She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. Ten years of military life had taught him caution, but only strengthened a fearless zest for diving into any promising adventure with unalloyed enjoyment. "Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. I'll take them back with me. “Listen to me. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. ‘Aye, miss, like a shadow.
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