The Stargazer (5 page)

“Are you always this forward on the second meeting?” he asked as she looked at him with surprise.

“My lord, oh, oh my, I am sorry. I was not looking where I was going and…It’s just that your brother…I am so sorry.” Bianca blushed furiously and stepped away from him.

“
Niente
, my brother has this discomposing effect on everyone. He enjoys it, I’m afraid. You can run into my arms for comfort anytime you like. In a sisterly way, of course,” he tacked on, noticing her alarm. “But there is no time for chatting now. I have been sent to tell you that your aunt and cousins have arrived to pay you a courtesy call.”

“Would have been more courteous of them to leave me alone,” Bianca muttered, and then, seeing that Crispin had heard her, she hastened to add, “I only meant that I am so tired today, of course. How charming.”

Crispin, who had once spent twenty minutes with her aunt at a card table, eyed her skeptically. “Charming,
si certo
. Are you ready to see them or do you need some time to change?”

Bianca looked over the plain yellow dress she always wore to work in, saw that there were no egregious stains, and shook her head. “No, they are accustomed to seeing me in a whole array of shocking ensembles. They would probably be disappointed if I began to act more seemly once I was betrothed. But there is no reason for you to put yourself out. If you send me in the right direction, I am sure I can find the room myself.”

Crispin laughed. “Not without a map and a lodestone, I warrant. But it is just down this way.”

He took her arm and led her off. After winding through five corridors and down four staircases—“Does this house never end?” Bianca demanded—they arrived in a fair-sized room with enormous windows on two sides. In the middle, seated on couches, were her Aunt Anatra and her cousins Angelo and Analinda. Her aunt Anatra had once been the belle of the Venetian patriciate, or so Bianca had been told, but the only signs of her former beauty now were her children. Angelo, with his curling fair hair and large, innocent eyes, looked every bit the chivalric hero. His younger sister shared his features but in a softer, more feminine way; her recent entry into Venetian society had been very promising, at least if measured by the number of love sonnets she received as anonymous gifts. (“More than three dozen,” she had confided to Bianca the previous week. “Even more than Catarina Nonte!”) From Analinda’s perspective, Bianca’s betrothal to the wealthy and aristocratic count with all the handsome cousins was a gift from heaven. But she seemed to be the only member of her family who thought so.

The air in the room crackled with tension, despite Francesco and Roberto’s best efforts to entertain Anatra. As Bianca and Crispin entered the room, her chaperons looked up with clear signs of relief. Crispin greeted the Grifalconi family, extending his hand to Angelo with whom he shared several clubs and many women, and casting an appreciative eye at Analinda before begging off, saying that business called. Bianca smiled warmly at her cousins and curtsied to her aunt.

“
Piacere
, Aunt Anatra. What a delightful surprise.”

“Not nearly as surprising as your betrothal,” her aunt replied in dry tones. “You do like to make trouble for a body, don’t you.”

“That is what you have always told me,” Bianca replied in the same dry tones, standing straight before her aunt with all hint of a smile gone. Since the death of her father the previous year, Bianca had taken a house with her brother on Campo San Paolo. But social custom said it was unseemly for a single woman to live alone, so any time her brother went away on his secretive business, which of late seemed all the time, Bianca had been forced into residence with her aunt and uncle at their old palazzo in Cannaregio. Aunt Anatra had made no secret of her contempt for Bianca’s father and would have liked to transfer the bulk of it onto his eccentric daughter. When she realized that in his frugal mode of life her brother had not only maintained but even augmented his fortune, however, she had tried to think better of him, or rather, of his heirs. Indeed, she had tried to think well enough of Bianca to marry her to her only son, the precious Angelo. But the spoiled chit had refused, again and again. And now she was betrothed to a count. All that money leaving the family. The thought made Anatra sick with rage.

“Strange that you never mentioned your attachment to d’Aosto before,” Bianca’s aunt mused aloud. “Stranger that he took you without a dowry.”

Bianca was unsure what her aunt was alluding to, but felt confident it was not meant kindly. “I do have a vast personal fortune, remember,” she coolly retaliated. “And being rich as Midas himself, it probably does not matter much to him at all.”

Bianca watched gleefully as Aunt Anatra opened and closed her mouth, like a fish caught in a net. Angelo took his mother’s hand to comfort her, at the same time flashing a beatific smile at Bianca. He had heard the news of his cousin’s betrothal and removal from the house only that morning, upon returning from three days of debauched passion. He had sauntered into his family palazzo, the heady scent of his new lover’s musk still in his nose and his cock limp from overwork, hoping to catch sight of his cousin Bianca. It was an experiment, actually, to see if she could still arouse him as she usually did, even in his satiated state. Years ago he had made unobtrusive holes along one wall of her room, facing a mirror, and he had spent hours watching her reflection bathe and dress. He knew every mark on her body, every perfect curve, every adorable dimple.

He had been infuriated to learn of her absence, even more so of her betrothal, but when he learned the identity of her betrothed, fury cooled to curiosity. Bianca and the Conte d’Aosto. There was something decidedly suspicious about this sudden betrothal, especially about its timing. Eager to know more, he had instantly corralled his mother and sister into making a call on the bride-to-be. But the results so far had been disappointing. None of the members of the household seemed the least put out by the betrothal, and Bianca was as nervy—and enticing—as ever. Whatever was going on, and there had to be something substantial to compel his stubborn cousin into marriage, was being very well concealed. He was wasting his time in polite social calls, he decided.

Suddenly impatient, he rose and bowed. “We shall be sorry to lose your company at Ca’Grifalconi.” Angelo spoke politely, but his words somehow rang false. “And while I am green with envy, I am sure you will make d’Aosto a perfect wife.” Bianca recalled the curse she had pronounced on Ian’s head just minutes before and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan.

Angelo took her hand and was about to put it to his lips when he noticed it was stained with ink.

“Have you spent these first days of your betrothal working? Cutting up dead cats and whatnot and committing their organs to paper?” He spoke with unconcealed disdain.

Bianca’s heart started to pound. “One must stay busy, you know,” she said in a voice she hoped did not tremble.

“You must admit,
cara
signorina, you have spent an unseemly amount of time in the laboratory upstairs since you got here. Why, just—” Bianca cut Francesco off with a look that might have killed a lesser man.

“Laboratory,
eh?
Angelo’s curiosity was finally being rewarded. “I would love to take a look at where a
dottoressa
works. Could I go there with you now, cousin?” As he spoke, he gripped her hand tighter and began to lead her to the door.

“I am afraid Signorina Salva does not have time to show you her work space today.” Roberto’s soft voice came from where he stood next to the fireplace. “We have so much planning to do for the party that her time is completely occupied.”

Bianca tried to keep the question out of her eyes as she looked over at Roberto. “Yes, yes, thank you for reminding me, Dottore Collona, I am much too busy. Perhaps another time, cousin.” She turned to smile at Angelo, pulling her hand from his grasp. Out of nowhere, a young servant appeared to usher the Grifalconi visitors out. Bianca curtsied as her aunt brushed by her, and stood to kiss Analinda on both cheeks. Angelo was the last to go, bowing deeply to her before taking his leave. As the door closed behind them, Analinda could be heard asking her mother who Midas was and if he had any unmarried sons.

Bianca, Roberto, and Francesco looked at each other and began to laugh.

“That was a lovely visit. Quite nice of them to come,” Francesco said finally, slightly out of breath. Then, turning to Roberto, he asked, “But what’s all this about a party? Why am I the last to know?”

“I only thought of it at that moment, but I am embarrassed we did not plan it earlier. No matter what strange circumstances have brought about this betrothal,” here he turned a questioning eye on Bianca, “we should at least observe the proprieties. There must be a party to introduce the new couple.”

“Indeed, of course, yes quite. And there hasn’t been a party here since that witch Mor—” Francesco was cut off by a sharp look from Roberto. “For quite some time.”

Roberto needn’t have bothered, for Bianca was too busy making a list in her head to hear what passed between them. A clock on the far wall was striking the time. Only 167 hours left, Bianca reminded herself.

She turned to her chaperons abruptly, interrupting their discussion. “If I needed to borrow paper, ink, three thousand gold ducats, two gondolas, one set of men’s clothes, and a nimble young boy, where in this huge house would you suggest I begin looking?”

“Tell me again about the girl,” the woman said, pushing the man’s head away from her erect nipple. “What does she look like? How does she seem? Will she make him happy?”

The man sighed and leaned away from her. “I’ve already told you.” He felt her hand go to his organ, still sticky from being inside her. “She’s plain.” He began to grow hard under the stroking of her fingers. “She’s dull.” Her hand moved up and down the length of his solid member, lingering on the tip. She was teasing him, coaxing him on to the final point. “She will probably bore him to death.” Her lips went down over his shaft, drinking him in. He had repeated the same untruths over and over during dinner and would do so a hundred more times for the same reward. Her gratitude was truly moving.

Her mouth was sliding up his throbbing organ when the door at the far end of the room opened. She drew away and the young man groaned.

“Where are you,
cara?
We must speak about…” It was her brother’s voice.

“Down here with our little assistant.” She pulled the fur over them and turned onto her stomach. “He has been telling me the most interesting story. The count is betrothed. Betrothed to be married. To a plain slut. I must meet her.”

“You will find her just as described,” her brother said earnestly. To him, as to most men, all women looked plain next to his sister. “But first we have a problem to discuss. I have just received word that at the last moment those ingrates changed their shipment from gunpowder to grain, and rotten grain at that.” His voice quivered with indignation.

“That is rather inconvenient. How do you find these things out?” His sister sounded unconcerned.

He waved her question aside. “Without that gunpowder we are sunk. Everything will be ruined! We must speak about this. Now.” He shifted his pointed gaze to the man beside her.

She sighed, realizing that her brother would not be easily appeased. Turning to her lover, she kissed him on the ear and then pushed him away. “It is time for you to go on your errand, my angel. Come back when you have something to interest me and I will reward you well. I know how you like to be thanked.”

“Thank me first, then I will go,” the young man said, brushing his erect shaft against her thigh. She shook her head and gestured him away again. He was a bit too pushy and needed to be taught discipline. She was willing to assuage his needs regularly, but she was not entirely at his disposal. With a petulant pout, he stood and walked over to his pile of clothes in the corner. Momentarily worried she had dampened the young man’s ardor for the task before him by refusing him favors now, she sought for a way to rekindle his enthusiasm.

“Isn’t he well shaped?” the woman asked her brother in a tone rich with admiration and loud enough to carry.

“You don’t have to tell me,
cara
. I found him, remember. I am the one who trained him. I am glad you are pleased.”

The object of their scrutiny smiled as they talked, his vanity flattered by their compliments. He was indebted to both brother and sister for more hours of pleasure than he could remember, not to mention a large number of the ducats he lost at the gaming tables.

When he was fully dressed, he went and stood before them. “Don’t forget,
angelo mio
, the more you bring me, the more grateful I will be,” the woman admonished, throwing her head back and parting her lips to accept his kiss.

“I will be back soon to collect my reward,” he assured her huskily. Then he bowed to his patron and, pulling a black mask over his face, disappeared into the shadows.

Ian sat up in bed. He was drenched in sweat. His heart was racing. And his body was indeed painfully aroused. “Damn these women!” he said into the dark night. How could they have such an effect on him? He was familiar with nightmares that featured Mora’s harsh words as their background, but this dream was unique. What made it so unsettling was Bianca. Dreaming about a potential murderer naked had to be a sign of some nervous disorder, he told himself. And not just dreaming about her either, but being aroused by her. Very aroused. This had to stop.

He stepped naked from his bed and left his room to wander through the house. As he traced the familiar path, the cool air of the rainy night calmed the arousal of his body. He went and stood at the windows facing onto the Grand Canal. The rain had stopped, for the first time that week, and the dark water below him was lit by the shimmering light of the full moon. How many times had he stood here like this, naked, with his head pressed against the cool glass panes of the window, watching the darkness recede into dawn? He had once stopped during the day to see if the floor was worn down in this one spot, to see if there was any external manifestation of the deep anguish that pained him within. But the stones yielded up no evidence of his secret midnight vigils. Taking his cue from them, he tried not to either.

He watched a gondola glide on the canal toward him, anonymously cloaked in black. In the palazzo facing his across the water, a window was still lit and he could see the French ambassador actively wooing his chambermaid. Ian tried to see if it was the same woman it had been last month, decided it was, and lost interest. The French ambassador had once confided to him that he behaved that way out of duty to his country, not out of shameless animal lust. He was convinced that the chambermaids were spies of other governments and that bedding them was the only way to ensure their loyalty. Ian admired the vigor with which he fulfilled his patriotic duty, thinking that his own performance as a member of the Senate and overseer of his
sestiere
was uninspired by comparison. Perhaps bedding a murder suspect…?

His disturbing train of thought was halted by a noise. Ian was familiar with the night noises of his house, and the squeak of a hinge was not one of them. He moved stealthily toward the staircase at the end of the room, glad he had not brought a candle with him. Unsure whether the noise had come from the courtyard below or one of the floors above, he stood stock-still and waited. Nothing. Then came another sound, like the scraping of wood on metal, which seemed to emanate from upstairs. He grabbed the first item he could lay his hands on, a silver spice holder Sebastian had found in Constantinople, and began to ascend the stairs. He had not gone more than ten steps before he saw a flickering light approaching from below. Figuring he had miscalculated the location of the sound—acoustics were notoriously tricky he knew—he turned to face the nearing light. As the intruder got close, it flashed through Ian’s mind that this must be a pretty audacious criminal, completely unconcerned with concealing himself. Deducing he must therefore be dangerous, Ian decided to take him by surprise.

Ian sneaked up behind him. Holding his breath, he brought the silver spice container down against the back of the intruder’s head. The criminal gasped, then collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. The candle fell from his hand and was retrieved by Ian. By its light he untied the black mask, but soon wished he had not. There, lying unconscious on the floor, was Bianca. As he stood over her, stunned and astonished, her eyes began to flutter. She groaned in pain as he tried to prop her up against the wall. Finally she opened her eyes.

And then she opened them even wider. She was completely distracted from the ache in her head by the vision that confronted her. Ian’s naked body was more breathtaking than anything she had imagined in all her hours of imagining live male bodies. His limbs were taut with muscle, his arms and broad shoulders powerful, and his chest covered with golden hair that glimmered in the candlelight and descended past his slim waist into a triangle of darker curls at the junction of his legs. She was so rapt in admiration that she did not notice when he began speaking.

“Signorina Salva, Bianca, damn it, can you hear me?” he demanded finally, shaking her to get her attention.

She nodded slowly, dragging her eyes from his body to his face.

“What the devil do you think you are doing? I might have hurt you.

“I think you did,” Bianca said, wincing as she felt the bump on the back of her head.

“You deserve that and more. Who suggested that you could go roaming around the house, dressed like a boy, at all hours?”

“Oh, no, my lord. You needn’t worry about me roaming around the house. I have hardly been here. I just got back, actually.”

Ian’s anger was tempered by incredulity. “You went out? Dressed like that? Whatever for?”

“If you only had seven days to live, wouldn’t you try to enjoy them to the utmost?”

“But if you were innocent, as you claim, you would have more than seven days to live. Is this a confession?”

“No. More like my assessment of life married to you.” Bianca hoped to cool the triumph she heard in his voice.

It worked. She could have sworn she heard Ian growl. But then she realized the noise was coming not from the naked man before her, but from upstairs, in another part of the palazzo. Ian’s head shot around to follow it, both their ears straining in the darkness. Motioning to her to be quiet, Ian turned to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Bianca followed behind slowly, hindered by the sharp pain that went through her body every time she moved her head. Nonetheless, she was grateful to be wearing tight breeches instead of layers of petticoats, which would have made following Ian nearly impossible.

At the top floor they stopped. Ian put the candle on a console along the wall and made a sign for her to stay there. Her head was aching, and she figured she had already antagonized him beyond endurance for one night, so she dutifully followed his orders. The noise seemed to be coming not from within his laboratory, directly in front of them, but farther along the hall, from hers. Of course, she realized with a flash, whoever had murdered Isabella had probably come in search of the body. What a fool she had been not to have foreseen it and locked herself up here to greet the malefactor when he arrived! Excitement got the better of her restraint, and she began to move more quickly toward Ian. When she reached him, he was turning the door handle slowly.

The door moved inward without a sound. Little by little Ian inched it open, reminding himself to give Giorgio a raise the next day for not having locked it. When the opening was wide enough for him to slip his head through, he silently peered into the room.

The laboratory was empty save for a figure, cloaked in black, with his back to Ian. The window on the far wall had been shattered by the prowler when he entered. Bianca’s instruments had been thrown from their chests and cases and lay scattered around the floor of the room. The figure stood in the midst of them, attentively studying a pile of papers before him. Ian pushed the door open wider and stepped into the room, right onto something sharp. Cursing silently, he slipped closer to the intruder, ready to strike again with the silver spice container.

As he raised it over the intruder’s head, it caught the light of the candle. A reflection flashed across the far wall. The intruder looked up from the papers for a moment, then looked back down apparently unconcerned. But he had been alerted. The man moved just as Ian brought the box down where his head should have been and was at the window before Ian realized what had happened.

Ian was on his heels as the prowler leapt from the window onto the roof of the adjoining house. Ian could see him in the moonlight, moving quickly over the rain-slicked terra-cotta tiles, gripping the pile of papers under one arm and using the other one to maneuver. Barefoot and empty-handed, Ian was able to make better time than his prey. The intruder jumped from one rooftop to the next, with Ian following closely. Ian lost his footing and began to slip, grabbing on to a nearby chimney pot for support. He righted himself and saw that his adversary had also fallen. Scrambling rapidly across the slick tiles, Ian finally caught up to him. He made a wild leap at the man’s shoulders. For a moment the intruder lay pinned under Ian, his heart pounding rapidly.

It occurred to the intruder that if he got caught he would receive no thanks from anyone. Fired by the thought of his mistress’s gratitude, he began to wriggle under the weight of the man on top of him. He ignored the cutting edges of the tile as he fought to break the clasp of his sable cape. All at once, the cape began to slide off, taking the man on top of it with him. Ian cursed and tried to get a handhold on a tile, but the fur cape only moved more quickly down the wet roof. He was going to die, he thought suddenly, naked, sliding on a fur cape down the steep slope of the Widow Falentini’s old house. People would think he must have been mad. Indeed, he
must
be mad to find himself in this situation. Betrothal to a suspected murderess, a mad chase by moonlight—these could hardly be incidents in the well-ordered life of Ian Foscari. But they were, and he was… damn it, he was enjoying it. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. And he wanted to live. Then he saw the edge of the roof approaching rapidly as the cape continued its perilous descent. With all his strength, Ian reached out and grabbed at two broken tiles, praying they were not loose.

They weren’t. He hung, suspended from two roof tiles, naked in the moonlight. It was only the second time in his life that Ian had felt close to death, but this time was different. The last time his survival had filled him with anguish. He had felt himself longing for death, for his death instead of Christian’s. Now, instead, he felt exhilarated. “You always were good at self-preservation” he heard Mora’s voice sneering, but it seemed unimportant. More important, he realized, feeling the ache in his arms, was pulling himself onto the roof. With a groan, Ian hauled himself up and stood.

He looked down into the dark streets, hoping for a sign of the intruder but knowing he would find none. The man was gone, leaving only his cape behind. Ian slung the garment over his shoulders as protection against the suddenly chilly air and began to move slowly over the roof tiles toward his house. Since he had made off with Bianca’s drawings, the man had obviously been looking for evidence of Isabella’s presence. But how could he have known the body had been there? Or even that there was a body? Ian had kept the news of Isabella’s murder from the Arboretti, from everyone except those who had to know, Francesco, Roberto, and Giorgio. He had kept the laboratory locked the entire time the body was there so that none of his staff might stumble on it by accident. Only five people—himself, his uncles, Giorgio, and Bianca—knew about the body, so clearly one of them had told someone. He could vouch for the security of the first four, but Bianca was unguessable. Yet she had been under constant surveillance since she arrived. She could not have communicated anything to anyone from his house. Unless…

Unless this was her conspirator. Unless she had planned this from the beginning, planned to get into his house with the body. The dagger had been only the smallest element of the frame she had arranged for him. She had intended for him to find her with the body, to move her into his house, so she would have ample opportunity to fabricate even more evidence of his guilt. Of course! And tonight’s escapade had been orchestrated well in advance. The two conspirators must have agreed on a time to enter the house, Bianca’s clumsy approach drawing Ian’s attention away from the intruder upstairs, who would be busy planting evidence. But Ian had foiled their scheme by breaking in on him, and the accomplice had been forced to flee. He must have taken Bianca’s papers as a cover, or perhaps they contained some instructions for him. Anatomical drawings indeed! The devious, conniving, murderous slut. But the pair of them would not succeed, Ian swore to himself. They would not outsmart him.

He began to move more quickly, struck by the thought that Bianca might have tried to escape when she saw all her plans unraveling. His blood was boiling with anger and exertion by the time he approached his own rooftop. Fueled by the strength of his emotions, he leapt easily from his neighbor’s roof, catching the windowsill of Bianca’s laboratory with his hands. He hauled himself into the room, half-expecting to find it empty.

At first it appeared to be. A single candle sat on the table at the center, flickering unevenly as the night breezes entered the room. Bianca’s tools were still littered around the floor, all the drawers and chests turned upside down. From the corner of the room Ian heard a sound, a small sound, something like a whimper. There, huddled in a ball and clutching something, was a creature. It took him a moment to identify the weeping mass as the wily criminal he had just been castigating in his thoughts. Bianca looked anything but devious as the tears rolled down her cheeks and over the object in her hands. Given the way he felt about crying women, Ian was tempted to step back out the window until she was done, but then he realized that this was the first time he had seen her shed a tear since she had been with him, and it certainly had not been an easy courtship up to this point. He was momentarily puzzled, wondering what had triggered it, when it occurred to him that it was probably just a ploy for sympathy, to mask her conspirator’s flubbed attempt.

“Very tidy, Signorina Salva, trying to get me killed this way. I suppose after the first murder they get easier?” Ian’s tone was harsh, his words cutting.

Bianca raised her eyes from the instrument held tightly in her hands, noting Ian’s presence for the first time. She heard neither his words nor his tone, her attention riveted by the streams of blood trickling down his cut legs. She moved to stand, to find her bandages among the wreck of her instruments, but felt a firm hand on her shoulder.

“You will stay right there,
carissima
. I’ll not have you attack me with this thing.” Ian tried to remove the peculiar tool from her hands as he forced her back into the corner. It looked like some sort of strange cutting machine, with one long knife and one short blunt one joined together. But even the shorter blade looked dangerous enough, and Ian was taking no more risks.