One Knight in Venice

by Tori Phillips

  Sophia tottered on her tiptoes to see the sum that Jessica held. “Do not be overhasty, madonna,” she cautioned. “Gentlemen enjoy being generous.”

  The African chuckled in the back of his throat. “My wives know the truth of that.”

  Jessica shook her head. She handed back nine of the ducats. “My fee is only one, my lord. To accept any more would be wrong.”

  Sophia muttered something under her breath. The great Jobe chuckled again.

  With a show of regret, Lord Bardolph pocketed his rejected gold. Then he held out his hand to her with another one of those heart-stopping smiles. “If you will not allow me to pay you for making me into a new man, come walk with Jobe and me to the Rialto where I can purchase you a frippery of your choice.”

  Jessica shook her head, though the pleading in his eyes nearly melted her resolve. This could be a trap. The officers of the Inquisition could be waiting for her in the marketplace.

  She swallowed hard before she replied. “I am greatly honored by your offer, messere, but I cannot. I rarely go abroad in the daylight.” She touched her mask.

  He did not lower his hand. “It is carnival time, madonna. Everyone in Venice wears a mask these days. In fact, Jobe and I must purchase masks of our own so that people will not gawk and point at us. We desire your expert advice on this matter.”

  “Most excellent idea!” Jobe agreed.

  Jessica refused to listen to the pleading of her heart. She must remain firm in this matter. The sooner the Englishman left her home, the better. “I am sorry, my lord. I pray that you pardon me, but I cannot accompany you. I am unworthy of the honor and—” She hurried her speech before he could object again. “I am expecting another patient within this hour.” Thank heavens her mask covered the blush that her lie had brought to her cheeks!

  The gentleman dropped his hand to his side. “Of course! In my gratitude for your healing art, I had forgotten that mine is not the only body or soul whom you solace. I envy your next patient, madonna, for he will enjoy the company that we will lack. When shall I come again?”

  Jessica tried not to look at him. He was too charming by half. “In two days, messere,” she replied. Her voice shook a little. “At ten in the morning?”

  He again took her hand in his. She trembled at his touch.

  “I shall be on your doorstep by the tenth stroke of yon church bells.” He pressed his lips against the backs of her fingers.

  Her flesh prickled at his gentle touch. The shock of the brief contact ran through her body, making her flushed and chilled at the same time. A fluttering arose at the base of her throat.

  “Pray, excuse me, messere,” she murmured, snatching her hand away. “I feel suddenly—” She pushed open the door and fled to the gloom of the hallway. She sank in a heap on the cool floor tiles.

  ¡Madre del Dio! I have a fever in truth!

  Jobe settled himself against the gondola’s plump red cushions. “Methinks the little healer has bewitched you,” he remarked in English. “How came these sudden merry spirits of yours?”

  Francis turned his face toward the winter sun’s rays and basked in their golden gleam. “Tis a puzzlement, I trow. I know not why or how but while the sweet Jessica plied my shoulder with her balm and healing fingers, she also touched my soul.”

  He glanced down the canal behind them in time to see their ever-present shadow descend into a gondola. Francis almost felt sorry for Cosma’s hireling.

  Jobe cocked his shaven head. “How now? By what magic did she coax away your melancholy?”

  Francis stretched out his long legs. Gondolas were eminently practical boats for long-limbed men such as Jobe and himself. “She asked me about my parents—and, God help me, I told her.”

  The African knotted his dark brows. “Everything?” he asked, casting a quick look at the impassive gondolier.

  Francis chuckled then lowered his voice. “Nay, I have not lost all my wits. She still believes that I am a noble gentleman. But in the brief telling of my tattered background, I felt as if a great weight was lifted from my chest—a weight that I didn’t even realize had been there until it vanished. Is that not truly remarkable?”

  A slow grin spread across Jobe’s face. “Not at all, meo amigo. You are indeed a true Cavendish.”

  With a frown, Francis pushed his bonnet further back on his head. “Explain yourself, Jobe. I am not in the mood for your riddling answers. My brains are too light today for heavy thoughts.”

  The African laughed. “I mean to say that tis no surprise you have finally discovered the hot blood of your heritage. Tis been a long time coming.”

  Francis refused to allow Jobe’s darts to puncture his good mood. “Posh! I have always had a passionate nature. Ask any maid in Rome, in Pisa, in Florence!”

  His friend snorted. “I do not speak of mere lust. That is commonplace.”

  Francis crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “What else is there?”

  “Love,” Jobe replied.

  Francis did not open his eyes. Love? How little he understood of that foreign emotion! Only yesterday he had realized too late how much he had loved his grandfather. Love a woman? Francis snorted. Brandon and Guy had been most fortunate to find the pearls of their wives amid all the chaff those two had reportedly enjoyed during their salad days.

  On the other hand, Francis’s youth had been spent inside Oxford’s great library. The women he had known were good for a dalliance or witty discourse but not for something more permanent. He had learned that with rare exceptions, a man couldn’t trust the species. Just look at the example of his own mother!

  Yet he had trusted Jessica with a quick look into his closely guarded past and the experience rewarded him with a lighter heart. There must be something in that. Francis refused to mull over the matter. Not today.

  A gentle thump jostled him from further musing. “The Rialto, my lords,” announced the gondolier.

  The day’s pleasant weather had attracted many citizens to the great marketplace in the quayside and nearby campo that was the center of commerce for the Republic. Francis and Jobe strolled amid the late morning’s crush of people. A babel of a dozen languages filled their ears. The aroma from the hundreds of cheeses, fresh fish, fruits and spices assailed their nostrils. Colorful garb of the Venetian dandies and their paramours, the Arab traders, the visitors from Paris and Utrecht mixed with the red shoulder sashes and pom-poms on the hats of the city’s senators.

  Francis clapped Jobe on his back between his massive shoulder blades. “Truly tis a gladsome day, my friend.”

  Before the African could respond, Francis spied a wooden booth sagging under a load of glistening dark dates.

  “Fresh yesterday from the Holy Land, messere,” the fawning vendor assured him.

  Jobe and Francis each took a fruit, split it open and tasted the sweet pulp. “You speak the truth,” Francis nodded.

  Jessica would like these, he thought. She missed too much of the sweetness that life offered by hiding in that little house of hers on a watery backstreet. She needed a taste of the sun in the middle of winter. Francis snapped his fingers to one of the ferret-quick young boys that lounged about the marketplace.

  “Is this one a trusty soul?” he asked Jobe while pointing to the eager lad.

  Jobe gave the youth a penetrating look into his eyes. “Aye, meo amigo, if sufficient silver crosses his palm.”

  Francis dug into his purse. Both the vendor and the boy wet their lips with anticipation. Francis sprinkled scudos into their outstretched hands. “Take up the best basket of this delectable fruit, my boy, and be like winged Mercury. Fly hence to number sixteen Fondementa di San Felice—do you know the area?”

  The youth nodded with a wide grin.

  “For such a fortune, methinks your messenger would say ‘aye’ even if he didn’t,” Jobe observed behind his hand.

  Francis laughed aloud. The sound pleased his ear. “Deliver these dates to Signorina Jessica Leonardo. Now be off wi
th you!” He waved the boy away.

  The lad gripped the brimming two-handled basket. “Whom shall I say sends this gift?”

  Francis grinned down at the reed-thin youth. “Tell the madonna it is from one whom she has lately saved.”

  The boy repeated the message under his breath, then raced away in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. Francis clapped his hands together with satisfaction. “Tis little enough, Jobe,” he explained. “Indeed, the fair Jessica has eased my heart wondrous much. Mere thanks is not enough. Ah! Look there!”

  He pointed to a nearby purveyor of sweetmeats. “Sugared almonds! She will need to replenish her store after your gorging, Jobe. A scudo’s worth, do you think?”

  Jobe whistled through his teeth. “Tis four times the amount I ate,” he protested with a grin.

  “Good!” Francis replied, again pulling out his purse. Jessica must have almonds to accompany the dates. Sweets for the sweet!

  A small pushcart stood nearby filled to overflowing with the first flowers of the year—deep purple violets. Francis needed no second thought. Jessica struck him as the type who loved flowers. He chose the largest bunch.

  No sooner had he dispatched his third gift clutched in the hands of another eager messenger, than his attention was attracted by a table laid with colorful ribbons and laces. Scarlet, emerald green, deep butter yellow—how beautiful such colors would look entwined amid Jessica’s raven tresses! She needed color in her sheltered life. She must have ribbons woven from the rainbow.

  A fourth messenger quickly followed after the other three, bearing a wealth of ribbons and a fine piece of lace to trim her gown. Jobe only smiled wider as the spending fever ensnared Francis. They roamed through stalls of perfumery, drapers and goldsmiths—all of whom Francis rejected with a sigh.

  “Twould be unseemly to give the maid such costly gifts upon so short an acquaintance,” he told Jobe as he tore himself away from a tray of colorful glass bead necklaces. “She would think I sought…um, unholy favors.”

  Jobe lifted one of his dark brows with amusement. “What about one of those for Donna Jessica?” He pointed to a swarthy man who held a number of red leather leashes in his hands. At the end of each one, a tiny long-tailed monkey gamboled on the paving stones. “There is a merry creature to make her smile.”

  Francis eyed the playful pack. “God shield the fair Jessica! I seek her golden opinion of me, not to raise her ire.”

  Jobe squatted and picked up the nearest monkey. It wound itself around his neck. “Women like silly furry things. Twill give her many hours of delight.”

  Francis cocked an eyebrow at the brown monkey. “That frolicsome beast would turn Jessica’s ordered household into a fur-flying chaos. Nay, put down the creature, Jobe, and think upon a more proper gift.”

  Francis cast a look around the marketplace for a better alternative. He smiled when he saw it. “Ah! The very thing! Beeswax candles to banish winter’s dark hours.” He picked up a thick taper for closer inspection. It had a faint scent of jasmine. “¡La perfezione! The perfect thing! She likes to surround herself in perfume. I’ll send her two.” He tossed a ducat at the pleased candle-seller.

  Jobe held his tongue until a fifth young messenger was despatched to number sixteen on the Fondementa di San Felice. Then he rumbled, “I liked the monkey more better.”

  Francis glanced at Cosma’s henchman huddling over a nut-seller’s brazier. He chuckled as a wicked idea formed in his mind. “Very well, Jobe, you have prevailed upon me. We will indeed buy one of those hairy creatures—and send it to Donna Cosma. I should not forget my dear mistress amidst my sudden generosity.”

  A wide smile wreathed Jobe’s lips. “Most excellent sport!”

  Chapter Seven

  “Another one?” Putting down the petticoat she was hemming, Jessica stared at the wrapped bundle in Sophia’s hands. “From Lord Bardolph?”

  Smiling, the little woman nodded. “Il Dio in His infinite wisdom has finally sent you a very rich patron.”

  “Who is very foolish with his money,” Jessica added, though she couldn’t dampen her flutter of excitement as she accepted the Englishman’s latest gift. She unrolled the piece of muslin that held two fat candles. Jessica lifted one to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. “This is far too rich a gift—even more than the lace. Surely it is wrong to accept so much.”

  Sophia sat on a stool next to the bowl of sugared almonds. She popped one into her mouth. “Too late! The messenger has gone. Besides it would be rude to return such bounty to the giver—especially when he displays good taste in his offerings.” She savored another almond. “Very good taste indeed!” She smacked her lips.

  Jessica ran her fingers over the smooth wax of the candles. “Gaudy gold proved to be hard food for King Midas. I do not require a surfeit of trifles.”

  Sophia frowned at her. “¡Silenzio! You chatter like a parrot! It is high time that you enjoyed the attentions of an admirer. Twenty-four and nary a suitor? It is a scandal! Enjoy the moment now.”

  Returning to her sewing, Jessica shifted uneasily on her chair. “Give over your prattling, Sophia. The gentleman is merely grateful for a few hours of blessed relief. His pain will return soon again, I fear,” she said, searching for a plausible explanation for Lord Bardolph’s sudden largesse. Perhaps he hoped to assault her virtue.

  Sophia folded her hands over her round stomach. “Then he will return soon again.” She chuckled.

  Jessica’s fingers tensed. Her thread snapped in two. Thoughts of the handsome, mysterious yet melancholy foreigner caused the fragile shell of her composure to quiver. She took her time to thread the needle. Her hands shook. The Englishman disturbed her in every way. Each time they had met, his attraction grew stronger.

  Giving herself a shake, she attempted to concentrate on her stitching. What a ninny she was to allow her emotions to rule her head! Not only was the gentleman far above her station, but he harbored some secret that frightened her. She should distance herself from him, not look forward to their next encounter.

  “Besides,” Jessica said aloud. “When the weather turns hot and the fever season comes, he will go back to his homeland.” She would be living in a fool’s paradise if she considered any permanent relationship with Lord Bardolph. He was her patient—nothing more.

  Sighing, she touched the unsightly birthmark on her face. Sophia might talk of courting admirers, but long ago Jessica had resigned herself to spinsterhood. “I will die as chaste as the goddess Diana. Mayhap, I will become a nun in my later years,” she mused.

  Sophia made a rude noise with her lips. “You? Ha! The daughter of marranos? Your vocation would be instantly suspect. Besides, you cannot hide from your heart—not even within a convent’s walls.”

  Cosma’s pretty lips puckered with supreme annoyance as she watched Lord Bardolph’s gift climb up her red silk draperies. Before Jacopo could capture it, the little beast leaped to the top of her cupboard where it scampered back and forth. Nerissa giggled into her apron. Cosma boxed the chit’s ears, then she turned her full wrath upon Jacopo.

  “This?” She pointed at the capering monkey. “No necklace? No ivory comb? No pretty bauble for me? This filthy animal is what my lord sends as a token of his esteem?”

  Jacopo backed away from her righteous ire. “His very words, madonna, to the letter.” He struck his hand against his forehead. “¡Stupido! I nearly forgot. He sends you this letter as well.” He pulled out a scribbled missive from inside his wool tunic.

  Cosma snatched the paper out of his grimy hands. “I do not pay you to lose your wits but to use them! Now catch that disgusting thing and remove it from my house! Throw it into the canal for all I care.”

  Leaving Jacopo and Nerissa to coax the monkey down from its perch, Cosma went into her bedchamber to read Francis’s letter in private. His brief message did not soothe her ruffled feelings but inflamed them. She crumpled his note and tossed it onto a glowing brazier. The paper caught fire immediately and curled into bl
ack ash.

  Cosma stared at her reflection in her looking glass. “He begs my pardon but he cannot come tonight,” she snarled at herself. “He has made other plans with that blackamoor pirate.”

  She slammed her fist down on her dressing table. Her pots of cosmetics rattled against each other. “Other plans without me! For the first time in over four months that preening English peacock disdains my company. Me? The greatest courtesan in all of Venice!”

  Cosma moved closer to the mirror. She searched her features for any sign of a blemish or a wrinkle that heralded the onset of middle age. She smoothed her hand across her peerless complexion achieved by daily applications of pigeon’s milk and cream of cucumbers. How could that fop not yearn for her? Why didn’t his desire for her burn between his legs? Could she be losing her allure?

  “Never!” she snapped, though she trembled at the possibility.

  She must wed long before that dread day when a new Venus of the city was proclaimed. Cosma had enjoyed that hallowed position for five years and the sands of time slipped faster through the glass now. Francis would be leaving Venice soon. He had already spoken of his departure and the news of his grandfather’s death no doubt hastened his thoughts of home. He might be a passive lover but his wealth more than made up for that deficiency. One day in the future, Francis would be an earl. If Cosma intended to become the Englishman’s lady wife, she must not dally now.

  She sat at her table and opened her writing portfolio. She dipped her quill into the ink bottle and held it poised while she considered her wording. Her invitation must intrigue—entice—beguile. Tomorrow she would wear her most seductive gown no matter how cold or wet the weather was. She would take Francis on a most memorable picnic on the nearby island of Sacca Sessola. And they would leave that damned blackamoor in the middle of the piazza.