The Stargazer (14 page)

“That is uncalled for, my lord. Certainly this is an extraordinary occurrence. It’s not every day that wealthy libertines undertake to explode the arsenal.”

Ian continued as if she had not spoken. “You will check all of your outings with me. And you will always take one of the staff with you as a guard. A grown member of the staff, not that little hellion you found for yourself.”

“Your uncles found him for me. I cannot believe you would quibble with their judgment after setting them up as my wise chaperons.”

“I don’t care where he came from, he is not adequate protection.”

“Be reasonable, my lord. I am conducting a murder investigation which requires discretion and wit. I cannot tromp around with an army of men behind me and you rushing up at inopportune times to ruin everything. If I had a mind like yours, I would suspect that you were purposely trying to hinder my work, intentionally attempting to make it impossible for me to prove my innocence.”

“You will do as I say.”

“Maybe.”

In the strained silence that followed her ambiguous statement, Ian studied her.

She was filthy and unkempt.

She looked beautiful.

In a flash, he had a brilliant inspiration. He had had the perfect means of persuasion at his fingertips the whole time. How had he neglected it so long? It was precisely for situations like this one that he had concocted his clever scheme the day before. Clearly appealing to her reason he would get nowhere, so he would appeal instead to her body. Ian poked his head out of the cabin to murmur something to his gondoliers, then closed the curtains on the windows, reached for her at the other side of the cabin, and pulled her to his chest.

At first she resisted, using her minimal remaining strength to keep herself firmly planted on her seat. Soon, her strength ran out, and she had to give in. She fought as hard as she could, she consoled herself, but she was simply too tired. And the feel of Ian’s hands on her, the warmth of his body, the smell of his skin after hours of exertion, were not entirely without attraction. But she would just lie there, she told herself, doing nothing, so he could not accuse her of trying to seduce him. Yes, that would be fine, she just would not move, would not make a sound.

Ian was surprised but not displeased by her passivity. He pulled her head onto his chest and gingerly brushed her hair aside. He began lightly rubbing her neck, his strong fingers kneading away the knots of tension and strain that had formed there, then moved his hands to her back. It felt heavenly.

His hands moved expertly down her thighs and calves, stopping at her feet. It had never occurred to Bianca that so many pleasurable sensations could emanate from her feet, but that day she learned her error. He ran his thumb up her arch and let it rest on the ball of her foot, kneading it in delicious circles. His hands worked magic from her smallest toe to her heel, melting away her stress, and with it, her reserve. When his hands moved back up to her thighs, pulling the hem of her dress with them, she barely resisted the urge to moan. As his fingers worked to open her to him, she had to clench her jaw to stop from calling out. And when he began to stroke her, gently insinuating the fingers of one hand into the waiting, wet lips between her legs, slowly stroking her sensitive spot with the fingers of the other, she bit her tongue to keep it in her mouth. But that could work for only so long, and before she knew it she heard a voice, presumably hers, begging him to touch her harder.

“Do you like this?” Ian’s voice came to her, low and seductive, his fingers rhythmically probing her moist heat.

“Yes, yes. Don’t stop, please. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

Ian smiled into her hair, biding his time. Just as he heard her breathing quicken, he lifted his hand.

“No, no, don’t stop,” she pleaded, turning her eyes, bright with arousal, to meet his.

Ian lifted one hand from her tender bud and brought it to his lips. Under her unwavering scrutiny, he sucked his index finger into his mouth and then pulled it out again. “Delicious,” he said huskily, and the hand he still had between her legs felt her contract with renewed arousal. How could he excite her without even touching her, Bianca wondered to herself, but not for long because Ian was whispering in her ear.

She sat, unable to move, as he described all the things he wanted to do to her, how he wanted to stroke her hard until right before she climaxed and then have her mount him and take him, grinding her hips around him, her breasts hanging over him so he could cup them with his hands or suck them into his mouth, flicking her nipples with his tongue until he felt her tighten around him in climax.

“Would you like that?” he whispered finally, tracing the outer contour of her ear with his tongue, trailing it down her neck, to her shoulder.

Unable to speak, she could only nod.

“Do you promise not to leave the house without my permission anymore?” He asked, his voice husky.

Bianca would have agreed to anything at that moment to experience the pleasure he had described. “This is blackmail. Or a bribe.” Her voice sounded small and wistful.

“Think of it as a contract,” Ian volunteered. “You get something you want, and I get something I want.”

It sounded perfectly reasonable to Bianca, whose powers of reason had fled the minute Ian put a hand on her body. But on principle, she knew, she should not give in without a fight. She played with the gold hair peeking out from the neckline of his shirt for a moment, considering, then made a counter offer. “Can I have a climax first, and then another one when you are inside me?”

Ian knew he had won. His surge of victory felt strangely like arousal. “Greedy, aren’t we?” he asked rhetorically as he passed his hand back down between her legs.

Ian was glad that Bianca came almost instantly, because he could hold himself back only a short while longer. He loved the way her eyes grew wide like saucers and filled with surprise when she found her release. He strained his ears to hear the little gurgling noises that began in her throat and bubbled up out of her mouth as joyful exclamations of pleasure.

As Bianca was fumbling with the laces on his pants, he allowed himself momentarily to dwell on the fact that his repeated interactions with her were not diminishing her attractions in his eyes, but he decided that the more time he spent buried within her tight little body, the quicker he would build up his resistance. It was therefore with great vigor that Ian, his hard shaft freed from the constraint of his tight breeches, plunged himself into her.

He was partially reclining against the velvet seat of the gondola with Bianca astride him. When she had taken him entirely into herself, she threw back her head, her eyes closed, and began to make wide circles with her hips. Ian thrust himself into her, and she had to reach around and grab his thighs to stay atop him. She steadied herself with one hand against the roof of the gondola, leaning forward to take him in deeper. He reached out to stroke where their bodies met, but she caught his hand and moved it to her lips. As they moved together, around and around, she delicately kissed each of his fingertips, then ran her tongue in circles on his palm, relishing the salty taste of his skin. Suddenly hungry for the feel of her pressed against his chest, for her nearness, Ian pulled her down to him and drove himself inside her with all the strength he was capable of. She pushed herself into him, letting their bodies melt together and almost cried with joy when, at the height of his shuddering climax, she heard him speak her name for the first time.

After two tours around the island of Venice, during the second of which the rain had resumed, Ian’s gondoliers were relieved to get the signal to head for home. One of them was already picturing his warm, dry bed in the servants’ quarters of the Foscari palace, but the other had an errand to do before he could sleep. He wondered how much he would get for his rendition of how Ian had spent his time on the journey home. In the past the sums had been adequate, but he anticipated that his description of the activities of his master and mistress during this gondola ride would have an especially high value. He did not know how many of the other servants had taken that strange man up on his offer to pay for information about the goings-on at the great house, but he had augmented his already generous salary quite a bit with his harmless eavesdropping and snooping. He thought of that pretty little number he had deposited at the Foscari place earlier that day, to be his mistress’s new maid, and wondered how much more spying he would have to do to afford her favors on a regular basis.

The growling of a tiger or the braying of a donkey would have been less unexpected to Ian than the sound that met his ears as he disembarked from his gondola. At first it was so unfamiliar that he could not make it out.

Ian was cringing. “What is that infernal noise?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I hired a maid,” Bianca responded brightly.

Ian identified the sound and the cringe deepened. “Are you raising her up from an infant?”

“No, that is Marina’s baby. The baby I delivered today. You should see him, a handsome boy. They named him Caesar, but Ian is his middle name, in honor of you, my lord,” Bianca lied, hoping to soften him.

“You hired a maid who has just given birth? That’s idiotic. She won’t be any good to you for at least two months.”

“No matter, I don’t really need a maid anyway. I just wanted to give her a better place to live. Or,” Bianca continued snidely, “since her house was destroyed in the explosion, a place to live at all.”

“Why stop at her? Why not move an entire body of displaced females into my house and pay them to sit around doing nothing?”

“That’s a wonderful idea, my lord. Let’s! I can have it all arranged by tomorrow.”

It was too much for Ian. The Arboretti were under direct attack, he was betrothed to the prime suspect in a murder investigation, and someone had introduced a baby into his house. Between Bianca’s feigned misunderstanding of his sarcasm and the continued wails coming from Colpo or Caruso or whatever the damn thing’s name was, Ian was completely undone. He cast a last baleful look on the beautiful woman whose obvious goal was to destroy his life and headed for the stairs as the clocks on the floor above struck twelve.

This fit of house moving had been brought on by the shrieks and gurgles that had accompanied his bath and grown louder while he dressed. He had stormed out of his room to silence the unholy racket, only to discover the largest part of his household gathered around a hideously ugly bundle in a white blanket in the middle of his reception hall. Each scream issuing from the bundle seemed to elicit broader smiles from Bianca, Francesco, Roberto, Crispin, and most incredibly, Giorgio. When he spoke to demand order in his house, he was brusquely shushed by all of them and told to keep his voice low so as to avoid waking the sleeping mother. It was then that, muttering threats and blasphemies, he had fled, taking the stairs without stopping, until he was safely locked in his laboratory.

That had been over two hours ago, and Ian found he was not only peevish and hungry, but also in need of several items from his room. He cautiously opened the door of his laboratory and stood, waiting. He heard a door close. He heard footsteps. He heard a man’s voice. More doors. More voices. The normal sounds of his house. That meant no wails, no slurps, no baby noises at all. Maybe they had found a cage for it, he mused, or better yet, sold it. Bravely, he ventured forth onto the landing and, after a brief pause to be sure, descended like a man who has just tasted victory.

Halfway down the second staircase, he was met by Giorgio.

Ian regarded his most trusted servant bitterly. “I saw you with that infant. Good god, man, I thought I could count on you, and now I see that you, too, are a party to this travesty. I and that boy, Cholera or whatever his name is—”

“Caesar,” Giorgio supplied.

“—Cretin,” Ian continued, “he and I will be the innocent victims of it. Both doomed to lives made unbearable by the machinations of women.”

“
Mmmm
,” Giorgio murmured sympathetically.

“Did you come here to mumble at me?” Ian demanded fiercely. “Have you lost your powers of adult speech? I suppose that before the day is out we will all be prancing around, gurgling and burping.”

“And spluttering. You are doing a fine job of it now, my lord.”

Giorgio came close to getting the neck wringing Ian had previously earmarked for Bianca, but the servant knew his master well and quickly dodged out of the way.

“Actually, I came to tell you that you have a caller and to find out where you will see him. Il Signore Valdone. He assures me it’s not about the arsenal fire.”

“Damned nuisance,” Ian gurgled, scratching his chin. “I suppose that Clotin creature has been put away for the afternoon? Is it safe to descend? Or could you send Valdone up here?”

“I would suggest the library. Caesar is sleeping down behind the kitchens, and I give you my personal assurance that you will hear no more from him today. Additionally, your caller does not look quite up to the ascent to the laboratories. He is rather over the normal size.”

That Giorgio had not done Valdo Valdone justice with his description was revealed to Ian upon his first step into the library. The man was squeezed uncomfortably into a chair that, though ample for a person of normal dimensions, only accommodated him with difficulty. He tried to rise, but Ian, concerned about the effect of that operation on his furniture, motioned the man back down.

Though they had never met, Ian knew of him by reputation. As he crossed to the chair behind his desk, Ian hastily reviewed what he had been told of the man. Originally a farmer from the small town of Thiene, he had developed a fortune turning his plants and herbs into perfumes and unguents for women. Instead of cultivating a courtly clientele, creating unique perfumes for every duchess and countess, Valdo Valdone had decided to make his products in large quantities. This meant that they could be sold at prices accessible even to the wives and daughters of small shopkeepers. From a makeshift stall in the middle of one of the shoddier squares of his hometown, Valdo had moved his enterprise to Venice, where he had met with such success that he now did business down the entire length of the Italian peninsula. With each success, it was said, his body grew a little more, so that the size of his corporation was directly proportional to the size of his corpus.

At least, Ian thought, taking in the immense figure before him, he is to scale. It was not just his body that was large, but also his head, eyes, nose, and mouth.

And his voice, Ian soon learned. “I would never have presumed upon you, my lord, nor especially on a day like today, had I not thought it rather urgent.”

Ian nodded to him to continue, wondering if such loud noises could have a damaging effect on the structure of his house.

Valdo cleared his throat, a sound akin to the roar of a cannon. “I heard through several channels that you are making inquiries about Isabella Bellocchio. You know, looking for personal information.” The large man leaned forward in his chair and gave Ian an unfriendly look. “I demand to know why.”

Ian eyed him for a moment to give his inner ear time to stop vibrating, then turned up a palm. “I might tell you, but only if you first explain why you are so eager to know.”

Valdo turned his head around, scouring the room. “What I will tell you is very private. Is this a safe place to speak?”

“I vouch for the security of my home and staff,” Ian answered haughtily, pretending to feel insulted. Mainly what he was feeling was hungry, and the prospect of inviting his large guest to dine was so unappealing that he decided instead to hurry the interview to its conclusion by employing his famed coolness. It had no effect.

“Of course. I didn’t doubt it, you know, really it’s just that,” Valdo paused to clear his throat again, “well, where that girl is involved I just can’t think. I ask you plainly, my lord, are you courting her affections?”

Ian was surprised. When he did not respond, Valdo continued.

“You asked me to explain my interest. I love Isabella. More than I have ever loved anything, or anyone, even more than my poor departed mother.” He paused to cross himself. “I bought her a house, I give her clothes and presents. I had a perfume specially made for her. I won’t say that she loves me back, that would be too much to ask, but I will say that she has, you know, a certain affection for me.” He spoke with pride, and Ian wondered for the millionth time how men could be such fools where women were concerned.

“If you know she has affection for you, why worry about me?” Ian’s stomach rumbled impatiently.

“
Ah
, so you are courting her! Are you planning to marry her, take her out of my reach?”

Ian noticed for the first time that Valdo’s ears were disproportionally smaller than the rest of his body. “I said nothing of the sort.”

“But you implied… You suggested…”

Ian decided that he needed to hasten his lunch. There would be no real harm, Ian’s stomach rationalized, in speeding Valdo’s departure by telling him what he wanted to know. If Valdo Valdone was the murderer fishing for information, Ian’s stomach pointed out logically, he would get nothing from Ian’s explanation of his interest in Isabella. And if he was not the murderer, Ian might learn something important from him. While still getting to eat lunch.

“I have never met Signorina Bellocchio and feel no amorous desires toward her. My inquiries were initiated only to please my betrothed, who is, let us say, a
demanding
woman. It seems that she and Isabella had become friends or correspondents, and—”

“Why, that’s impossible! Isa can’t write a word.”

Ian brushed aside the objection, but made a mental note that Valdo knew of Isabella’s illiteracy. “Somehow, at any rate, they developed a certain degree of intimacy and, not hearing from Isabella for some time, my betrothed grew concerned. On her request, I spread the notice that I was collecting information about Isabella Bellocchio, presumably the notice you heard.”

“Then you were not going to marry her?”

“S’blood, do I need to repeat myself like a parrot?”

“No, no, I am sorry, my lord. I just wanted to get it straight. I told you, where Isa is concerned, I can’t think.”

Ian’s stomach told him that Valdo had no information nearly as important as that contained in the serving dishes on the floor below, and he decided to bring the meeting to a close.

Ian was rising from his seat. “I hope that sets your mind at rest. If—”

“Anything but,” Valdo boomed, propelling Ian back down by his sheer volume. “How can my mind rest when she has disappeared? I haven’t slept these five nights. And there is no one I could tell about it, no one I can trust. If my wife found out…” The large man shuddered. “Then I heard about you, and I was so relieved, but first I had to be sure. You know, sure that you were not trying to take Isa away from me. It’s not like Isa to go away without leaving word. Usually she will send a messenger or tell someone at my club or have Enzo tell me where she is going and for how long. But not this time, I have looked all over and asked everyone. I am beside myself with worry. I can’t even eat.”

On hearing that, Ian reconsidered inviting him to lunch, but decided against it. Instead he made a noise that he hoped sounded sympathetic and followed it up with, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Of course!” Valdo looked puzzled, as if it were obvious. “You can find her. I can’t do it myself, you know, can’t let my wife find out, but you are already making inquiries for your betrothed, so why can’t you also make them for me? Do you know where she is?”

“To be frank,” Ian lied, “I have no idea where she is. My inquires have gotten nowhere. I was hoping you could help me. Do you have any idea?”

“I’ve been thinking and thinking but have come up with nothing. She sometimes goes to a little cottage I have near Lake Maggiore. In fact, it has quite a nice view of your lovely villa, my lord.” Valdo paused for Ian to thank him for the gratuitous compliment, realized it had been ignored, and rushed on. “But I sent my man there to look around, and it is deserted, no sign of anyone.”

“Does she have any relatives that might have taken ill? Any friends that might have required her assistance?”

“Not that she ever spoke of.” Valdo’s eyes lit up. “But here’s something! She told me once that if her father, a poor but religious cobbler, ever found out what she had done with her life, he would be less than pleased. Maybe he came and found her and took her away with him.”

In Ian’s experience, even the most religious of men had been known to adjust their morals where money was concerned. If Isabella had been in a position to make her father’s life comfortable, it seemed unlikely that he would do anything to disturb that. Ian said as much to Valdo and had the satisfaction of seeing that the large man’s enthusiasm was visibly dampened, but by no means extinguished. After a moment of quiet thought, Valdo boomed his next suggestion. “She might have gone off with one of her other clients for a brief span, mightn’t she? You know, to one of their houses or something?”

“Has she done that before?”

“No, never.” Valdo shook his massive head slowly. “But what if someone forced her to go away? What if her father or one of her lovers coerced her into departing and would not let her leave word? You know, someone jealous or deranged. Someone who wanted her all for himself.” He paused and then added in a different voice, “Or someone who wanted her away from me.”

Ian had been about to say something, but stopped before the words left his mouth and adjusted them. “How do you think your wife found out about your arrangement with Isabella?”

“W-w-w-w,” Valdo stuttered, then got control of himself. “I did not say anything about my wife. Did I?”

“This is patently ridiculous.” Ian slapped the top of his desk with his palm, a gesture he knew to be particularly awful, and for the second time rose to leave. “You cannot enter my house, uninvited, ask me to do you a favor, and then lie to me. Do you take me for a fool, man?”

“Wait, wait, don’t go,” the large man pleaded piteously. “I just need a moment to collect myself.” Valdo lowered his head and put his hands over his eyes. After a few minutes, he righted himself and began nodding vigorously.

“You are right, my lord. I do suspect my wife. Our marriage is not an unusual one. You know, we married very young, when we still lived in Thiene. She was the most desirable girl in the town, easy on the eyes, nice to hold. But the years passed; we moved to Venice. You know, the eye wanders, the appetite craves younger morsels.”

Ian nodded for the sake of doing something, wondering why, if Ian already “knew” all this, Valdo was taking up his lunchtime retelling it.

“It would never have occurred to me to suspect Lucretia, that is, my wife, except that two weeks ago she began acting strangely. Very strangely. I can’t explain it, but something changed. She became very aloof and distant. Sometimes when I came upon her, she would be smiling to herself, as if she knew a secret, a secret about me and she was plotting ways to use it. She is a very crafty woman, my lord, much more clever than I am. It was her idea to make the perfumes in the first place, you know, the ones I have made my fortune off of. If she put her mind to it, she could do anything.”

“Anything? Do you think her capable of violence?”

Valdo looked shocked. “No, certainly! She would not harm Isa. She would just, you know, put her out of my reach. Send her somewhere I could not find her.”

“Why? What could that achieve?”

“I don’t know.” Despair again filled Valdo’s baritone. “That is what I want you to find out. And where. You know, where she sent Isabella.”

The task was infinitely distasteful to Ian. Given his certainty—well, partial certainty—of Bianca’s guilt, he wagered that time spent talking to this Lucretia would be time wasted unpleasantly for nothing. On the other hand, she might be able to tell him something that would help him force a confession out of Bianca. And, he reasoned finally, the means of meeting her were easily at hand.

“Very well, I will speak with your wife. You have heard, no doubt, about the betrothal ball we are throwing here in two days’ time.”

Valdo nodded. Everyone had heard about the special lifting of the sumptuary laws and the elaborate preparations hastily under way. There had not been a gala event like that at the Foscari palace in years, and the excitement it caused was feverish. The whole city had been turned upside down upon news of it, goldsmiths, glassblowers, cooks, and bakers working day and night to be ready on such short notice. His own wife had been forced to send for five different dressmakers before she found one not already too busy with other orders for extravagant gowns to be worn that Monday night.