It had all blown over, eventually. But . . . by the presence of that sword in the Casa Dorma, the storm was brewing again.
Marco was not prepared for the direct question. For the simplest reason: he had no idea what the old duke was planning to do.
“My grandfather keeps his own council, milord.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I see the majordomo is beckoning to us, Count Antonelli,” interrupted Petro. “Pardon us. I must find my sister and take my new ward to be presented to the Doge.”
Petro steered Marco away across the salon to where Angelina was talking to a tall, beautifully made up woman with a neat little mole above her rosebud mouth, standing in the circle that surrounded Lucrezia Brunelli. They were laughing. The woman gave Marco a very considering look as Petro snagged his sister and led them off to meet Doge Foscari.
* * *
Kat was preparing herself for the sheer delight of giving Signor Sergio Della Galbo the finest put-down of his obnoxious life. The fat curti had cornered her again. But knowing how her grandfather felt, and having met her soulmate, Katerina Montescue was going to tell this disgusting old roué where to get off. In training for a life as Katerina Felluci she was going to use some choice canaler terms she’d picked up from Maria.
And then her grandfather came storming up, towing Alessandra. His lined face was as pale as his snowy linen. His eyes bulged. Alessandra was looking terrified and wasn’t even protesting. “Come,” was all the old man said. Very quietly.
Della Galbo protested. “Get lost, worm!” snapped Kat, pushing past him to her grandfather. She slid an arm around the old man. “What is wrong, Grandpapa?” she asked, worried. The last time she seen him like this was when they’d brought the news of Alessandra’s baby’s death. Normally, if he was angry, the whole countryside knew about it.
“Valdosta.” He spat the name out as if it were a curse. “They’re not all dead, girl. I told you some of the vermin still survived. But I never thought I’d see them here, bold as brass, under the protection of Casa Dorma.” He pointed.
She was glad she had her arm around the solid if elderly stanchion of her grandfather. Walking, head bent forward in the listening pose she knew so well, had studied so lovingly . . . was Marco Felluci. He was listening to Petro Dorma and that horrible spoiled brat, Angelina Dorma. Marco was not wearing Ventuccio livery, or old canaler clothes. He was dressed in a silk shirt, and fine hose, with a cloak that could have bought Maria’s gondola. There was gold on his finger.
“Who—who is that?” she asked, in a small wooden voice, feeling stupid, stunned, her world in chaos.
Her grandfather hissed like a leaky kettle. “Calls himself ‘Marco Valdosta.’ They claim he’s been in Ferrara. With the Dell’este. That’s another Valdosta lie. I’m quite sure he’s the same one I tried to have assassinated here in Venice last year—and failed, I’m sorry to say.”
For a moment, Kat thought she might faint.
“Now come,” growled Lodovico. “We’re going home.”
* * *
Kat sat on her bed. She had neither the will, nor, it seemed, the ability to do more than stare at the wall. Madelena had fussed her charge into a nightgown. Gently and quietly this once, seeing Katerina behaving like some porcelain doll, obedient but mechanical, and silent.
Even Alessandra coming in to her room didn’t excite any reaction. Madelena crossed herself.
Alessandra was big with excitement. “Well! What a scene. I thought the old fool was going to drop dead on us. That Valdosta’s not bad looking, is he? Although I prefer more rugged men, myself. Still, that Angelina Dorma seems pleased enough with her catch.”
“WHAT!?”
Alessandra prattled on. “They say she’s getting married to the Valdosta boy. Lucrezia said it has to be pretty soon, because she’s already carrying his baby.”
The roaring in Katerina’s ears refused to be stilled. Even Alessandra noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Lead was lighter. “I feel sick.”
“Are you pregnant?” said Alessandra, eager for more fuel.