Venice in the Moonlight (18 page)

She stopped without warning. “What are you getting at? Do you want to know my age? Twenty. Do you want to know how I plan to live without family? Signora Gatti is giving me 6,000 ducats a year, which I hope to add to with my painting. What else do you want to know?”

He hadn’t expected such candor. “Put your claws away, Kitty. I merely wanted to get to know you better.”

She was silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry. My emotions are unpredictable of late. Please ask your questions.”

He bowed his head and retreated instead. “I have offended you enough for one day.”

“I’m sure Raul told you I’m not dressed in widow’s weeds, so you can assume I don’t put much importance on social mores. Offending me should be the least of your worries.”

Her temper was on the rise again, but he couldn’t resist. “So what should I worry about?”

She let out a long breath. “What do you want to know about me, Nico?”

Because she asked for it, he gave it to her. “Why did you marry your husband?”

“My father ordered it,” she replied in a flat voice. “He wasn’t painting, and we were very poor.”

The next question was more delicate, but he plunged on. “Why did Signor Gatti choose to marry you?”

Her slippers made a shuffling sound as they shifted on the cobblestone. Finally she said, “His mother wanted an heir and demanded he marry before the year ended. Being a selfish and spoiled man, he gave in to her demands but in a way that would infuriate her.”

It was a familiar tale. “And she was disappointed in his choice?”

Marietta made an indelicate noise. “You have no idea.”

He fumbled for her hand and wrapped it around his arm. As they continued their stroll, he replied, “Actually, I know a lot about disappointed parents.”

ater that night, Marietta followed Savio Foscari at a discrete distance through the streets of Venice. Dressed in her father’s clothes, she moved from one group of revelers to the next, though it seemed doubtful she’d be noticed. The elder Foscari paid no heed to those he passed. They entered a familiar piazza, and her curiosity grew. When he stopped at the home of Consul Smith, she was shocked.

She found a hidden spot across from the villa and watched a dozen more men arrive alone or in small groups. On the surface, a gathering of men without their wives would be of no concern, but their mood seemed grave and their mannerisms secretive. There were no backslaps in greeting or laughter—or even smiles. The men looked around, and then they hurried through the villa’s door. Here, finally, might be the proof she needed to bring her father’s murderer to justice.

She scanned the windows for any gleam of light or other sign of what room the men might be in. When she reached the side of the villa that ran flush to a narrow canal and still couldn’t tell, she considered sneaking into the house through the front door, but Rosina’s disapproval sounded loudly in her head. She looked hopelessly up at the villa, and then her luck changed. A window on the canal side of the first floor swung open.

She hurried back to the front of the house and climbed into a boat tied to the villa’s dock. She used the oar to push the boat as far as the rope would allow but was still several feet short of the window. She reversed direction, untied the boat, and pushed again. When she reached the window, she grabbed at the rough stone ledge with one hand and planted the oar into the water with the other. She pressed herself against the side of the building and waited to see if anyone heard her arrival. After a few moments, she rose onto the balls of her feet and peered through the parted curtain.

The men had formed a circle around a makeshift altar in the middle of the room. A thin haze of smoke filled the air from the candles and incense scattered about the room. More than one worshiper coughed into the sleeve of his robe.

Savio Foscari slipped on a long white robe. “Is everyone here?”

“Everyone but Signor Amadeo,” replied an already-robed figure.

Savio scowled. “We can’t wait. Let’s get started.”

A gong sounded, followed by the appearance of a man in a brown robe holding a large book above his head. He proceeded to the altar where he dropped to his knees. After several seconds, he stood, set the book down, and spoke in a loud, solemn voice. “The circle is now open.”

He waved his arms in the air. “The gates are now open.” He lit a large candle on the altar. “The temple is now open.”

Though the speaker’s hood hid his face, Marietta recognized the voice as Nico’s impassioned friend Casanova. Her eyes moved from one robed figure to the next. She felt like a fool. If Nico’s father and friends were here, he must be too. She wondered what kind of monster would pursue her when he was involved in her father’s murder. The ceremony played out before her, and the answer became obvious: one who didn’t worship God.

“In the names of Adonai Melekh and Adonai ha Aretz, I call upon the archangel Sandalphon, the hosts of the Ishim, and all of the powers of the sephiras Gevurah and Chesed.” Casanova paused dramatically to allow the circle of men to murmur in agreement.

“Hear us, oh great ones. We ask for your favor. Look down on us and bless us with fortune. We offer you our devotion and sing praises to your glory.”

Sweat trickled down Marietta’s back, and her legs shook from the effort of keeping the boat still, but she couldn’t look away. She had to know what other horrible things these heretics would commit besides her father’s murder.

Casanova picked up the book again and read words that made no sense to her. The book was the key. She bet any one of the local priests would find it of interest. She might not be able to prove murder, but maybe heresy would be enough.

Before she could figure out how to steal it, the muscle in her left calf cramped. Spikes of pain shot up her leg. Clenching her teeth, she shook it and bent her foot to relax the muscles. Just when the spasm began to ebb, a gondola hit the side of the villa’s dock and brought new panic.

As the gondolier secured the boat, his male passenger peered into the darkness in her direction. “You, there! What are you doing?”

Marietta pushed away from the window ledge and rowed frantically with the oar. She looked back and swore. The gondolier had untied his boat and was following in pursuit. At the next dock, she reached out for the ladder and pulled herself up. Underneath her, the boat glided on. When she climbed to the second step, her cloak tightened around her neck and pulled her toward the black water. She grabbed a handful of cloth and tugged, but it was no use. Her cloak was caught on the oarlock, out of reach.

The other boat approached, and the man yelled once more. With no other choice, Marietta pulled the tie of her cloak and left it behind.

She set off at a run through the dark streets, hoping to come across some revelers, but the neighborhood had bedded down for the night. The sound of heavy footsteps followed her for several blocks before finally all she heard was her own hammering heart. She stopped to catch her breath. In the distance, the Rialto Bridge rose above the canal. She changed direction and headed toward a now well-known street.

arietta found the spare key Nico kept hidden in the hallway and opened the door to his apartment. The first time she was here, he said his family didn’t know about it, so it seemed to be the safest place to go. She would only stay a few minutes, long enough to rest and decide what to do next.

Shivering, she moved to the fireplace and poked at a half-burnt log until a flame burst from it. When that didn’t erase her chill, she threw another log onto the small pile of wood. She watched until the fire caught and cast a faint light into the room.

“Kitty?”

She cried out in surprise and her hands flew to her heart. “Nico, you scared me.”

He sat up from the bed in the corner, his hair mussed and his body clad only in a nightshirt. “What are you doing here? What hour is it?”

Her face flushed hot, and she quickly turned away. She’d been wrong. He hadn’t been at the ceremony, and fortunately he didn’t have a lover by his side. “I’m sorry. I . . . I was out . . . and didn’t feel well . . . and your apartment was closer than my lodgings.” She moved to the edge of the French doors and peered down at the empty street. “Forgive my intrusion. I’ll leave.”

He put on his dark glasses before he joined her at the balcony. He rubbed the sleeve of her shirt between his fingers. “Dressed like a man again. Someday you must tell me why you insist on prowling around at night like a cat. Who knew my nickname for you would be so fitting? Sit down, and I will get you some wine.”

Thank goodness, she thought. Tonight, he was being a gentleman, only concerned for her well-being. She didn’t have the strength to fight his rakish side. “No, I’m fine, but how did you know it was me in the room?”

Nico tapped his nose. “No one smells like you. Besides, you’re the only one I’ve ever given a key to.”

She hadn’t used her key, but his words still shocked her. With all his lovers, she couldn’t believe she was the only one with a key.

He pushed her gently toward the fireplace. “Go warm yourself, and I will make myself presentable.”

She sank into one of the wingback chairs and groaned with relief.

He hurried back to her with one arm stuck in a burgundy silk dressing gown. “Are you ill?” Before he slid on the garment the rest of the way, the firelight cast a silhouette of his body through the thin nightshirt.

Distracted by Michelangelo’s David come to life, she answered without thinking. “My feet hurt from running on the cobblestone.”

“Why on earth would you be running?”

She didn’t know what to say. Perhaps he knew what his father and friends were doing and only chose not to participate. But it was hard to believe he could be so kind to her and still know about her father’s murder. Maybe she could trust him . . . though there was a time she thought the same about Dario.

“I don’t know if I can tell you.”

Nico frowned but didn’t press for more. The crackling fire filled the silence between them. He sat on the floor in front of her, felt for her feet, and then slipped off her shoes. She tensed when his hand wrapped around her foot, but when his fingers began to knead it, she sighed with relief.

She studied the concentration in his face as he tried to relieve her discomfort and realized he was nothing like her dead husband. Dario used wine and women for his own pleasure, while Nico used them to mask his pain. Her heart went out to him. Behind his cockiness was a man who hated his lack of self-worth. He had no place in this world, so he became what people expected.

If he didn’t know about the ceremonies, she needed to warn him. However, if he didn’t believe her, it might end their friendship. She closed her eyes, breathed in his scent of amber mixed with orange, and allowed herself to feel what was building inside her. If she was honest with herself, she knew she could fall in love with him, but a relationship built on lies was just that—a lie.

“Nico, the other night at Consul Smith’s, you said your friends were unhappy with monarchies and the Church.”

He shrugged in agreement. “Yes, what of it?”

“How far do you think they would go?”

He stopped rubbing her foot. “What do you mean?”

“Would they renounce their faith?”

“Kitty, these are good Christian men who only want more say in their future. What are you suggesting?”

She leaned forward. “Sometimes people aren’t what they seem to be.”

Nico picked up her other foot and ran his fist over the bottom several times. “Yes, sometimes they’re better.”

Marietta stared into the flames of the fire and saw the robed men and their strange ceremony. “And sometimes they’re worse. Nico, I must tell you something, and I hope you will forgive me when I’m done.”

Sparing him the details, she told him what she suspected. His face went from confusion to disbelief to anger.

When she fell silent, he stood and moved away from her. “It is no secret that my father and I don’t get along and he has done some unpleasant things, but a murderer and devil worshiper? That is pure madness.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. She had risked it all and lost.

“And my friends? The only friends I have in this world and you say they are false? You expect me to believe this?”

He turned his back to her and tended the fire until warmth filled the room.

“I have seen it,” she replied in a voice barely above a whisper. “Nico, I’m—”

He shook his head to silence her. “There is another explanation and when I discover it, we will laugh about the mistake.”

She didn’t think that would happen, but there was nothing more to say.

“You must be exhausted, but I can’t let you walk the streets this late at night. Please make yourself comfortable on the bed.”

She put a tentative hand on his back and felt the knotted tension in his muscles. When he didn’t turn around, she did as he asked. From the bed, she watched him stare into the fire. When her eyelids began to droop, she forced them open once and then twice, but finally gave in to their heaviness.