Even as angry as Kat was at anything remotely “Valdosta,” her grandfather’s theories seemed . . . well, insane.
He sighed. Ruffled her hair. “I suppose it all sounds insane. And . . . perhaps it is. At least, that’s what—ah, a good friend of mine tells me. She may well be right. But if I’ve given up the vendetta—not that we could afford one against Dell’este as well as Valdosta anyway—I haven’t given up my sentiments. Now, be off to bed, minx.”
Kat went. But not to sleep. Before dawn she dressed in her canal-going clothes and hooded cloak and went out.
* * *
“I missed you at the levee tonight,” yawned Francesca, tying up her robe. As she led Kat into the salon, the courtesan glanced at the window, still covered with curtains. The sun was just beginning to rise and its light, filtered through the expensive cloth, bathed the room in a soft velvety glow. “Or last night, I suppose I should say. I just got home myself, and was about to go to bed.”
The courtesan examined Kat’s clothing and grinned sleepily. “Congratulations, by the way. How in the world did you manage to talk your way into Casa Louise dressed like that?”
Abashed, now that she was actually inside Francesca’s apartment, Kat glanced uneasily at the door to Francesca’s bedroom. The door was open.
Francesca’s grin widened, and became less sleepy. “Relax. I don’t usually entertain my clients here any longer. Except Manfred, of course, since I refuse to smuggle myself past that gaggle of knights at the embassy. And . . . one other, who wants to keep our liaison a secret from his closest relative.”
Kat tried to find the right words. Then, when she couldn’t find any words at all, burst into tears.
Francesca’s grin vanished. “Come, come, little one,” she crooned, folding Kat into an embrace the way a mother or a big sister might, “it can’t be that bad.”
“Yes it can!” wailed Kat. And proceeded, in the ensuing time of babbled words, to prove her point. Or try to, at least.
* * *
By the time she was done, Francesca was standing at the window, looking at the canal below through a curtain she had drawn partly aside with a finger.
“You could probably nip it in the bud, you know,” the courtesan mused. “This budding marriage between Casa Dorma and Casa Valdosta, I mean.”
She removed her finger, allowing the curtain to sway back into place, and cocked her head toward Kat. “I heard the rumors myself, last night. A marriage of convenience, driven partly by politics and partly by the crude fact that Angelina Dorma is pregnant. Nothing more than that.”
“Nothing more!?” choked Kat. “It’s still a marriage, Francesca! And—” She choked again. Then, in a whisper: “Pregnant? By Marco?”
Francesca shrugged. “That seems to be the assumption. Myself, I wouldn’t—”
“That bastard!” shrilled Kat. “That—”
“Katerina!”
The sharpness in Francesca’s tone jolted her. “Yes?”
The courtesan was frowning. “Before you get too carried away with your own self-righteousness . . . A question: Did you ever tell this young man exactly who you were?”
Kat’s face closed down. “No.”
“Why not?”
After a moment, between tight lips: “Because.”
Francesca chuckled dryly. “Ah, right. ‘Because.’ Oh, you Venetian Case Vecchie! How quick you are to condemn others for your own sins.”
Kat couldn’t meet that sarcastic gaze. “My grandfather . . .” she whispered, trying to summon up a protest.
” ‘Your grandfather,’ ” mimicked Francesca. “And you think Marco Valdosta isn’t also thinking of a grandfather? A grandfather in a desperate position of his own, you know. Which an alliance with Casa Dorma in Venice would go a long way toward improving.”
But Kat was in no mood to be calm and objective, much less charitable. “It’s because she’s pregnant,” she hissed. “That bastard. Telling me—while he was—with her—”
“Go home, Kat,” said Francesca wearily. “I’m tired, and you are obviously not willing to think. If you were, you might realize—”
“I’m not listening to any more!” snapped Kat, jumping to her feet. “I hate him!” She rushed for the entrance.
“Don’t slam the door on your—”