“Marco Valdosta,” said Katerina sadly. “Come on. You’re right. I could use a whole bottle of grappa, never mind a glass of wine.” She pulled a wry face. “Except I don’t like it. Somewhere quiet, Benito. I’m sticking the Montescue name out into public view enough just doing this. Maria said it was important. So important she posted a note under our water-door. Her writing’s not great.” That produced an almost-smile. “It took Giuseppe until this morning to give it to me. He thought he was protecting me. Madelena had a fight with him about it and made him come and deliver it.”
Benito didn’t know who these people were. But he knew a private place, close enough. He nodded. “Follow me.” He led off to a little wine-cellar a hundred yards off. Inside it was dark and smoky, and still further privacy was offered by little cubicles. The sound was oddly damped within. “Traders use this place for negotiations. The partitions are double walled and filled with wool.”
Kat and he sat down and the padrone wordlessly brought them a carafe of wine and a bowl of anchovy-stuffed olives. “Supposed to make you thirsty,” said Benito, cheerfully taking three. “Now . . . if you already know that Marco is Marco Valdosta, what else can I tell you?”
Kat chewed her lip. “I . . . sent him a very angry letter, when I found out he was getting married to Angelina Dorma. I thought, I, I, well, he, I mean, er . . .”
Benito had to help out. There was some fun in seeing Kat tongue-tied, but he felt sorry for her anyway. And it was too late now, even if she was Katerina Montescue and not Kat “Trouble” the Spook. “Was two-timing you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice hardly audible. “Maria—I saw her early this morning—said it absolutely wasn’t like that. She said I had to talk to you. Even if it was too late now. It’s taken me all day to screw up the courage to walk into Ventuccio and ask for you.”
Benito took a deep breath. He didn’t really know how to handle this. But honesty to his brother seemed only fair, especially as Maria had already muddied the waters. Women! They made things complicated.
“Marco wasn’t seeing Angelina when he was seeing you. He . . . well, never mind, but I promise, word of honor, swear to God, he never even saw her face in the last three months. Not until he moved into Dorma.”
“I know,” said Kat, dully. “And he’s married now. Anyway it would never have worked. He’s Valdosta. I’m Montescue. Our Families are enemies to the death. And I suppose it was the honorable thing for him to do, even if they had split up. He had to marry her. She was carrying his baby.”
Benito choked on his wine. He spluttered.
“What!?”
* * *
Kat looked around anxiously. No one appeared to be staring at a red-faced Katerina Montescue and a tousle-haired teenager who was still gawping like a fish out of water. Marco . . . Marco had always been rather protective of Benito. Kat couldn’t see why, because she’d bet his co-worker knew all about where babies came from when he was still in his own cradle. Still, it was par for the course. Very like Marco. She’d bet that Dorma bitch had seduced him. Her hands crooked into claws.
Benito finally got control of his larynx. “Who told you that?”
“Maria. Marco told her.”
Benito shook his head. “Marco is the ultimate prize idiot. He needs a minder.”
“Accidents happen,” said Kat, stiffly.
Benito snorted. “Not unless Marco is the male equivalent of the Virgin Mary. And I’ve known him all my life. He’s only half a saint. The other half is pure idiot, I promise.”
He seemed so absolutely certain. “So who is the father then?” Kat demanded.
Benito looked at her, then away; then shook his head. “Let’s just say Marco is paying his debts.”
She had to know. “Benito, I’m not joking. If I have to spend the whole of the Casa Montescue’s strongbox on a truth-spell, I’ll get that answer. There isn’t much in the strong box—but we can borrow.” And some things are more important than money.