Except a marriage between Valdosta and Montescue, came the whimsical thought. But Marina dismissed the notion as a ridiculous fancy. Lodovico Montescue would disrupt any such wedding by having the groom assassinated as he walked to the altar.
“The Valdosta name, which is still a powerful thing, would give weight to Petro Dorma’s position. And, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize yourself, he’s the best of the lot. Potentially, the leadership which Venice will need—does need, already.”
Marco hung his head. He was listening, at least. Marina started to add more, but decided not to do so. Anything more, at this point, would be counterproductive. Marco Valdosta had a fierce sense of honor. Give the boy time, and he would make the right decision.
“I’ve got to talk to Kat,” he whispered. When he lifted his head, his eyes were blurred with tears. The sight was heart-breaking.
“Talk to her then,” said Luciano. “But please, Marco—remember your responsibilities.”
It was time to change the subject. “So. When are you being officially presented to the city?”
Marco smiled wanly. “Tomorrow night, at the Doge’s Levee.”
“Splendid!”
“I think I’d rather go anywhere else,” muttered Marco. “Even the Jesolo.”
Chapter 67
Kat was whistling. A terrible un-genteel habit, as Alessandra told her frequently. Right now the thought of that made her want to whistle louder. She wanted to practice being un-genteel. And besides, happiness was bubbling up in her.
Her joy seemed to be affecting everything. The last cargo had come through, perfectly. The Montescue’s tiny share as part of a Colleganza of a wood shipment to Alexandria had paid off handsomely, the merchant having come up with a return cargo of ivory . . . which had caught the current fashion for marquetry just in the upswing. It had made them a tidy profit. Not enough to tow the Casa Montescue out of the river tick but enough to make it seem as if there might—eventually—be a light on the horizon.
And she’d be seeing Marco again on Thursday. She hugged herself. Two days. She should have made it sooner. But, well, she didn’t want it to appear too much as if she was chasing him.
Even the thought of tonight’s levee at the Doge’s palace could not upset her. If Senor Lopez was there and wanted to talk to her . . . well, he had no real evidence. Mind you, even the thought of that eagle gaze was enough to put a damper on her mood. He wasn’t the sort who needed “evidence.” She shook off the thought and took her mind back to Marco Felluci. It wasn’t hard. And the thoughts were pleasant as she waited for Madelena to come down and help her dress for the levee.
* * *
A levee at the Doge’s palace . . . Marco was so nervous he could hardly think straight. All the haut monde of Venice would be there, Case Vecchie, rising merchant houses, distinguished foreign visitors, ambassadors and nobility. All the power and glitter of Venice. Marco had looked across the piazza past the winged lion of Saint Mark at the colonnaded Gothic palace often. But to be inside?!
* * *
The inside was a place of confusion, light, and above all, people. Musicians—no mean performers either—played in a side salon. Nobody kept quiet for them, however; people simply continued their light inconsequential chatter and laughter. If anyone had dared treat Valentina and Claudia’s music thus! Marco was introduced to yet another Case Vecchie family head. He bowed politely for the . . . he’d lost count. No wonder the Case Vecchie went slumming at Barducci’s.
“Valdosta, eh?” said the florid Count Antonelli. “That’s one of the old names we haven’t heard for a while. Where have you been, boy?”
“With his grandfather, Duke Dell’este,” interposed Petro Dorma smoothly.
The Count nodded. “So, boy—which way is Ferrara leaning? Venice, Milan . . . or Rome?”
Yes, these were worrying times. Ferrara had for the better part of century stood by Venice, but keeping its independence. Then the Venetians had demanded the salt pans, and Ferrara had balked and called on Rome—and even, for a time, threatened alliance with Milan. Who, for its part, had sent no less of a condottiere than Carlo Sforza to pay a friendly visit to Ferrara . . . a visit to which, Marco suspected, he ultimately owed his brother.