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Francesca raised her glass. “I’ll be thankful for that, in any event.”
They clinked the glasses and drank.
“But now let us set aside for the moment this provoking man who rescues you, and so stupidly declines to have his way with you,” Giulietta said.
“Set him aside, indeed.” Francesca gave a rueful laugh. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t seen him yet. You haven’t seen him wet.”
“Sooner or later I will see him,” Giulietta said. “Then I will understand why he made you break your rules. For now he matters only because he saved your life. To me the important question is, Who wants you dead?”
That night, at La Fenice
La Gazza Ladra. Again.
Lurenze. Again.
But not in the place of honor, James noted as he followed the Austrian governor Count Goetz into Mrs. Bonnard’s box. In the choice seat, on Mrs. Bonnard’s right, sat a tawny-haired Russian officer. To Mrs. Bonnard’s left sat her little friend Giulietta. The two women had their heads together and whispered behind their fans.
The officer, who must have some understanding of the ways of women, made no attempt to claim her attention but chatted with the Russian consul, who sat nearby.
Lurenze, who obviously hadn’t spent any time cogitating upon the conundrum that is Woman, sat halfway across the box. He watched her in the fixed way a dog watches at a table for a scrap to fall.
Exactly like a dog, he was not easily diverted. Goetz, whom protocol obliged to introduce James, tried several times before he succeeded in obtaining his highness’s attention, and then the prince could barely conceal his impatience at the interruption. He did look at James, though, during the introduction, and let out a little sigh. James could guess what he saw: yet another rival.
But if his highness felt discouraged, it wasn’t enough to make him leave. He forgot James as soon as the introductions were over and returned his adoring gaze to Mrs. Bonnard.
The women, James knew, were fully aware of his arrival. Though they did not turn their heads, he noted the subtle change in their posture, the coming-to-alertness that told him they were paying close attention to what went on behind them.
Ignoring his aide’s whispered attempts to explain where Mr. Cordier fit in the English aristocracy, Lurenze addressed his lady love. “Madame, so crowded here it is. Perhaps you wish for some air.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, throwing the briefest glance his way—and affecting not to notice James. “I don’t find it stuffy at all.”
“This is because you sit at the very edge,” Lurenze said. “I observe this with great alarms. Count Goetz, you must explain to the lady of the danger, to make herself exposed. After what happens last night, it cannot be wise to appear where everyone can look.”
“I want them to look,” she said, turning a lazy smile upon the Russian beside her. “Let them see I’m not afraid. Let them see that I will not hide or run away.”
“I agree,” James said. Suppressing a prickle of irritation—Did she smile at every male that way?—he made his way to the front of the box, Goetz in his wake. “For Mrs. Bonnard to hide herself would be a crime.”
The two feminine heads turned his way in graceful unison.
“Mr. Cordier,” Bonnard said coolly. “You have set aside your studies to visit us? How flattering.”
“I have told him he must,” said Count Goetz. “If not for him—”
“Let’s not dwell on unpleasant subjects,” James cut in. “Please be so good as to present me to the ladies.”
“Yes, do, sir,” said Bonnard. “Giulietta has been dying to meet my intrepid neighbor.”
“Dying isn’t strictly necessary,” James said as he bowed over Giulietta’s hand.
“He says that now,” Mrs. Bonnard told her friend. “But you know what I had to do to get his attention.”
Through this exchange, Count Goetz somehow managed to effect proper introductions.
“This is the man?” The officer, who turned out to be Count Vimstikov, rose. “Mr. Cordier, may I shake your hand? You have my gratitude. Indeed, I think I speak for everyone here—perhaps all of Venice—when I give you my heartfelt thanks.”
Being an old hand, James had no trouble concealing his surprise. He’d been thanked before, yes, and often, usually in the form of money or valuables. Public thanks were altogether new to him.
True, he’d dutifully reported the crime not only to Goetz but to the British consul general, Mr. Hoppner. While James customarily worked behind the scenes, this was not the sort of episode—given the victim and its happening in front of a pair of gondoliers—one could keep secret in Venice. Besides, if it turned out to be an ordinary crime, unconnected with his assignment, the Austrian governor’s men were best qualified to solve it.
Since everyone seemed to assume it was an ordinary if inexplicable crime, their thanking James was reasonable and normal.
He hoped they were right—that would simplify matters—but he doubted it. The crime didn’t seem ordinary to him. Worse, it was completely unexpected. He’d received no hint that her life was in danger. He’d merely happened to be in the right place at the right time.
If he had not happened to be there…
But he shook off that thought as Lurenze at last remembered his manners and added his thanks to the general gratitude for the harlot’s preservation.
“But these heroisms should not be necessary,” his highness added. “For the woman alone to travel in the nighttime is always dangerous.”
Count Goetz defended Venice’s policing methods, concluding with, “This was a shocking aberration, your highness. I assure you that we are investigating.” He approached the prince to explain exactly what was being done. The Russian consul joined them. National interests apparently led Count Vimstikov to graciously yield the place of honor to James, and join the others who surrounded the prince—and to his evident annoyance, blocked his view of his beloved.
James started to sit in the vacated chair but, “Not there,” Mrs. Bonnard said, rising. “You had better take my chair and sit between us. Giulietta wants to feel your muscles.”
Giulietta smiled sweetly up at him. “We argue that only men who work very hard have them. I must prove for myself.”
“Well, if it’s for scientific reasons,” James said.
This set of chairs being drawn up close to the rail of the box, they had little space for maneuvering. He was aware of the swish of silk as Bonnard brushed against him. He caught her scent again, a gossamer-light lure inviting a man to discover its source. Her skin? Her hair? He had to concentrate hard to keep his head from inclining toward her neck. He focused on the pearls she wore, the size of quail eggs, and wondered how many men in the world, let alone in Venice, in this opera box, could afford her.
James hadn’t much time to calculate the net worth of the males in the vicinity, because the shushing started soon after he took his seat.
On stage, the evil mayor was about to ravish poor Ninetta.
This was one of the good parts.
Mr. Cordier was the only man in Francesca’s opera box who was truly paying attention to the opera. The rest merely bided their time, keeping silent only because the Italians would kill them otherwise. Not until the proper moment—when the audience in loud bravas or bravos or hoots, catcalls, and fruit and vegetable missiles, gave its opinion of the proceedings—not until then might normal activity resume.
Her neighbor’s attention remained on the stage well after everyone else’s had left it, however. This gave Francesca far too much time with nothing to distract her from her pulsing awareness of the size of him and the scent of him and the sheer maleness of him, mere inches away.
He was, beyond question, the most masculine male there. She had no doubt the others knew it, too.
Men are like wolves and dogs, her mentor, Madame Noirot, had told her. Some are leaders; some are followers. You will notice how one man arrives upon the scene and the others defer. Either that, or
they fight for position. The man you want is the one who is most powerful, the one to whom the others defer.
At the moment, Francesca was well aware that the most powerful male in the Fenice sat beside her.
Ignoring her.
She was not used to being ignored, and that was only the start of her vexations. Equally galling was his becoming completely engrossed in the opera, as she always wanted to do but must not, because to sit rapt through the whole performance was gauche.
He cared nothing for what was or wasn’t gauche.
But he had all the advantages: He was (a) an aristocratic male, and they all did as they pleased, (b) a scholar, and they were allowed to be eccentric, and (c), most important, the man at the top of the male pecking order, who answered to nobody.
A younger son was not at the top for her, she told herself, even though his presence diminished every other man about him.
He was not at the top for her, despite his broad shoulders and rampant masculinity and wicked black curls begging her fingers to come and play.
He was not at the top for her, even if he had saved her life. He’d had his chance to enjoy her gratitude, and he’d declined. No man got a second chance with her.
She rose.
