He carried the tray to Francesca. She took the note from it. He bowed and went out again.
She opened the note, her fingers trembling despite her best efforts. Cordier lightly touched her hand, and that was all it took to still the tremors.
“Eleven o’clock tonight,” the painstakingly formed letters informed them amid numerous ink blots. “San Giacomo di Rialto. No masks.”
It was a frantic few minutes. The message arrived shortly after ten o’clock, leaving little time to think, let alone prepare. However, Francesca had done her thinking on the day Cordier told her his plan for dealing with Marta Fazi.
She had only to step into her boudoir briefly and collect the parcel waiting there. Thérèse had her evening wrap ready. It was not five minutes before Francesca was hurrying downstairs with Cordier, who was rattling off instructions to various servants as they went.
Not long thereafter, he and Francesca were in her gondola. As instructed, they were not wearing masks, though this would be nothing out of the way in Venice.
Once they were well on their way and there was no chance of Cordier sending her back, she withdrew from under her shawl the parcel and held it upon her lap. It was wrapped in pink silk and tied with blue ribbons.
“What is that?” he said.
“A gift.”
“Pink silk? Not for me, then.”
She swallowed. “It’s for her.”
He stared for a moment at the package clutched in her gloved and braceleted hands. Then, “Are you insane?” he burst out. “A gift? For Fazi?”
“A bribe, actually.”
“A bribe? A bribe? Are you mad? Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
He was very angry. His face had the marble-hard expression he’d worn the night he threw the big cutthroat in the water.
“I’m dealing with a woman who wants to kill me,” she said. “A woman.”
“You don’t know this kind of woman! She’s not like you! She’s not like Giulietta!” He paused and took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I recognize the shape of that parcel. You are not going to do what I think you’re going to do.”
“She came to my house,” Francesca said. “She saw my jewelry. She probably had it in her hands. But she left it behind. All she took were the emeralds.”
“She’s mad about emeralds. Literally. Mad. As in non compos mentis.”
“She’s a woman,” Francesca said. “She left all the rest of the jewelry behind. What an effort of will that must have been.”
“I’m going to tear my hair out,” Cordier said. “What possessed me to involve you in this? I should have known you’d come up with a harebrained scheme—”
“You said it’s a point of pride with her to get the letters,” she said. “They’re paying her to do it. But what if I pay her more? I can’t believe Elphick would give her a fraction of what these are worth.” She tapped the oblong parcel.
“He’s not going to give her anything,” he said. “That’s the point. She’s signed up on the losing side. That’s all she needs to know. This is her one and only chance to get away. If I could have arranged matters so that she couldn’t get away, I’d do it. But Zeggio wasn’t able to follow Piero and we don’t have the faintest idea where she is. This is the only way to get her into the open—and we can’t count on the forces of law and order turning up on time. Maledizione!” He flung himself back in the seat. “I did think we’d have more time. But this is what I get for letting my feelings get in the way of my brain. This is what I get for listening to my heart instead of my instincts. This is what happens when a man lets a woman lead him around by the—”
“Lud, the way you carry on about a little jewelry,” she said.
“I’m a thief! A jewel thief! Have you any idea what it does to me, to see you give away a fortune in gems?”
She looked at him. “I have an idea now,” she said. “It’s as good as an opera.”
The look he flashed her must have been the kind his Italian ancestors had bestowed on inconvenient spouses, moments before issuing the orders for poisoning or strangling.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” she said.
He closed his eyes.
She thought, He’s going to throw me out of the gondola now.
He shook his head. Then he laughed.
She let out the breath she’d been holding.
“You’re impossible,” he said.
“I told you that a long time ago,” she said.
“You’re also an idiot,” he said. “But it can’t be helped. I’m an idiot, too. I was so bedazzled tonight that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Those curst pearls. I should have told you to leave them at home. You shouldn’t be wearing any jewelry at all.”
“Evening dress without jewelry?” she said. “What a quiz I should look! Besides, she’d think I was afraid.”
“But you are not in the least afraid,” he said.
“Are you mad?” she said. “Of course I’m afraid. What woman in her senses wouldn’t be?”
“You put up an excellent front, then,” he said.
“My back is highly regarded, too,” she said.
He pried loose one of the hands clutching the parcel and kissed it. Since she was wearing gloves, the kiss wasn’t very satisfying. Still, the gesture comforted her.
“You do this sort of thing all the time,” she said. “More alarming things, I’ll wager. Are you never afraid?”
“I suppose,” he said. “Sometimes I’m afraid. But other times I’m excited.”
“And now?”
“I’d feel easier in my mind if we’d had a bit more time, if I could be sure Lurenze and his people were close at hand. But that was the whole point of making ourselves available at a moment’s notice. She knew we wouldn’t have time to summon our forces and we knew she wouldn’t have time to assemble hers.”
Or so they hoped.
Ah, well, it would be exciting, at any rate, Francesca thought. And he hadn’t made her wait at home, worrying. She’d be in the thick of it, for good or ill. Her heart was racing, too, and perhaps it wasn’t all fear. Perhaps there was excitement as well.
In any case, her hand was still warmly clasped in his, and he hadn’t wrestled her for the parcel, and so she had hope that all would be well.
He turned his head away and she followed his gaze. He was looking at the Rialto Bridge. A moment later, they were passing under it, and coming up to the Riva del Vin, the broad stretch of pavement running alongside the Grand Canal, forming one of the busy market area’s quaysides.
The boat glided to a stop.
“This is where we get out,” he said.
Chapter 17
’T is said that their last parting was pathetic,
As partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic
That they should never more each other see
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,
Which I have known occur in two or three)
Lord Byron, Beppo
San Giacomo di Rialto, an old but modest little church, stood a short distance from the Rialto Bridge. On one side of it ran the Ruga Degli Orefici, a street lined with silver and gold shops. The church overlooked the usual little square or campo, at one end of which stood a statue of somebody of historical importance. James couldn’t recall at the moment who the somebody was.
The street and square were busy during the day with artists, tradespeople, and tourists coming and going from their hotels. At this hour, though, the working people were in bed and the upper classes were at the opera or other entertainments, leaving the place deserted.
Fazi had chosen her time well.
She’d chosen the right night, too. The sky was clear and half of the rising moon was brightly visible, shedding its silver glow upon the square. While shadows abounded, she would find it no easier to hide a gang of ruffians than James would to hide guards or soldiers.
As they ent
ered the square, he glanced up at the beautiful clock in the church’s tower…and frowned.
“No use looking there,” Francesca said. “It hasn’t told the correct time since the day it was installed, some two or three centuries ago.”
“I hope she knows that,” he said. While he talked, he was taking in their surroundings, as he’d done while they walked here. He’d perceived nothing out of the way. As he’d assured Francesca, the chances of an ambush—by either side—were very small. He had not had enough notice to organize an attack, and he strongly doubted Fazi had had time enough, either, or the inclination.
She would like this, he thought. She would like the simplicity. Like a duel. Two principals, two seconds. How easy she was to understand!
Most women were, for him. Where other men saw endless complications and confusions, James saw simple principles at work. In the past, he’d used those principles to manipulate Fazi as well as numerous other women. He’d thought he could use them to manipulate Francesca Bonnard.
That was his first miscalculation.
He had no time to count the other mistakes because he perceived a movement in the shadows under the church’s portico.
A moment later, Marta Fazi emerged from the shadows, Piero at her side.
She walked out into the center of the square, her long black hair in a braid over her shoulder. No frills and ruffles and feathers for Marta.
She appeared taken with Francesca’s pearl-adorned headdress, though. As she looked at it, a mocking smile formed on her lips. Her gaze went briefly to James, back to the hat, then back, the smile fading, to him.
She stopped dead. “You.”
“You remember me,” said James. “I’m flattered.”
“I remember you, too,” said Piero. “I remember what you did to me. You were a great fool to come. You should have sent the prince. I have no quarrel with him.”
Fazi looked at her henchman.
“This is the devil who almost ripped my arm from my shoulder,” Piero said. “This is the one who threatens to torture me, and tries to frighten me, telling me what you’ll do to me.”
Fazi’s mocking smile returned, and she continued the last few paces toward them. “Ah, good,” she said. “This is even better than I hoped.” She looked at Francesca. “You have something for me, lady? A packet of letters? Or does your cavalier servente carry it for you, along with your handkerchief and fan?”
From the folds of her evening cloak, Francesca produced the pretty parcel. “I would not let him carry it,” she said. “He might be tempted to run away with it.”
Fazi laughed. Her black gaze returned to him. “You did not win her trust as you did mine? Perhaps you disappointed her in the bed? Your prick was too tired, perhaps, after being so busy all over Italy.”
“Oh, it never gets tired,” he said. “Bored, sometimes, but never tired. The only difficulty is that the lady and I were not in agreement regarding the papers your friend in England wants so badly.”
“Ah, yes. He wants these much more than he ever wanted his wife.” Fazi looked Francesca up and down. “But her father had money and friends with influence. This is why he married her, you see. When he had all the money and friends, he could have killed her, but he took pity on her and made a divorce instead.”
“Sweet of him,” said Francesca. “A truly kind gesture, that.”
“He was too kind, I tell him,” said Marta. “And you—what do you do with the second chance he gives you, fine lady? You throw yourself away on this one?” She jerked her chin at James. “His heart is black and he’s false, false. A thief and a whore.”
This was not going well. Fazi was on her way to an eruption and he wasn’t sure what Francesca’s state was.
All things considered, perhaps he should have explained that mission in Rome to Francesca.
“Vero,” he said, trying to inject an apologetic note in his voice. It’s true.
Neither the admission nor the repentant note drew Fazi’s attention back to him. She was raging about him but she wanted to provoke Francesca, in the hopes the English lady would say or do something reckless, and give Marta an excuse to wield her knife.
He knew better than to look at Francesca or try to warn her now, though. She seemed unmoved. He reminded himself what a fine actress she was.
Marta was no actress. She showed every feeling that moved her, and she was easily moved.
“A pretty liar and a cheat and a great whore,” she taunted. “You give up a prince for this one? I would not give a blind beggar on the street for him—a blind, crippled beggar with black warts on his prick. Stupid cow, what men you choose!”
Cow, as Francesca no doubt knew, was a deadly insult.
“Yes, what a stupid cow I am,” Francesca said with her coolest smile. She fingered the pearls at her throat. “Rich men shower me with jewels while you—”
“I had jewels!” Marta snapped. “Emeralds. Did this man tell you how he made love to me so sweet, only to steal my beautiful emeralds and run away?”
“So that’s why you took mine, the other night, when you were playing at being a nun,” Francesca said. “You wanted a replacement?”
“Mine were better!”
“Bigger,” James said. “A great, vulgar lot of inferior stones.”
“Vulgar?” Marta’s eyes flashed dangerously.
But his success in drawing her off, to focus on him, was short lived. She wasn’t interested in him. It was Francesca in her too-expensive clothes and magnificent jewels. Marta Fazi was far more jealous of those articles than of a mere male, a temporary lover. James came into it only as a way to taunt the expensively garbed lady.
“What does it matter?” Francesca said, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
Oh, Marta would love that, the arrogant dismissal.
“We did not come here to quibble about who has better jewelry,” Francesca went on, “or whether size matters or who lets an utterly faithless and ruthless man order her about.”
“Your Gianni is faithful to me,” Marta said, jabbing her thumb against her ample chest.
“Really? You know him personally?”
What the devil was Francesca doing? Was she deliberately trying to provoke her?
Or was she simply stalling, trying to give Lurenze and his men time to get here?
“I know him for a long time,” Fazi said. “Years. Before he married you. After he married you. For me he keeps a beautiful house in London. When I go there to visit him, he gives me everything I ask for. Whatever I do for him, he rewards me, generously. When I am in trouble, he makes the trouble go away. But I have wasted too much time talking to you. Give me the letters.”
“He does all that?” said Francesca. “Good heavens, how busy he must be. You are—what? Mistress Number Fifty-two? Eighty-seven? No wonder he needed a rich wife.”
“I am first, always,” Marta said.
“Johanna Ide will be surprised to hear that,” Francesca said. “But she’s in London, with him all the time, and you’re not.”
Fazi was momentarily nonplussed. “I don’t know this name.”
“Of course you don’t. Why would he tell you about his Lady Macbeth?”
“I don’t care about their names,” Fazi said, lifting her chin. “The rest are whores only, and men must have their whores, as you know. But I waste enough time. The letters, if you please, my fine lady.”
“Oh, dear, I hope you haven’t become too dependent on my former husband,” Francesca said. “Because he’s not going to be able to do any of that anymore—the house, the rewards, and making trouble go away.”
Marta’s eyes narrowed and the hand she’d stretched out for the parcel went to her waist, where she kept her knife.
James tensed, waiting for the attack.
“Sorry,” Francesca said. “I never did walk the streets, as you did, and so I’ve always been uneasy about meeting people in the dead of night in deserted squares. I took a gondola ride yesterday to San Lazzaro and
gave the letters to an English gentleman there. They’re on their way to England now. But not to your dear Gianni. I should give up on him if I were you, and find another man. A beautiful woman like you, and still young—you can find someone better, a man who doesn’t make you work so hard while he keeps a harem in England, and promises all his women the same things he promises you.”
Marta had her head cocked to one side. She was listening, trying to puzzle it out. James had an idea how she felt. He should have realized Francesca wouldn’t play by his rules.
“This is a joke,” Fazi said at last. “I see the letters, in that little parcel in your hand.”
“You mean this?” Francesca held out the parcel. “Well, yes, it’s quite funny, actually. I felt sorry for you, for the wicked tricks men play on you. I felt sorry about all the trouble you went to.”
Marta snatched the parcel away. But she was woman enough not to cut the ribbons. Her gaze darting about the square—putting James in mind of a bird of prey guarding its dinner—she untied them. She pulled away the silken wrapping, revealing a shallow box. She stuffed the pretty wrapping and ribbon into her bodice and opened the box.
Within sparkled a sapphire parure, the one Bonnard had worn the first night James saw her.
Fazi gave a little gasp.
James swallowed a groan. Any thief worth his salt would feel the same.
“They’re yours,” Francesca said. “For your trouble. Take them and go away. Before it’s too late.”
“There’s nothing else here for you,” James said. “You’ll never get the letters and Elphick can’t get you out of trouble anymore. If it were up to me, you’d get nothing but a noose. But it isn’t up to me. This lady thinks you deserve something for your trouble. I don’t, believe me. In any case, if I were you, I should get away while I could, before the soldiers come.”
Marta took a step back. She turned away. And softly in his native tongue she told Piero, “Kill them.”
Before she’d finished uttering the command, Piero had his knife out. “Gladly,” he said, and lunged.
James pushed Francesca out of the way and flung out his hand, catching Piero’s wrist. James turned his back on the smaller man, to add the force and size of his body to wrestle the knife from him. Pedro, small but tough and wiry, held on, and flung his free arm round James’s throat.