The last person Marco had talked to—that he knew of—was Rafael de Tomaso. Benito reckoned he’d better pay that fellow a little visit.
So best to lie low for a bit, then get across the Grand Canal to Dorsoduro. He’d been to Rafael’s room once; and Benito figured he knew of a way in that wasn’t by the door.
* * *
Katerina looked out of the high window of one of towers of Casa Montescue at the gathering dusk. It was a slaty, gray evening. The lagoon was gray too, chopped and flecked with white. It was going to be bitter out there tonight. Still, she had no choice.
Well . . . she could become a courtesan. Francesca had managed to make that—occupation—seem even less attractive than Kat had thought possible. And she hadn’t thought it was in the least bit attractive to begin with.
Still—at least she’d get to spend miserable evenings indoors. And it wasn’t as if she’d ever met any one man she felt she’d like to be tied to. But it would kill her grandfather. Kat Montescue was a realist, though: one day she might just have no choices. And at least a courtesan had some choices and more independence than most wives could dream of. And unlike many Case Vecchie, she did have one of the essential requirements for being a courtesan and not just a whore. She was literate. Still, the idea of multiple lovers . . . many of them old and corpulent, was repugnant, to say the least. Francesca could put a bold face on it, but the idea still frightened Kat. When she’d been a girl, she’d always thought that she’d marry a young and handsome man. The trouble was, in Venice, most of the young and handsome Case Vecchie were off in various trading colonies of the Venetian Republic. Of course some of the older men—like Lord Calenti—were still attractive, at least in their own opinion.
She pulled a wry face. This was all foolishness! She might have the education and literacy, but that was hardly sufficient. She didn’t have the lush beauty of someone like Francesca; not even close. So . . . it would be out in the dark on a nasty night again, and there was an end to it.
Lodovico came in, rubbing his hands and looking worried. “What did you think of Lord Calenti’s visit, cara mia?”
Kat bit her lip. She could hardly tell her grandfather that she thought the man had too high an opinion of himself, and that she’d always thought there was something vaguely slimy about Calenti. Although she allowed that, other than being so obviously vain, he had been pleasant enough. A surprising visitor, but pleasant withal. Alessandra had been in an absolute fury when she’d discovered that one of Venice’s most eligible bachelors had come on a private call on Milord Montescue—and not one involving her.
“I don’t understand why he came, Grandpapa.” Calenti had been perfunctorily polite to Kat, nothing more. So he certainly hadn’t come to see about her.
Or had he?
Kat hadn’t considered that possibility, she suddenly realized. Casa Calenti had plenty of money, but they were not really Case Vecchie. For them, a dowry would not be as important as the social advancement involved in marrying a girl from what was still, despite their current misfortune, one of Venice’s handful of most prestigious families.
Lodovico pulled a face. “I don’t know how to tell you this . . .”
Kat waited, blood draining to the pit of her stomach.
Lodovico continued. “He wanted a small parcel of documents transported to Constantinople.”
Kat, her hasty assumptions knocked asunder, could only manage to shake her head. “Him?”
Lodovico Montescue nodded. “He offered me a great deal of money for it.”
Kat sighed. “I wish you hadn’t, Grandpapa.”
Her grandfather hugged her, smiling. “Katerina. I didn’t accept it. In fact, I rather indignantly refused. Does the man think me a fool? It’s either spying, treason, or a trap.”
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “A trap.”
Lodovico chuckled. “The Council of Ten will assume we are clean as driven snow.” He scowled fiercely. “And I told him not to offer my granddaughter his slip-slop compliments either.”