Free Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures by Lillian Marek

beautiful as Donna Lissandra should ride in a coach of gold, drawn by snow-white horses. Well, that was idiotically fanciful. But she certainly deserved something better than this. He opened the door of the landau and frowned at the faded fabric of the seats. The nap had been worn almost entirely off the brown velvet and the cushions were none too plump. It suited the witch-like maid scuttling behind her, but not the smiling goddess who was allowing him to hand her into the carriage.
    With a few words of rapid Italian, Donna Lissandra dispatched the scowling maid to sit beside the driver and collapsed next to Lady Elinor with a delighted laugh. The others looked at her with a bit of confusion, so she made an apologetic face. “You must forgive me. It is just that I do not often go anywhere simply for pleasure these days. My father, well, you could see, he is not well these days, and my mother does not like to leave him, even to pay calls.” She gave a shrug.
    â€œAnd, of course, the daughter of the marchese cannot possibly go for a walk by herself. Oh, no, no, no! Not even with my dragon Maria glowering at me every moment.” She gestured at the maid, enveloped in black, who seemed to radiate disapproval even while sitting with her back to the young people. “And we must speak only English, because she does not understand.”
    â€œWe are, of course, delighted to be of service to you,” said Rycote with as much of a bow as he could manage while seated in a landau. She smiled at him. He wished he had read more poetry. If he had, he might have been able to describe that smile and the way it turned his insides into mush.
    â€œThe avoidance of dragon-like chaperones is a particular specialty of mine,” said his sister. She grinned at Lissandra.
    Lissandra grinned back. “Ah, I knew the moment I saw you that we would be friends.”
    â€œThat’s what we need. Two of them,” Tunbury said to Rycote in an undertone.
    â€œAs if anyone had ever been able to make my sister behave. But it’s really too bad of her to be trying to lead a young lady like Donna Lissandra astray.” He scowled at Elinor.
    â€œNow, I have told the driver first to take us to the quarter where all the English go,” said Lissandra.
    Elinor looked disappointed. “But we did not come to Italy to see Englishmen.”
    That won raised eyebrows from Lissandra. “Ah, that is what all the English say. But sooner or later they all go to the Caffè Greco and talk and talk. All the artists and the poets, that is where they go.” She looked at Rycote intently, then turned to Elinor. “Your brother, he is a poet?”
    Rycote felt himself turned red while the other two burst out laughing.
    â€œHeavens, no,” said Elinor when she could talk again. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
    Lissandra was still looking at Rycote. She lifted a shoulder. “He has the air that all the young men who fancy themselves poets attempt. Like your Lord Byron. Only your brother is more handsome, no?”
    While his sister went off into further gales of laughter, Rycote turned to glare at a grinning Tunbury. “The least you could do is stop enjoying this!”
    Getting himself under control, Tunbury said, “Alas, Donna Lissandra, I fear that when Rycote has that distant look in his eye, he is not contemplating a new epic. He is merely considering crop rotation or thinking of ways to improve his dairy herd.”
    â€œAh, a farmer. Bene . That is good.” Lissandra looked at him with genuine approval. “Farmers are always needed. They do some good in this world instead of always making trouble. There are far too many useless dreamers in this world, dreamers who do nothing but sit in their caffès and talk all night.”
    They rode past several caffès in addition to the famous Greco, and Lady Elinor looked at them wistfully. “Could we go to one, do you