Kat bowed and extended a hand. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said demurely, almost managing to keep a straight face.
Lodovico’s discomfiture was relieved by the ringing of the bell to signal that the masque was about to begin. It didn’t stop him bowing very low to Francesca in parting.
As they walked to their seats, Lodovico shook his head at his granddaughter. “Minx. How could you do that to me? Making me introduce you!”
Kat pinched his arm. “Ha. You can talk to her but I cannot? Ha.”
Lodovico sighed. “Our society is a hypocritical one, my girl. I must protect you from gossip-mongers or I would be very tempted to take you to talk with her. She is a very intelligent woman. Cultured. Understands the vagaries of politics. That’s a rare coin. It attracts men.”
Kat smiled up at him. “And her cleavage has nothing to do with it.”
The encounter with Francesca had left Lodovico in rare good mood. He chuckled. “This is Venice, my girl. We are an ostentatious people. We like to display our . . . endowments.”
Kat chuckled. “She has enough ‘wealth’ to display in that respect, that’s certain.” Despite the humor, she found herself torn between gratification that Francesca had succeeded in charming her grandfather—and an irrational jealousy of sorts. He was her grandfather! Not a man chasing a woman! She suppressed the ungracious thought. It was nice to see him take an interest in something other than their troubles and his dreams of vengeance on the Valdosta, she supposed.
Perhaps he read her mind. “Ah. My Kat. I must admit she made me forget my age too.”
They sat, and Kat noticed that Alessandra was looking frozen-faced at the stage. Alessandra pointedly ignored their arrival. Kat wondered—not with much interest—what had got up her sister-in-law’s nose. Well, one of the misfortunes of being cloistered in the same house as Alessandra, was that sooner or later Kat would be told. Quite probably with histrionics.
* * *
After the masque was over, Lodovico insisted on remaining for a while. That was unusual. Then he took up an offer to join a number of the Case Vecchie at private soiree at the camerata of Lord D’selmi. As a rule, Kat’s grandfather preferred to keep his appearances at these social gatherings to the bare minimum required by the demands of status. Tonight, however, he seemed much more energetic than usual. Kat noted that the invitation to proceed to the Casa D’selmi had included Francesca. Seeing him join the crowd which gathered around Francesca there—quite a bit larger, now, that crowd—Kat almost choked. Partly from amusement, partly from chagrin bordering on outrage.
My own grandfather! That woman is shameless! So is he!
Eventually, humor won the engagement. Kat smiled and turned away from the sight of her grandfather flirting suavely with Francesca. At least he’s not glaring at the walls, planning revenge on Valdosta.
She sighed. Not that Lodovico Montescue could afford Francesca, these days, any more than he could afford to pay capable spies and assassins.
* * *
The evening wore on. The camerata sparkled with silver, candlelight and fine Venetian glassware. Katerina wished she could say the same of the intelligence of the boring, fat old curti who had backed her up against a wall and was now attempting to talk her to sleep with his self-praise. There was Lucrezia Brunelli, laughing to her own court of gallants—who were no younger and no less corpulent than the ones gathered about Francesca—her hair gleaming as if it had been spun out of coppery gold. Katerina didn’t envy her for suitors . . . and if rumor were to be believed, lovers. All she envied Lucrezia for was the ability to escape being trapped by a idiot with breath like old anchovies, too many chins, and his interminable tales of his not-really-so-clever little swindles in the Levant.
Kat was amused to see that—for once!—the crowd of men gathered about Lucrezia was not the largest in the palace. It was not small, of course, but it was definitely smaller than the little mob surrounding Francesca. Smaller, and—a lot less noisy. Lucrezia was slightly more beautiful than Francesca, Kat supposed. The beautiful lady of Casa Brunelli was also famous for her intelligence and witty repartee. But Kat had overheard that repartee, in times past, and had always found it fundamentally hard-edged. Nasty, in truth—a matter of scoring points in a contest. Whereas, judging from the relaxed and boisterous laughter coming from Francesca’s gathering, the men there were discovering Kat’s friend to be more convivial company. Francesca’s sense of humor was . . . genuinely funny. Her jests were jests, not barbs; and as often as not likely to be directed at herself rather than others.