Amanda McCabe - A Notorious Woman

“Maledizione!” Marc slapped his hand flat on the marble sill, relishing the sting of it against his callused palm. He reached up and unlocked the window, shoving it open to let in a gust of cool breeze. The high, jewelled collar of his doublet was choking him, so he unfastened it and ran his fingers through the loose, tangled fall of his hair.

The chilly air cooled his blood, yet still he remembered that dream, how very real it had been, how it had shaken him. When he awoke to find the courtesan who came to him for the night sleeping beside him, her pale red-gold hair spread across the black silk sheets, he snatched her into his arms and kissed her awake. Yet even her great charms, practised and perfect, could not erase the dreams of Julietta Bassano.

She was only meant to be a means to an end, a link in the careful chain he had forged over so many years. He could let nothing stand in his way.

And yet there was something in her dark eyes…

The door to the sala creaked open, drawing him out of his thoughts on the puzzle of Julietta Bassano. Marc turned, only to find that it was not Ermano Grattiano standing there. It was his son, Balthazar, poised as uncertainly on the threshold of that room as he was on that of life itself. He was tall, ungainly in his leanness, full of a fire, a yearning that he could not yet understand or control, angry and restless.

Marc knew this because he had been much as Balthazar was at eighteen, bursting with the heat and passion of life. Yet Marc had only been the adopted son of a Spanish sea merchant, with only his own wit and ambition to bring to the world. Balthazar Grattiano would inherit all of his father’s vast holdings. Money, lands, fleets, jewels.

Women. Perhaps one in particular, a black-haired widow full of secrets? Marc studied Balthazar carefully for a moment. No, this slim youth could have no appreciation for the subtleties and mysteries of a woman like Signora Bassano. One day, perhaps, if he did not follow his father’s path, his consuming desire to possess and destroy.

Marc had no quarrel with young Balthazar. He even felt rather sorry for him, despite his rich inheritance to come. But Marc would not allow him to stand in the way of what he had come so far and given so much to accomplish. No one would stand in the way of that.

“Signor Balthazar,” he greeted, when the young man still hesitated in the doorway. “Good day to you.”

Balthazar’s jaw tightened, and he tilted back his chin to stare at Marc, a strange light in his pale green eyes. “I see my father has kept you waiting, Signor Velazquez.”

Marc shrugged. “It is no hardship to wait in such a grand chamber, with such a glorious view.”

Balthazar came into the room to join Marc at the open window, the last rays of the day’s sun sparkling off the tiny diamonds sewn on his white velvet doublet. He wore a belt of more diamonds and deep purple amethysts, and another diamond hung from his ear, large as a thumbnail, set in an elaborate filigree of gold. Despite these great riches, he radiated only unfocused anger. Passion with nowhere to go.

Marc wondered briefly if he should introduce the young man to the pale courtesan of last night. She was beautiful and very skilled, but unfortunately he could not quite recall her name. And it seemed Balthazar had no trouble attracting female attention of his own. Below them, a silvery blond beauty who had been lounging in a gondola, her scarlet stockinged legs carefully displayed, sat up and gave him a dazzling smile and a wave. Balthazar in turn gave her a small nod. So, the thwarted passion was not of a sexual nature.

It had to be something deeper.

“They say you are much favoured by the Doge,” Balthazar said, still watching the woman in the red stockings. His tone was careless; only the stiff set of his shoulders betrayed even an inkling of his real feelings, whatever those could be.

“I have been very fortunate since I came to Venice,” Marc answered. “Many people have shown me kindness.”

“Why should they not? You are Il leone. My father has also shown you great favour.”

Marc studied the young man carefully, pushing down a flash of impatience with Venetian dissembling. “Your father and I have business together.”

“Mutually beneficial business, of course.”

“Does anyone conduct any other sort?”

“Indeed.” Balthazar turned away from the blond beauty to face Marc. His eyes were like sea glass now, almost iridescent. “Yet not everyone appreciates the favour you have been shown. They think you are merely a condotierre, hired sea power.”

“I have certainly faced my fair share of jealousy before, Signor Balthazar. It follows any man of any consequence, great or small. But I appreciate the warning.”

There was the sound of footsteps on the marble stairs outside the room, the faint echo of masculine laughter. Balthazar’s gaze flickered to the doorway. “My father does not easily tolerate challenges to his position. Even from business partners.”

“I have no desire to be a counsellor to the Doge. I will be gone from Venice soon enough.”

Balthazar nodded. “Still, one can never be too careful in this life, Signor Velazquez.”

He left Marc’s side and crossed the room with his loping, youthful gait, passing his father in the doorway without a word.

“Ah, Signor Velazquez,” Ermano said heartily. “I am glad to see that my son has been keeping you entertained while I concluded my business. I have sent for wine and refreshments.”

“Your son seems a promising young man,” Marc commented. He turned back to close the window, for the marble room had begun to grow chilly with the passing of the day. Below, torchlight shone on Balthazar’s white doublet and diamonds as he climbed into the blond courtesan’s gondola. She looped her arms about his neck, leaning into him as they glided away.

“Promising?” Ermano stared down at the canal with narrowed eyes. “You are very kind to say so and, of course, I have great hopes for him. He is my only son. Yet I fear he has too much of his mother in him. She was from an excellent lineage, but of little spirit.”

With a beringed hand, he gestured towards one of the newer portraits on the wall, a depiction of a pale, plump lady overwhelmed by satin, sable, and jewels. The fourth Countess Grattiano. Marc pretended to study the painting, yet, really, he watched the count. Marc was much the same height as Ermano, taller than the average, but the count was wider, sturdier, his once well-muscled form turning slowly to fat. His white hair and beard were still thick, his gaze shrewd. He was an ageing lion, but powerful, alert, not yet ready to yield his glory to an unsatisfactory cub.

“I was married four times, you know?” Ermano said pensively. “All ladies of wealth and family, they served my fortune well, yet only one could give me a child that lived. A child of such surliness, such weakness. I fear for all I have built once I am gone.”

“Many youths pass through such dissatisfied phases. Signor Balthazar is young. He may well yet grow out of it.”

“I pray so.” Ermano turned his gaze on Marc, his eyes as green in colour as Balthazar’s, but more focused, less diffused with anger. “I would wager you never passed through such a ‘phase,’ Signor Velazquez. Your parents are fortunate, indeed, to possess such a son.”

Marc nearly laughed aloud at the delicious irony. “I will pass on your kind words to my mother, Count Ermano. Perhaps they will help her to forget the days of my youthful rebellion, when I refused her plan for me to enter the Church.”

“Your father is not living?”

Marc had a quick memory of Juan Velazquez, tall, swarthy, quick to temper, quicker to laugh. He had taught Marc all there was to know about ships and sailing, had imbued his adopted son with his own great love of the sea.