James bent over, lifting the man off his feet, and threw himself backward. Piero hit the pavement first, James on top of him. He heard the crack of skull against stone, then the clatter as the knife fell out of Piero’s outstretched hand.
James bounded up and looked around.
Marta was gone and good riddance…
But where was…
His gaze went wildly about the square. No signs of life. The square was empty.
There was only the man lying motionless on the stones.
James ran down the Ruga Degli Orefici. As he reached the bridge he heard a scream and a splash.
“Francesca!” he roared.
James ran down the Riva del Vin in the direction of the scream.
The first, shocked silence had given way to cries and shouts from the gondoliers. It was dark here, in the shadows of the buildings, and he had trouble making out figures. He slowed, his heart pounding. People were pointing to the water. Someone shouted, “There!” and another, “No, there.”
“I see her!”
“No, over there!”
Then at last a woman’s voice, sharp, English-accented. “There! Quick! That way! Can’t you see?”
“No, signora. Nobody there. That is only a piece of wood.”
James raced to her and pulled her into his arms. “You’re safe. Dio del cielo, you gave me such a fright.” He kissed the top of her head, where the headdress tipped drunkenly to one side. “You’re safe, cuore mio.” He crushed her to him.
She wriggled. “Cordier.”
He held on tightly. The wriggling felt good. She felt so good in his arms. He’d never let her go again.
“Cordier.” She struggled.
He held on.
She stomped on his toe.
He let go, and looked down at her in bewilderment.
“That woman,” she said.
That woman? What woman?
Then he remembered what he’d forgotten in the blind terror as he raced here: Marta Fazi. She’d run away…and Francesca had run after her.
“You little fool!” he said. He grasped her shoulders and shook her. “Don’t ever.” Shake. “Do that.” Shake. “Again.”
She broke away. “What? Did you want me to stay and help you fight one little man?”
“I wanted you to stay put, and not scare ten years off my life,” he said. “She could have lured you into a dark corner and cut up your face. Have you any idea the delight she’d take in disfiguring you?”
“I have an excellent idea. Poor, ignorant creature—even she let Elphick play her like a fiddle. If she did go to the beautiful house in London, he must have had to evict the previous tenant. And she must have been eaten up with jealousy the whole time. Or maybe not. He would have told her, ‘Ma amo solo te, dolcezza mia.’”
But I love only you, my sweet.
James had uttered those words, teasingly, to her on the night she’d first been attacked, when she’d believed he was one of the villains.
“So easy for men to say,” she said. “So impossible for them to mean, truly.”
“Ma amo solo te, dolcezza mia,” he said. “I mean it.”
She regarded him for a long time. He felt his face grow hot.
“If she had disfigured me,” she said, “would you still feel the same way?”
The answer, the usual answer, was on the tip of his tongue: Of course I’ll feel the same way. But was that true? And could he risk not being true, even if the answer he gave was the wrong one? “I don’t know,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “That’s honest, by gad.”
“But we’ll never know, will we?” he said. He looked past her, at the canal, where the gondoliers and others in boats continued searching. “I think she can swim. But even so—with skirts and petticoats? I don’t know. This is not an interior waterway but the Grand Canal, where the tide can be very strong. I am not sure a woman, fully dressed, could manage.”
They were silent for a moment, listening to the gondoliers’ voices and watching the search—as well as they could, for the night was growing darker. James looked up. Clouds had drifted in to dull the half-moon’s bright glow.
“I don’t know whether to be sorry or relieved,” Francesca said. “What a cat she is! Those sapphires—a king’s ransom.”
James forbore saying, “I told you so.”
“I can understand her being angry with us—but to be so impractical?” she said. “If she’d a grain of sense—never mind breeding—she’d have said ‘Thank you,’ and gone away. Instead she told her man to kill you. At least, I assume that’s what she told him. I managed to follow most of what she said—but that last bit would have stymied me if he hadn’t pulled out his knife and got that ugly gleam in his eye.”
James hadn’t the chance to ask how she’d contrived to understand Marta’s far from literate Italian so well.
He saw Zeggio approaching, with another gondolier alongside.
“We have sent for more lanterns, signore,” Zeggio said. “But the clouds cover the moon and to find her is almost impossible now. She can hide many places. Or she can be on the bottom of the canal or carried away to sea. But this man, my cousin, he finds something.”
Zeggio’s cousin gave James a shallow box. “Zeggio says he believes this belongs to the lady. I hope it is not spoiled from the water.”
James gave the dripping box to Francesca. “This is what you went after her for, I collect?”
She opened it. The sapphires were there, still pinned to the velvet lining. “Silly cow,” she murmured. “She never even put them on.”
“That’s why you ran after her?” he pressed. “To get them back?”
Francesca closed the box. “I’m not sure. Perhaps. I was so furious. I wanted to tear her hair from her head.”
“I hope you didn’t risk your neck—again—on my worthless account,” he said.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I was furious because she cheated. I tried to play fair with her. I tried to be understanding, and she…” She frowned. “Actually, it’s understandable, now I think of it. In her place, I should have wanted to kill you, too.”
James became aware of sounds behind them. New voices.
He turned. Giulietta and Lurenze hurried toward them. Giulietta flung her arms round Francesca. “You are not hurt,” she said. “I was so afraid, almost I was sick.”
“I was afraid, too, believe me,” Francesca said. “But I’m all right now.”
“We come as quickly as we can,” Lurenze said. “But all is over, I think?”
Bonnard looked about her, at the gondoliers, still searching, then down at the box of jewels she’d tried to give away to a woman who didn’t understand generous gestures. Her gaze went up to James, briefly, then away. “Yes, it’s over,” she said. “Why is everything so bright?”
Then she sank to the ground.
Chapter 18
For instance—gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o’erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the—Which commandment is ’t
they break?
(I have forgot the number, and think no
man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.)
Lord Byron
Don Juan, Canto the First
She’d fainted because she was not used to running, Francesca told them as they fussed over her in the gondola. It was Lurenze’s gondola, fortunately, one of the large and ornate vessels normally used for ceremonial occasions. But princes were allowed to be ceremonial whenever they felt like it, and the four of them were a degree less cramped than they would have been in her gondola.
“Have you ever run in stays?” she said to James. “Oh, why do I ask you? Of course you have. But you’re a man, and your lungs are larger.”
He was chafing her wrists. “You should not have run.”
“Don’t scold,” said Giulietta. “She takes great risks for you. Even to your former amorosa she tries to be gentle and kind.”
>
“Fazi is not my former amorosa,” Cordier said.
“What then?” said Francesca. “You made quite an impression on her. Something about ‘sweet lovemaking,’ as I recollect.”
“He is a man,” said Lurenze. “It is natural to wish to be sweet to the woman. What, is he a great boor—What is the word you told me, my sweet one? The word you say for these persons, ignorant and with no manners?”
“Da cafone,” Giulietta said. “This is the term you seek, I believe, your celestiality.”
“Yes, like that. The man of ignorance and low breeding is careless of the feelings of the woman. But the true gentleman is always gallant, even to the woman who is of a low position.”
“Even when she is beneath him, you mean, your supremeness?” said Giulietta.
“You know what I mean, naughty girl,” said Lurenze. But he chuckled and added, “It is a very pretty joke with words you make. Naughty but most amusing. I must remember it.”
“Fazi was business,” Cordier said, his voice oh-so-patient. “I made an impression because I stole her emeralds. Which, by the way, were not hers. They’d been stolen from their proper owner.”
“Did you make sweet love to the proper owner as well?” Francesca asked.
“No,” he said between his teeth. “I returned them to him. They happened to belong to a royal treasury, and the party who’d lost them was able to provide something of value to certain other parties with whom I was associated. And that is all I am going to say about it.”
“It is politics,” Lurenze said, nodding wisely. “I know of these things. Please do not be of too much curiosity, ladies. But Mr. Cordier, we must tell something to the governor. He will hear very soon of the disturbance at the Riva del Vin. You must advise me what to say. I do not wish to put in my mouth my feet.”
“We’d better go to the Ducal Palace,” Cordier said. “Someone will be waking Count Goetz with the news. It might as well be us. But you,” he said, reverting to Francesca, whose hand he still held in his big, warm one. “You we’re taking home first. And you must promise to go straight to bed.”
“I promise,” she said. “I haven’t the wherewithal to argue. I haven’t even the energy to make naughty innuendoes.” She looked at Giulietta. “I must leave that to you, my dear.”
“No, no.” Giulietta took her other hand and kissed it and held it against her cheek. “This is no joke to me. I know you are tired and troubled. I will stay with you tonight. The men must go and do their manly things and have their plots and conspiracies and politics. It is too boring. Me, I would like a little something to eat, a little something to drink, and then to be lazy. We put our feet up, near the fire and maybe we look up and count all the little penises on the ceiling.”
“That sounds delightful,” said Francesca.
“And tomorrow night, when we are rested and ourselves again, we go to the opera.”
“An excellent plan.”
“And perhaps the men will join us there, if they promise not to speak of boring politics and the other women whose hearts they break.”
Cordier attempted to speak. “I did not break any—”
“Say, ‘yes, we promise,’” Lurenze advised. “To agree is more simple.”
“Yes, I promise,” Cordier said.
Francesca and Giulietta spent a pleasant night together. They did not sit in the Putti Inferno counting infant organs but adjourned to Francesca’s boudoir, where they ate a little and drank a little and talked a great deal. And when at last they could no longer keep their eyes open, they climbed into Francesca’s great bed, and murmuring drowsily of this and that, finally went to sleep.
There was nothing wrong with a man in bed, as Giulietta said. In fact, there was usually a good deal right about that. But sometimes, one wanted only to be alone. And sometimes one wanted only to be with a good friend.
Being with her friend quieted the turmoil in Francesca’s mind. To Giulietta she could speak freely of Elphick and Marta Fazi and why she’d felt sorry for Marta and hated her at the same time. And she could believe Giulietta’s reassurances that Francesca had done the proper thing in offering the sapphires. She’d acted decently and generously—and it was not Francesca’s fault the other woman was too ignorant to appreciate it.
As to chasing Marta Fazi, Giulietta understood that, too.
“Me, I would like to shake her until her teeth rattle in her head,” Giulietta said. “‘How can you be so greatly stupid?’ I would say. ‘Why take the chance to be hanged or have them cut off your head—for a man? What man is worth this? Where is your brain?’ Me, if I could be in her place, do you know what I would do? I would make a pretty curtsy to you and I would say, ‘Thank you, lady. This is a very beautiful gift. And this man who is with you? Now I look more closely, I do not remember that I have ever seen him before. Good-bye.’ And then I would tell the man with me to put away his knife. ‘Venice is too wet,’ I would tell him. ‘Let us go to another place, far away, where there is less water and they speak a language I understand.’ This is what I would do.”
“But you would never be in that situation,” Francesca said, “because you have a brain and a good heart.”
“All the same, we must remember: Without the grace of God, there is where we go.”
And with such talk, and the philosophy of her friend, Francesca found herself more at peace than she’d been in a very long time. As she’d told Lurenze, it was over.
The long, demented game she’d played with Elphick was over at last. She was finished with that and she felt heart-whole, finally.
She hadn’t realized one nasty little thorn had remained in her heart for all this time. She only knew it now, because it was gone, and she breathed free, at last.
As to Cordier…
“I think this one is to keep,” was Giulietta’s considered opinion when Francesca turned to this subject. “You know—like Countess Benzoni and her devoted Rangone. This one, I think, is devoted to you.”
“We’ll see,” Francesca said drowsily. “And Lurenze?”
Giulietta gave a sleepy smile. “Oh, he is delicious. I fear he will grow bored with me long before I am bored with him. But this is the gamble I take. And I take it with my eyes open.” Then she closed her beautiful doe eyes and fell asleep.
The following afternoon found Francesca at Magny’s palazzo. He’d sent a note, demanding to know what had happened: He’d heard the most ridiculous rumors.
He was not pleased with her account. She did not expect him to be pleased. He objected to her going into deserted squares in the middle of the night to meet villainous women. He objected to her offering her sapphires to a lunatic felon. He was speechless with rage when she told him how she’d chased Marta Fazi to the canal’s edge.
“Are you quite, quite mad?” he demanded, when he found his voice again.
“I was angry,” she said.
“That does it,” he said. “From now on—”
He was unable to complete the sentence because a servant entered to announce that Mr. Cordier had arrived and sought permission to see the count.
“Of course he has permission,” Magny said irritably. When the servant went out, Magny said, “I don’t understand all this ceremony. He sent a note this morning. He had a private matter to discuss, he said.”
The so-called count rose and went to his writing desk. “There.” He held up a thick piece of expensive writing paper.
Francesca, who’d followed him, took the letter from him. It bore only a few lines. She looked at her father, her eyebrows raised. “How formal he is.”
“Something to do with my borrowed identity, I’ll wager,” he answered in a low voice. “I daresay Quentin asked awkward questions.”
“Signor Cordier.”
The servant stood aside and Mr. Cordier entered. He was even more elegant than usual, in a dark blue tailcoat over a spotted waistcoat with shawl collar. His pristine white trousers had stirrups to hold them in place over the gleaming boots.
Cordier greeted her with excessive politeness. Amused, she followed his lead. After a brief exchange of banalities she said, “I know you wish to meet privately with monsieur. I’ll see you later. At La Fenice?”
She moved past him, letting her skirts brush his legs. As she passed she murmured, “Perhaps you could come in your servant disguise. That would be…exciting.”
“I might,” he said. More audibly he added, “There’s no reason for you to leave, Mrs. Bonnard. You might as well hear what I have to say to Count Magny.”
She was curious. The man pretending to be Magny expected her to tell him everything. He did not return the favor. Most blatantly, for example, he had failed to tell her he was not dead. He’d simply appeared one day in Paris, and frightened her out of her wits.
Cordier turned his attention to her provoking parent. “Sir, I won’t sicken you with maudlin speeches. Plain and simple, then: I seek your permission to marry your—er—this lady.”
Francesca felt her jaw drop.
Magny was, if anything, even more shocked. He put his hand to his heart. “You take my breath away,” he said in a low, shaky voice. “Will you really? Marry her, I mean?”
“I see no alternative,” said Cordier.
Francesca found her wits and her voice. “I do,” she said. “Marry?”
“Yes, please,” said Cordier. “I am fearfully in love with you.”
“Yes, I know you are—but marry? Have you taken leave of your senses? Why would you wish to spoil a perfectly good liaison by marrying?”
“Because I want only you, my sweet.”
“Of course you do, but I am not at all sure I want only you,” she said.
“Francesca, really,” said her father. “Here is a man, willing to make an honest woman of you, in spite of all you’ve done—”
“I don’t want to be an honest woman! When will the pair of you get it through your thick heads?”
Your Scandalous Ways Page 26
