“How was I to know Quentin could be trusted?” she said. “Have you any inkling how many men have lied to me? Have you any idea how many of the people I trusted turned on me? Have you any notion what it’s like, to have everyone you ever knew, every single one, turn against you—on one man’s word? How was I to know Quentin wasn’t another one of the ones on Elphick’s side? They all were. Every last damned one of them. Even my lawyers despised me.”
“Quentin and I are not on Elphick’s side,” he said. “Ten years ago, your former husband betrayed me and five comrades to agents of Napoleon. We ended up in the Abbaye. We were tortured. For weeks.”
She shut her eyes briefly. She’d heard about the prisons in Paris. The Abbaye was infamous. Fanchon Noirot had told her of friends who’d gone there. The few who emerged went on to Madame Guillotine. She opened her eyes and found his blue gaze boring into her.
“‘And they are dead,’” he quoted from the Book of Job, “‘and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.’ But why should you believe me?”
Why, indeed? All the same, she was finding it hard not to believe. His taut expression told her he’d watched or heard his comrades die—ugly deaths, she was sure. Too, she knew what Elphick was capable of—or thought she knew. Until this moment she hadn’t fully grasped the implications.
She should have realized: Elphick had no conscience, no loyalty, no feeling at all. He was a monster. What he’d done to her was nothing to what he’d done to others.
She’d focused on herself and the misery she’d endured. She’d been so young, so naïve. His collusion with England’s enemies—its consequences and the people who’d suffered—those were abstractions to her. Cordier had made them real. Human beings. Young men. His comrades. Himself. Tortured.
Perhaps it was all lies, but she felt sick.
She turned away and walked to the window. Across the way, the windows of the Ca’ Munetti were lit. Elsewhere all was dark. The moon must have gone behind clouds or set. How fitting, the darkness. She’d thought she’d understood but she’d been stumbling in the dark.
“You’re going to have to trust someone,” he said. “It must be me or them.”
“Must it?” she said. “How am I to know you’re not part of it? How am I to know this isn’t a great show, to make you seem a hero, so that I’ll trust you?”
“What am I to say?” he said. “How do I make you believe me? Why don’t I simply choke it out of you and have done with it?”
He paused, apparently to grapple with his temper, because he went on in a level voice, “Those two men who attacked you last week? The nuns from Cyprus who searched your house? The fellows who attacked your gondola tonight, thinking you were in it? Their chief is a woman named Marta Fazi. She’s about your age, but I don’t think you’ll find her simpatica. When she was eight years old, she cut off the ear of a girl who insulted her. If those charming fellows tonight had captured you, they would have taken you to Marta. She would have persuaded you to tell her where the letters were. She would persuade you by cutting up your face. She likes to do that to beautiful women. If she’s in a kind mood. In her less kind moods, the method of persuasion would be more unpleasant.”
Francesca’s ears were ringing. She felt herself swaying. He moved toward her, his hand outstretched. She pushed him away, staggered to a chair, and sat down hard.
“We’re trying to find her,” he said. “Quentin’s even asked Goetz to help—though the governor doesn’t know the half of it and is not to know. Until she’s caught—or until you give us the letters—you’re not safe.”
She laughed. Not a pretty sound, this one, but bitter, edged with hysteria. “All that time, no one believed me,” she said. “When Elphick discovered I’d taken the letters from his desk, he wasn’t concerned. He’d already ruined me. In putting me beyond the pale, he made it impossible for me to hurt him. And for all the time I couldn’t hurt him, I was safe. He let me run away abroad the way duelists and debtors and other undesirables and minor criminals do. He didn’t pursue me here. I would have stayed safe, would I not? had I only sunk into the gutter as he hoped. But no, I had to have nobles and royals at my feet. Now I matter. Now I have important friends. Now I’m worth killing.”
And now she was cold. She shivered. She heard Cordier move. She was aware, through her misery and the ringing in her ears, of the clink of glass. He pushed something into her hand. A glass of brandy. “I wonder if it’s poisoned,” she said, and drank it down, all of it. It was liquid fire in her throat but it made the noise in her head subside.
“It’s not poisoned,” he said. “This is not an opera, and I am not the villain of the piece. Would you please be sensible, Francesca, and tell me where the letters are?”
She looked up into his handsome face, into those midnight blue eyes. She supposed, fool that she was, that if she had it to do over again, she’d jump into the canal again, for him. To save him. Her gaze rose past him up the walls and on up to the ceiling. Those provoking children. “It’s complicated,” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s very simple. You tell me where…”
She waited for him to finish. It took her a moment to realize what had made him break off. His hearing was so sharp, far sharper than hers. Only now did she recognize the sounds coming from the portego. Footsteps—booted footsteps. Official-sounding footsteps. Several pairs of them.
The door opened. No knock. No waiting for her “Avanti.”
But it was Arnaldo who, as usual, had found her unerringly. He must be part bloodhound. He always knew exactly what room she was in. “His excellency the governor Count Goetz,” he announced.
The Austrian governor followed close behind. After the first startled glance, he took care not to look at her.
“I beg your pardon, madame, for this sudden arrival, but you can guess the cause.”
“Our little disturbance,” she said.
“Not so little as one could wish,” he said. “I must speak to Mr. Cordier.”
“I thought you might,” Cordier said, all at ease again, his usual self—whoever that was. “I’m sure Mrs. Bonnard will excuse us. She will want to—er—dress, at any rate.”
“Madame has had a great shock,” said Goetz. “As we have all had a great shock. We will not inconvenience her. You and I shall talk, sir, at the Ducal Palace. In the meantime, as soon as madame can be made ready, I must insist upon her vacating this house.”
“Certainly not,” said Francesca.
“I must insist,” said the count. “The house must be thoroughly searched. It is possible that men or deadly devices have been hidden here. You will be safer elsewhere, with a friend. I shall send an armed escort with you.”
He was the governor of Venice. When the governor insisted, one obeyed. The Austro-Hungarian regime exercised a degree of tolerance for Venice’s peculiarities and foibles but they’d no tolerance whatsoever for anything hinting at disregard of authority. To the Austrians, disrespect for authority was the first sign of insurrection—and that would be firmly—brutally, if necessary—nipped in the bud.
It was the wisest course, perhaps, after all, Francesca told herself. She did not feel safe in this house at present. She did not know whom to trust. She wasn’t sure what to expect or what to do. In any case, whatever else Goetz’s men found when they searched, she was confident they wouldn’t find the letters.
Not that the Austrians would have any idea what to make of them if they did find them.
“As you wish, Count Goetz,” she said.
He nodded stiffly, still careful not to look at her. “You will wish to go to your friend, I believe.”
“No,” she said. “She’ll be…occupied.” She couldn’t help smiling, thinking of Giulietta and her prince. If only Francesca could have taken a fancy to Lurenze instead. How uncomplicated her life would be.
“I shall go to Magny,” she said. “I know I’ll be welcome there, no matter what time I arrive.”
She left the room,
aware of Cordier scowling after her.
James did not feel nearly as cooperative as he pretended to be. He was greatly disinclined to go quietly to the Ducal Palace. For one thing, he was not at all sure he wouldn’t end up in the pozzi. This would be exceedingly inconvenient, since it might take hours—perhaps as much as a day or more—for Quentin to arrange to have him released.
Prison, James knew from experience, was not necessarily bad. Except for the time in the Abbaye, he’d found it…peaceful. While uncomfortable, depending on the surroundings, it did offer a time to gather one’s wits and think, without distractions. He had a great deal of thinking to do.
At present, however, he hadn’t time to indulge himself in the cool, dark, damp, solitude of a dungeon.
Goetz certainly had reason to lock him up. The governor was not a fool, and James could guess what was going through his mind.
I had a good life, a beautiful, peaceful life—until you came to Venice, Bonnard had told him.
Goetz would be thinking along the same lines: Venice had been quite peaceful until James Cordier arrived.
There was going to be an interrogation, beyond question, and that would be tiresome. Another great waste of valuable time.
Perhaps, after all, James thought, he should have followed his first instinct and bolted as soon as he heard the footsteps: military footsteps, a sound he’d recognize anywhere.
But he hadn’t known what they—whoever they were—wanted, and it was unchivalrous to leave Francesca in the lion’s den—though he would have abandoned her, he assured himself, if only she’d told him where the damned letters were.
That was all he wanted. The rest—jealousy and hurt feelings and betrayed trust—didn’t signify. This was work, and he knew better than to let feelings get tangled with work. Let her go to Magny if she wanted. She might go to the devil, for all James cared.
Meanwhile, the sooner he smoothed Goetz’s ruffled feathers, the sooner he could get back to work.
“I’m fairly familiar with this house,” James said. “Perhaps the search will go more quickly if I help you.”
Since Marta Fazi wasn’t in the middle of the melee at the Palazzo Neroni but watching from a small rowboat at a safe distance, it took her far less time than it did her hired ruffians to realize that Plan C wasn’t going well.
She did not wait about, hoping it would come out right. She might not be able to read as easily as some people but she had no trouble recognizing a fiasco when she saw one.
It was a good thing she had her hands occupied rowing, else some innocent bystander might have found out—in an acutely painful manner—exactly how disappointed she was.
However, this was Venice, and it was hard to do bodily injury to others while rowing a boat, trying to find one’s way in the middle of the night while keeping clear of the accursed gondolas that cluttered the waterways.
The best Marta could do was relieve her feelings aloud, in her own language, incomprehensible to those who might overhear her as she passed.
“This is what happens when you must work with incompetents,” she raged to the world at large. “It’s all well for him, in London, with all his lackeys, to say ‘Oh, Marta, my dear, will you get me some letters, if you please.’ Why did he let the great whore take those letters in the first place? Why did he not beat her and make her give them back? Why does he write to her still? Why does he care anything about her? She is too tall. Why does he not buy me a red dress? When was the last time he sent me jewelry? If I want it, I must steal it for myself. Not her. The stupid men give it to her, only because she goes on her back and gives them what most women would give them for free. I hate her and her stupid letters. She thinks she is so clever and every man will do her bidding, the fine lady. Only let me get my hands on her, once, and we’ll see. We’ll see who is beautiful and who is clever. Oh, yes, let me get my hands on her, only once. Then I will know what to do.”
Yes, indeed, Marta knew what to do with the so-clever English whore. The only question was, how to get her hands on her.
Goetz was thorough. His men began on the roof and worked their way down. Though James helped, he’d not much hope of finding the letters. Francesca would not have appeared so unconcerned at the prospect of a search had she hidden them in the palazzo. Whatever else had troubled her each time she or her house had been attacked, she’d not seemed in any anxiety about the letters.
What in blazes had she done with them?
And blazes was not the cheeriest turn of speech. Was it possible she’d burned them?
But no, she couldn’t be so stupid. Whatever else she was, Francesca Bonnard was not stupid.
Difficult, temperamental, cynical, obstinate, reckless, and very, very naughty, yes. If she had not been all these things and more—intelligent and witty and so fiercely, passionately, alive…and expensive, mustn’t forget that—deuced expensive—if she had not been all these things, James would have solved the problem in three days at most.
But she was all those things, and the letters were nowhere in the Palazzo Neroni. He’d stake his life on that. He’d even climbed a ladder and searched the numerous chinks and crooks and crevices of the plaster children and draperies. He’d checked the frames of paintings as well, for hollow places. He told Goetz he was looking for wires or springs for traps.
Late in the day, having found neither insurrectionists nor murderous devices, James went on with the governor to the Ducal Palace and a lengthy interrogation.
He managed to pacify Goetz by claiming to have heard rumors that one Marta Fazi, a criminal known in the south and in the Papal States, was at large in Venice. Very likely she’d made Mrs. Bonnard her target, James said, because the English lady was (a) a woman and thus vulnerable and (b) the owner of a fine collection of jewelry.
“Fazi is a thief,” James told the governor. “A violent one, like so many in the lawless parts of Italy. No finesse. They make a lot of noise and kill people needlessly. They’re vengeful. It would seem this Fazi woman has tried and failed several times. The angrier she gets, the more determined, violent, and reckless.”
“The Papal States are a disgrace,” Goetz said. “Two hundred murders in the last year alone. But here we have the rule of law. We will find this woman, and the rest of the criminals will learn to stay in their own disorderly countries.”
Good luck, James thought.
Having returned to the Ca’ Munetti shortly before midnight, James slept well into the following day.
Sleeping—no matter what the circumstances—was a skill he’d learned long ago. In the Abbaye prison, their tormentors had, among other amusements, kept him and his fellows awake for days on end, until they were hallucinating. James had taught himself to sleep with his eyes open. He could make himself sleep anywhere, any time, and wake up quickly.
He was deeply angry, deeply unhappy—and that was about as far as he cared to examine the turmoil within—yet he slept.
When he woke, matters did not appear much brighter.
He was having a late breakfast when the message arrived.
It was not from Francesca.
It was on expensively masculine paper, written in the clear, formal hand of a secretary, and worded in the formal style of, say, a royal proclamation.
In sum, he was invited to tea with the comte de Magny.
James sent an equally formal acceptance, then summoned Sedgewick and spent the intervening hours fretting about what to wear.
Francesca had had to send back to the Palazzo Neroni for clothes. Resisting the temptation to fuss, she simply told Thérèse who was coming to tea, and let the maid decide.
The result? Ruffles, wave upon wave of them. White ruffles, no less.
They began at the base of her throat, fluttering about a modestly high neckline. They quivered in a line down the front of her gown and shivered along the hem. Her arms were encased in a series of puffs, trimmed in silk ribbons and ending in, yes, ruffles. The first time she’d looked in the glass, she’d put herself
in mind of those great cakes she’d once served at parties in London.
At one moment, she believed she looked equally delicious—and Cordier must eat his heart out. At another, she feared she looked ridiculous, too girlish—and he’d die laughing.
So long as he died, she could have no complaints. This is what she tried to tell herself as Cordier entered the room, and her imbecile heart fluttered like the ruffles.
He was impeccably dressed in a tailcoat of the finest wool, in a shade that most unfairly emphasized the deep blue of his eyes and contrasted splendidly with the pale yellow waistcoat. His trousers fit like another skin over his muscled thighs. His snow-white neckcloth was simply, perfectly tied, every crease exactly where it ought to be. An onyx gleamed darkly in its folds.
But her mind turned cruel and offered an image of him naked, and of the pair of them entwined among the rugs and exotic trappings of his pretend seraglio, making love, impatiently and passionately at first, and later, so tenderly.
But it had not been lovemaking to him, she reminded herself, merely copulation and a means to an end.
The reminder helped her arrange a cool expression upon her face and a frigid little smile. It helped her pretend she felt no more about this meeting than Magny did: It was a business negotiation, he told her, and she, after all, was a businesswoman.
Thus the greetings were polite, the gentlemen’s bows and her curtsy precisely what was required. Cordier and Magny were resolved to behave as men of the world and she, a woman of the world, could act with the best of them.
That’s all you do, Cordier had said. Pretend and play games and lie…you’d say acting is what your profession requires. It’s the same for me.
She felt a twinge. Well, perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong about that. Even so…
Oh, what was the use? What stuck in her mind was herself, in nothing but a shift, jumping into the canal to save him, like the greatest romantic ninny who ever lived.
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