The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One

by Michele Jaffe

  “That will not be necessary.” Ser Cornelio had observed the entirety of Luca’s speech through his glass. “Could Signorina Salva have had an opportunity to put the dagger in the plant?”

  Luca snorted and looked at the judge, scandalized. “You speaking about a woman and asking if she had opportunity? Opportunity is a woman’s best friend.”

  The answer was inscrutable enough to make even Ser Cornelio proud, so he decided not to pursue it. He felt he had heard or, at any rate, seen enough, and the other judges, by this time hungry and cold, concurred. When Ser Alvise turned, as was the custom, to ask if any of the Grifalconi contingent wanted to say anything on their kinswoman’s behalf, he received two hard glares and a snore. Since Ian and Bianca were not yet officially married and under the law only kin were allowed to make a plea, none of the Arboretti were consulted. Only Ian, as her legal betrothed, would have been eligible to speak in support of her, and he had made his position more than apparent. The lack of support from any of Bianca’s past or future kin was almost exceptional in the experience of all three judges. Their silences spoke more eloquently than any condemnation they might have made.

  Bianca spent the twenty minutes during the judges’ absence standing stick straight in the middle of the room. The only sounds that could be heard were the rain on the windowpanes, the shuffling of the crowd outside, and the regular snoring of Guiellmo Grifalconi. The numbness was back, not just in Bianca’s body but in her mind as well. She had tried to puzzle out the new piece of information, to guess whether the murder weapon had been hidden in the plant while it was at Isabella’s or if it had been placed there by Ian later, but she could not follow her own train of thought, and it did not seem terribly important anyway. When the judges read the verdict, she neither cried out nor faltered.

  “We find you guilty of the murder of Isabella Bellocchio, as denounced,” Ser Cornelio read out quietly, much to the dismay of those outside the door. “You will be put to death at the hands of the state within two days.”

  Bianca’s eyes swept across the faces of the judges, then over the grim countenances of the spectators. She let her gaze linger only momentarily on her aunt and her cousin, who were regarding her as if she had suddenly grown a large, green boil where her face used to be. But as her eyes reached the Arboretti, first Crispin, then Tristan, Miles, and Sebastian, each gave her a nod or a wink of complicity, and Francesco and Roberto raised their clasped hands to her in a gesture of prayer and support. They would stick by her, they seemed to be saying, they who had so little reason. Alas, it was too late.

  Before she had time to adequately acknowledge their kind gestures, the two guards were back, each gripping one of her arms. She made an awkward bow to the Arboretti, then allowed herself to be led out a side door. From there she was taken down three flights, into the partially flooded basement cells for the condemned. As the guard slid the heavy iron lock into place on the outside of her dank cell, the clock in Piazza San Marco began to strike twelve. The time to prove her innocence was over. Her one-hundred and sixty-eight hours had indeed run out.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ian arranged and rearranged his body two hundred times that hour. First he sat in the chair, rigid, feet in front of him. Then he tried crossing one leg, resting his elbow on his knee, leaning his head on his palm. That completed, he went through the same motions on his other side, this time using his fist instead of his palm. He ran through the whole routine on two chairs and a stool. Finally he got up and started to pace the length of the good-sized room. But none of these exercises set his mind at rest. For that he would need a conjurer, because Giorgio seemed to have disappeared.

  When his servant failed to appear five minutes after being summoned, Ian had thought he must be busy with lunch. Ten minutes later Ian decided he had gone out to do an errand. Fifteen minutes after that Ian became concerned that he had been injured in some unguessable way that no one knew about. That was the excuse he used for bursting into Giorgio’s room uninvited. With mixed feelings Ian saw that Giorgio was not, in fact, lying injured on the floor. Indeed, he was no where to be seen.

  That was when Ian began his acrobatics. He told himself he was just passing the time until Giorgio came back, but he was actually trying to keep himself from thinking. Because if he started thinking, he would be forced to admit that Giorgio was not coming back, that his absence was a more explicit admission of what he had done than any words could be. The only reason he did not want to think about that, Ian assured himself, was because finding a trustworthy manservant was so hard. It had nothing to do with what it meant about Bianca’s guilt. No, absolutely nothing to do with that at all.

  At the beginning of the trial Ian had not been paying much attention to the narration, knowing its details intimately, but by the end the haze around his brain had begun to lift and his curiosity was piqued. If the drawings were to be used as evidence against Bianca, then whoever had stolen them must not have been her accomplice. If he was not her accomplice, how did he come to know that the body was in the laboratory? Or, for that matter, that Isabella had been stabbed in the heart? To the best of his knowledge, only three people—himself, Giorgio, and Bianca—had seen the body. He had not filed the denunciation, and although he would not put it past Bianca to accuse herself in some ill-guided scheme, he knew she’d had no opportunity to do so. That left only two mutually exclusive options: either Giorgio had denounced her or someone else was the murderer.

  When Luca, as a member of his household staff, was called into the courtroom, Ian’s suspicion that Giorgio was behind the denunciation had turned into a certainty. Or an almost certainty. If Giorgio had submitted the denunciation, then by Ian’s own logic there was no other murderer trying to frame Bianca, and she had to be guilty. Ian was filled with a rage and a despair that clouded his vision, rage at having Bianca ripped from him, despair for what might have—should have—been between them. Fueled by these strong emotions, his need to know, to verify his suspicion, had grown so overwhelming that he had left the courtroom without even thinking about how such an action would appear to the judges. To say nothing of how it would look to Bianca.

  Ian was so well embarked on his course of not thinking that he did not pause to ask himself why Giorgio would have left all his belongings behind if he had actually fled. He did wonder why Giorgio had decided to denounce Bianca without telling him, and devised the answer that he had done it as a personal sacrifice to save a master too blinded by the charms of a woman. When Ian found himself heavyhearted, he knew it was not because of the loss of Bianca and all the strangely ebullient moments she had brought to his life, but only because he was so touched by Giorgio’s selfless gesture. He would have to find him and bring him back. Servants like him should be rewarded and encouraged, not let go. Strangely, Ian did not feel any better when, after reaching this momentous decision, he rose from Giorgio’s chair and left the room. The heavyheartedness even dogged him up the flight and a half to his library, and was still there as he seated himself in his chair. He was about to send for some grappa, which suddenly seemed a good idea again, when a servant appeared to announce an unnamed visitor.

  Ian examined his pocket watch. Twenty minutes after twelve o’clock. It was improbable that the verdict had been announced yet, he decided, so it was improbable that his visitor was coming to congratulate him on his narrow escape from Bianca. That meant that the visitor had to be someone with some other business, and though Ian could not really remember what other business he was involved in, he decided it would be safe to see the caller.

  “Show him in,” he ordered, then hesitated for a moment, trying to make a decision. “And bring some grappa,” he added finally, sitting back to wait.

  When Angelo appeared on the threshold of the library, Ian was filled with two conflicting emotions at once: anger with himself for having miscalculated the length of the trial, and appreciation for his good judgment in having the g
rappa brought. Too busy pouring himself a dose of the vile-tasting liquor, he did not stand as Bianca’s cousin entered and crossed to him.

  Angelo accepted the proffered glass of grappa and sat on the proffered chair. Then it was his turn to do the proffering. He wasted no time with inanities, moving directly to the point of his visit.

  “I’ve come to offer you our regrets for involving you in such sordid business.” Angelo crossed his legs and sipped at the liquor, looking more at ease than remorseful.

  Ian, suddenly less in the mood for grappa, set his glass down. “I do not see that you have anything to apologize for. The betrothal was of my own doing.”

  “You may be right, d’Aosto,” Angelo said and bowed his head in agreement, “but if I had acted as I should have,” he paused and sighed, looking remorseful, “well, none of this notoriety would have accrued to your name.”

  “You need not concern yourself with my notoriety.” Ian pushed his grappa glass away, toward the far end of his desk. “Nor with my decisions. I assure you there was nothing you could have done to change my mind about the betrothal.”

  Angelo shifted in his chair, his face pained. “I hope never again to be in this position, d’Aosto, but I must tell you that you are mistaken. You see, Bianca and I were betrothed to one another over a year ago. Having seen so much of each other growing up, you know, it was only natural. Anyway, one day a few weeks ago we had a little fight in bed, nothing unusual, but the next thing I hear she has gone and publicly betrothed herself to you.”

  Most of the words coming from Angelo’s mouth were a surprise to Ian, who had never heard Bianca speak about her cousin with anything like affection, but only one word made him feel short of breath. “Bed?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

  The smile on Angelo’s face was perhaps the most remorseful smile ever smiled by any man. “Of course, we consecrated our betrothal the same day the papers were signed. That was the only reason she agreed to it, actually, her insatiable desire. She even made me promise that once we were betrothed, she could have as many men as she wanted. At first I balked, but her appetite being what it is… Well, it’s no shame to tell you that I couldn’t keep her satisfied and pay adequate attention to my business affairs. I’m sure you’ve had the same experience.”

  Ian made a mental note to find out what business Angelo was in and crush it. And maybe every bone in Angelo’s body as well. The sight of the smiling, relaxed, self-assured, handsome Angelo sitting across from him was suddenly more than Ian could take. “My experience with Bianca or any woman is none of your business.” Ian could barely grind the words out through his clamped jaws. “You are going now. You will understand if I don’t wish you a good day.”

  Angelo saw Ian’s jaw tighten as he spoke, saw his host’s face darken, but he did not rise from his chair. Instead, Angelo congratulated himself. He had made the great man wince.

  Enjoying the game, he decided to push a little harder. “I don’t think anything could be more sensual than that delicious little clover shaped birthmark just above Bianca’s right thigh.”

  Ian’s reaction was a disappointment. Nothing changed on his face, but he dragged his grappa glass toward him again and, gripping it tightly, drank its contents down in one gulp. He was wishing he had his hands around Angelo’s throat instead. “If you were so attached to your cousin, why didn’t you protest when you heard about our betrothal?”

  “With the kind of power you wield?” Angelo asked rhetorically, then shrugged. “Besides, I guess I was growing a bit tired of her. Not only did her demands leave me no time for my mistress, but she did not seem able to conceive.”

  With even his unasked question about the absence of progeny answered, Ian found that he had less than nothing to say to Angelo and could not bear to have him in his library for another moment. He would have to be sent away, out of Palazzo Foscari, maybe even out of Venice. The city was definitely too small for the two of them to coexist in. This decided, Ian rose, indicating that the interview was entirely over, but Angelo remained stubbornly seated, his embassy still not completed.

  “As I said, I feel responsible for this whole mess, but I have an idea of how to make it up to you.”

  Ian, who now knew that even Europe would be too small to accommodate both of them peaceably, unwillingly resettled himself in his chair. Angelo’s bones should be crushed and made into paste, he elaborated on his earlier scheme. And fed to donkeys.

  “Since Bianca is going to be put to death—oh, you did know the news, didn’t you?—well, since she is going to be put to death, her fortune will go to my sister, Analinda, as a dowry. If you would condescend to take her in place of Bianca, I am sure the arrangements can be made quickly. We can even move her in here, just like you did Bianca, should you so desire it.”

  If Angelo had gotten lost in the darkest reaches of the bowels of a constipated whale who dwelled in the most distant of the seven seas, Ian would not have thought him far enough away. Although he would have missed the pleasure of murdering the man himself. He was about to ask if Angelo could recommend his sister’s skills in bed as highly as he had spoken of his cousin’s, but found that his jaws were too tightly clenched to speak. He was saved the effort of unclenching them to order his visitor out by the timely arrival of his uncles and the other Arboretti.

  They had stopped at the house Tristan and Sebastian shared to confer about how to approach Ian. Crispin was for strangling, Miles argued heatedly for swords, Tristan immediately thought of Ian’s rock-hurling machine, and Sebastian recommended that a little device involving gunpowder might be nice. Even Francesco joined in, suggesting something about itch-inducing salves that no one else understood. Only by pointing out that killing Ian would drastically hinder their efforts to save Bianca did Roberto finally convince the rest of them to try speech before weapons. Miles checked to make sure his dagger was sharp, just in case.

  Their belligerence was not lost on Angelo, who rose as soon as they entered, and took his leave.

  “Make sure he goes,” Ian ordered a servingman, then turned to face his relatives. “I take it, from your expressions, that you have heard the news.”

  It had been agreed that Roberto would do the talking, but Crispin got in ahead of him. “We did not need to hear it. We were there. We witnessed it.”

  “It must have been moving.” Ian sipped his grappa. “Did she fall on her knees and plead to her saints?”

  Crispin’s customary playfulness had been transformed into icy sarcasm. “No, she cried your name three times and begged for your everlasting mercy.”

  Ian raised one eyebrow. “She outdid herself, then. Calling on me for mercy, though.” He shook his head. “Certainly that was misguided. She should have been calling on the Deity.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Since you walk around acting so godlike, toying with the lives and affections of mere mortals like Bianca Salva, it’s not surprising that she got the two of you confused.”

  “Come, Crispin.” Francesco put his hand on his nephew’s arm, only to have it shrugged off.

  “It is time that someone tells him what a selfish bastard he is.”

  Ian interrupted him, unconcerned. “I already know all about that. You may save your breath.”

  “No. No, you do not.” Crispin was shaking his head violently. “You think I mean the kind of selfishness Mora accused you of, whatever that was, but you are wrong. I mean the kind of selfishness that shuts out the people who love you and makes it impossible for them to be close to you, the kind of selfishness that keeps dangerous, painful secrets which hurt other people. I mean the kind of selfishness that compels you to walk out on the only woman who has ever really loved you, and whom, I suspect, you would love if you were capable of it. And the kind of selfishness that forces your brother, day after day, to stand helplessly by as you destroy yourself. That is what I mean.”

 
; Nobody moved.

  Then Ian brought his glass to his lips and drained it. “Anything else?”

  Crispin collapsed into a chair facing his brother, his head in his hands.

  “It was a moving speech, really, but I find I don’t understand it. You seem to think that Bianca loved me, and that by not sticking with her, I am destroying myself. Avoiding marriage to a lying, betraying murderess is a way of destroying myself? That, I am afraid, I simply cannot understand. Nor do I see that there is any evidence for your saying that Bianca loved me. Indeed, her cousin was just here making it explicit that she did not.”

  Crispin still had his head in his hands, but he appeared to be listening. The other Arboretti shifted behind him as Ian went on. “He claims not only that he was betrothed to her long before I was, but that they had consummated the betrothal many times.”

  “It would not be the first time a man had lied about making a conquest of a woman, Ian.” Miles stepped to Bianca’s defense.

  “Perhaps,” Ian went on, his tone never varying, “but he had proof. He could describe the most intimate details of her body, down to the birthmark above her right thi—” Ian stopped because he had been hit in the stomach with a boulder. Or at least that was how it felt. The idea came to him so suddenly that he was literally thrown back in his chair. He racked his memory, rushing back over the conversation with Angelo just to be sure. There was no mistake, Angelo had said the birthmark was over her right thigh. But it wasn’t. Anyone who had ever had his lips on it, who had allowed his hands to skim across her silky soft flesh, could not have forgotten that it was over her left thigh. Her right thigh was totally different, silky and soft in a completely separate way. The mistake was unforgivable, Ian’s inner voice declared indignantly. But not, it cautioned with unusual carefulness, impossible. It was just as likely that Angelo’s tastes were not refined enough to tell the difference. As evidence that Bianca had never actually lain with Angelo, that she had not been deceitful to Ian, had not enchanted him with false innocence and falser words of love or betrayed him in the deepest possible way, as evidence of that sort, the voice ruefully admitted, it was sorely lacking.