Whoever was behind that ambush, and whatever the reason, it was someone whose motives were imperial. Or aimed at the Empire. This—whatever it is—goes far beyond petty Venetian squabbling.
She made no attempt to pursue that train of thought any further. She lacked sufficient information. Instead, she considered another question:
So. Was it a blunder, a piece of idiocy, or a calculated attempt to throw a tremendously big boulder into the already roiling pool of Venetian politics at present? For purposes which go quite beyond Venice itself?
After a minute or so, she set that question aside also. Again, she simply lacked the necessary information to make any kind of intelligent assessment. That left her with the final and most important question:
So. What do I do? Pursue this any further, or leave it be?
The answer to that question came almost as fast as the question itself. If she’d had any intention of not pursuing it, her well-trained reflexes wouldn’t have led her to assist the two men in the first place. And, as always, Francesca trusted her reflexes.
For a rare moment, Francesca allowed herself a sheer grin. Not a seductive smile, but a true baring of the teeth with unrestrained glee.
What a grand game this would be!
The grin faded quickly enough. She was neither rash by temperament nor, certainly, by training. Patience had been drilled into her as a small girl. For the time being . . .
Meddling with this immediately or directly would make me a dangerous woman. I think I would rather not be dangerous at the moment, when I have my own pot to stir.
There was still a lot of noise and to-do going on in the rest of the house. Good. She’d intended to leave very soon anyway, now that Katerina had provided her with the last things she needed. Francesca had planned to wait a day or two more, but . . .
No. Tonight would be ideal. Once everything was sorted out and the appropriate bribes paid—this time, to the Madame of the Red Cat for a wonder, and not from her—things would be very quiet. The other girls would be upset, especially the young and not-so-experienced ones, the servants would be nursing bruised bodies and ill-tempers, and since by now the word had spread all up and down the Grand Canal that the Red Cat had been descended upon by the Schoppies in force, customers would be thin on the ground tonight. Tomorrow, of course, they’d be thick as fleas on a feral cat, wanting to know what happened, but not tonight. Tonight, in a hour or so, she could envelope herself in a cloak and walk out without anyone noticing.
Fernando, the aged servant who usually saw to the needs of the girls on this floor, stuck his head into the room without knocking—as usual. “Francesca—are you all right?” he asked.
She pouted. “I am, but my customers weren’t happy. I only finished one off, and I suspect they sneaked out without paying. There were two—a big Circassian and a little Moor.” There. Now if anyone thinks to connect me with Manfred and his keeper, they’ll be disabused of the notion. I doubt the captain was paying attention to complexions and hair colors, other than mine.
Fernando frowned fiercely. “Half the house sneaked out without paying. I hope Madame soaks those Schoppies good!” He withdrew and shut the door. Francesca laughed softly to herself.
She waited, still as a statue, her hands folded in her lap, while the house settled.
Eventually, except for the murmur of distant talking and the hysterical sobbing of some girl too overset to be comforted, it did. Francesca bound her hair into a net to keep it in order until she could put it up properly, and got out the package that Kat had brought her early this afternoon, putting the latch on the door just in case. If anyone tried it, let them think she was having a case of the vapors herself.
Just as well that she was already naked under the robe, because she was about to go up several steps in the world, sartorially speaking, and the transformation would have to be from the skin outward, staring with perfumed oil. None of this had been cheap, but it was all necessary. Just as the Red Cat would turn away a mere putta who came calling at the door, so Casa Louise would turn away a whore from the Red Cat.