Amanda McCabe - A Notorious Woman

“Alas, no. Only my mother, who now resides in a convent near Seville.”

“She is blessed, to have produced a son who can be called Il leone. ” Servants came into the sala, interrupting their conversation to set out platters of sweetmeats. A tall, dark, silent Turk poured spiced wine, bowing out of the room as Marc and Ermano seated themselves on the brocade chairs beside the massive fireplace.

“I have not yet given up hope, though,” Ermano went on. “It is true I am not a young man, but neither am I so very ancient. I could yet father more sons to inherit, perhaps even daughters who could marry well and bring further glory to the Grattiano name.”

The count intended to wed again, to produce yet more offspring to rain anger down on northern Italy? Marc nearly choked on his wine at the prospect. “I wish you good fortune in such an endeavour, Count,” he managed to say.

Ermano nodded thoughtfully. “Their mother would have to be strong, of course. No more weak-blooded signorinas. And intelligent, with a certain fire to her. I understand you have now visited Signora Bassano’s shop. Twice.”

Ah—so that was it. Ermano thought the tall, mysterious Julietta was just the woman to mother this great new brood. Marc could almost feel sorry for her. He placed his goblet of wine on the nearest inlaid table and faced the count. “I have. She seems a very—interesting lady.”

Ermano chuckled. “ Sì, she is that. And very difficult to get near. She is so very prickly, like the artichoke. Yet I am sure that once one gets to her core it is quite—sweet.”

Marc felt a muscle tick along his jaw, tightening at the merest thought of Ermano putting his plump, jewelled hands on Julietta’s “sweet core.”

“Does she seem to like you?” Ermano continued, oblivious to Marc’s anger. “Will she talk honestly to you?”

Marc took a deep breath, bringing in the scents of the sugary cakes and Ermano’s mossy perfume. “It is difficult to say. She is, as you say, rather prickly. And very cautious.”

Ermano waved his hand in a careless gesture. “Ah, well, she will come around. You are Il leone, hero of the republic! You must continue to visit her, gain her trust. Then we shall proceed to the next stage of our plan.” He lowered his goblet to stare solemnly at Marc over its rim. “You will not be sorry you have agreed to help me, Signor Velazquez. I have much influence in Venice. I can be a great friend—or a terrible enemy.”

Marc returned the steady regard, not flinching, not turning away. As am I, Ermano, he thought coldly. As am I.

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