A Notorious Woman. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
never be too careful in this life, Signor Velazquez.”
He left Marc’s side and crossed the room with his loping, youthful gait, passing his father in the doorway without a word.
“Ah, Signor Velazquez,” Ermano said heartily. “I am glad to see that my son has been keeping you entertained while I concluded my business. I have sent for wine and refreshments.”
“Your son seems a promising young man,” Marc commented. He turned back to close the window, for the marble room had begun to grow chilly with the passing of the day. Below, torchlight shone on Balthazar’s white doublet and diamonds as he climbed into the blond courtesan’s gondola. She looped her arms about his neck, leaning into him as they glided away.
“Promising?” Ermano stared down at the canal with narrowed eyes. “You are very kind to say so and, of course, I have great hopes for him. He is my only son. Yet I fear he has too much of his mother in him. She was from an excellent lineage, but of little spirit.”
With a beringed hand, he gestured towards one of the newer portraits on the wall, a depiction of a pale, plump lady overwhelmed by satin, sable, and jewels. The fourth Countess Grattiano. Marc pretended to study the painting, yet, really, he watched the count. Marc was much the same height as Ermano, taller than the average, but the count was wider, sturdier, his once well-muscled form turning slowly to fat. His white hair and beard were still thick, his gaze shrewd. He was an ageing lion, but powerful, alert, not yet ready to yield his glory to an unsatisfactory cub.
“I was married four times, you know?” Ermano said pensively. “All ladies of wealth and family, they served my fortune well, yet only one could give me a child that lived. A child of such surliness, such weakness. I fear for all I have built once I am gone.”
“Many youths pass through such dissatisfied phases. Signor Balthazar is young. He may well yet grow out of it.”
“I pray so.” Ermano turned his gaze on Marc, his eyes as green in colour as Balthazar’s, but more focused, less diffused with anger. “I would wager you never passed through such a ‘phase,’ Signor Velazquez. Your parents are fortunate, indeed, to possess such a son.”
Marc nearly laughed aloud at the delicious irony. “I will pass on your kind words to my mother, Count Ermano. Perhaps they will help her to forget the days of my youthful rebellion, when I refused her plan for me to enter the Church.”
“Your father is not living?”
Marc had a quick memory of Juan Velazquez, tall, swarthy, quick to temper, quicker to laugh. He had taught Marc all there was to know about ships and sailing, had imbued his adopted son with his own great love of the sea.
“Alas, no. Only my mother, who now resides in a convent near Seville.”
“She is blessed, to have produced a son who can be called Il leone.” Servants came into the sala, interrupting their conversation to set out platters of sweetmeats. A tall, dark, silent Turk poured spiced wine, bowing out of the room as Marc and Ermano seated themselves on the brocade chairs beside the massive fireplace.
“I have not yet given up hope, though,” Ermano went on. “It is true I am not a young man, but neither am I so very ancient. I could yet father more sons to inherit, perhaps even daughters who could marry well and bring further glory to the Grattiano name.”
The count intended to wed again, to produce yet more offspring to rain anger down on northern Italy? Marc nearly choked on his wine at the prospect. “I wish you good fortune in such an endeavour, Count,” he managed to say.
Ermano nodded thoughtfully. “Their mother would have to be strong, of course. No more weak-blooded signorinas. And intelligent, with a certain fire to her. I understand you have now visited Signora Bassano’s shop. Twice.”
Ah—so that was it. Ermano thought the tall, mysterious Julietta was just the woman to mother this great new brood. Marc could almost feel sorry for her. He placed his goblet of wine on the nearest inlaid table and faced the count. “I have. She seems a very—interesting lady.”
Ermano chuckled. “Sì, she is that. And very difficult to get near. She is so very prickly, like the artichoke. Yet I am sure that once one gets to her core it is quite—sweet.”
Marc felt a muscle tick along his jaw, tightening at the merest thought of Ermano putting his plump, jewelled hands on Julietta’s “sweet core.”
“Does she seem to like you?” Ermano continued, oblivious to Marc’s anger. “Will she talk honestly to you?”
Marc took a deep breath, bringing in the scents of the sugary cakes and Ermano’s mossy perfume. “It is difficult to say. She is, as you say, rather prickly. And very cautious.”
Ermano waved his hand in a careless gesture. “Ah, well, she will come around. You are Il leone, hero of the republic! You must continue to visit her, gain her trust. Then we shall proceed to the next stage of our plan.” He lowered his goblet to stare solemnly at Marc over its rim. “You will not be sorry you have agreed to help me, Signor Velazquez. I have much influence in Venice. I can be a great friend—or a terrible enemy.”
Marc returned the steady regard, not flinching, not turning away. As am I, Ermano, he thought coldly. As am I.
Chapter Seven
“Well, Bianca, what do you think? Shall I disgrace my escort?” Julietta turned slowly before her mirror, gazing back over her shoulder to make sure the fall of her skirt was straight and elegant.
Bianca clasped her hands before her and nodded, black eyes shining. “Oh, madonna! It is beautiful. Where have you been hiding it?”
“In that clothing chest, of course.” Where it had been packed away from her trousseau over all these years, unworn, unneeded. Julietta was not even sure why she had kept it. Most of her other grand clothes had been left behind in Milan. Elaborately embroidered silks and velvets were impractical in the shop, too obtrusive and ornate. Perhaps she had kept this one out of some strange sentiment. Or perhaps she had known that one day she would need it again.
Julietta turned back to face herself fully in the mirror. Her chemise was of ivory-coloured silk, thin, soft, shot through with glistening golden threads that echoed the bodice and skirt of gold lace over gold satin. Sleeves of cloth-of-gold were tied on with thin white ribbons twisted with tiny gold beads. It was a few years out of fashion; the sleeves were narrower and the skirt a bit fuller than was strictly desirable, the waist too high. But the lace was still sumptuous.
As Bianca took up a needle and thread and began to stitch up a tiny tear at the hem, Julietta fussed with her hair. Usually hair was not her foremost concern. She always brushed and braided it in the morning, pinning it up and covering it with a sheer veil so it was out of the way of her work. No trouble at all, and she did not miss the elaborate coiffures of her early married days, all twisted and oiled plaits and curls. Tonight, for some reason she could not even explain to herself, she had left it down like a girl. It fell in a straight black curtain to her waist, entwined with gold and white ribbons.
Bianca broke off her thread and stepped back. “You look like the sun itself, madonna.”
“Let us hope I do not look like mutton dressed as lamb,” Julietta muttered, repeating a long-forgotten favourite saying of her old Scottish nursemaid.
“Madonna?” Bianca asked, her face creased in puzzlement.
“It means I hope people do not think I am an old widow trying to recapture my vanished youth.”
“Oh, no! You are not so very old, signora. And you will be masked, anyway.”
“To hide my crone’s wrinkles!” Julietta laughed, and reached for the mask resting on a nearby table. It was of fine white leather, carefully trimmed with gilt, fashioned in the shape of a cat’s features. She held it up to her face, and it did, indeed, seem to have a transformative quality. She