“Come in, Messer Caprino.” Andreas picked up the silver goblet on the table in front of him and waved it at a cushioned chair beside the window before raising it to his lips. “Be seated.”
The arrogant bastard hadn’t bothered to stand up to greet him properly, Caprino thought as he smiled politely and crossed the room to take the seat indicated. No doubt Andreas did not think him worthy of respect. He would soon learn differently.
Lorenzo Vasaro rose and moved with silent grace to lean against the wall to the left of the window. He folded his arms across his chest and gazed blandly at Caprino.
A good move. Caprino’s respect for Vasaro rose even higher. His action had placed Caprino between Vasaro and Andreas. Caprino was tempted to address Vasaro as the worthier of the two but turned instead to Andreas. “I am overjoyed to accommodate any friends of Madonna Giulia. What is your pleasure?”
“I need a thief.” Andreas leaned back in his chair and studied Caprino with narrowed eyes.
Caprino met his eyes and continued to smile politely. “It will be my pleasure to provide you with the finest thief in all of Florence, Your Magnificence. Only a thief, or must he possess other talents? An assassin, perhaps? I have a few associates who have talents in that direction, but no one with the extraordinary skills of Messer Vasaro.”
Andreas stiffened. “You know of Vasaro?”
“How could I not?” Caprino remained sitting forward in his chair, one graceful hand resting with seeming casualness on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “He shines in the firmament like a bright star, dazzling all who see him. Is it any wonder I should recognize him?”
“Not at all.” Andreas cast an amused glance at Vasaro, who was still gazing at Caprino with no expression. “Do you hear that, Lorenzo? A star, by all that’s holy. Aren’t you going to thank the kind gentleman?”
Lorenzo inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“No thanks are needed,” Caprino said quickly. “I merely gave homage where homage was due. It was foolish of me to suggest you might need an assassin when Messer Vasaro is in your service. Why should you need any—”
“As you say, I need no assassin,” Andreas interrupted with sudden impatience. “I need a thief with hands as swift and sure as an arrow drawn by a master bowman and a touch as delicate as the kiss of a butterfly.”
“There are many thieves in Florence,” Caprino said thoughtfully. “I myself have trained an honored few.”
“So I’ve been informed.” Andreas’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “No doubt you’ve also tutored many individuals in my friend Lorenzo’s former profession.”
Caprino shrugged. “One or two. But to be an assassin requires a certain fortitude not found in every man. A thief is different. Easier. Not as profitable but . . .” He trailed off. “How long would you need this thief, my lord Andreas?”
Andreas went still. “You know me also?” His voice was dangerously soft. “Does my name, too, shine in the firmament?”
Caprino’s hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger. He could feel a bead of moisture dampen his temple as he realized his mistake. He had judged Vasaro to be the threat. A stupid error. In his experience most soldiers, even condottieri, had none of the skill and subtlety Caprino admired. But he shouldn’t have let his contempt for the profession overshadow his judgment of the man. No, that was not entirely true, Caprino admitted reluctantly. His instinctive revulsion at Andreas’s overpowering virility had also contributed to the blunder by keeping him from a serious study of the man. Now he discerned the intelligence, as well as cynicism, in Andreas’s brilliant dark eyes which were fully as merciless as those of Vasaro. Caprino moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Your fame has spread over all Italy, my lord. An illustrious condottiere such as yourself must expect to be recognized and—” Caprino broke off. “I had no idea your visit to our city was in secret. If you wish to go unrecognized, then it goes without saying that I never have seen your face, never heard the sound of your voice, never even heard your name pronounced.”
“And who did pronounce my name to you?” Andreas asked silkily. “And on what subject? I asked Giulia to tell no one I was in Florence.”
“You know how careless women can be, Magnifico. When Madonna Giulia summoned me here, she mentioned your name but nothing else. I swear this, my lord Andreas. Would the Madonna have sent for me if I wasn’t a man of discretion and honor?”
“Lorenzo?” Andreas’s gaze never left Caprino’s face.
Vasaro’s voice was hoarse and scratchy as a wooden coffin pulled over flagstones. “He will betray you for a price high enough. Shall I dispose of him?” Lorenzo asked as casually as if he’d inquired about throwing out the dregs of the wine in Andreas’s cup.
Caprino leaned forward in his chair, prepared to spring, his dagger at the ready for a—
“I think not,” Andreas said. “He doesn’t know enough to hurt me, and I’d find it inconvenient to search out another procurer.”
“A wise decision.” Caprino’s grasp on his dagger relaxed. “A man should always keep the long view in mind. Now about this thief?”
“Just this moment I have thought of a quality he must possess,” Andreas said, looking down at his heavy leather gauntlets on the table. “I must own him.”
“Own?”
Andreas’s long, broad index finger rubbed at the brass riveting of the gauntlet. “He must be mine body and soul. I’ll not have him running back to you with tales you can sell to the highest bidder.” Andreas smiled. “Of course, I could have him removed after he finishes his task, but I dislike rewarding good work in that fashion. Not an intelligent way to proceed.”
“I can see that.” Caprino’s uneasy gaze darted to Vasaro. Rumor had it that Vasaro had accepted service with Andreas when the condottiere was a boy of seventeen. How had Andreas managed to hold such a skilled assassin all these years? Did he own him body and soul as he wished to own the thief? It was something to ponder, for who but Satan was capable of possessing a demon? “Such men aren’t easy to find. How could I—”
“You must know ways.” Andreas pulled a purse from his belt and tossed it on the table to Caprino. “Greed, revenge, a woman. We both know the weapons to bind a man. Use them.”
Caprino opened the pouch and counted the ducats. “A fair price.”
“A princely sum for one insignificant thief, as well you know, but a small price for the soul of a human being.”
Caprino smiled. “I’m sure you’ll discover shortly whether or not that is so.”
From Storm Winds . . .
Ile du Lion, France
June 10, 1787
Jean Marc Andreas strode around the pedestal, studying the statue from every angle. The jewel-encrusted Pegasus was superb.
From its flying mane to the exquisite detail of the gold filigree clouds on which the horse danced, it was a masterful piece of work.
“You’ve done well, Desedero.” Andreas said. “It’s perfect.”
The sculptor whom some called a mere goldsmith shook his head. “You’re wrong, Monsieur. I’ve failed.”
“Nonsense. This copy is identical to the Wind Dancer, is it not?”
“It is as close a copy as could be made, even to the peculiar cut of the facets of the jewels,” Desedero said. “I had to journey to India to locate emeralds large and perfect enough to use as the eyes of the Wind Dancer and spent over a year crafting the body of the statue.”
“And the inscription engraved on the base?”
Desedero shrugged. “I reproduced the markings with great precision, but since the script is indecipherable that is a minor point, I believe.”
“Nothing is minor. My father knows the Wind Dancer in its every detail,” Andreas said dryly. “I paid you four million livres to duplicate the Wind Dancer—and I always get my money’s worth.”
Desedero knew those words to be true. Jean Marc Andreas was a young man, no more than twenty and five, but he had established himself as a formidable force in
the world of finance since taking over the reins of the Andreas shipping and banking empire three years before from his ailing father. He was reputed to be both brilliant and ruthless. Desedero had found him exceptionally demanding, yet he did not resent Andreas. Perhaps it was because the young man’s commission challenged the artist in him. Certainly Andreas’s desperation to please his father was touching. Desedero had loved his own father very much and understood such deep and profound affection. He was much impressed by Jean Marc Andreas’s wholehearted zeal for replicating the Wind Dancer to please his ill and aging father.
“I regret to say I do not believe you have gotten your money’s worth this time, Monsieur Andreas.”
“Don’t say such a thing, sir.” A muscle jerked in Andreas’s jaw. “You have succeeded. We’ve succeeded. My father will never know the difference between this Wind Dancer and the one at Versailles.”
Desedero shook his head. “Tell me, have you ever seen the real Wind Dancer?”
“No, I’ve never visited Versailles.”
Desedero’s gaze returned to the statue on the pedestal. “I remember vividly the first time I saw it some forty-two years ago. I was only a lad of ten and my father took me to Versailles to see the treasures that were dazzling the world. I saw the Hall of Mirrors.” He paused. “And I saw the Wind Dancer. What an experience. When you walked into my studio some year and a half ago with your offer of a commission to create a copy of the Wind Dancer, I could not pass it by. To replicate the Wind Dancer would have been sublime.”
“And you’ve done it.”
“You don’t understand. Had you ever seen the original, you would know the difference instantly. The Wind Dancer has . . .” He searched for a word. “Presence. One cannot look away from it. It captures, it holds”—he smiled crookedly—“as it’s held me for these forty-two years.”
“And my father,” Andreas whispered. “He saw it once as a young man and has wanted it ever since.” He turned away. “And by God, he’ll have it. She took everything from him—but he shall have the Wind Dancer.”
Desedero discreetly ignored the last remark, though he was well aware of the lady to whom Andreas referred. Charlotte, Denis Andreas’s wife, Jean Marc’s stepmother, had been dead over five years. Still the stories of her greed and treachery were much passed about.
Sighing, Desedero shook his head. “You have only a copy of the Wind Dancer to give to your father.”
“There’s no difference.” A hint of desperation colored Andreas’s voice. “My father will never see the two statues side by side. He’ll think he has the Wind Dancer until the day he—” He broke off, his lips suddenly pinched.
“Your father is worse?” Desedero asked gently.
“Yes, the physicians think he has no more than six months to live. He’s begun to cough blood.” He tried to smile. “So it’s fortunate you have finished the statue and could bring it now to the Ile du Lion. Yes?”
Desedero had an impulse to reach out and touch him in comfort, but he knew Andreas was not a man who could accept such a gesture, so he merely said, “Very fortunate.”
“Sit down.” Andreas picked up the statue and started toward the door of the salon. “I’ll take this to my father in his study. That’s where he keeps all the things he treasures most. Then I’ll return and tell you how wrong you were about your work.”
“I hope I’m wrong,” Desedero said with a shrug. “Perhaps only the eye of an artist can perceive the difference.” He sat down in the straight chair his patron had indicated and stretched out his short legs. “Don’t hurry, Monsieur. You have many beautiful objects here for me to study. Is that a Botticelli on the far wall?”
“Yes. My father purchased it several years ago. He much admires the Italian masters.” Andreas moved toward the door, carefully cradling the statue in his arms. “I’ll send a servant with wine, Signor Desedero.”
The door closed behind him and Desedero leaned back in his chair, gazing blindly at the Botticelli. Perhaps the old man was too ill to detect the fraud being thrust upon him. Whole and well, he would have seen it instantly, Desedero realized, because everything in this house revealed Denis Andreas’s exquisite sensitivity and love of beauty. Such a man would have been as helplessly entranced with the Wind Dancer as Desedero always had been. Sometimes his own memories of his first visit to Versailles were bathed in mist from which only the Wind Dancer emerged clearly.
He hoped for Jean Marc Andreas’s sake that his father’s memories had dimmed along with his sight.
Jean Marc opened the door of the library, and beauty and serenity flowed over him. This room was both haven and treasure house for his father. A fine Savonnerie carpet in delicate shades of rose, ivory, and beige stretched across the highly polished parquet floor, and a Gobelin tapestry depicting the four seasons covered one wall. Splendid furniture crafted by Jacobs and Boulard was placed for beauty—and comfort—in the room. A fragile crystal swan rested on a cupboard of rosewood and Chinese lacquer marquetry. The desk, wrought in mahogany, ebony, and gilded bronze with mother-of-pearl inserts, might have been the focal point of the room if it had not been for the portrait of Charlotte Andreas. It was dramatically framed and placed over a fireplace whose mantel of Pyrenees marble drew the eye.
Denis Andreas always complained of the cold these days and, although it was the end of June, a fire burned in the hearth. He sat in a huge crimson brocade-cushioned armchair, reading before the fire, his slippered feet resting on a matching footstool.
Jean Marc braced himself, then stepped into the room and closed the door. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
His father looked up with a smile that froze on his lips as he looked at the statue in Jean Marc’s arms. “I see you have.”
Jean Marc strode over to the table beside his father’s chair and set the statue carefully on the malachite surface. He could feel tension coiling painfully in his every muscle as his father gazed at the Pegasus. He forced a smile. “Well, do say something, sir. Aren’t you pleased with me? It was far from easy to persuade King Louis to part with the statue. Bardot has virtually lived at court this past year waiting for the opportunity to pounce.”
“You must have paid a good deal for it.” Denis Andreas reached out and touched a filigree wing with a gentle finger.
His father’s hands had always been delicate-looking, the hands of an artist, Jean Marc thought. But now they were nearly transparent, the protruding veins poignantly emphasizing their frailty. He quickly looked from those scrawny hands to his father’s face. His face was also thin, the cheeks hollowed, but his eyes still held the gentleness and wonder they always had.
“I paid no more than we could afford.” Jean Marc sat down on the chair across from his father. “And Louis needed the livres to pay the American war debt.” At least, that was true enough. Louis’s aid to the American revolutionaries along with his other extravagant expenditures had set France tottering on the edge of bankruptcy. “Where should we put it? I thought a white Carrara marble pedestal by the window. The sunlight shining on the gold and emeralds would make it come alive.”
“The Wind Dancer is alive,” his father said gently. “All beauty lives, Jean Marc.”
“By the window then?”
“No.”
“Where?”
His father’s gaze shifted to Jean Marc’s face. “You didn’t have to do this.” He smiled. “But it fills me with joy that you did.”
“What’s a few million livres?” Jean Marc asked lightly. “You wanted it.”
“No, I have it.” Denis Andreas tapped the center of his forehead with his index finger. “Here. I didn’t need this splendid imitation, my son.”
Jean Marc went still. “Imitation?”
His father looked again at the statue. “A glorious imitation. Who did it? Balzar?”
Jean Marc was silent a moment before he said hoarsely, “Desedero.”
“Ah, a magnificent sculptor when working in gold. I’m surprised he accepted the commissio
n.”
Frustration and despair rose in Jean Marc until he could scarcely bear it. “He was afraid you would recognize the difference but I felt I had no choice. I offered the king enough to buy a thousand statues, but Bardot reported that Louis wouldn’t consider selling the Wind Dancer at any price. According to His Majesty, the queen has a particular fondness for it.” His hands closed tightly on the arms of the chair. “But, dammit, it’s the same.”
Denis Andreas shook his head. “It’s a very good copy. But, my son, the Wind Dancer is . . .” He shrugged. “I think it has a soul.”
“Mother of God, it’s only a statue!”
“I can’t explain. The Wind Dancer has seen so many centuries pass, seen so many members of our family born into the world, live out their lives . . . and die. Perhaps it has come to be much more than an object, Jean Marc. Perhaps it has become . . . a dream.”
“I failed you.”
“No.” His father shook his head. “It was a splendid gesture, a loving gesture.”
“I failed you. It hurt me to know you couldn’t have the one thing you so wished—” Jean Marc broke off and attempted to steady his voice. “I wanted to give something to you, something that you’d always wanted.”
“You have given me something. Don’t you see?”
“I’ve given you disappointment and chicanery and God knows you’ve had enough of both in your life.” Denis flinched and Jean Marc’s lips twisted. “You see, even I hurt you.”
“You’ve always demanded too much of yourself. You’ve been a good and loyal son.” He looked Jean Marc in the eye. “And I’ve had a good life. I’ve been fortunate enough to have the means to surround myself with treasures, and I have a son who loves me enough to try to deceive me ever so sweetly.” He nodded at the statue. “And now why don’t you take that lovely thing out to the salon and find a place to show it to advantage?”
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