“If I were you, my lord,” she said, exhaustion shading every word, “I would try using kindness rather than cruelty on me in your interrogations. It is what I neither expect nor am accustomed to these many days, and it would surely be more effective to catch me off my guard. You might begin by telling me I don’t have to sleep in there,” she gestured wearily toward her laboratory, “with that corpse. Anywhere else, and I promise not to complain when you lock me in.”
Ian warred within himself. Part of him was seized by a sudden urge to cross the rug that separated them and sweep Bianca back into his arms. The other part wanted to turn quickly around and flee from her. Incapable of moving, he stood riveted to the floor, staring at her. She stared back at him, looking deep into his eyes, searching. They faced each other like two statues, until a clock on the floor below began to strike the hour. Soon another in a different part of the palazzo began and before long there were ten, each making a different sound but each harmonizing with the others perfectly. Bianca studied Ian as he listened to the chiming of clocks, struck by his ethereal beauty. She smiled at him and, more remarkable than anything else that had happened to her in the previous three days, he smiled back at her.
“Beautiful,” she whispered in awe.
“Yes they are, aren’t they?” Ian sighed with contentment. “My cousin Miles makes them. He is the finest clockmaker in Italy, I would bet on it, but he only makes them for me.”
She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should tell him that it was his smile and not his clocks that made her heart beat so quickly. “You are very lucky. I should like to meet him.”
Ian moved away from her, suddenly acutely conscious of their dangerous proximity. “Perhaps you will, but certainly not until after we have spoken further about the murder.” His voice had regained its cold, formal edge. As he spoke, he closed the door on the corpse and locked it. He felt her eyes on his face, inquiring, scrutinizing, and led her quickly into the darker part of the corridor. Approaching the stairs down to the main living quarters, he saw that it would be more unnerving than he had anticipated to have this strange Salva woman under his roof. He would have to be as reserved as possible at all times. Reserved and cold. He would not let her manipulate him.
“Until you have told me what I want to know, you will see no one.” He continued speaking as they walked. “Except your chaperons, of course. You may have as much commerce with them as you like, but be warned that they report directly to me.”
“I can scarcely wait to meet these ogres. I suppose you will also have me sleeping in a dungeon?” Confused by Ian’s abrupt change in behavior, Bianca tried to match his chilly formality.
“Of course. Where else would a murderer sleep?” Bianca thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch again in that dangerous way and decided to stay quiet. They wound down a second staircase and through at least two ballrooms in silence before they stopped at a deep blue door. “This is the suite Francesco and Roberto instructed me to give you. It is not the richest one, but they selected it.”
“Francesco and Roberto?” She looked the question at him.
“The ogres—your chaperons, my uncles. They have their apartments over there.” Ian gestured across the vast central hall toward a set of doors along the other wall. He saw her puzzled expression and imagined what she must be thinking: two chaperons instead of one was unusual; that they were two men made it almost unseemly. He was about to explain how he had chosen them, but he remembered his earlier resolve.
“I couldn’t ask one of my elderly aunts to share a house with a murderess, could I? Nor would I want some proper gentildonna with refined sensibilities interfering in my interrogations. No, one woman under my roof is enough.” He spoke the last words with a shudder of distaste.
Bianca thought quietly for a moment. “Rather than protecting me from you, it seems they will be protecting you from me.”
“You are, after all, the dangerous one, aren’t you?” As he spoke the words aloud, a voice inside Ian’s head whispered, You have no idea how true that is.
He scowled irritably and threw open the door of Bianca’s dungeon. Finding herself not only not in a dungeon but instead on the threshold of the most magnificent apartment she had ever beheld, Bianca could not contain an exclamation of delight. The walls of the first room were frescoed with women of every age and every country, each in their native costume. There were female warriors in metal armor and Roman women in long gowns, and women naked but for the brightly colored designs painted on their bodies. With difficulty Ian ushered her from the sitting room into the main room of the suite. Surrounded by frescoes depicting ancient goddesses was a large bed hung with deep blue velvet. Bianca was so tired and overwhelmed by the beauty not only of the paintings and furnishings but also of the man beside her that she neglected to consider the impropriety of standing in a bedroom with him. She touched Ian’s arm gently and whispered, “This is the most extraordinary room I have ever seen.” She turned her gaze from the paintings to the man and, seized with a most indecorous urge, kissed him on the cheek.
Ian’s mind reeled between past and present. A woman in his house. A kiss. This room. As Ian looked down at her, Bianca saw his eyes darken into a cold slate gray. She shrank away from him, conscious of having somehow offended.
“That was very improper, Signorina Salva. See that it never happens again.” He turned on his heel and moved toward the door.
“It’s a very bad habit, you know,” Bianca said quietly.
Ian stopped abruptly and turned to face her from the safety of the threshold. “What did you say?”
“Running away like that. Making a grandiose pronouncement and then leaving the room without hearing what anyone else has to say. It’s almost cowardly.”
Bianca felt a surge of rage fill the room. Ian looked at her, anger legible in every contour of his face. When he spoke his voice was dangerously low and cold.
“If I were you, signorina, I would save my wit for tomorrow. You will need every particle of it to keep me from turning you in as a murderess.”
Chapter Four
Ian finished reading the decoded letter aloud and passed it to Sebastian on his right.
“It arrived this morning, brought in by a fisherman. I’ll never understand how our L. N. uncovers these things, but he’s not been wrong yet.”
The other four men around the table nodded in agreement. None of them had ever met their English cousin, Lucien North Howard, earl of Danford, but not for lack of trying. Miles and Crispin, who passed at least half the year on their estates in England, were by now accustomed to receiving polite denials to their invitations and being informed that their cousin was “sadly unavailable” by his genteel but slightly menacing butler in London.
The only indisputable sign of his existence was his frequent, copious correspondence. It arrived from all over the world and by means of the most fantastic conveyances. It might come on Arboretti ships or in the hands of a foreign messenger who disappeared as quickly as he came. The letters always mixed personal anecdotes and travel descriptions with business advice. Without this counsel even Ian’s outstanding business acumen could not have made Arboretti one of the largest and wealthiest shipping conglomerates of its day. On L.N.’s advice they had expanded from their original cargo of lumber into every thinkable product from every place in the world. Arboretti ships carried fabrics, wines, spices, plants, animals, munitions, gold, silver, gems, anything that could be bought in one place and sold at a profit in another. In only eight years, they had grown from having the six ships left to them by their grandfather to having a fleet that rivaled those of most city-states on the peninsula.
As a member of the English ambassador to Venice’s entourage, their grandfather Benton Walsingham had fallen in love with Laura Foscari-Dolfin, the only daughter of an ancient Venetian patrician family, and decided to settle in Venice. He immediately recognized a market for English lumber in Europe for the con
struction of everything from buildings to warships, and went to work setting up a company. He named it Arboretti—little trees—after this cargo, and left it at his death to his six grandsons.
Seventy years after its foundation, the name was more commonly thought of as a parody of the unusual height of the six men who oversaw the vastly successful venture. It was spoken with reverence among groups of merchants all over the world, and the tall young men who ran the company were routinely consulted by others more than twice their age. But it was with women that most of the Arboretti really found favor. Handsome and wealthy, they cut a wide swath through the female inhabitants of Europe, leaving expensive gifts and broken hearts in their wake.
From what the other Arboretti understood, L. N. was the worst of the lot. In every court in Christendom there was a beautiful woman still pining for her “beloved Lucien,” “carissimo Luciano,” or “cher Luc.” The Arboretti followed the exploits of their enigmatic cousin avidly, jokingly keeping accounts of his conquests in love alongside accounts of the profits yielded by his information. How he had time to both conquer hearts and collect vital data remained a mystery to them, but they had learned to accept it without question. Indeed, they were forced to, for their grandfather’s will had stipulated that in all things the earl of Danford, whom Walsingham had himself raised after the death of his youngest daughter, should have the final say.
So when L. N. instructed his cousins to halt a shipment of gunpowder and cannon shot to England and instead ship a cargo of ruined grain, they could only shake their heads and follow orders.
“But we’ve heard nothing of these pirates he says are threatening our cargo,” Miles objected skeptically, pushing aside the lock of hair that perennially dangled in front of his eyes. “I promised that gunpowder to the lord chamberlain myself just two months ago for his battles in the Highlands, and I can’t say he’ll be pleased to get a bushel of rotten grain and rats instead.”
“He could try feeding that to the northern rebels,” Tristan offered from the end of the table. “Might kill them faster than fighting and would put less of a strain on the Royal Exchequer.” He shook his dark head, his jade-green eyes light with mirth. “S’teeth, it’s a fine idea…”
Tristan’s raillery was interrupted by a long shriek from a distant part of the palazzo. Silence fell at the table and all heads turned toward Ian, who was rapidly leaving his chair.
“That sounds distinctly like my charming betrothed. If you will just excuse me for a moment…”
“After him!” Crispin exclaimed as Ian left the room. “It has been ages since anything exciting happened in this house and I, for one, don’t want to miss it.”
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH,” Bianca screamed hysterically. She had spent a restless night tossing and turning in the huge bed, pursued by the sensation of being watched. Opening her eyes, she was confronted by a grisly tusked monster leering over her. “Get away, get away! Help, help, help!”
The creature’s hand covered her mouth. “Sshhh. Hush little one,” said a soothing male voice in her ear. “Ian will have our heads if we set you to screaming like that.”
Bianca twisted her neck around to face the voice and saw that it emanated not from the mouth of a hideous beast but from a normal-looking older man, with a round face and smiling eyes. Next to him stood another man of about the same age wearing a slightly more serious expression. From the hand of the lively one dangled a carnival mask painted to look like a wild boar. He held it up for her to look at, removing his hand from her mouth.
“Ian told us you were expecting ogres, so we decided we would oblige. And we thought your blood needed a little excitement. It has definitely been thinning these many hours.” Nodding, he reached out to feel Bianca’s wrist. “You see, you see, Roberto, I told you it would do the trick. Feel it now, pumping away like a blacksmith’s apprentice!” Bianca’s arm was pulled farther from the bed toward the other, more serious man.
“Yes, it does seem to have worked, Francesco, but I think a dose of Ian’s fine brandy would have been less troublesome to the system. Look at her—he keeps complaining that she won’t stay quiet, and yet here she hasn’t even uttered a word. You’ve overdone it again, I am afraid.”
Bianca turned from one to the other of them, trying to make sense of the scene. This had to be Francesco and Roberto the chaperons, but instead of ogres, Ian seemed to have left her in the hands of doctors. And not just any doctors but famous ones: her father had often spoken with admiration of Francesco di Rimini and Roberto Collona, and she recognized their faces from the portraits on the title page of their herbal which she had used when she was studying medicines. For a few moments, confusion at finding herself with these two renowned men made her overlook Ian’s comment about her verbosity, but soon pride got the better of chaos. Before she had time to repudiate Ian’s reported slander, however, she found herself shoved back into the bed, the covers pulled over her head.
She heard Ian’s voice muffled through the blankets. “Is she up yet? I thought I heard her voice. Is it normal for her to sleep so long?” His questions toppled out one after the other in rapid succession.
“Just a nightmare, dear nephew, just a bad dream,” Francesco assured him, letting the carnival mask fall discreetly to the floor by the bed. “Nothing to worry about. The sleep will do her good. She’ll be fine once she awakes, but we must let nature take its course. Don’t you agree, Roberto? Best to let her keep sleeping?”
“Certainly, certainly, quite right, Francesco. We’ll get you from your meeting at the first sign of wakefulness, of course, Ian.”
“Ah yes, before she has all her wits about her, always the best time for an interrogation,” Francesco added, eyeing his nephew keenly. “Just as a matter of curiosity, are you planning to use the dungeon for your work? Screws, nails, whips? Remember how well they worked on the last one…”
“What the devil are you…?” Ian’s question was drowned out by Francesco’s voice as Roberto leaned across the bed, trying to still the squirming Bianca.
“Quite right, not our business,” Francesco continued, moving Ian toward the door. “Wouldn’t want anyone to interfere with the interrogation, you said it yourself last night.” Ian thought he detected a note of mockery in his uncle’s voice. “Now get back to your job, which is to make enough money so we all continue living like princes, and let us do the work of ogres. Doesn’t suit you at all.” Aided by Francesco’s insistent arm over his shoulders, Ian had almost stepped over the threshold when Roberto lost his hold on the wriggling lump of blankets.
Bianca exploded from under the covers, shouting. “Whips? You would use whips on me?”
The three men stared at her in astonishment. Her eyes were a mesmerizing deep brown and her lip trembled with fury. She threw her head back and raised her chin in challenge.
“Go ahead. Humiliate me. Torture me. Even whip me. But by the breast of Santa Agata I promise you, if you treat me like an animal, I will be silent like an animal. I would rather be left in a slimy dank dungeon somewhere to be eaten by rats with dull teeth than tell you what I know.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at Ian.
“You charming girl, you have solved the mystery!” a male voice rang out from behind Ian. Bianca looked up to see a contingent of tall men who she knew must be the other Arboretti enter her room. One of them, a blond one who looked like a more boyish version of Ian, smilingly addressed her. “The mystery of how my brother spends all his time. Blunting the teeth of the rats in his dungeon. I’ve been such a dolt not to see it before now…” Crispin shook his head in mock contempt for his stupidity, while his companions struggled to contain their hysteria.
Now it was Ian’s turn to glare. Turning his sternest expression on the intruders in the doorway, he ordered them out. “This is a lady’s room. It is insulting to my betrothed to be beset by you barbarians in this way…”
�
��I don’t mind. Really.” Bianca smiled winningly at the four men on the threshold. “Come in, please. It is an immense honor to meet the famed Arboretti. I know women who would maim to have any one of you in her bedroom, let alone all five at once.”
The Arboretti could no longer restrain their laughter, and Bianca joined them. She studied them through her laughter, never having had the opportunity to be so close to the noteworthy group. The one who had spoken she knew was Crispin, Ian’s brother, whose reputation as a rakish bon vivant was marred only by his extreme good nature and immense kindness. Next to him, with a lock of hair spilling onto his forehead, she recognized the soulful features of Miles, Ian’s clockmaker and a poet of high repute. His poetic skills were often ascribed to the ease with which he fell in love, once with as many as ten women in one day, but all to no avail, as he had been betrothed at the age of five. Behind the love-struck poet stood Sebastian, his dark coloring and skill with languages inherited from his Turkish mother, his deep blue eyes and mesmerizing smile the legacy of his Venetian father. Bianca had heard it rumored that he could seduce a woman across a crowded room, and while this seemed extraordinary, seeing him close up did nothing to diminish the probability of its being true. Alongside Sebastian was Tristan, whose days as the prince of Venetian thieves had left him with an amused attitude toward life and a sly smile that made everything he said believable. Bianca had heard that his contemporary art collection, housed in the palace he shared with Sebastian, was one of the finest in Europe and decided to ask him about it.
“Yes, Tristan is famed for collecting beautiful things.” Miles rushed to speak before his cousin could reply. “But in you, Ian has outdone him.”
The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One Page 3