as he could about Trajan’s Column. The word ‘Trajan’ got several nods of understanding.
The street at this time of the night was surprisingly full of people, but there was an air of leisurely enjoyment in the way in which they strolled past him. Couples and families chatted and laughed, sharing precious time together.
Gideon hadn’t undertaken the traditional young man’s grand tour of Europe. Various wars with France, as well as a general lack of interest in travel, had seen him put his energies into his studies at Oxford University. After that, he had put his nose to the grindstone and learned animal husbandry and estate management in preparation for his future role as duke. Galivanting around the continent hadn’t figured in his plans. Until now.
An uncomfortable thought had been bouncing around his head most of the day. If he had made the effort to travel, he might well have found himself in Rome long before now. And the situation with Serafina mightn’t have been so dire.
At the end of Via della Pilotta, he turned right. In the dim light, Trajan’s Column poked out from behind a row of buildings. Flynn’s note had mentioned All Saints’ being close by, but there wasn’t any sign of an Anglican church.
“This could be a fool’s errand,” he muttered.
He checked each of the shops as he made his way along the street. Apart from the occasional café, most of them were closed.
Gideon pressed on. An open door caught his attention, and he moved closer. The music which flowed down from the top of a narrow staircase brought a smile to his lips.
There was no mistaking the familiar strains of ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past’—an English hymn which dated back well over a century. A song Gideon had sung in church many times.
A small sign posted on the wall next to the door read:
All Saints’ Chapel
Daily Mattins
Sunday Holy Communion with visiting Church of England ministers
Gideon made his way inside. What he found at the top of the stairs wasn’t a church, but a plain meeting room. It had several rows of benches arranged in front of a cloth-covered table with a vase at either end of it. The table had all the makings of an improvised altar.
Gideon’s gaze shifted from the table to the far corner where a man stood using two small hammers to play an odd-looking musical instrument. And while it appeared strange, the music that came out of the thing was reminiscent of the sound of a piano.
As he approached, Gideon began to sing in tune to the music. “From everlasting Thou art God.”
The hammers ceased and the figure turned to him. “Gideon Kembal. You still haven’t mastered the right key for that hymn.”
Gideon ignored the slight. He might not have been a great singer, but he could still hold a tune better than Flynn Cadnam. “That’s a very unusual instrument you have there,” he said.
Flynn held up the two slender hammers. “It’s a hammered dulcimer. The name is rather self-explanatory considering you beat it with these. The chapel doesn’t yet have the funds for a piano. A gentleman who left for England last week left it behind, so I decided to put it to good use.”
As Gideon approached, Flynn set the prongs aside. “It’s good to see you, Holwell. I still can’t believe you are in Rome.”
Shaking his head, a tearful Gideon stepped forward wrapping, his friend up in a brotherly embrace. “I can’t believe you are alive. Just before I left London, I heard talk of them holding a memorial service for you. Though I can’t say you look like the past year has been any sort of grand adventure.”
