“How was he different, cara?” the earl asked, forcing calm into his voice.
She shook her head helplessly, for he was locked away from her. “I do not know, I can’t remember.”
He smiled at her gently. “It does not matter, Cassandra.”
“Joseph told me that you killed two of them, Giulio and Giacomo.” She thought of Joseph, his face gray with pain. The earl had carried her to his bedchamber to see him, and had left her alone with him for a few minutes.
“What else did Joseph tell you?”
“That the men were assassins. Each of them had a tattoo on his arm—a serpent twined about a sword.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with confusion. “Why would anyone want to kill us?”
“I don’t know, Cassandra, but I promise you, I will find out.” He allowed a slight smile. “It appears that Joseph was a fount of information.”
“Will he live, my lord?”
“I don’t know, Cassandra. He’s not a young man, and his wound is grave.”
She turned her face away on the pillow, for she felt tears close to the surface.
He stroked her hair. “Can you sleep now, cara?”
She felt raging bitterness suddenly break from within her. She drew a shattering breath and whispered, “The child. I lost the child.”
He swallowed convulsively, and for a moment could not trust himself to speak. “Cassandra, listen to me. I am sorry about the child, but you are more important to me than anything or anyone. Please contrive to believe me and throw off this cloak of guilt you are wearing. You are alive and I love you. That is all that matters.”
A lone tear fell from the corner of her eyes and streaked down her cheek. He gently flicked it away before it touched her lips. “At the very least you must begin to take me to task again, else I’m likely to become an overbearing tyrant.”
She swallowed back her tears, and forced a smile. “You will always be a tyrant,” she said, and turned her face to nestle against his hand.
Signore Bissone was tired the next afternoon when he joined the earl and Cassie in the earl’s bedchamber, after completing his examination of Joseph.
He had had to leave the Villa Parese late the previous evening to deliver Caterina Pisani of a small son, and the mother had hemorrhaged and died just before dawn. He spoke of it unwittingly as he sipped on a glass of wine.
“One wonders,” Signore Bissone said, shaking his head, “why God in his infinite goodness would snuff out the life of a nineteen-year-old girl so cruelly.”
“What of Joseph?” the earl asked, his voice harsh.
Signore Bissone apologized for his lapse before answering the earl. “My lord, were he a young healthy man, the fever would cause me less worry. I have, of course, drained the pus from the wound.” He paused a moment, his tired eyes darting momentarily toward Cassie. She had refused to let him attend her once she had come to her senses. Her stubbornness had angered him, but now he was too weary even to care. He shrugged. “The Corsican has not had time to recover his strength from the wound. He is an old man, my lord.”
“What are you saying?” Impatience was heavy in the earl’s voice.
“I do not think he will survive.”
“No, you cannot mean it.” Cassie sat forward in bed, clutching at the cover, and shook her head back and forth. “I tell you he will get well. I will nurse him myself. Joseph has a great will, he will not allow himself to be felled by a fever when those men could not kill him.”
She drew to a breathless halt. Signore Bissone was regarding her oddly.
“You are speaking in English, Cassandra.”
“Oh,” she said numbly.
“La signorina was saying that with proper care, Joseph could recover.”
Signore Bissone carefully laid his crystal wine goblet on the table and bowed formally to the earl. “It is possible, my lord,” he said stiffly. “I have instructed the woman, Marrina, to make up certain draughts. If he worsens, I will, of course, return as speedily as possible. Otherwise, I shall come to see him again this evening.”