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He carried the tray to Francesca. She took the note from it. He bowed and went out again.
She opened the note, her fingers trembling despite her best efforts. Cordier lightly touched her hand, and that was all it took to still the tremors.
“Eleven o’clock tonight,” the painstakingly formed letters informed them amid numerous ink blots. “San Giacomo di Rialto. No masks.”
It was a frantic few minutes. The message arrived shortly after ten o’clock, leaving little time to think, let alone prepare. However, Francesca had done her thinking on the day Cordier told her his plan for dealing with Marta Fazi.
She had only to step into her boudoir briefly and collect the parcel waiting there. Thérèse had her evening wrap ready. It was not five minutes before Francesca was hurrying downstairs with Cordier, who was rattling off instructions to various servants as they went.
Not long thereafter, he and Francesca were in her gondola. As instructed, they were not wearing masks, though this would be nothing out of the way in Venice.
Once they were well on their way and there was no chance of Cordier sending her back, she withdrew from under her shawl the parcel and held it upon her lap. It was wrapped in pink silk and tied with blue ribbons.
“What is that?” he said.
“A gift.”
“Pink silk? Not for me, then.”
She swallowed. “It’s for her.”
He stared for a moment at the package clutched in her gloved and braceleted hands. Then, “Are you insane?” he burst out. “A gift? For Fazi?”
“A bribe, actually.”
“A bribe? A bribe? Are you mad? Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
He was very angry. His face had the marble-hard expression he’d worn the night he threw the big cutthroat in the water.
“I’m dealing with a woman who wants to kill me,” she said. “A woman.”
“You don’t know this kind of woman! She’s not like you! She’s not like Giulietta!” He paused and took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I recognize the shape of that parcel. You are not going to do what I think you’re going to do.”
“She came to my house,” Francesca said. “She saw my jewelry. She probably had it in her hands. But she left it behind. All she took were the emeralds.”
“She’s mad about emeralds. Literally. Mad. As in non compos mentis.”
“She’s a woman,” Francesca said. “She left all the rest of the jewelry behind. What an effort of will that must have been.”
“I’m going to tear my hair out,” Cordier said. “What possessed me to involve you in this? I should have known you’d come up with a harebrained scheme—”
“You said it’s a point of pride with her to get the letters,” she said. “They’re paying her to do it. But what if I pay her more? I can’t believe Elphick would give her a fraction of what these are worth.” She tapped the oblong parcel.
“He’s not going to give her anything,” he said. “That’s the point. She’s signed up on the losing side. That’s all she needs to know. This is her one and only chance to get away. If I could have arranged matters so that she couldn’t get away, I’d do it. But Zeggio wasn’t able to follow Piero and we don’t have the faintest idea where she is. This is the only way to get her into the open—and we can’t count on the forces of law and order turning up on time. Maledizione!” He flung himself back in the seat. “I did think we’d have more time. But this is what I get for letting my feelings get in the way of my brain. This is what I get for listening to my heart instead of my instincts. This is what happens when a man lets a woman lead him around by the—”
“Lud, the way you carry on about a little jewelry,” she said.
“I’m a thief! A jewel thief! Have you any idea what it does to me, to see you give away a fortune in gems?”
She looked at him. “I have an idea now,” she said. “It’s as good as an opera.”
The look he flashed her must have been the kind his Italian ancestors had bestowed on inconvenient spouses, moments before issuing the orders for poisoning or strangling.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” she said.
He closed his eyes.
She thought, He’s going to throw me out of the gondola now.
He shook his head. Then he laughed.
She let out the breath she’d been holding.
“You’re impossible,” he said.
“I told you that a long time ago,” she said.
“You’re also an idiot,” he said. “But it can’t be helped. I’m an idiot, too. I was so bedazzled tonight that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Those curst pearls. I should have told you to leave them at home. You shouldn’t be wearing any jewelry at all.”
“Evening dress without jewelry?” she said. “What a quiz I should look! Besides, she’d think I was afraid.”
“But you are not in the least afraid,” he said.
“Are you mad?” she said. “Of course I’m afraid. What woman in her senses wouldn’t be?”
“You put up an excellent front, then,” he said.
“My back is highly regarded, too,” she said.
He pried loose one of the hands clutching the parcel and kissed it. Since she was wearing gloves, the kiss wasn’t very satisfying. Still, the gesture comforted her.
“You do this sort of thing all the time,” she said. “More alarming things, I’ll wager. Are you never afraid?”
“I suppose,” he said. “Sometimes I’m afraid. But other times I’m excited.”
“And now?”
“I’d feel easier in my mind if we’d had a bit more time, if I could be sure Lurenze and his people were close at hand. But that was the whole point of making ourselves available at a moment’s notice. She knew we wouldn’t have time to summon our forces and we knew she wouldn’t have time to assemble hers.”
Or so they hoped.
Ah, well, it would be exciting, at any rate, Francesca thought. And he hadn’t made her wait at home, worrying. She’d be in the thick of it, for good or ill. Her heart was racing, too, and perhaps it wasn’t all fear. Perhaps there was excitement as well.
In any case, her hand was still warmly clasped in his, and he hadn’t wrestled her for the parcel, and so she had hope that all would be well.
He turned his head away and she followed his gaze. He was looking at the Rialto Bridge. A moment later, they were passing under it, and coming up to the Riva del Vin, the broad stretch of pavement running alongside the Grand Canal, forming one of the busy market area’s quaysides.
The boat glided to a stop.
“This is where we get out,” he said.
Chapter 17
’T is said that their last parting was pathetic,
As partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic
That they should never more each other see
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,
Which I have known occur in two or three)
Lord Byron, Beppo
San Giacomo di Rialto, an old but modest little church, stood a short distance from the Rialto Bridge. On one side of it ran the Ruga Degli Orefici, a street lined with silver and gold shops. The church overlooked the usual little square or campo, at one end of which stood a statue of somebody of historical importance. James couldn’t recall at the moment who the somebody was.
The street and square were busy during the day with artists, tradespeople, and tourists coming and going from their hotels. At this hour, though, the working people were in bed and the upper classes were at the opera or other entertainments, leaving the place deserted.
Fazi had chosen her time well.
She’d chosen the right night, too. The sky was clear and half of the rising moon was brightly visible, shedding its silver glow upon the square. While shadows abounded, she would find it no easier to hide a gang of ruffians than James would to hide guards or soldiers.
As they ent
ered the square, he glanced up at the beautiful clock in the church’s tower…and frowned.
“No use looking there,” Francesca said. “It hasn’t told the correct time since the day it was installed, some two or three centuries ago.”
“I hope she knows that,” he said. While he talked, he was taking in their surroundings, as he’d done while they walked here. He’d perceived nothing out of the way. As he’d assured Francesca, the chances of an ambush—by either side—were very small. He had not had enough notice to organize an attack, and he strongly doubted Fazi had had time enough, either, or the inclination.
