Old goat.
The first victory! Then had come the inevitable stroking of the mustachios. Now I must only persuade the slippery woman to get back into her own bed. An interesting twist . . .
Bedmar seemed to understand at least some of what was involved. As they moved up the stairs, he gave her another sidelong glance. “It seems important to tell you that Ruy Sanchez has spoken of you many times.” The cardinal’s old lips thinned. “Sometimes to the point of sheer tedium. For me, if not him. But he has—never once—told me anything of what, ah, you might call his amatory success.”
Bedmar shook his head. “He is something of peculiar man, you know. Where others would lie in order to boast before their fellows, he would—ha!” He gave Sharon an almost gleeful cock of the head. “Do you know that—just five days ago—I had to drag him away from a levee lest he challenge one of these Venetian merchants to a duel? The man had offended him by making sly innuendos complimenting Sanchez on his success in bedding you.”
Sharon’s eyed widened. “You have got to be kidding. Ruy was going to fight a guy”—she grimaced, now having seen what a Ruy Sanchez fight looked like—”because he assumed that Ruy had seduced me? Which, in point of fact, is exactly what Ruy has been trying to do these past many weeks.”
“Oh, indeed.” Bedmar barked a laugh. “And they make jokes about we Castilians and our touchy honor! I sometimes think a proper Catalan would take offense at the movement of the heavenly bodies, did the mood take him. Challenge the moon to a duel. Rise before dawn to meet it sword in hand. And then accuse the moon of cowardice and dishonor when it refused to appear on the chosen ground.”
Sharon shook her head. “You may well be right. I don’t know. Ruy is the only Catalan I’ve ever met, so far as I know.”
They’d reached the door to her bedroom. Sharon opened it and ushered the cardinal in.
Ruy was lying in the bed, glaring at the window.
“You malingering bastard,” growled the cardinal. “And who gave you permission in the first place to go pick a fight on behalf of these heretics? Who are also, I might remind you, our king’s mortal enemies. For the moment.”
“Never mind that,” Sanchez growled. “Spanish kings change enemies as often as they change clothes, and you know it as well as I do.”
He pointed an accusing finger at the window. “Something’s going out there! What is it? I can’t hear well enough because the window is closed.”
Now he glared at Sharon. “And I can’t get up and look for myself because she told me not to move.”
Bedmar’s eyes widened. “And you obeyed her?” He turned and gave Sharon a very courtly bow. “My deepest congratulations, signora. You have succeeded where princes of state and church alike have failed often enough. Ignominiously, at times.”
Ruy slapped a hand on the bedcovers. “Damnation! What is happening?”
“Oh, hold your horses,” Sharon snorted, moving toward the window. As she drew near, she realized that Ruy was right. There was some kind of commotion going on out there.
She hurried a little, the last few paces, to throw open the window. Then, leaned over to look out.
“Oh, my.”
“What is it, signora?” The cardinal had come to stand behind her. Then: “Interesting.”
He took his head out of the window and looked back at Sanchez. “It will be a bit more difficult to escape this time, I fear. With you in that absurd condition!”
Sanchez winced. “The Arsenalotti? Again?”
But Sharon had been listening more closely. And she was probably the only one of the three in the room who could have really followed the—ah, debate—going on below. Most of the exchange between Billy Trumble and his two Marines and the mob gathering outside the embassy was taking place between Billy and his friend Conrad Ursinus. Who, naval officer of the USE or not, seemed to be the leader of the mob.
Well . . . not exactly. Leader, perhaps, but also one who was trying to convince his followers to follow him.