Winds of Folly (31 page)

In the wall to the right of the grille was a half-open door, behind which stood a nun: a mature woman dressed in the traditional robes of her calling. And behind her, somewhat in the shadows, stood two lay sisters, or servants. Their function, it appeared, was to receive the gifts – of food and other small comforts – brought by family and friends for their loved ones. And also those of a more substantial nature brought by the gentlemen who were not family and friends. Or if they were, had no intention of letting the relationship inhibit them.

The gifts these gentlemen deposited normally took the form of a purse containing a sum of money, sometimes accompanied by an envelope upon which was inscribed the name of the nun or novice for whom it was intended. This permitted entrance to the gaming room and the rooms above and beyond it, where other more private transactions were conducted.

The fact that everyone in the room, on both sides of the grille, was perfectly aware of these arrangements, that they were known to the agents of the Inquisitors, to the Council of Ten, to most of the Senate and to a large section of the populace – that they were most likely known in Rome, even – was entirely inconsequential. Appearance was everything.

And so, after observing these proceedings for a while, Nathan advanced to the door and presented his gift and the accompanying missive to the doorkeeper. She glanced down at the name written upon the envelope and exposed Nathan to a searching regard. He smiled confidently. Her own features
remained impassive. She took the offering but indicated with a nod that he was to wait in the salon. Nathan retreated to his previous position on the fringes of the crowd, which was now considerably diminished, and continued his study of the ceiling and the artwork on the walls. Unhappily, he had finally attracted the attentions of the dwarf who subjected him to some considerable insult. He also became aware that some of the remaining visitors, and many of the young women on the far side of the screen, were regarding him with a speculative interest. He tried not to notice. But at last he saw the eye of the doorkeeper was upon him. She beckoned him to her. Drawing a deep breath, Nathan disentangled himself from the dwarf, who had gripped his legs in a passionate but mocking embrace, and made his way towards her. Still without a word she stood aside and he was admitted to whatever greater or lesser embarrassments awaited him within.

At the end of the corridor there was a room of about the same proportion as the first but with several notable differences. A dozen or so green-baized gaming tables occupied the floor, there was no iron grille, and most of the women he had seen behind it now mingled freely with the guests. At least, he assumed they were the same women, for everyone in the room, apart from himself, wore a mask. This, Nathan had been informed, was expressly forbidden in a place of worship, but possibly this description did not apply to the gaming room of a convent. Certainly, the paintings on the wall appeared to have no religious significance, being mostly of naked or scantily clad women.

Nathan paused in the doorway, conscious of his singularity, and wondered what he was supposed to do next. He was instantly approached by a young woman wearing the mask of a cat and a low-cut gown of shimmering gold who took him by the hand and guided him to a flight of stairs. These led to a
long gallery overlooking the room below and with a number of doors leading, he supposed, to bedrooms. The woman stopped before one of them and dusted her knuckles upon the gilded panelling. A voice from within invited her to enter.

‘Sister Caterina,' murmured his guide as she opened the door.

Nathan stepped into a large elegant room, hung about with paintings, but with little furniture beside a few chairs and a desk at the far end. For a second Nathan was himself, his body parts arranged more or less in the right order. Then his heart and his throat came into violent conflict and he stood transfixed, gaping like an idiot.

He had never met the Deputy Prioress of a convent but he had anticipated some grizzled ancient, or at least a woman of mature years, with the parchment complexion of one who was rarely exposed to anything more enlivening than a religious icon or a book of prayer. But Sister Caterina was no older than he was, and possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Each individual feature was exactly right – the generous lips, the straight Roman nose, the high cheekbones and the delicate brows – but the sum was far greater than the parts. This was the work of a sculptor of genius whose commission had been to design perfection and who had achieved it admirably. Her dark hair was coiled in bands and covered in a mesh of pearls which added to the somewhat ethereal effect, and her eyes … No sculptor, even of genius, could have created eyes like that. Nathan was spellbound. He stood there in the doorway while she regarded him with a half-smile on her lips until he was recalled to his manners, if not his senses, and completed his bow. She returned it with a gentle inclination of her head.

‘Welcome,
monsieur
,' she addressed him in French. ‘I have been expecting you.'

Somehow Nathan found it in him to speak. Certainly someone did, though he was not convinced it was himself. ‘Then you have the gift of prescience,' he said, ‘for it is only a few hours since I made up my mind to come here.'

‘Even so,' she replied, ‘I have known you were on your way these past two weeks or more.'

And yet a fortnight ago he had barely arrived in Corfu.

‘Then you are surely an enchantress,' he assured her. ‘And I have been summoned here by your charms.' He had never before flirted with a nun. He had a suspicion he was not very good at it.

‘Please, be seated.' She gestured graciously to one of the easy chairs in the window and came round from behind the desk to join him. She was tall, as tall as Emma Hamilton if nothing like as Junoesque. Her figure was slender and she moved with the easy poise of a dancer. If he had looked for a goddess to compare her with, he might have thought of Diana, the Huntress. Or Titania, perhaps, in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
– not a goddess as such but sufficiently superior to humankind – and indeed she might have been the model for this creature, for she had the same queenly presence. She wore a gown of shot silk in midnight blue, such as Titania might have worn, that rippled as she walked, like a second skin. All she lacked was wings, and if she had suddenly spread them and flown to the ceiling, Nathan would not have been entirely surprised, though he might have looked for the wires.

Instead she sat in a chair opposite and regarded him with quiet amusement.

‘Do not look so worried,' she said. ‘You are as safe here as in the British Admiralty. Safer, in fact, for I am not about to send you off to fight the French fleet. Not immediately, at least.'

This did nothing to allay his concern. On the contrary. In
his note, which he had signed in the name of Turner, he had said only that he had a message from the British Ambassador. Had Worsley sent a different message, or was she gifted with more than mere looks?

‘Who do you think I am?' he asked her with a frown.

‘I know exactly who you are,' she said. ‘You are Captain Nathaniel Peake of His Britannic Majesty's frigate
Unicorn
, which is presently in the Adriatic. Although you are an Englishman, you were born in America – in New York. And tomorrow is your birthday.'

This was beyond belief. She might conceivably know his name, even the name of the
Unicorn
. Even that it was in the Adriatic. But only one man in all of Italy knew the time and place of his birth and that was Gilbert Gabriel who had not yet set foot in Venice and whose discretion, in some things at least, could be relied upon.

Only one man …
but one woman
.

Of course. When she had read his Tarot. The time and the place of his birth … Emma Hamilton.

Could she have sent a message to say he was on his way? How long would a message take to reach Venice from Naples? He supposed it might be done, travelling overland, by post. But why? And besides, he had said nothing to Emma Hamilton about coming to Venice. Admittedly she might have learned it from Sir William – but he could recall no reference to Sister Caterina. Nathan had not even known of her existence until the Ambassador had told him just a few hours ago. He remembered what Worsley had said of her:

‘
Others say she is involved in the Black Arts, but of course this is said of many women
.'

This was absurd. He did not believe in witchcraft. Nor was he a misogynist.

The nun was watching him with that whimsical smile,
almost as if she could read his thoughts. ‘Please.' She moved her hands in a gesture of reassurance. ‘Your secret is safe with me.' Her voice was low and husky, pleasant, but … was there something slightly contrived about it, as there was about that movement of the hands, as if …
she was acting a part in a play?
She had been an actress, the Ambassador had said, before she entered Holy Orders.

‘Very well,' Nathan acknowledged with a shrug. ‘You were warned that I might come here. You know who I am. We need not play games with each other. I am here because of what happened to Admiral Dandolo.'

There was a subtle change in her expression. The smile now was more chilling than whimsical, her voice as even as his. ‘I know why you are here. You are my Avenging Angel who comes from the sea.'

Nathan frowned. He wondered suddenly if she was entirely sane.

‘Well, certainly I come from the sea. And I sincerely hope the Admiral's death might be avenged, if only by continuing with what he set out to do.'

‘And what was that?'

How much was it safe to say? Probably not very much.

‘My understanding is that he intended to keep the Venetian fleet safe from the French.'

‘Only that? Not a great ambition for which to lose one's life.' The thought appeared to depress her. Her tone was listless. ‘So how do you plan to continue the life's work of Admiral Dandolo?'

‘I had thought that perhaps one of his successors …'

‘Ah yes. I understand.'

He had hoped she would, but her next words confounded him.

‘And how do you think I can help you?'

‘I was told that you might know one of them. The Vice-Admiral. Tommaso Condulmer.' Her expression did not alter. She repeated the name, but flatly, with no apparent knowledge of its owner. ‘You do not know him?'

‘Oh, I know him.' Carelessly. ‘Or at least I know one who does.' Nathan had the sense of being on a carousel. Round and round we go, up and down. ‘He is
cicisbeo
to one of my acquaintance.'

‘
Cicisbeo
?'

‘It means whisperer in English.'

‘I am sorry, but …'

‘The
cicisbeo
is the companion of a woman of fashion. The man she walks out with. Her great admirer, her adviser on matters of taste and etiquette: the clothes she wears, the rouge, the eye make-up. He is the man to whom she can confide her secrets and the secrets of her friends. Who they are sleeping with, who they would like to be sleeping with. Other matters of importance. Far more important than affairs of state. He is her escort, her confidant, her whisperer. You do not have them in England?'

‘Not as such,' he replied carefully. ‘And this is a common occupation in Venice?'

‘Well, it is not an occupation as such – they are not paid a stipend – but it is very common. Every woman must have one. Every woman of fashion, that is. Where would she be without him? She cannot confide in her husband. She cannot go out with her husband. Good heavens, you will be wanting her to sleep with him next! No, a woman's
cicisbeo
is her essential. He is written into the marriage contract.' And when Nathan smiled dutifully: ‘Oh, I assure you it is true. Just as it is specified what personal servants she is to have, or her hairdresser or her hatmaker, or the conditions upon which she agrees to surrender her virginity.'

‘I see.' He doubted that he did. ‘And Tommaso Condulmer is such a man?'

‘He is. To the Contessa Juliana Contarini. It is important, you understand, that the
cicisbeo
is a man of influence, who can be of use to the family. He is not simply decorative. And for the
cicisbeo
, it confers a degree of influence with the family. The Contarini are one of the most important families in Venice.'

‘And the Contessa is your particular friend.'

‘Not my
particular
friend. But we are acquainted.'

‘And would it be possible, do you think, for her to affect an introduction?'

‘Between you and her
cicisbeo
?' Sister Caterina considered it. ‘I expect it would. But what am I to tell her? That an English naval officer wishes to bribe the Venetian Vice-Admiral to sell the fleet to England?'

‘It would perhaps be necessary only to tell her that a gentleman of your acquaintance desires the honour of an interview.'

‘I suppose that is possible. But then, if it could be arranged, this interview, what would you tell
him
?'

Nathan had been giving some thought to this, but he was not sure how much he wished to reveal to Sister Caterina.

‘I would introduce myself as an American man of commerce who has been sent on a particular mission by his government to secure the assistance of the Venetian fleet.'

‘Ah, you want him to sell it to the Americans!'

‘Well, they do not have a fleet of their own. But I did not say that precisely. I said to secure its assistance. American commerce in the Mediterranean is, as you probably know, much troubled by pirates off the Barbary coast.'

‘I did know that. Very plausible. Unfortunately, you could still be hanged for it. And so could he. Except that the Ten would probably not put themselves to the trouble of hanging
you. They would just send someone to slit your throat one night when you were walking back from a house of ill-repute – or a convent – and throw you to the fishes.'