“The cardinal’s gentiluomo,” Mazzare murmured.
“Whatever,” Sharon said. “I already think of him as Feelthy Sanchez. He’s an old lecher.”
Magda barked once, a “Ha!” that summarized her current opinion of the male of the species.
Sharon tilted her head to one side a moment, thoughtful. “Well, maybe I’m being unfair. He was kind of twinkly, really. I bet he’s pushing sixty.”
“Nothing wrong with being mature,” Jones said, his face as innocent as all get-out.
“Reverend,” Sharon said, “this guy is ripe. Anyway, he was saying Frank had done well to get himself fixed up so quickly.”
“Ha!” Magda barked again.
“Oh, Magda honey,” Sharon said, suddenly emollient. “It’s not so bad. Courtesans are nearly respectable around here. Of course, I didn’t realize it was something anyone did part-time.”
“Part-time?” Stone looked confused.
“Well, she was working at the embassy this morning.” Sharon said it matter-of-factly.
Mazzare suddenly realized why the girl had looked familiar. “One of the chambermaids at the palazzo? That’s who Frank brought?”
Mazzare decided the conversation had gone far enough. It also finally occurred to him that perhaps everyone was jumping to conclusions. Venice, he was beginning to realize, was a contagious sort of place. The kind of city where Think no evil is a laughable motto and rumors are guaranteed to be as wicked as possible.
“Let’s not get into any more detail, everyone. It may be the girl is just what she seems to be—to anyone except Venetian gossips, at least. Or, well . . . okay, maybe not. If not, we raise the chambermaids’ pay so they don’t have to, ah—well, you know.”
“Quite,” Jones said.
“On the other hand,” Stone said, “I think I need to have a talk either way with the guys. Like you say, they’re young men abroad in a big city for the first time and I think they need to be warned—”
He trailed off, clearly reminiscing. “Heh. I remember the first time I went to San Francisco. The Haight was past its prime, but it was still—” He cleared his throat, seeing the look Magda was giving him. “Well, never mind.”
“Did you wear some—” Jones began, but Mazzare waved him down.
“Only you, Simon,” he said, “could take that conversation downhill. People, let us mingle. We are supposed to be diplomats. Be nice, listen, give a friendly impression and go easy on the sauce.”
“Speaking of which,” said Jones, “where’s Gus?”
“Unfair, Simon.” Mazzare frowned. “Anyway, I left him with the monsignor who’s the state theologian here. Gus doesn’t usually get to hobnob with the rich and famous, so he’s knocking himself out. Anyway, raus, the lot of you. Mingle.” He made shooing gestures, and as they broke away he saw the first of many coming to pay him their regards.
Mazzare found he didn’t even have to think about it. Whatever the other Americans were doing, he was kept busy being affable—easy enough, the company was all witty and polite—to a constant stream of people. He’d done similar duties in the past, and had learned the trick of the thing. Sip only, because otherwise helpful people come along and freshen your drink without you noticing, and before you know it you’re paralytic.
He was barely an hour in, on perhaps his fiftieth how-do-you-do of the evening, when he realized that perhaps he should have passed that tip on. Especially to Jones, who had no capacity for booze and—but he’d surely been—
With an effort of will, he forced himself to stop worrying.
“Still worrying, Monsignor?” The mask was the traditional Mask of Comedy, worn with a close-fitting hood and a cape and a merely moderately lurid doublet. The voice he recognized, and would have even if it hadn’t spoken in English.
“Monsignor,” Mazzare said. “I had heard you were in Venice to receive short shrift from Messer il Doge?”
“Indeed. And I must also call you monsignor now, yes?”
Mazzare felt a sudden chill. He had last spoken directly to this man nearly eighteen months before.
Canon Monsignor Giulio Mazarini, Nuncio Extraordinary, was a man who gave Mazzare great hopes and the shivering willies in about equal measure. He was another of the great names of history that Mazzare, and all the other up-time Americans, were having to grow used to sharing a world with. In Mazarini’s case, rather earlier than the events for which he was mostly famous, but shortly after his actual rise to prominence.