Amanda McCabe - A Notorious Woman

Escape. Yes. If only she could. If only he could vanquish her fears as easily as he had those pirates. But she knew that could not be. Her demons were beyond even the reach of the celebrated Il leone.

“Well?” Nicolai asked. “You have seen her?”

Marc paused to glance over his shoulder once more at the blue-painted door surmounted by the swinging wooden sign traced with the image of a perfume bottle. For just an instant, he imagined he saw her there. Julietta Bassano—tall, cold, proud, distant, yet not, he sensed, completely indifferent. Her pale cheeks had turned the most delightful of rose-pinks when he’d caressed her wrist. “I have seen her.”

“And?”

Marc shrugged. “I am not sure what old Ermano sees in her,” he lied.

Nicolai laughed, a loud, warm sound that caused two pretty maidservants to stop and glance at them with interest. It was hardly the time for attracting attention, though, as delightful as that would be later. Marc steered his friend into a near-deserted tavern, where they soon found themselves ensconced in a darkened corner with a pair of goblets of cheap ale and some meat pies.

“I would imagine he sees her fine villa on the mainland, her fertile fields there,” Nicolai said, leaning back lazily in the splintered wooden chair. His brilliant Arlechino silks were put away in favour of plain russet wool, his bright golden hair pulled back tightly. Yet there was still the attention-seeking quickness of the born actor in his blue eyes, the impatient gestures of his long hands. Marc wondered again if his old friend could stay the course of this scheme.

But Nicolai was one of the few people Marc could trust, and as a travelling player he had been everywhere, knew everyone. He was intimate with every dark, dirty corner of La Serenissima, could coax free its secrets and its gossip in a way Marc, who had been away from Venice since he was six years old, could not yet hope to do on his own.

Not yet, but soon. Soon, this serene city would lie on its back for him and splay her jewelled legs like a two- scudi whore, and it would give up to him all he desired, all he demanded. All he had planned and worked for since he was a child.

And God help anyone who got in his way. Even a woman with night-dark hair and white skin scented with flowers and sadness.

Marc tossed back a long swig of the rough, cheap ale. “No villa or farm seems worth the fuss Ermano is making. One would think he had enough of those already.”

“Perhaps the exalted count knows he is being made a laughingstock by his determined, and very public, pursuit of the widow Bassano,” Nicolai said, his voice touched only at the very edges by the sound of his long-abandoned Russian homeland. “And it has made him more determined.”

Marc remembered Julietta Bassano’s eyes, as dark as black ice and twice as perilous. “I am sure that is true.”

Nicolai took a long sip of the ale, his gaze constantly scanning the dim tavern. “What is your next step, my friend?”

“Why, to woo the beautiful signora, of course,” Marc answered, with a humorless laugh. “She is the key to this entire affair.”

“And with the freedom of Carnival upon us, who knows what will happen?”

“Exactly.”

“Just take care, Marc, I beg of you.”

Nicolai’s tone, always so full of cynical merriment, was suddenly quiet and solemn. Marc tossed him a puzzled glance over the rim of his goblet. “I always do. How else could I survive the life of seafaring mercenary?”

Nicolai shook his head. “Ermano is well known for his treachery, even in a city as perilous and deceptive as Venice.”

Marc had a quick, flashing memory, an image of golden hair spread across a marble floor, sightless blue eyes, a gaping red wound on a white throat. “Well, I know it.”

“Yet you are still willing to bargain with the devil?”

Marc swallowed down the bitter dregs of the ale. “I must. I have come a long way to see this through, Nicolai. There were vows made, and I must fulfill them. It has been far too long.”

“As I thought. You have always been a stubborn mule, ever since I met you in that filthy brothel in Germany.”

Marc laughed. “But you needn’t be a part of it any longer. I have no wish to be the ruin of the few friends I possess. It is my quarrel alone, after all.” Even as he said the words, though, Marc knew he could not lose Nicolai’s help; knew he had to keep it by any means possible. Nicolai had saved his life in that brothel, and Marc had saved his in return, threefold. He needed his friend at his back now, when it mattered more than ever.

Nicolai grinned, back to his merry Arlechino self. “And what else would I do to amuse myself in these dull days? The troupe does not move on to Mantua until after Carnival and Lent, when merriment will be wanted again. Until then, my meagre skills are at your disposal, Il leone. ” Something swift and dark flashed deep in Nicolai’s eyes, quickly veiled by another laugh. “I doubt most of Venice would agree it is your quarrel alone, though. I think they would beg leave to share it.”

Before Marc could question him, the tavern door opened, admitting a rush of cold air and pale sunlight—and Julietta Bassano’s maidservant. The girl strolled over to the counter, her striped skirts and fringed shawl swaying.

“Signora Bassano’s maid,” Marc muttered. “I believe her name is Bianca.”

“Ah.” Nicolai nodded sagely. “A lady’s greatest confidante is often her maid. And this one just seems full of—knowledge.” Without another word, Nicolai slid out from behind the table and crossed the room to Bianca’s side. In no time at all, flirtatious giggles echoed through the dusty air, like unfurled streamers of bright ribbon.

Marc dropped a few coins beside the empty goblets and took his own leave. Nicolai would be occupied for quite a while to come.

Outside the tavern the day was cold, but the early morning fog had burned away leaving pale, yellow-gray sunlight to light up the dark waters and pastel houses. Marc drew his short cape closer about him and melted into the crowds hurrying along the fondamento. With his cap pulled low, no one recognised him as Il leone and he was free to wander where he would.

Strangely, his feet desired nothing more than to return to Julietta Bassano’s blue door. To lose himself amid the sweet, soft scents of her shop, to watch the tall, elegant lady as she moved behind the counter, proffering up violets on her fair skin. She was truly a glorious mystery, one he looked forward to unravelling one silken skein at a time.

But not yet. Even as he half turned towards her campi, he knew it was far too soon. He told her he would return in two days; two days for her to think of him, for her wary intrigue to deepen into the first blooming of need and desire. Two days for him to think of her, as well, to think of all he longed to obtain from her. Two very long days.

In the meantime, he had important work to do. He stepped forward to summon a passing gondola.

Julietta sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. Her skin felt cold, icy cold, despite the fire still smouldering in the grate and the thick coverlets piled atop her. She shivered and ran her hands over her face, shaking her head hard to rid it of the mist of dreams. It didn’t work—she still felt as if someone was watching her, staring into her very soul until all her secrets lay bare.

She leaned over to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a flickering red-orange glow into every corner of the small chamber. There were no soulsnatching demons there, of course; she was alone, as always. Only stacks of books on every table and chair, a few pieces of clothing strewn about in black-and-white streamers, a half-drunk glass of wine.