The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One

by Michele Jaffe

  Ian spun to face her. Never had he ever dreamt of hearing anything like this pass her lips. He knew it had to be a stratagem and was eager to see it unfold. But he refused to be softened. Instead of speaking, he bowed his head slightly to indicate he had heard her apology.

  Bianca opened her lips to proceed, saw the dangerous twitch at the side of his mouth, paused to bolster her courage, and finally spoke. “As I told you, I went to your library to ask you something. This morning you wrangled a promise out of me that I would leave the house neither unreported nor unescorted. I am therefore asking your leave to go out on an errand this afternoon, after lunch. I will take whomever you recommend with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I would rather not say, my lord.”

  “Then I would rather you did not go.” Who knew how many babies and stray women she might come back with?

  “Damn you, Ian,” she spoke his name without realizing it. “How am I to prove myself innocent of anything if I cannot leave the confines of this palace?”

  Ian considered for a moment. “Is it necessary for you to go out? What kind of errand is it? Another visit to a whorehouse?”

  “No, my lord, that is your pastime,” was on the tip of Bianca’s tongue, but did not make it out of her mouth because a thought occurred to her.

  Instead, brows drawn together pensively, she said, “You have a point, my lord. Perhaps the errand could be performed here. Tell me, if you were present during an interview with one of my informers and you yourself handed over the money, would you still feel that I was trying to use my reward as a bribe?”

  “Would the interview interfere with my lunch?” asked Ian wearily.

  “No, of course not. I will schedule it for four o’clock this afternoon. But since you mentioned lunch, why have you kept me lingering here outside the dining room? Don’t you ever intend to eat? I for one am positively famished.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The conversation at lunch had moved quickly from the fire, about which nothing new was known, to the newest inmates of the household, Marina and Caesar. More precisely, the assembled diners had wanted to hear all the details about Bianca’s miraculous delivery of the child. Ian, stout of heart and sturdy of appetite, found his food sitting less and less well as the gory details were described with unsettling precision. When he begged for mercy, the conversation was postponed until dinner, a meal that Ian promised himself he would not attend. Although the food at his table was among the best to be found in Venice, he would willingly forgo even his favorite dishes if they were to be accompanied by an anatomical lecture.

  He was just explaining this delicate point to Bianca for the fourth or perhaps fourteenth time, when their awaited guest was announced. Bianca was so relieved to have the discussion of her table etiquette postponed that she rose and opened the door of the library herself to admit him, almost knocking over Giorgio, who had intended the same office from the other side of the door.

  Enzo looked more suited to a life of patrician leisure than to his job as Isabella’s butler and housekeeper. He was dressed in the height of fashion, or perhaps even beyond it, gold medals dangling from his carefully cut jacket, his hose closed with a complex series of knots that Bianca avoided focusing on only with difficulty, his long hair free around his shoulders, his beard carefully shaved into a goatee. When he spoke to greet them it was half in French with a hint of a French accent, an affectation carefully copied from an army sergeant he had once met, in an attempt to pass himself off as a member of a forgotten branch of the royal Valois line. The whole effect was, as Bianca described it later, stunning.

  Indeed, neither she nor Ian managed to say anything until after the man had made them each an elaborate bow and meticulously seated himself in the chair earlier occupied by Valdo Valdone. While his two hosts were openly staring at him, he took in the elegant and expensive furnishings of the room. There was money to be made here, he told himself and indiscreetly licked his lips.

  As part of her ongoing effort to convince Ian of her innocence, Bianca had agreed to let him do the bulk of the questioning, but it began to look as if she was going to have to step in. The frown that had crossed Ian’s face when Enzo entered had only deepened as he studied the man. Finally, he spoke in disbelief. “You are Isabella’s houseboy?”

  Enzo smiled, more cunning than attractive. “I prefer, monsieur, the label capitaine. So much more expressive, non?”

  “Was there something in particular you wanted to tell us?” Ian hoped the interview would be brief because he was not sure that he would not rather hear little Cronos’s screams than this man’s hideous accent.

  “No, mon comte, nothing particular, but I felt, perhaps, I could be of help to you. I know the lovely Mademoiselle Isabella very well, and I hear you are interested in information about her, so I come and offer to you my services. Perhaps there are the questions I can answer?”

  “How long have you worked for Isabella? How did you get the job?”

  “I have been Isabella’s capitaine since she has lived in the charming house she now occupies. But we knew each other before that, from when the days were not so rosy, vous comprennez?”

  “Did you grow up with her? I mean, it is obvious that you have spent much time in France,” Ian said, trying not to falter on his lie, “but where were you born?”

  Enzo was visibly pleased by what he took as a compliment. “You are clearly a man of discernment, mon comte, so I will tell you. It is a sad tale. My family was—”

  Ian was getting more than he bargained for. “I would not dream of prying into your difficult family matters. Just tell me, did you know Isabella when she was growing up?”

  “We had occasion to meet, oui.” Enzo, disappointed by the interruption in his narrative, settled sullenly back into the chair.

  “Do you know her father? Have you met him? Have you seen him recently?”

  “Son père? He is dead these ten years!”

  Ian sighed. At least he had learned one, minute, piece of information from this man. He felt Bianca’s curious gaze on him but refused to meet her eyes. Instead, he resumed his questioning.

  “Do you know where Isabella has gone or with whom?”

  “Non. I have heard rien, nothing, from her. But that is not so unusual. She is a woman.” Enzo spoke as if that settled it.

  “Has she gone off like this before, without leaving word? Without telling you anything or even asking for your assistance as she packed?”

  “Mais oui. She is a very private person. There is much about her that no one knows, not even her dear ami Enzo. You know, she would not have a maid or a staff really, because she wanted to preserve her privacy. She attended to most things herself.”

  “Wouldn’t you have seen her when she left?”

  “Non, not necessarily. You know, that charment house used to be two separate houses, so it has many entrances. There are two that enter on the ground floor, one from the canal, and one, which we call the side door and almost never use, from the street. From them you can use the stairs to reach the floors above. But there is also another door from the street, the front door, that goes directly to the second floor, directly to Isabella’s apartments.”

  “Has anyone come to see her since she left?” Ian watched him.

  “You, mon comte, for one.” Enzo smiled again, that same strange smile. “And her protector and those with standing appointments.” Enzo chuckled to himself at his raunchy pun, since few of Isabella’s regular clientele spent their time in her house standing.

  “Can you supply the names of her regular clients?”

  Enzo shook his head as if he were truly sorry. “That would be to break my code of honneur.”

  Ian snorted at him, wondering exactly what a pimp’s code of ethics might include. “Have any women been to see her?” he asked finally.
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  This time Enzo directed his disturbing smile at Bianca. “The lovely Mademoiselle Salva of course.”

  “And others? What about Signora Valdone? Have you ever seen her at the house?”

  Enzo hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to feign ignorance or tell the truth. “I have never seen Madame Valdone around our house, no. But I have encountered her elsewhere. You know, the places that wealthy women like that go.”

  “I don’t. Where do they go?” Bianca chimed in, her curiosity aroused.

  Enzo looked hopelessly at her. “There are women with, let us say for the sake of the lady, unusual needs. They go places to have them met.”

  Ian was repulsed but Bianca was enthralled. Without thinking she asked, “Could you be more specific?”

  “Also this has a bearing on Isabella?” Enzo asked doubtfully. “Isabella is not one who enjoys being with animals or feeling the sting of whips or hearing harsh words. You know,” Enzo looked at Ian, “she is pure.”

  If one more person that day told Ian what he “knew,” he thought he might bite them. As it was, he was having trouble controlling his rising frustration. His questions were getting him nowhere, and looking at the preening figure in front of him was giving him a headache. Not to mention Bianca, who seemed more interested in sexual perversion than in gathering information.

  She had remained standing near the edge of the desk throughout Ian’s questions, and she now wore a little frown. When Ian asked if she wanted to make any inquiries of their guest, “any legitimate inquiries,” he had intoned coldly, it took a moment for her to come out of her reverie.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Making a mental note to ask Ian what one did with whips, she refocused her mind on the task before her. She turned from her betrothed to face Enzo. “Is it possible for someone to enter the house without your knowledge?”

  “Why, certainly! I have said about the three doors. All of Isabella’s regular clientele have their own keys. Isabella does not want me to be bothered all the time, opening and shutting doors.” Enzo shuddered, thinking of a life confined to those mundane tasks.

  “Of course, I am sure you have many more important things to do.” Bianca nodded at him sympathetically and began to pace the floor between his chair and Ian’s desk. Ian, growing dizzy, was about to command her to cease her promenade when she suddenly stopped and faced Enzo. “When people come to the house, do they usually use the front door that leads directly to Isabella’s apartment or the side door?”

  Enzo looked thoughtful for a moment. “Those coming to see her usually use the front door.”

  Bianca leapt on his words. “Are there some people who come not to see her?”

  “Oui.” Enzo smiled again, and Bianca had the uncomfortable sensation that he had led her to this point, rather than the other way around. “Recently, a group of men, always the same, have been meeting in the parlor, the room underneath Isabella’s room. But what I am saying, what I tell you now, this is all very secret, yes?” He looked first at Bianca and then at Ian, waiting until each of them had nodded. “I tell you plainly, from the first, I do not like them. They make me suspicious, you see, because they always use the side door to enter. And always, Isabella, wearing a veil, must be there to admit them. But then they go straight to the parlor and they close the door and they will not admit my mistress. In her house, they are meeting, and they will not admit her. Not only am I suspicious, but I am hurt for her, you understand.”

  Bianca gave him another sympathetic look. “Did you ever ask Isabella about it? Share your suspicions with her?”

  Before she had finished speaking he was nodding violently. “Bien sûr! I asked her why they always sneaked in, like insects and not like men, and she told me they do it for her, because she does not want old Val—I mean, her protector, to know about their coming.”

  “Does that answer satisfy you?” Bianca sounded incredulous.

  “It did not originally, no. But then… This is very private, yes? You have given me already your words? I will share the joyful news with you. Three weeks ago, Isabella, my dear mistress, she tells me she is to be married! To a great lord, and we shall live in a palace. At the same time she tells me this, the meetings stop. So I think to myself, these meetings, they were to make her lord rich enough to marry her, and of course, she would not want her protector to know. Now, all we are doing is waiting to be happy.”

  “You are certain they were meetings, not, say, men gathering to gamble stakes higher than those allowed at the legal casinos?” Bianca wanted to be sure.

  “Mademoiselle, I know the sound of cards being played and I know the sound of a meeting. They are not indistinguishable to one such as myself.” Enzo sounded almost insulted. “I assure you, these were meetings.”

  “Do you have any idea what was discussed at those meetings?” Ian reasserted his right to ask questions, watching Enzo closely.

  Enzo tilted his head to one side. “I tell you they will not admit my mistress, and you think perhaps they have admitted me? No,” he said with a genteel snort, “I have no knowledge of their affairs. And I do not care to. It is enough for me that the husband of my mistress shall benefit.”

  “Will you name the men who attended the meetings?” Ian demanded.

  Enzo said nothing, just sat and smiled at Ian.

  “I suppose,” Ian said after the silence had lengthened to almost a minute, “you could at least tell me when the meetings were held? Or even when they stopped?”

  “You say it is information about my mistress you want, yet all you ever ask is about these men, these meetings. I do not think this is right, this prying into the affairs of other people. I do not think I was right to trust you.” Enzo swept a sorrowful gaze from one to the other of his questioners and stood. “I come to help you, but I see I was wrong. I shall now collect my money and leave.”

  Ian was getting ready to argue with him, but Bianca spoke first. “Without names, without dates, your information is only barely helpful to us. We will pay you five hundred gold ducats now. If you change your mind, we can pay you more, much more. As long as someone else does not bring us the information first.”

  For a moment Enzo could not make up his mind. He could be comfortable for a while on five hundred ducats, even more comfortable and independent with three thousand. Or with six thousand. But something mentioned in the interview had made him think of another equally moneyed buyer for his information, and he wanted to approach him before he made an exclusive contract. Since he alone possessed the knowledge he wanted to sell, he knew he was in no danger of losing out by waiting another day.

  “I shall keep that in mind.” He bowed stiffly and took the money Ian tossed across the desk at him. Summoned by Bianca, Nilo appeared and escorted Enzo out. Then Bianca slid into the chair Enzo had just left and regarded Ian.

  “So?” was the best opening line she could manage.

  “So?” he echoed.

  “So, did I bribe him? Did I conceal any information?”

  “There was nothing worth concealing.” Ian spoke contemptuously. “Certainly nothing worth five hundred gold ducats.”

  “I disagree completely, my lord. I think we learned the motive for the murder. Or at least, we learned of a potential motive.”

  Ian refused to be led along by her. “You mean Enzo did it because his pants were chafing him?”

  “How can you make light of this, my lord, when you are holding my life in the balance?” Bianca’s tone was more serious than Ian had ever heard it. “I know you regard me as more of a nuisance than a pleasure, but surely you cannot be so callous as to joke about the fate you have arranged for me. I know I can’t.”

  Bianca stood and began to pace as the clock struck five. “You have decreed that nothing short of naming the murderer will convince you of my innocence. Even the ancient barbarians had a more equitable sy
stem of justice than that! But that is beyond the matter. I have accepted your challenge—I had no other choice—and now I have less than five days left to satisfy it.”

  Here was the difficult part. “I know if I asked you what passed between you and Signore Valdone in this room earlier, you would scoff at me. Likewise, if I asked you to reveal any of the other information which I am sure you have gathered. But what if I were to ask you specific questions, based on my own surmises? Questions to which you need answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Would you reply?”

  Ian was touched by her assessment of his information-gathering abilities and certainly wanted to do nothing to impair it. “It would depend on the question.”

  Their eyes met when he spoke those words, the same words he had spoken to her the night before in that room under very different circumstances. For a second, memories of the previous night, and that morning, threatened to flood Bianca’s mind and wash away her rationally ordered thoughts. Santa Felicia’s ears, how did he do this to her? She closed her eyes for a moment to gather herself together, exhaled sharply, and began again.

  “I have a theory, but before I set it forth I would like to know if you have learned anything to discredit it.”

  “Please continue,” Ian said generously, finding he quite enjoyed hearing how Bianca’s mind worked. Perhaps at the end of all this he would write a book on female dementia.

  Bianca stopped pacing and sat. “Do you have reason to suspect that Isabella’s father is not actually dead and has had some hand in this business?”

  Puzzled, Ian answered, “No.”

  “Do you know something that makes you think Signora Valdone is involved in this?”

  This time Ian took a moment to answer. “Yes and no. From what I heard just now, I would have to say no.”

  “Do you suspect anyone else?” Seeing that Ian had sat forward and his face was twitching that dangerous way, Bianca rushed on. “Besides me, of course.”

  He sat back and looked disappointed. “No.”