“True, true.” The concierge nodded, ceding the point. “But with all the tourists passing through Rome these days, particularly British tourists, such as yourself, there is a troupe that has revived it. They give performances in English. Though if you ask me, the great Signora Violante and her compagnie must be rolling over in their graves to know of it.”
Thomas could only assume the man was talking about a great commedia dell’arte troupe of the past.
“No,” the concierge sighed as he went on, staring at the door the same way Thomas was, “Signorina Roan and her compangie have become quite famous. They say that Signorina Roan is the best Colombina to grace the stages of the plazas of Rome since Caterina Biancolelli herself. They say she has the grace and humor of a goddess, in spite of being English.”
Thomas jerked to full attention, his mouth dropping open. “Did you say Columbine?”
“Eh, Columbine, Colombina.” The concierge shrugged in true Italian fashion. “It is all the same, no?”
Thomas’s heart raced. He took a few steps toward the door before coming to his senses. Miss Roan was likely long gone by now. But the concierge had confirmed the impossible for him in a way that nearly made Thomas laugh. Miss Violetta Roan was the English Columbine. His ally in Rome had already made contact with him.
Chapter 2
Violetta could hear the audience gathering in the plaza from the make-shift dressing room set up for the acting troupe she belonged to. The dressing room was little more than a tent erected against the side of an old church, but it had plenty of space, partitions so that the actors could dress and undress in relative privacy, and a table with mirrors propped against the church wall, where she sat applying her make-up.
The traditional make-up for Colombina wasn’t complicated. Unlike the male commedia dell’arte characters, the female characters didn’t wear masks. Although as Violetta stared at her reflection while applying lip rouge and powder, all she saw was a mask of a different kind.
“You’re looking so pretty today,” her fellow actor, Maria, said as she sat beside Violetta to apply her own make-up. “I would give anything for eyes like yours.”
Violetta grinned at Maria’s reflection in the mirror, giggling as though the two of them were schoolgirls gossiping late into the night. “We can’t do anything about the color of eyes we were born with,” she said in a voice that was far lighter and sweeter than her natural tone, “but there are a few tricks with kohl that you can use to make your eyes stand out. Observe.”
She picked up the thin, kohl pencil at her place and demonstrated for Maria how to outline her eyes so that they were arresting, even from a distance. As she did, she preened and posed and made faces that would convince any outside observer that she was nothing more than a vain and silly actress who enjoyed flirting with herself in the mirror.
Nothing about her outward appearance would let on that she was so much more than an ornament to be enjoyed by an appreciative audience. She’d been biding her time in Rome for more than a year, sending information about The Jackal and his criminal band back to London by whatever secret means she could. Her mission up until that point had been intelligence gathering. It wasn’t the most exhilarating work a spy could do, but it had given her an excuse to leave the difficult and depressing life of a minor gentleman’s daughter, confined to the country by societal rules that she hated, for an exotic life on stage in Rome.
“I just can’t seem to get the same effect as you have,” Maria sighed, lowering her arms from her clumsy attempt to outline her eyes.
“Here. Let me.” Violetta twisted to her, taking Maria’s kohl pencil and going to work.
If her mother could see the life she was living now, she would take to her bed and never recover. As far as her mother knew, she was in Rome as a companion for an elderly widow. The letters she sent back once a month were filled with made-up stories of sitting with the old woman as she napped and looking out over educational ancient ruins. The stories kept her mother happy, so she continued to write them.
Although her reality wasn’t much different, aside from her stint on the stage. She spent a lot of time looking at ruins and waiting for something to happen.
Of course, something had happened just the night before. Lord Landry had waltzed into her life.
She smiled and leaned away from Maria. “There,” she said. “What do you think?”
Maria turned to blink at herself in the mirror. “Oh, it looks perfect.” She clapped her hands together with a giggle. “And to think, you’re playing my servant in the play and I’m La Signora.” She giggled again.
Violetta imitated the woman, intent on using that sort of silliness in her disguise. Though the last thing she wanted to do, now that she’d met Lord Landry, was behave like a ninny.
Lord Beverly had informed her one of the McGoverns would be meeting her at the hotel. He’d given Lord Landry’s name, listed a short history of who the man was, and explained in detail how she should assist the man in searching for his brother. She knew Lord Addlebury by reputation, though she had never met him before. The prospect of searching for a man as important as Lord Addlebury and rescuing him had thrilled her to the tips of her toes. Finally, her mission in Rome would involve something more than writing reports.
And then she’d laid eyes on Lord Landry. Her whole body thrummed at the memory of him—disheveled from travel, clearly exhausted, and still as delicious as a maritozzo. And just like the sugary pastry, she wanted to devour him in one bite. Her mother would expire on the spot if she knew how carnal her youngest daughter’s thoughts had turned. Living as a spy in Rome had other advantages. She’d received quite an education in seduction, all of it necessary for someone who needed to pry information from men. Not that she didn’t enjoy the prying. She half wished that Lord Landry were a target instead of an ally in the cause. Seducing him would be a joy. Though who was to say that she couldn’t seduce him anyhow?
“Signorina, you look as though you are contemplating mischief,” another of her fellow actors, Antonio, said, sweeping up to her side. He wore a lascivious grin and stared straight down the front of her costume as he stood over her in his Arlecchino costume.
The wary, impatient feeling Antonio always gave her knotted her stomach. “Thank you, Antonio,” she said, smiling up at him as though she enjoyed the compliment. “You’re always so kind to me.”
“A beauty like you is easy to be kind to.” Antonio leaned closer to her. “I wish you would allow me to be kinder to you still.”
Violetta giggled and shied away from him. There was nothing inherently wrong with Antonio. He was still in his prime and she suspected he was fit and trim under his ridiculous costume. It wasn’t his physical appearance that put her off so much as the way he had pursued her relentlessly and clumsily since first joining the troupe two months before.
“Now, Antonio,” she said, standing. “You know that I make it a policy not to dally with fellow members of the company.” It was a bit of a lie. She’d had an interesting fling with the actor Antonio had been hired to replace. Hector had shown her a very good time indeed before being hired as an understudy at the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma. But Antonio didn’t need to know that.