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Enzo snarled. “Let me go.”
Lucrezia continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Do you recall what it cost to convince the Delfini to forgive the injury you did to their son?”
Enzo knew the sum well. It had rung in his ears oft enough in the weeks following the duel, when Lucrezia’s wrath had burned bright against his foolishness.
“I’ve no wish to pay it over again,” Lucrezia went on after giving him a moment to consider it. “Nor do I wish to lose my only brother in his second idiotic venture in this vein.”
“You will not lose me,” Enzo retorted. “I’ve far more skill with a sword than any impresario can claim.”
Lucrezia ignored what Enzo had thought a very good point. “Your insistence in solving problems with a blade—”
“The first duel was not of my own creation,” Enzo said, not for the first time. “A friend had been injured and insulted. He sought satisfaction. His cause was just. He named me his second. His courage failed him. I fought in his stead. The duel—”
Lucrezia spoke over him. “As his second, you ought to have convened with that of his opponent and brokered peace between them. And as for your duel today—”
“Wrought by my own hand, yes,” Enzo admitted, “and with twelve-score justification! You know what that wretched creature has done to Fiore—twice over—!”
“Then the matter ought to be settled by purchasing the opera house from under him,” said Lucrezia. “Or by opening our own and ruining his in the comparison. Or by convincing his lovers to leave him and spread reports of their dissatisfaction with his performance.”
“Nothing would suffice,” Enzo snarled. “Save blood.”
Lucrezia arched her brow. “And it is because of precisely that, dear brother, that you will remain here until all danger of a duel has passed. Good morning.”
“Lucrezia!” Enzo cried, struggling against his bonds in vain.
But she had already strode from the chamber.
~
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Fiore awoke alone.
The barest hint of sunlight had begun to bloom across the lagoon. He supposed Enzo had wanted to let him sleep in, even if only for a few scant minutes. Which, while very sweet in its intent, did leave Fiore with precious little time to prepare himself as Enzo’s second. Enzo himself was doubtless off on his morning run up the spiral stair and liable to return at any moment.
Fiore performed a stand-up wash and dressed with haste, all the while doing his able best to ignore the trembling in his fingertips. There was no point in worrying about the duel. Enzo had a rare talent with a blade. His victory was all but assured. The best Fiore could do to assist him was to match his courage.
Still, his nerves strained further with every minute Enzo remained out of his sight.
By the time Fiore had finished his ablutions and dressing, Enzo had not returned. Suspicions began to cloud his thoughts despite his best efforts. In attempt to silence them, Fiore ventured out to find him. He half-expected to run headfirst into him upon moving from the bedchamber to the antechamber. Instead he encountered only the coffee service set out on the card table. Steam still curled from the pot’s spout. Of the two cups sitting beside it, one bore dregs. Evidence of Enzo’s recent occupancy soothed Fiore’s nerves somewhat. He poured and quaffed the second cup before moving on.
If he hadn’t found Enzo in the antechamber, then Fiore thought surely he would meet him in the halls or courtyard between the bedchamber and the spiral stair. But no trace of Enzo appeared in the liminal spaces. Nor, upon reaching the stair itself—the absolute last sensible place left to look—did Fiore find him.
Fiore did not permit himself the luxury of panic. He simply turned on his heel and marched back to the bedchamber. Perhaps he and Enzo had somehow passed each other like ships in the night. And perhaps they might come face-to-face now, if Enzo had gone to the bedchamber himself and doubled back when he found Fiore missing.
In the midst of this maelstrom of speculation and anxiety, Fiore didn’t perceive the path ahead quite so clearly as perhaps he ought. Which left him running headlong into the tall shadow that crossed in front of him.
Whatever relief he might have felt proved short-lived. He’d collided not with Enzo, but with one of the footmen.
“Your pardon, Alvise,” said Fiore when they’d both recovered from the shock. “Have you seen his grace the duke this morning?”
“I have,” Alvise replied with a reverent nod. “He went out not half an hour ago.”
Fiore’s heart plunged into fathomless depths. Still he tried to sound casual as he enquired, “Out for a stroll?”
“Out in a gondola,” Alvise gently corrected him.
Fiore stared. Not a trace of doubt remained. All his worst fears were realized.
