Nor was it in the life of his daughter. So why, now, did she too feel that growing, almost feral, excitement?
The answer came to her on the very heels of the question. She rose quietly from her chair and moved as far off as she could in the tiny room, staring blankly at a wall. At first, just to fight down the spike of sheer pain. There were times, even after all these months, when she wondered if the hole ripped in her soul by Hans’ death would ever heal.
Maybe not. But, if it did . . .
Quiet fury came to flush aside the anguish. If it did, Sharon knew, it would be a fine clean anger that managed the trick. Only if she struck her own blows at the world that had led her beloved to fly his plane into an enemy warship, would she find surcease from sorrow and acceptance of his passing. She understood that now.
She smiled at the wall. She would do it in her own way, of course. Hans had been flamboyantly heroic, which Sharon would never be. Had no desire to be, really. Still, there were many ways to strike a blow at that cold, callous aristocracy that ruled all of Europe and most of the world beyond.
One of them was money. A predatorial, ruthless willingness to use every advantage to cut the bastards where they lived.
Oh, yes, money was where they lived—their pretensions about “blood” notwithstanding. A bankrupt nobleman was just another beggar, after all. Sharon thought the aristocracy of Europe and their factors and financiers—as many of them as she could manage, anyway—would look splendid lined up alongside the roadway. All of them with signs around their neck.
Will act haughty and superior for food.
The image made her laugh aloud. Smiling, she returned to her seat and took up her notepad and pen.
“So let’s get rich,” she murmured. “Stinking, filthy rich.”
* * *
When they returned to the embassy, the doorman handed Sharon a note. It was written on fine paper and sealed with wax. The only thing written on the outside was her name, in handwriting she recognized immediately.
“Another one, signora,” the doorman said with a small, half-apologetic smile. This has gotten to be something of a joke between them.
“What’s this, now?” Sharon snorted. “The twelfth? Thirteenth? I’ll say this for the man. Whatever else he is, he’s a stubborn bastard.”
Madga came up to look at the note over her shoulder. “Feelthy Sanchez again! What is wrong with that man? By now, even an old lecher should understand the situation.”
Sharon shook her head. She’d never opened and read any of them after the first two. Not that what Sanchez had written had been anything other than respectful. Simply polite requests to allow him the privilege of accompanying her to some public event or other. Perhaps the opera? Whatever the signora desired.
She started to hand the note back to the doorman to be disposed of as all the others. But, then, a new thought brought on by the day’s work came to her and she drew it back. On impulse, she broke the seal and read the note.
As she expected, it was another request to accompany her to a public event. She was a bit surprised, though, to see that Sanchez had added a few self-deprecating lines allowing as how he could only hope she might deign to read what he’d written. It was rather droll, actually.
So. Witty Sanchez as well as Feelthy Sanchez. Hmm . . .
“You can’t seriously be considering to agree!” Magda hissed.
Sharon tapped the note against her chin. “Well . . . maybe. You know, Magda, it occurs to me that we should have paid more attention to Ed Piazza’s briefings. One thing I do remember, though, is that he stressed that any contacts we could make with the Spanish Netherlands would be exceedingly valuable. And if what I’ve picked up here and there is accurate, there seem to be some doubts—fuzziness, anyway—as to exactly who holds Sanchez and his paymaster Bedmar’s leash. The king of Spain—or his younger brother the cardinal-infante?”