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Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,
That you might ‘brain them with their
lady’s fan;’
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
And why and wherefore no one understands.
Lord Byron
Don Juan, Canto the First
James wasn’t as easily finished with the business as he was with Piero. The governor kept him at the Ducal Palace past dawn, dotting every i and crossing every t.
James would have returned to Bonnard’s place even at that indecent hour, but he was too conscious of the combined stench of Piero’s unwashed body and whatever noxious fumes the swine had acquired from the prison, all of which clung to James’s clothes.
He went back to the Ca’ Munetti instead. His servants being up and about by this time, he had not long to wait for a bath. After this, he gave Zeggio and Sedgewick a brief summary of his interview with Piero.
Then James went to bed, telling himself that once his head was clear, he’d find a way through the present difficulty.
He slept for only a short time, because of a dream. It started out splendidly, with Bonnard naked and hurtling herself at him, wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing her luscious body against his. Then Lurenze appeared, and she pushed James away and threw herself at the prince instead.
James woke abruptly, aware he wasn’t alone.
He hauled himself up to a sitting position. Sedgewick and Zeggio stood in the doorway, wearing matching worried expressions.
“What?” James said. “What?”
“You was yelling, sir,” said Sedgewick apologetically. “Which you never does, as I was telling Mr. Zeggio here. But it was in Italian, and I couldn’t make it out.”
“I tell him, all you say is, ‘Come back here, you she-devil,’” said Zeggio. “I tell him this is no cause for alarm. It is a dream, nothing more.”
“But you was at them posies last night, sir, and—”
“Pozzi,” Zeggio corrected. “The prisons, very deep in the ground, like wells.”
“It give you the heebie-jeebies is what I reckoned, sir. On account of that time you was in Paris in that hellhole—the one where them filthy frogs tortured you. Which is why I said we oughter wake you up. But you woke up on your own.”
James had spent nearly a year recovering from the French interrogation. It was a long time ago: ten years. Pain was easy to forget but every other grim detail remained etched in his memory.
He wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed, but he was one of the lucky ones. Two of his associates had been tortured to death. His scars—the visible ones—had faded. His nails had grown back. And he’d gone back to work, determined to settle scores. But he’d been so much younger then. Now, it would take him years to recover—if he did recover, which was by no means certain. Now he understood, too, that the trail of betrayal was not simply tangled but endless.
I’m getting too old for this, he thought.
“Find me something to wear,” he told Sedgewick. “And get my shaving things.”
He shaved and dressed quickly, as always. Lingering over his toilette was not in his style.
He was halfway through his breakfast when Zeggio, who’d been sent to ready the gondola, reappeared with a small parcel.
“A maid brings it,” he said. “From Signora Bonnard, she says.”
James stared at the elegantly wrapped parcel.
He set down his coffee, took it, and unwrapped it.
He recognized the shape of the box.
Grimly he opened it.
He didn’t need to look up to be aware of Sedgewick and Zeggio, who’d crept closer. They looked down at the contents, then at his face.
He did not throw the elegant box across the room. Peridots were not pearls, diamonds, or emeralds, true. On the other hand, good specimens did not come cheap. Royalty wore peridots, he knew, and this set, the well-cut stones bordered with brilliants, was worthy of a queen. He simply sat, staring at it, seething, though he had no reason—no sane reason—to be angry.
This was a taunt, nothing more. The wager didn’t signify to her. The price of the peridots was laughable. That was the message he read in it. He’d been merely a diversion to her, a game to while away the journey—at the end of which she had more important prey.
When he could control his voice, he said, “A little wager, that’s all. Mrs. Bonnard certainly pays promptly. She must have had her servant waiting at the shop door for it to open.”
“Very fine articles, those are, sir,” said Sedgewick.
“Indeed they are,” James said. “Most sporting of her. I must thank her. Personally. Zeggio, I thought you were readying the gondola.”
Though he spoke calmly and quietly there was something in his tone that made Zeggio hurry from the room.
The something made Sedgewick’s brow furrow. “Sir,” he began.
James held up his hand. “I’ll deal with this,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Sedgewick said.
“At least I’ve learned one thing,” James said.
“Yes, sir. It were a robbery, nothing to do with—”
“I now understand why Elphick divorced her,” James said. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t strangle her.”
Palazzo Neroni, a short time later
Francesca was naked.
Or so, at least, would respectable persons describe her—for there was, they would scold, far too much of her on view.
Not only had she failed to don a proper morning gown but she wasn’t even wearing decent night-clothes.
Instead of the frumpy cotton nightdress virtuous women wore to bed, she’d donned a shift of exquisite pale yellow silk. Pink silk ribbons tied the deep neckline closed. A pink silk ribbon drawstring tied under her breasts. Over the nightdress she wore a silk dressing gown of a paler shade, closer to the color of cream. In contrast to the simp
le shift, this was trimmed with miles of ruffles and lace and shimmering embroidery dotted with seed pearls.
As she entered the Putti Inferno, she regretted not having ordered breakfast served in the intimacy of the room adjoining her boudoir.
Well, too late. She must shock the plaster and painted children.
Ignoring them and the pudgy little fingers pointing at the great whore in the room, she directed her gaze to Lurenze, who’d risen, his face lighting up, at the sound of her footsteps. Then his eyes opened very wide, and his mouth fell open. He put his hand to his heart. He murmured something in his own language.
“Good morning,” she said, with a small, intimate smile.
Arnaldo was there to pull out her chair, luckily, for his highness was temporarily non compos mentis.
After a moment’s delay and more murmuring to himself, he strung some English together. “You look like—like a—a froth,” he said. “Never have I seen anything so beautiful. In my country, the women do not dress so—so—so showing of their beauties.”
“They don’t do it in my country, either,” she said.
“I am glad we are not in your country or in my country,” he said.
Francesca became aware of distant sounds, coming from the portego. Arnaldo poured her coffee and went out.
She sipped her coffee. She nibbled on a pastry, then put it down because her hands were shaking.
Her heart was beating hard but she went on bestowing sleepy smiles upon Lurenze while she dropped a few innuendoes that went over his golden head.
Arnaldo returned. “Signor Cordier has arrived, signora,” he said. “Do you wish I tell him to come another time?” The servant did not so much as glance at Lurenze when he said this.
“No, send him up,” she said. She did not add, I’ve been expecting him.
Arnaldo went out.
“I’ll wager…” She began. Then she paused, her smile widening. She couldn’t help it. She’d lost the wager, but Cordier would learn what sort of gamester he played with. “I daresay,” she continued, “Mr. Cordier has come to tell us what transpired last night with the man who was captured.”
“I wondered when word would come,” said Lurenze. “So long it takes. Almost I am thinking it is time to send a servant to him for the explanation.”
