He rolled his head on the pillow and met her gaze. “What do you want from me, Francesca?”
“I want you to think about the future, for a change. That’s all, Lodovico. Your grand-daughter is my best friend. Your—obsessions—are not good. Neither for her nor for you.”
For a moment, the old man’s face grew fierce. Then, he chuckled. “I make no promises. But . . . yes, I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do more than think about it, you old vendettist!” Francesca laughed. “If you’ve got any coins to spend, I’ll expect you to spend them on me. I dare say I’m a lot more capable at what I do than those incompetent assassins and spies you’ve been wasting your money on.”
He grimaced. “True enough. And what else?”
She studied him for a moment. “Does there need to be anything else, Lodovico? Your company has been quite a pleasure, I assure you. It’s not often I meet a man who understands—or cares—how a woman’s body works.”
“There’s always something else, Francesca.” He placed a hand on hers and gave it a little squeeze. “That’s not intended as an insult. I sometimes think courtesans are less predatory than anyone. But there’s always something else.”
“As you say: ‘true enough.’ ” She sat up in the bed. “I’ve decided I love Venice, Lodovico. And when something I love is threatened by enemies, I believe in taking steps.”
“Well said!” he growled. A moment later, he was sitting up beside her. “Tell me what you know. If there’s a threat—” The growl became a rumble, as if an old lion was awakening.
“There’s your ‘what else,’ Lodovico,” she whispered, placing a hand back on that great wide chest and giving it a caress. “There’s still a lot of muscle there, you know?”
Chapter 51
“It smells like a trap, that’s for sure,” Erik said to Manfred, as they strode along the loggia. “Maybe Sachs is right.”
Manfred felt his broadsword. “If it is, they’ll regret it.”
Erik looked at the abundant cover of the loggia. “If they don’t shoot us from a distance. But why us? I mean, we never introduced ourselves to that Signori di Notte, that one time we met him when the coiner got burned. But that message was specifically for us. Sealed with what the doorman assured me is the signet of Lord Calenti.”
Manfred shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “You might as well ask me ‘why here?’ At least it’s daytime and there are a lot of people around this Accademia place. Too many with books if you ask me . . .”
“You’re a fraud, Manfred. You were so busy reading in that embassy library, you didn’t even hear me come in.”
Manfred grinned. “My father’s duniwasals say it’s a sissy accomplishment. I don’t think they wanted me to read or cipher or tally, so they can skive out of paying their hearth-loyalties. But with Francesca being a walking library I’ve had to do some reading up, or look a buffoon. It’s not so bad now that I don’t have some damned whiny tutor rabbiting at me about it. Where do we go now?”
“Through there, I think.”
They walked through into a courtyard and then across to the described door.
Erik loosened his broadsword and checked the hatchet under the small round buckler strapped to his right forearm. Being left-handed had its negative points, but in combat it did have the advantage of discomfitting his enemies. Harder for them to deal with. It gave him an edge.
He pushed the door open fast. . . .
It was a pleasant enough chamber. And Lord Calenti did not appear to be waiting in ambush. He was perusing a huge pile of papers instead, very much alone, unless someone was balancing on the window frame behind these draperies. The Venetian was very grave-looking however, when he looked up to see who had thrust his door open. “Ah. Come in.”
He stood up. “Gentlemen, I owe you an apology. I have come to realize that this treason nearly had the Knights . . . and myself . . . as unwitting dupes. Accounts are a more powerful tool than all the spies in the world. Now, about the incident at the House of the Red Cat . . .”