Crown Jewel

by Megan Derr

  "So may I safely assume that Marco desired more than the bounds of the arrangement granted?"

  Celeste hid a grimace by stealing the wine and taking a long swallow. "You may. Some men forget it is fantasy and cannot let it go. I should have realized Marco was one of them. I was becoming his dream smoke, which put all my other clients in danger. He never took well to rivals, be they real or perceived."

  Lazzaro made a derisive noise. "As though I was a rival."

  It should not sting, but it did. But it shouldn't and Celeste was furious with himself. Was he not a crown jewel? Lazzaro might want him, but he had proven he could easily walk away anyway. He had only kissed Celeste to drive off Marco, not because he simply could not help himself. Of course Lazzaro would be derisive of the idea of being a rival for Celeste's attention.

  And that, he told himself sharply, was why a good jewel never let even a kiss affect his senses. He pushed his food away, no longer hungry. "In the interests of being fair, you were flirting with me and you did kiss me. I think he was permitted to mistakenly believe you wanted to challenge him for my affections."

  "I stand a better chance of gaining the moon's affections," Lazzaro replied. "I did not think jewels dealt in affection."

  "No jewel can afford to," Celeste said. "Affection is far too costly." He started to say more, something caustic, but the emotion that flashed through Lazzaro's eyes made him forget. What was that? What about his words had caused such a strong reaction?

  "What is the price of affection?" Lazzaro asked softly.

  Celeste tossed his hair, lifted his chin, and replied, "Affection always means fidelity, your grace. To indulge in affection I would have to give up my livelihood. No man's fickle, fleeting lust is worth putting myself back on the street, which is exactly where stupid jewels wind up after indulging in affection."

  Lazzaro said nothing, only ate a bit of soft cheese and a chunk of bread dipped in oil. He wasn't wearing gloves, Celeste noted belatedly. The two other occasions they had met, Lazzaro had been wearing gloves. It seemed oddly intimate, which was utterly ridiculous. His hands were not the hands of a noble—the knuckles were pronounced, marked with scars and nicks, even one that looked like a burn. They were brown from the sun, and he bet the palms were callused. Rough hands, worker hands. Not a Duke's hands.

  He would not wonder how differently they would feel, as opposed to all the soft, pudgy, wealthy hands that touched him nearly every day. He did not want to know, did not want to find out—

  —because he would only find out if Lazzaro became a client, and suddenly the thought of that turned his stomach. Why, though? Even earlier that same day, it would not have bothered him. Please, he thought miserably, please don't let him have been undone by a single, stupid request to dance.

  Celeste expected Lazzaro to continue the discussion, and did not know how he felt when Lazzaro only said, "So what are you going to do about Pio, now that Marco is dead?"

  "Manage," Celeste said, and bit into an olive. He only had six months left; he would figure something out. All he needed was money and time would give him that. Perhaps he would just surrender his free day and take on another client, as tired as the thought made him.

  He tensed as a hand covered his and looked up sharply, frowning at Lazzaro. "What?"

  "Is there any way I can help? I did kill Marco, after all—and that after provoking him."

  "Does it bother you?" Celeste blurted, annoyed with himself but unable to take the question back. "That you killed him, as easy as that?"

  Lazzaro frowned. "Why would you think it doesn't bother me?"

  "I don't know how to deal with a dead body," Celeste replied, "but it is hardly the first time I have seen one. The first house I worked in, I saw three jewels killed over a period of a couple of years. One by a client, another by the owner, another by an angry drug dealer. None of those three lost any sleep over the lives they took. You do not seem as though you will."

  "I won't," Lazzaro replied, meeting his gaze, eyes intent. "He tried to kill me—tried to stab me in the back. After he tried to threaten me and was clearly harassing you. I take no pleasure in killing, but I will not be sorry for defending me and mine." He fell silent, polishing off the wine and last bit of cheese. Then he added quietly, "The first time I killed someone, I threw up and did not sleep a full night through for more than a week. I kept seeing his face and there was so much blood."

  Celeste looked away. He should not have asked. He was not even certain why he cared…but that was not true. He wanted—needed—a reason to hate Lazzaro. Anything. If he continued to like the bastard, to be drawn to him… well, that was the path of fools, and look how well that had ended for Marco and any number of others in the Entertainment Quarter. "I should be going," he said, and rose.

  "Stay," Lazzaro said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. It was stupid to be shocked by his touch; Celeste was used to being touched. Except, perhaps not, because he could feel those rough fingers in a way he was not accustomed.

  "Let me go," he ordered. "The night is gone and I will be missed—have been missed. I need to return. Everyone knows I took Marco as my newest client. By now they will know he is dead and that I am missing."

  "Say you were with a client all night, one who paid an obscene amount of money to have you for the length of the Festival of Secrets. Would they believe that?"

  Celeste grimaced, because they would. "The festival does not end until tomorrow night. What in the world am I supposed to do until then?"

  "Stay here or I can take you to my home," Lazzaro replied. "Attend the festivities with me tomorrow. It will make your story true enough."

  "You are really quite mad," Celeste replied. "I am not hiding myself away like some coward. I have a house to take of and I cannot do that while masquerading as your pleasure of the moment." He stood up—then sat down again as the room swayed and irritably wondered just how much of a fool he had become, that he would drink wine while exhausted.

  Lazzaro sighed softly. "At the very least, stay long enough to get some rest and have your clothes cleaned. I do not think anyone will believe a word you say if they note the bloodstains on your hem and sleeves."

  Making a face, because it was a point he could not argue, Celeste said, "Fine." Feeling reckless and angry and in need of wiping that triumphant look off Lazzaro's face, he undid the laces of his costume, dropping the various bits and pieces to the floor. He shucked the tunic and underclothes, leaving them in a tidy pile. Naked, he unwound his hair and combed his fingers through it. "Thank you for the hospitality, your grace."

  Turning, he strode off across the sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. It took only a glance to see that Lazzaro favored sleeping on the left side of the enormous bed. Celeste walked around it and climbed up the raised dais on which it was situated, then slid beneath the blankets on the right side.

  Despite himself, he sank right into the wonderful softness of the high quality mattress, the smoothness of good linen, and the sinful warmth of the heavy blankets. He had a decent bed, but it could not even begin to compare to this. What a treat it must be, to sleep in such a bed every night.

  He hated himself for that thought, because it immediately led to the image of him in this bed very night, Lazzaro sliding in next to him—swearing, Celeste cut the frivolous images off. No doubt Lazzaro would reach for him and that would be that, and the bastard had better leave him nine sovereigns in the morning.

  A short time later, just as Celeste was drifting off to sleep again, Lazzaro did slide into the bed. Celeste tensed, waited, braced himself as Lazzaro shifted—then settled, going still beside him, doing nothing but murmuring a soft good night. Celeste stayed frozen in place as Lazzaro fell asleep, until soft snores filled the room.

  Twice Lazzaro had resisted, refused, when Celeste had clearly been available for the taking. The only kiss he had stolen had been with the intention of driving off Marco. Celeste was not used to feeling inadequate—he did not like it.

 
Sliding carefully from the bed, he went to fetch his clothes and go back to where he belonged, where everything made sense and he was in control.

  *~*~*

  Lazzaro finished signing the last of the various bills, permissions, rejections, and letters that Santino had put in front of him with a look and pointed clearing of his throat. He would throttle or at least reprimand Santino for being uppity, but Santino was the reason Lazzaro's household ran…although Lazzaro was still trying to determine how he had acquired a household (he suspected Benito).

  Normally, paperwork did not trouble him. Lazzaro was more than happy to contend with the countless amounts of paper shuffling that came with being a Duke, since it was far more interesting a life than that of the scholar he had thought he would be.

  All the stories went that a peasant turned Duke should be humbled, awed, falling over grateful, and lead as quiet and ordinary a life as he was able. To the hells with that. He was no directionless rake, but he liked being a Duke and had no qualms about settling into the life of a noble that he never should have had. The freedom being a Duke gave him was something he would have found nowhere else.

  Presently, however, all Lazzaro really wanted to do was smash everything in sight and burn it all down. He wanted violence. Blood. He wanted the beautiful bastard who had slunk from his bed three weeks ago and refused to see him ever since. He wanted Celeste so he could wrap his fingers around that lovely throat and squeeze.

  Snatching up his letter opener, he began to slice open the pile of correspondence that had also appeared on his desk with pointed throat-clearing and mildly threatening looks. Leave it to Santino to use his employer's foul mood to get some work done. Lazzaro glanced at the various envelopes with absolutely no interest, not needing to pull out the cards and letters within to know that most were invitations to various supper parties, teas, balls, musicals, and other such social engagements. Picking through the mess for names he cared about, he set them aside to pen personal responses. The rest, he began to go through and mark for either acceptance or rejection. When he finally finished, he dumped the lot back on the tray from whence they had come and put it on the corner of his desk for Santino to take away at some point. He scowled at his desk, both relieved and annoyed that he appeared to be out of work.

  No doubt Santino would fix that posthaste. Lazzaro picked up the bell at his elbow to summon Santino, but right as he rang it the door flew open to admit a brightly dressed and smirking Benito, exasperated Santino two steps behind him. "I tried to keep him out, your grace, but he is—"

  "A spoiled brat," Lazzaro interjected. "It's all right, Santino. Why not bring us all some wine?"

  As Santino left to fetch the wine, Benito sat down in one of the chairs in front of Lazzaro's desk and stripped off his gloves. "Here I was told there would be a fire-breathing, ill-tempered, mannerless beast dwelling within this cave. You are clearly possessed of manners, so I do not see what all the fuss was about."

  "The sooner you drink and say what you have come to say, the sooner I am rid of you," Lazzaro replied.

  Benito only laughed. "My, your mood has gone from foul to truly vile. Methinks your ills canonly be cured by a strong dose of Crown J—"

  "Do. Not. Say it," Lazzaro cut in sharply. "I will murder you myself, Benito." He swiped viciously at a book on his desk, but then set it down again before he pitched it across the room.

  Three weeks! He should have been over it, moving on to other matters. It was not as though there was so much between him and Celeste that he had the right to be angry. To be anything at all. But he had killed a man because of Celeste. They had shared food in his private quarters in the secret palace. They had talked, and not just idle conversation. He had offered his bed and not once succumbed to the desire—the need—to pull Celeste atop him and act out every wicked thought in his head … only to wake to find him long gone and no note—nothing. The bastard still had his signet ring, too, the one that had been a gift from his father. Every time he had gone to see Celeste, he had been refused admittance. It was enough to make a man contemplate murder.

  Benito interrupted his thoughts, levity gone as he asked quietly, "Are you truly that enamored of him, Lazo?"

  "Enamored?" Lazzaro echoed, then shook his head. "Besotted? Maybe. Aggravated? Definitely. Enamored? Certainly not." How could he possibly be enamored of a man he had only met twice? A professional whore who lied as often as he breathed and entered no commitment that did not come with monetary compensation—who tangled him up in jealously and death, and could not even say goodbye.

  "What did the monks do to you, when you got into a snit like this?" Benito asked.

  Lazzaro grimaced at the memory. "They carted me up the mountain to a waterfall and stuck me under it until the sun went down, when I no longer had the energy to be upset about anything."

  Benito laughed. "Truly? Monks! Well played, indeed. Regretfully there is a lack of waterfalls around our beautiful city. Oh, but I am a liar. There is the one at the Palazzo di Santa Maria."

  "If you try to stick me in that sewage, Benito, I will ensure you cannot have children."

  "Violence will accomplish nothing," Benito replied loftily. "But if you ask me nicely, I will tell you what I have learned about your mysterious Pio for you."

  Lazzaro's gaze snapped to him, attention completely captured. "You have been looking into it?"

  "Of course," Benito replied, smile gentle. "I do not like to see my brother so unhappy, and you are out of sorts indeed if you did not look into Pio yourself."

  "I appreciate it," Lazzaro said. "I am sorry to have been so difficult."

  Benito flapped a hand, waving the words away. "Think nothing of it. His name is Pio di Caprio, a Jeweler of impressive and horrifying reputation. He owns the House of Peace and used to be a silent partner in others before his vices saw him forced to sell his shares. He has been struggling financially because like many men he cannot afford his addictions to dream smoke, alcohol, gambling, and staying young and vigorous forever. Your beauty came along and helped restore the reputation of the House of Peace, in exchange for a small cut of the profits, one night off a week, and the right to buy back his contract—with interest—over a set period of time. I believe that time comes to an end in six months. There is apparently a lot of speculation as to whether he will become a Jeweler in his own right. Some say he will buy out Pio, others say he will open his own house."

  "An army could not have pried that sort of information out of Celeste or anyone he trusted with it. How the hells did you get it?"

  Smirking, Benito replied, "I am the crown prince and have more wealth than I probably should. Also, I am engaged to a demon. You, my dearest friend, owe me a very large, dare I say obscenely large, debt."

  Lazzaro sighed, loud and long, fighting the smile that twitched at his lips. He nodded to Santino as he appeared with a tray of wine and food, then said to Benito, "I do not suppose you would let me repay that debt in the same gold you spent?"

  Benito just laughed, accepting the glass of wine Santino handed with a nod of thanks, before replying, "Of course not; do not be ridiculous."

  Accepting his own glass of wine, Lazzaro set it absently aside and asked, "Do I want to know how you intend to make me repay the debt?"

  "No," Benito replied cheerfully.

  Lazzaro heaved another sigh. "Let's have it, then."

  "I want you to be my voice while I am on my wedding voyage."

  "No," Lazzaro replied immediately. "Our father—"

  "Already gave his blessing. Papa adores you. He hates he cannot make you more than a Duke, you know that."

  "The answer is still no," Lazzaro said, refusing to be distracted by comments about their father. "Santino, tell him he is out of his mind."

  Santino grinned, pausing with his wine glass at his lips. "I think you will make an excellent stand in crown prince, your grace."

  Lazzaro gave him a withering look, ignoring the way Santino snickered before drinking his wine. "It is not
proper—"

  "Oh, do be quiet," Benito said, lifting his own wine glass in a mocking toast. "You have been overruled by your brother, father, and secretary. Concede a graceful defeat."

  "I concede only that you and our father are great—" He broke off as Santino cried out, books and the tray of food crashing to the floor as he toppled onto the desk. Then he fell to the floor, holding his stomach, and tossing up the contents of his lunch all across the carpet. "Santino!" Lazzaro cried out, launching from his desk and bolting across the room.

  Benito, having beaten him there, shoved Santino at Lazzaro, then stood and ran to the door. He bellowed for servants and a healer to be fetched at once. Then he whirled back around and rejoined them on the floor. "Poison."

  Lazzaro did not reply, too busy examining Santino, desperate for a way—any way—to keep him alive. "Watch him!" He stood up and ran through the house to his kitchens, searching for the cook. "Rosa!"

  "Your grace!"

  "Santino has been poisoned," Lazzaro cut in. "The wine, where did you get the wine?"

  A look of horror overtook her face, and she started crying. "Came this morning, your grace, same as ever. But—but—but—"

  "But what?" Lazzaro asked with a patience he did not feel.

  "It was not Tomas who delivered it. The man who did said Tomas was sick."

  Lazzaro swore softly. "What did he look like?

  Rosa wiped her face with her apron. "Tall. Handsome. Dark skin, dark hair. Clean. He took the money you gave me to give the wine shop. Signed the receipt and everything!" She went over to her little desk and fluttered over the papers there for a moment, then finally handed him the receipt that Santino had written out just that morning.

  Lazzaro's blood ran cold as he stared at it—then shot straight back to boiling. At the bottom of the receipt, in a short, brisk hand, was the name Marco.

  He would know that handwriting anywhere. It had been his first clue that something more was afoot with the murder of his mother and three other nobles. Each one had received on the day of their death a delivery of some sort—wine, brandy, medicine, candy. Each had a receipt written in that very same hand. Lazzaro had visited each shop, only to be told that something had happened to their delivery persons—two were mugged, one was killed, another drugged. It had seemed to him that the killer played some sort of game by delivering the poisons in such fashion.