“I am not sure I agree.” Sebastian was shaking his head again, slowly. “It does seem that these Venetians had intended to use our gunpowder for their deal. But the information from Saliym makes it look unlikely that their interest in us goes beyond that. I suspect anyone with a munitions contract would have been choice prey for them, it did not have to be us.”
Miles, Tristan, and Crispin all concurred, but Ian could not rid himself of the instinctual feeling that someone was attacking the Arboretti. Perhaps, he realized, his instincts went that way because he himself had felt under attack for so long, besieged by the voices of self-doubt and disgust that ruled his consciousness. The new likable Ian would not be governed by those doubts, he decided, nor would he cling to unsupported persecution theories.
“Very well.” Ian’s tone was conciliatory. “But we are still left with the fact that our gunpowder is being illegally pedaled by traitors. Even without a particular grudge against us, they could do us a world of harm if, for example, an enemy boat were to be captured and found loaded with gunpowder in barrels bearing the Arboretti seal. Not to mention that, beyond redeeming our property, it is our duty to see that their treason is punished. We must find out who they are.”
“I have Saliym looking into that. He doesn’t think it will be too hard to convince the crew to identify the Venetians, since they acted in such bad faith.” Sebastian moved his gaze around the circle of his cousins and stopped at Tristan. “I was also hoping you might make some inquiries among your, ah, old friends.”
Although Tristan’s less-than-perfect past was a matter of record, it could often be a touchy subject for him, and his cousins were always reluctant to raise it. But they were aware that there were moments, such as those spent in the company of adventure-minded young ladies or times like this one, when his years in the underworld promised to be of assistance rather than an embarrassment, and at those times he did not mind having it spoken of at all. “I had already thought of that,” Tristan said brightly, adding, “I should be able to find out something by tomorrow morning.”
As their talk turned to more general subjects, particularly the party of the night before, they began to hear voices emanating from the floor below. Crispin crept down yet another secret staircase, accidentally running into a flustered footman, to survey the scene in the gold reception hall. If the throngs of women who were arriving for lunch had anything to do with it, Bianca was certainly going to be a big success.
“I would say one hundred and fifty, but that counts Widow Falentini as two, because she eats for two.” Crispin returned and gave his estimate. “Even better than the turnout is the look on Bianca’s face. It’s not just that she looks in her element. It is something else. I can’t describe it.”
Tristan and Miles, their curiosity piqued, went down to look, and then reported back.
“I think it looks like she knows a joke which she is not ready to share with anyone. Something that might set her to whistling and laughing to herself when she was alone,” Tristan offered, looking pointedly at Ian.
Miles was shaking his head, causing his hair to slip back into his eyes. “I can see what would make you say that, but that’s not quite it.” He stopped to search for a word and found it. “Expectancy. It is a look of sanguine expectation. I think she is eagerly waiting for something to happen.”
“Or to make something happen.” Ian knew her too well. He shook his head and jokingly muttered a prayer under his breath. “Sante Agata, Lucia, and Felicia, with all your assorted limbs and bits, please, I beg you, save us from the conceptions and connivings of my lovely betrothed.” Forty-eight hours later he would not have used the same light tone.
“I did not know green was at all the thing this season.” Bianca’s aunt Anatra did not lower her voice or disguise the direction of her gaze as she critiqued Bianca’s gown. She sighed and fanned herself with feigned resignation. “But I suppose I am just déclassé, of the old school.”
“No, Ana darling, it is we who must maintain the standards. I can’t recall the last time I saw anyone wearing green.” Serafina Terreno was seated next to her bosom friend Anatra along the far wall of the full reception hall. The women’s friendship, which had miraculously endured since girlhood, consisted primarily in their knowledge that they had once been more beautiful than all the other women in the patriciate, and that this (former) beauty granted them the privilege of acting as arbiters of taste and fashion.
“For all that, it does not look ill on her.” Anatra and Serafina scowled jointly at the speaker seated alongside them. Carlotta Nonte had also grown up with them, or as they said privately, grown out. They had humored her as a pudgy girl because of the attractive contrast she provided to their own slim figures, but as a rounded-out matron she was harder to bear. It wasn’t just that she had made the best match of the three, nor that her daughter Catarina was a celebrated beauty, but that she was always so goodnatured. At times it was really more than a body could stand.
Anatra sighed heavily again and patted her on the arm. “Now you know, Lotte, how bad you are with colors. I meant to take you aside last night and tell you how much better your Catarina would look in browns than in blues. The way the blue brings out the blue of her eyes,” another deep sigh, “well, it is really a bit much.”
“Even vulgar,” Serafina added, as if reluctantly. “I think loam might be good for her.”
Carlotta regarded her friends with gratitude. Despite what her daughter said, they were always so thoughtful to her. “I don’t think I know Loam. Is he a new dressmaker?”
Serafina and Anatra exchanged pitying glances, each nominating the other for the task of enlightening their unfortunate friend. Finally Serafina shouldered the burden. “No, Lotte, it is a color. Loam. A sort of greenish brown.”
“Like mud. Loam is the color of mud.” All three woman lifted their eyes to regard the new speaker, Anatra shuddering genteelly as her eyes were assaulted by the green of Bianca’s dress. Their hostess spoke again. “I can’t think of anything uglier than a loam gown.”
“Indeed, we were just discussing your unique relationship with color,” Anatra said in a tone that made it clear that what Bianca knew about color might conceivably fill a grappa glass, or perhaps a sewing thimble.
Bianca’s mind was so focused on executing the plan she had contrived that morning that she was not even tempted to retort. Or rather, she was mildly tempted, since she had picked the fabric for her gown herself and was very pleased with it, but she stopped herself. Instead, with her heart beating with excitement almost as fast as it did when Ian was near her, she smiled widely at the three childhood friends. She could not have asked for a better audience on whom to launch her undertaking.
“Thank your for your compliment, Aunt Anatra, but I did not rush over here to talk about gowns. I have just heard the most fascinating gossip.” Bianca spoke louder than usual while trying to keep her voice natural, as if she originated bits of gossip every day. “Some patrician is planning to marry Isabella Bellocchio, the courtesan. Just think, we shall have a real courtesan at our gatherings and balls. Isn’t that exciting?”
“‘Horrifying’ would have been a better word,” Serafina said, giving Bianca a much needed lesson in morality. That accomplished, she probed for information. “Have you any idea who the wretch is? Some old bachelor, no doubt, who has long since forgotten his duty to his class.”
“No, it’s not like that at all.” Bianca kept her eyes wide, hoping to look trustworthy and innocent. “It seems it is a young man, someone so smitten by her charms that he has even put the agreement in writing. Someone I know saw it, but they won’t disclose the name. They will only tell me that he is blond. How diverting!”
The looks on the faces of the women before her were anything but amused. All three of them had sons who, in addition to being unmarried and the seat of all their future hopes, were also blond. Indeed, more tha
n half the faces in the room suddenly assumed a dire aspect as the news traveled between and among the clusters of women.
Bianca’s plan was working like a charm; the news spread like fire on kindling, with the added benefit of bringing the onerous luncheon to a hasty conclusion. Before long, the women were politely begging off, mentioning other commitments and social obligations that they simply could not forgo. The bulk of them went rushing home to assure themselves that their children’s affections were unengaged and that they would not soon be closely allied with some hussy. The rest, those with dark-haired sons, hurried off to order their wardrobes made over in green.
When she had seen the last of the distracted women to their gondolas, refusing to disclose either the nonexistent source of her gossip or the long forgotten name of her dressmaker, Bianca gave orders to have the remains of the recently dismantled luncheon taken away. Then, finding that she rather liked making and spreading gossip, she took to the stairs in search of available ears. The five Arboretti still gathered in the library would be perfect subjects for the news she had to share. Or so she thought, until she saw their solemn faces.
Ian’s greeting was anything but warm. “What are you doing up here? Don’t you have luncheon guests to attend to?”
Bianca shook her head morosely. “They abandoned me. They rose in a body and left.”
“What did you do to them? Did you act in an untoward manner?” Remembering Miles’s description of her expression, Ian had an ill sense of foreboding.
“No no, certainly not, my lord. In fact, I modeled my behavior on yours.”
The other Arboretti tried unsuccessfully to stifle their chuckles. Ian glared at them, and then at his betrothed.
Bianca just smiled at him and turned to others. “I did not mean to interrupt anything. I just came up to tell you that it was safe to descend, now that the assortment of females has left. But you all look so glum. Don’t tell me another of you has gotten yourself betrothed?”
Sebastian flashed his famous smile at her. “No, nothing nearly that grave. We were only speaking of treason,”
“Which does not concern you,” Ian interrupted sourly.
“We were also,” Crispin cut in, “speculating about which one of us garnered more admirers last night.”
Bianca wrinkled her brow, as if exerting herself on a complicated computation. “I hate to have to say this, both for your sakes and mine, but I think it was my lord d’Aosto who won the most hearts last night.”
Tristan nodded, not surprised. “You might consider taking up swordsmanship to keep your home free of nubile young women. I could offer myself as a tutor.”
“Come, Tristan, surely you have not forgotten that I am the superior swordsman,” Miles interjected, referring to a contest between the two of them when they were four.
“No matter.” Ian entered the fray, trying not to look too pleased by this newest evidence of his likability. “With her razor-sharp tongue my betrothed has no need for a sword.”
Bianca looked straight at him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “That will be fine for the girls, but how am I to discipline you, my lord?”
“With your winning manner, it will hardly be difficult to make me do your bidding,” Ian retorted.
Sebastian spoke up. “I don’t mean to be a sore loser, but I am curious to know if anyone said anything about the rest of us.”
Bianca’s expression communicated that she hated to disappoint them, but the opportunity was too good to forgo. “Unfortunately, most of the talk was not about men, but about women, or one woman, really. Isabella Bellocchio, the courtesan. It seems that she is betrothed to a nobleman. I think it is wonderfully exciting, but some of the other women had less favorable opinions of the news.”
Crispin had opened his mouth to speak, but a look from Ian shut it. Miles spoke instead. “Who is it? Which of us has freed himself from the constraint of marrying a bloodless patrician woman?”
Bianca’s brows rose. “My goodness. Bloodless? What an interesting idea. Then the substance in our veins must be bile. Miles, that is the most compelling explanation of female behavior I have ever heard!”
Miles was shaking his head violently. “I did not mean you, certainly. Not you at all. You are not proper and mannered the way they are, always stiff and polite and too beautiful to touch.” Realizing that he had done more harm than good, he felt the color rise in his cheeks and began to stammer as he pushed his hair off his forehead. “What I meant, what I mean, what I should have said—”
Tristan, his jade-green eyes showing amusement, came to his aid. “You must excuse Miles. He is not quite himself around you, and he is always a bit animated on the topic of patrician marriage because he was betrothed at the age of seven. But his question is a good one. Who is the lovely Isabella going to marry?”
Bianca, still intrigued by the idea that women might not actually have blood in their veins, pushed the apology aside. “Actually, I was hoping you might know the answer to that question. The only hint I have gotten is that the husband-to-be is one of her regular clients.” She paused and then added offhandedly, “Oh, and that he is blond.”
Bianca had turned her back to Ian when she first announced her gossip and now unwillingly faced him when he called her name.
He waited until he had both her eyes locked with his before he began speaking. “From whom did you hear this information?”
Bianca kept her gaze steady. He must not suspect that she had started the rumor herself. “From one of the women at the luncheon. Maybe Carlotta Nonte?”
Ian scanned her face for a sign that she was lying. “And she did not say who the lucky man is?”
“No.” Bianca’s head moved from side to side slowly. “She said exactly what I reported. Not just to me, everyone heard it.”
“I can think of one person who fits that description admirably.” Tristan was grinning. “Crispin, why didn’t you tell us you were going to be married?”
“Ask anyone—I am not the marrying type. Besides, you see Isabella more than I do,” Crispin retorted. “In the right light, your hair could be blond.”
Sebastian turned his keen investigative gaze on Tristan’s deep brown hair. “Which light would that be, starlight?”
“Perhaps the light emanating from the eyes of his beloved?” Miles, ever the poet, suggested.
“Doesn’t Isabella have any blond clients besides you two?” Bianca asked, fishing for even the slightest scrap of information.
“Probably, but one does not like to think oneself a member of a crowd where women are concerned,” Tristan joked.
“What Tristan means,” Sebastian did the interpreting this time, “is that when a man pays a courtesan, he does not like to think too much about her other lovers.”
Bianca gave what she hoped was a knowing nod.
“Although at Isabella’s it is sometimes hard to ignore the others. She schedules her appointments so close together you often pass on the stairs.” Crispin was shaking his head. “I remember once I was almost knocked over by Aemilio Nonte sprinting up the staircase.”
“It could be him,” Miles pointed out eagerly. “He is blond. And it was his mother who told you about it in the first place. Maybe she was testing to see how people would react.”
“I wonder,” Bianca mused, adding Aemilio’s name to the list of possible suspects.
Tristan, who had been sitting pensively, spoke to Bianca. “I just remembered. The last time I went to see Isabella I ran into your brother. He’s blond.”
“Indeed he is.” Ian sounded mildly amused, in a way that Bianca knew was designed to displease her. “You have no idea whether or not your brother is her fiancé?”
“My brother does not see fit to share his personal life with me, my lord.” She kept her voice steady, despite what Ian was implying. “I think it woul
d be exciting to be allied with a courtesan. I rather hope it is him.”
“I, on the other hand,” Ian proceeded, “do not find the prospect of being nearly related to a courtesan at all appealing.”
Bianca looked at him with pity. “You have no imagination, my lord.”
“She’s right, Ian.” Crispin spoke. “If you thought last night was a good party, imagine how popular we will become if our galas begin to include members of the demimonde. I think it might even improve our bank rates.”
The conversation was saved from further degeneration by the entrance of Giorgio, out of breath. Seeing the Arboretti still gathered together, he looked relieved, and even more relieved when his eye fell on Sebastian.
“My lord,” he addressed Sebastian formally, “I have a most unusual question for you. Do you know if your uncle has a particular partiality for cinnamon?”
“My uncle the sultan? Cinnamon?” Sebastian repeated. The baffled tone in his voice was reflected in the faces of the other Arboretti. “Not that I know of. Why, are you sending him a present?”
“No, no, I was just wondering. I mean, someone I know was wondering.” Much to Ian’s surprise and horror, Giorgio began to blush. “Someone at the tavern,” he lied hastily, but not before Bianca let out an ill-concealed giggle.
Ian scowled at her, then at his personal servant. Blushing. He was again seized with the uneasy feeling, with which he was growing familiar, that he had somehow lost control of his household and its doings. He would have to ask Bianca about it that night when they dined together. He felt sure she would be compliant when she saw the surprise he had prepared for her. He could almost imagine the look on her face
“That reminds me,” Crispin was saying to her when Ian emerged from his reverie, “I have news for you. We have resolved the mysterious origin of that plant you were asking about yesterday, though I am afraid the answer is not very exciting.” She was listening to him intently. “According to Sebastian, it grows all over Constantinople like a weed. It is commonly given as a ‘good faith’ present between business associates at the conclusion of a deal, a sort of token of friendship and alliance. We have a ship just back from the spice markets of Turkey, and I am sure one of our men must have picked it up for me there.”
The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One Page 25