“Very well, that leaves the conferences that Enzo mentioned. You need not take my word alone for the fact that Isabella was petty, jealous, and nosy. Half Venice could back me up, including, if pressed, Enzo. I have heard him say it myself, on other occasions.” Bianca put up a hand to stop Ian’s interruption. “Given those predominant personality characteristics, how likely does it seem to you that Isabella would allow people to meet in her house without observing or at least eavesdropping on their conversations?”
“That is not a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”
“Of course, I would not want you to go out on a limb for me. All right, I will tell you. It seems unlikely. Very unlikely. It seems equally unlikely that Enzo did not listen. In fact, he said as much.”
“Was this in the same conversation when he told you how petty Isabella was?” Ian’s tone showed he clearly thought she was fabricating the entire thing.
Bianca stayed patient. “No. It was here, just now, you heard it too. ‘I know ze sound of cards being played and I know ze sound of a meeting.’” Bianca’s imitation was even more grating than the original. “But if you think about it, my lord, there really is no difference between the sound of cards being played—men’s voices, coins, paper being passed—and the sound of business being transacted, unless you can hear the content of the conversation.”
Why was he still astonished by her intelligence? Ian asked himself. To all appearances, or at least when viewed in a certain narrow light, she had probably managed to commit a murder without leaving any traceable evidence, without making a single revealing slip to him, despite the, ah, close proximity in which he had kept her. She had even eluded his best efforts to trap her for five days while living right under his roof, and Ian’s powers of reason had never had as strong a workout as they had during that period. It was too bad she was touched in the head, otherwise it would be a pleasure to match wits with her. Her deductions constantly dazzled him. They were elegantly simple, logically obvious, and yet, always a surprise to him. He found himself awed again, but determined not to admit it.
“Sounds specious to me. Are you suggesting that Isabella or Enzo or both actually participated in the conferences?”
“Nothing of the kind. I see no reason to doubt what Enzo said about Isabella being excluded. In fact, it is the basis of the second half of my deduction.”
“Then how do you propose they heard the conferences? I did not know that courtesans possessed omniscience.”
Bianca felt sorry for him. His wit was definitely slipping, taking his mind with it. She wondered if it was age or only exhaustion, and hoped for the latter. “Why couldn’t Isabella and Enzo have listened clandestinely, through a hidden door or a peephole?”
“Do you know of one?”
“No, not for certain, but it would not surprise me at all to find one. Your house is not alone in having secret passages and concealed alcoves. Every old house in Venice probably has its share of those things.”
“That is not a sound argument,” Ian bluffed. “I can scarcely wait to hear the second premise you have based upon it.”
“Your confidence has so heartened me that I have changed my mind. I see no reason to tell you anything at all, ever.” Bianca, her eyes glowing with anger, stood to leave.
Ian was disappointed. He had been enjoying her fanciful narration; he enjoyed the way her nose scrunched up when she thought, and he was vaguely interested in what she had to say. He had to think quickly, had to come up with some artifice to force her into staying. “If you tell me the rest of your theory, I will tell you if I know anything to contradict it.”
She was unsure how to proceed. Ian’s brusque dismissal of her conclusions was infinitely depressing, and she did not think her psyche could bear much more. On the other hand, it might be the only way available to her to learn what information he had gathered.
“My theory depends on the fact that Isabella, excluded from the meetings, eavesdropped on them. If you are unwilling to accept that, I may as well stop right now.”
“I will accept it, for the sake of argument.” Ian was very polite.
“Whatever they were discussing was sensitive enough to exclude their hostess and require them to meet in an untraceable location. I would wager that Isabella decided to put the news she overheard to work. I think she used it to blackmail one of the participants at the meeting. But not in the conventional way, not for money. If it had just been that, she probably would not have been killed.”
“What other form of blackmail is there? Gems, furnishings, luxuries, they all reduce to the same thing. And they were probably not much more than what he was paying her for her services anyway.”
“Not all a courtesan’s clients are as generous as you are, my lord,” Bianca shot back at him, displeased by his interruption, and had the satisfaction of seeing him recoil. “Nor is your definition of blackmail entirely inclusive. Enzo told us that the meetings stopped at the same time that his mistress announced her plans to wed. To marry a nobleman. As you know, men of your class never marry courtesans. It seems likely, nay, almost certain, that Isabella used the information she learned to force one of the men who met at her house into marrying her.” When Bianca had reached the end of her explanation, her face wore an expression of exaltation. Ian, still stinging from her earlier retort, decided she looked much too pleased with herself.
He shook his head in mock sympathy, like someone older and wiser addressing a promising but misguided student. “It sounds to me like you are drawing conclusions from coincidences.”
While not entirely substantiated, not yet anyway, her theory was not completely groundless and certainly did not deserve Ian’s blithe dismissal. Worse even than what Ian said, though, was the way he delivered it. Bianca felt as if she had been slapped in the face. So she decided to get even.
“I suppose I should have been prepared for you to protect Crispin that way.”
“Crispin? My brother?”
“Of course. He perfectly fits the description of Isabella’s fiancé that Enzo gave us. He is a great lord and he does live in a large house. It would be like Crispin to be considerate enough to provide you with a capitaine on his marriage too, since you don’t have one.”
Ian did not like a single word she spoke. Even though he knew for certain, or at least almost certain, that Crispin was not mixed up in this, the idea of the cringing Enzo moving into his house had completely and uncomfortably entered his imagination. “Crispin has nothing to do with Isabella’s murder.” He spoke firmly, as much to convince Bianca as to reassure himself that Enzo would not soon be living under his roof.
“Are you sure, my lord? Really sure that Crispin has not engaged himself to Isabella?” Bianca was all wide-eyed innocence.
“Of course. He would have told me.” Ian hoped he sounded more sure of that than he felt.
Bianca’s innocence turned to incredulity. “That he was engaged to a courtesan? How would you have reacted?”
“This is simply not open to discussion. Crispin is not engaged to Isabella or any other woman.”
“Maybe not now, now that Isabella is dead. But was he? Can you prove it?”
“Signorina, you go to far.” Polar bears could have lived happily in the atmosphere created by Ian’s voice.
“Only as far as you go, my lord.” Bianca matched his glacial tone. “It seems only fair that if you may require proof of me, I can ask the same of you. Call him and put the question to him. Unless you are too unsure of the answer.”
He should have wrung her neck when he had the chance in the gondola. She had him trapped now, and he was miserable. He had no desire to do her bidding, but his sense of fair play told him that he should acquiesce. He pulled the bell rope near his desk and asked the prompt servingman to show his brother into the library.
Bianca and Ian sat in frigid silence as they awaited C
rispin’s arrival, glaring at each other, two tigers waiting to pounce. The tense atmosphere of the room hit Crispin like a boulder as he entered, tempting him to turn and run. Instead, he bowed politely, smiled at Bianca, nodded at Ian, and offered his services to them.
“Are you engaged to be married?” Ian did not give him time to finish his greeting.
Crispin was well and truly baffled. “Not that I know of. Do you know something I don’t know? Did Mother rig one of those horrible betrothals for me when I was in the cradle, like Aunty Renata did for Miles?”
“Satisfied?” Ian spoke not to Crispin but to Bianca, who shook her head.
Bianca kept her eyes at Ian. “What your brother meant to ask was, were you ever affianced to Isabella Bellocchio?”
“She’s a courtesan! I couldn’t marry her even if I wanted to. She is charming and entertaining, to a point, but marry her…” Crispin shook his head in disbelief. “That would be condemning a man to a miserable life indeed.”
“Now I am satisfied.” Bianca sat back in her chair smugly. Ian did likewise. They were regarding each other this way, each trying to look more smug than the other, when Crispin interrupted them.
“Would one of you please explain what is going on?”
Ian answered brusquely. “No. And please do not repeat this conversation to anyone.”
“What conversation? What could I possibly repeat? That the two of you occasionally hissed the word ‘satisfied’ at each other?” Crispin started to laugh, noticed the unfriendly expressions on both their faces, and stopped. “Is it safe to leave you two alone together?”
Ian growled at him, and Crispin made for the door. Before he reached a hand for the knob, it opened to admit Francesco and Roberto.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” Crispin stopped them on the threshold. “Not unless you have your gladiator armor on.”
Francesco and Roberto looked puzzled.
“I think those two are allergic to each other,” Crispin confided in a whisper. “On second thought, perhaps you should go in. You are doctors, maybe you can cure them. Personally, I am leaving. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I will probably send for my things in a few days. Moving the plant rooms will be hard, but…”
“I’m sure we can arrange something.” Ian finally turned his head to glare at his brother. “Leave your new address with Giorgio.”
“That is easy, I can tell you that right now.” Crispin was grinning. “Have them sent to the house of Isabella Bellocchio. That is B-E-L-L-O-C-C—”
“Out!” Ian rumbled in a voice he might have borrowed from Valdo Valdone. Laughing, Crispin bid adieu to his uncles and left.
Ian was regarding the space left absent by his brother with such rabid malice that Bianca had to work hard to conceal a smile. When she had her face under control, she greeted Roberto and Francesco.
“We did not mean to interrupt anything important,” Francesco began, the look of puzzlement still on his face.
“My conference with Signorina Salva should have ended an hour ago,” was Ian’s chilly reply.
“Good, then you will not mind if we steal her away from you.”
Ian snorted. “Mind? Heavens no. If your aim is to please me, don’t stop at stealing her. Sell her off. And don’t be too concerned about getting a good price.”
Bianca now had no problem restraining her smile. “If selling me into bondage will free me from his harassment, I am ready.” She stood and held her arms out in anticipation of being led to the auction block. “Only promise me you will use the proceeds of my body wisely and not give them to the honorable Conte d’Aosto. He will just use the money to bribe some expensive courtesan for her favors.”
Ian’s face was as white with rage as Roberto’s and Francesco’s were red with embarrassment.
“Actually, we just wanted Bianca to meet with the seamstress and try on her ball gown for size. Unless you have changed your mind in the last hour and decided to cancel the party?” Roberto let the question hang.
“Ha, and miss the opportunity to celebrate this happy betrothal? Never!” Pushing his chair away from the desk, Ian rose. It was too hard to glare at Bianca when he was seated.
She turned her back to him and addressed Roberto and Francesco. “I have plenty of dresses. I can wear one of the gowns I already own. I am sure I do not need a new one. It would be a pity to waste all that money on clothes for a slave.”
Roberto and Francesco exchanged looks. How could they tell her that her plain, coarse dresses, while fine for her medical house calls, were not appropriate either for the ball or for her impending position as a countess. Francesco hit on the perfect tactic first. “You must have a new gown. It is traditional that the chaperons give the new bride a gown as a betrothal present.” He hoped that Bianca knew little enough about proper betrothal practice to keep her from spotting the lie.
“Indeed,” Roberto continued, “These days it is common for the chaperons to provide the new bride with an entire wardrobe. We hope you will not mind if we have taken that liberty.”
“A new wardrobe?” Bianca had never been concerned with how she looked, and since her mother had died while she was still in swaddling clothes, no one had ever bothered to tell her she should be. Her aunt Anatra had graciously helped her have several gowns made for her debut in Venice, picking out colors and styles whose most recent heyday had been in the last century. Because she could not entirely lock Bianca and her fortune away, Anatra’s intention had been to render the girl so homely that her son would have no competition for her hand, but the unfashionable attire had done nothing to reduce her niece’s appeal to the suitors that flocked around her.
“I admit I need a new work dress, since my favorite one was destroyed in the fire, but an entirely new wardrobe?”
Ian had always been too busy fuming at her or picturing her naked to pay much attention to Bianca’s clothing, but he now found himself intrigued. He imagined her in a plush blue-and-gold brocade, the dress’s low neckline framing a rich sapphire choker. Then he imagined her out of it, wearing just the sapphire choker, and his earlier anger fused into intense arousal. To conceal it, he reseated himself behind his desk.
“Francesco and Roberto are just being polite. Your wardrobe is a travesty.” Ian spoke to his uncles. “Order the gowns from Rinaldo Stucchi. And remind him that I like blue-and-gold brocade. I will of course pay for everything.”
Bianca gasped when she heard the name of Venice’s foremost gown maker, and again when Ian said he was paying. It was one thing to accept a traditional gift from her chaperons, though she did not remember ever having heard of such a practice, but it was another to have to be beholden to the maddening man who couldn’t even bother to remain standing through an entire discussion. She was about to express this, and several other sentiments, but Francesco cut her off.
“Indeed, we are keeping Signore Stucchi waiting right now. He has arrived with ten dresses for a fitting.” Francesco paused to catch his breath, saw that Bianca was again going to attempt to speak, and rushed on. “Your offer is very generous, Ian, but of course we mustn’t take you up on it. It is our duty, and our privilege, to supply your betrothed with her wardrobe. You know the customs.” Francesco looked pointedly at his nephew and then at Bianca, who had finally stopped trying to interrupt.
Ian decided to let his uncles get away with their subterfuge. He knew that they had made up the renowned custom of wardrobe provisioning on the spot, just as he knew that any money they spent would inevitably come from him. But the thought of Bianca dressed properly, or actually, the thought of undressing a properly dressed Bianca, was too delicious to interfere with, and it seemed clear she would accept nothing from him.
Bianca attempted several more arguments about why she did not need new clothes, but stood no chance against the combined front of Roberto, Francesco, and Ian. As t
he clock struck six, she finally gave in and allowed herself to be led from the library, looking only slightly less unhappy at the prospect of spending hours with a dressmaker than she had when she offered herself up as a slave.
Eight hours later Bianca was sound asleep in her bed. Three of the proceeding hours had been spent, not disagreeably, with the dressmaker, and she had to admit that the beautiful new gowns they had ordered thrilled her with a sensual pleasure she had not expected. But after the long session with fabrics, pattern books, measuring instruments, and detailed discussions about the difference between applique and embroidery, she had been exhausted. During dinner with Roberto and Francesco, she had been incapable of reciting the narrative of Caesar’s miraculous birth she had promised them, and spoke nary a word until the topic of flowers for the ball arose. Then, to the surprise of them all, she blurted out, “Gardenias are Ian’s favorite flower,” hastily excused herself, locked herself in her apartment, and burst into tears. Instead of worrying about the desperate state of her life and her emotions, she acted on the instructions of her physician—herself—and went straight to bed.
It was there, therefore, that Ian found her when he soundlessly entered her room late that night, or rather, early the next morning. Returning from his evening out, he had convinced himself that another test of her attractive powers was in order before he slept. He began by objectively studying her face on the pillow in the candlelight of the taper he carried with him. With her eyes closed, her long lashes made graceful arcs on her cheeks, he noticed, and he had the sudden urge to see if they would feel like butterfly wings against his hand. She was lying on her side along one half of the large bed, facing the other half. One of her arms, its thin sleeve pushed up past her elbow, had strayed to the empty half of the bed and lay there outstretched, like an invitation. As he watched her sleep, the blankets going up and down with her even breathing, Ian felt an emotion he could not describe, but he was sure it was not arousal. He congratulated himself on the effectiveness of his cure, and decided that since he was no longer in any danger of being seduced by her, he should accept the offer made by her arm and join her in bed.