“Actually,” Mary said, “I had a lovely ring, but it was lost in our journey through France.”

“Ah. I see. A shame.” He seemed amused. “My wife’s was also lost.” Looking to Hugh he advised, “You must buy her a new one in Rome, Mr. Symonds. They have many goldsmiths. This is your first visit to Rome? Then I envy you. It is a beautiful city—the river, the bits of antiquity, and the pope’s palace—to see it all for the first time is a thing to remember.”

His first mate, the man in the brown coat who yesterday had come to fetch them and then drawn his pistol upon them, said, “All things considered, I find Rome too crowded. I much prefer Genoa.”

Del Rio agreed it was also a beautiful place. “But at this time we Spanish are not so well liked in Genoa, since our great Admiral Don Blas de Lezo threatened to bombard that republic with our fleet if they did not return the money they had taken from us. Two million pesos, they held in their bank, that was rightfully ours, so he was justified in making threats, but it is not my way, the bombardment. So messy.” He dipped his fingers in the bowl of water set beside his plate, and wiped them.

Thomson took an interest in the talk of things financial. “How would you have got the money back, then?”

“There are always ways to take back what belongs to you.” The Spaniard shrugged. “Take this affair now of the London corporation that is causing all the panic, all the bankruptcies—this, what do you call it? The Charity…the Charitall…”

“The Charitable Corporation.” Thomson supplied the name casually, but he shifted slightly in his chair and Mary saw the movement draw del Rio’s eyes although the captain did not pause before continuing,

“Yes, that’s the one. The men who are behind that, it is said they are Jacobites.” He looked at Hugh. “That they stole all this money to give to the king who’s in exile at Rome. But the money they stole, if you look at it one way, it’s not really stolen, I think.”

Thomson asked him, “And why do you think that?”

“I’m not good with stocks,” said del Rio, “and things like that. Those are for bankers. But my understanding, this money they stole, they first raised it on shares in the York Buildings Company, yes?”

Mary could see the bold gleam of intelligence lying behind the apparently guileless dark gaze of del Rio, and guessed he knew more than he cared to reveal, but he waited for Thomson to verify what he’d just said before carrying on,

“And the York Buildings Company holds all the lands that were seized from the Jacobites, after the last war. This is how it makes its profits, selling off estates that have been stolen from their owners. So I think it is not such an evil thing these men have done in London.” Leaning back, he took his wine cup in his hand and held it lightly. “All they did was steal back what the English stole from them. It isn’t theft, when you steal something that belongs to you already.”

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” Thomson said. He lifted his own cup and took a drink.

“No,” del Rio countered with a smile, “it is the right way. I am always right about such things.”

His first mate drily said, “And always very modest.”

“Naturally.” The captain looked across at Mary. “But what were we speaking of before? Ah yes, Rome. You will enjoy it, Mrs. Symonds. It is an enchanting place for lovers—it perhaps will be an inspiration to your husband to show you more affection, yes?”

Mary had briefly considered what role she should play with this man. She had wondered if she should be lively and just a bit foolish, like the younger sister who’d been in the diligence with them, or maybe more confident like Mistress Jamieson, but having just watched him closely now dealing with Thomson, she judged that her best defense would be to play no role, for he would surely be able to spot that she wore a disguise, and it would do no more than increase his suspicions. So when she replied to him now she was none but herself. Only Mary.

“Affection,” she said, “need not be on display to be deeply and honestly felt, and sometimes it is all the more honest for being held privately.”

He raised one shoulder slightly in a gallantly amused shrug that permitted her to score the point. “This may be true. It’s certain Emiliana and myself hold many things in private.” Reaching out, he stroked the Spanish woman’s forearm where it rested on the table, let his fingers linger on her skin beneath the lacy ruffle at her elbow, and his touch seemed genuinely loving. “She knows all my secrets, yes?” He shared the smile Emiliana turned to him, and then looked back at Mary. “As I am sure you know your husband’s.”

Sitting back, he waited while one of his servants took their plates away and served the main course of what looked like chicken pieces drowning in a dark-red sauce with vegetables and rice. And as the servant made the rounds to fill their cups with wine, del Rio said, “For instance, you would know this scar your husband has just here.” He touched his own neck briefly at the back, above his collar. “You would know where he acquired it.”

Mary felt the warning pressure of Hugh’s leg against her own beneath the table, and she knew del Rio was now testing her and this would be the first of who knew how many attempts to trap her into saying something that would show they could not possibly be married. She’d seen the scar, of course she had, but she had never asked about it, and although she could have very probably devised a story on the spot explaining it, she could not know for certain whether Hugh himself had told del Rio yesterday, while they were drinking, how he had received the wound. She felt Hugh’s deep frustration at not being able to advise her, guide her, keep her safe, and Mary knew a sudden rise of anger, not on her behalf, but his.