Crispin and Sophie,
I wish I could have been there with you to celebrate your wedding, but a melancholy boor who spends all his time licking his wounds is hardly worthy company for such a joyful day. The happiness you know is something I once longed for myself, but understand that I can never have. No one, however, deserves it more than the two of you.
I have sold off all my properties and left the money in a trust to be given to those in need, which I hope you, Sophie, will oversee. All my wishes, all my joys, all my rosy hopes for the future, now reside in you two. Know that when the H.M.S. Phoenix sails tonight for the wars in Spain, there sails aboard her a captain whose heart is filled with gratitude and love for you both. Your friendship is my most precious possession.
Please accept the two gifts that accompany this as a token of my deep and undying affection, and in remembrance of where our friendship, Crispin, began so many years ago.
Your humble and faithful,
Lawrence
Before Crispin could ask, Thurston presented him with the large parcel he had been given along with the note. Sophie lifted the canvas that hung over it and let out a gasp.
Standing before her was a painting of such exquisite artistry that it seemed to glow with its own light. In the middle of a seascape, a magnificent woman rose from the water, naked but for her lush hair which wrapped around her, concealing her form but suggesting its magnificence. She stared out of the painting at the viewer, smiling, kind, and very, very beautiful.
Crispin reached down and lifted a rectangle of parchment from where it had been wedged between the boards of the painting and the frame. “ ‘I thought you might like this old piece as it reminds me of Sophie,’ ” he read from Lawrence’s note aloud. ‘ “It’s by a long-dead Italian named Sandro Botticelli. According to his son, from whom I bought the painting several years back, old Sandro painted two of them, one called The Birth of Venus and this one, which he called The Water Nymph. He sold the first one to some Florentine count but kept this version for his private collection because he thought it was superior. I know you probably do not have a place for such an old and useless piece in your grand house—you can see how the left corner is starting to crack—so feel free to use it as kindling or however you see fit.’ ”
Crispin shook his head at the note and whispered, “Lawrence, you cad. ‘Feel free to use it as kindling.’ ” Then he looked up at Sophie. “This painting was the masterpiece of Lawrence’s collection. My cousin Tristan tried to buy it from him for years. He says it is worth more than all the art he owns put together, more probably than all the art in England.”
“It is magnificent,” Sophie breathed, mesmerized by the image of the red-haired woman rising from the water.
Crispin had not stopped shaking his head. “It certainly is. But given this trifle, I fear what Lawrence’s other present might be.” He turned to Thurston and asked with some trepidation, “Where is the other package?”
“There was no other package, sir,” Thurston said, looking, for the first time in Crispin’s memory, vaguely bemused. Crispin, on the other hand, was relieved. But before either Thurston’s bemusement or Crispin’s relief could really take hold, a loud explosion was heard, and the sky over the river steps of Sandal Hall lit up with green stars.
Sophie wrenched her eyes from the painting and moved them in the direction of the noise. “Look, Crispin, the other present,” she cried, dragging him toward the river. The Thames in front of the house was filled with barges, and from each of them, towers of brightly colored flames were exploding. Some shot high into the air, golden arcs of dazzling sparks; others exploded outward in purplish clouds that made the surface of the river seem to be on fire. From this purple cloud emerged first a sparkling golden horn, and then a glittering white unicorn, wearing a fiery red collar from which dangled what looked like a pair of dice. The unicorn reared once, twice, then leapt gracefully into the river. As it vanished, a golden egg appeared on the central barge, growing and growing, and then cracking open with a staggering explosion to reveal an enormous bird, its wings red, its body and head orange and gold, simulated flames lapping at its feet. This Phoenix, for it could have been no other, seemed to double and triple in size until it blazed into a large explosion. Simultaneously, all the barges came alive, awash in white cascades of sparks, and where the Phoenix had been now appeared the letters C and S in red, moving slowly together and finally entwining to form a single red heart. Just before the firework heart disappeared, a cloud of a thousand live pure-white doves whose wings had been studded with diamonds flew out from behind it, the gemstones glittering wildly in the light from the barges as the birds made their way up and up and up into the sky.
Side by side Crispin and Sophie stood on the river steps of their home, their hands clasped tightly together, their eyes striving to follow the ethereal trail of the last shimmering dove as it disappeared into the night.
For generations afterward, people spoke of the magical summer of 1588 when the Thames exploded in mysterious fiery portents, the H.M.S. Phoenix led the English to victory against the Spanish, and three hundred families went from poverty to riches as the sky above London rained diamonds for days.
Epilogue
He was being followed.
There were two of them, both tall. He did not need to turn around as he crossed the hall to know that they were still there; he could sense them.
And hear them.
“Nephew, it is most improper for you to go in there,” Lady Priscilla told him as she dogged his heels.
“Extremely indecorous,” Lady Eleanor added from the other side.
But Crispin ignored them, mounting the stairs four at a time. At the top he turned, passing by a newly outfitted game room, and hastened toward his apartment. He passed through the library, where Grip was teaching baby Thurston to say “Strip!”, pushed open the door of his bedchamber, and rushed toward the center of activity.
Octavia immediately handed him a damp cloth and ceded her place to him. As he reached the top of the bed, Sophie gave another scream, closing her eyes and straining with the effort of pushing.
“You are almost there,” the blond woman at the bottom of the bed told Sophie. “Just keep pushing, carissima.”
Sophie turned her head and saw Crispin standing beside the bed for the first time, blotting her forehead. “I am never going to let you talk me into doing this again,” she told him through clenched teeth. “If you even try it, I think, perhaps, I will kill you.”
“Perhaps?” Crispin asked, leaning over to replace the damp cloth on her brow with a kiss.
“Perhaps,” she replied, starting to smile up at him, until the smile turned into a grimace and a scream. “Damn you, Crispin,” she shouted at him. “How could you do this to me? I am very, verrrrryyyy uncomfortable.”
Crispin looked down at her apologetically. “I am very sorry, Sophie. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, anything at all, please tell me now.”
Sophie screamed again, and the muscles in her neck tightened. “Roast pig,” she called out to Crispin.
“I can see the head,” Bianca told her sister-in-law. “Just a little more, Sophie, carissima.”
Sophie grabbed Crispin’s hand and squeezed it until he thought the bones would break. “Spinach souffle,” she hollered out.
“Just one more,” Bianca told her. “Push one more time.”
Crispin himself was on the point of crying out in agony. “And peaches,” Sophie yelled.
At that moment the air was rent by a young girl’s cry. A very young, very redheaded girl. A very, very beautiful little baby.
The newest Foscari family jewel.
More from Michele Jaffe
The Stargazer
The midnight shadows of Renaissance Venice conceal intrigue, romance…and murder.
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bsp; Bianca Salva’s love of science has led her to defy the conventions of her day and illicitly practice medicine among the poor of Venice. She’s managed to keep her pass time a secret—until she is discovered over the lifeless body of a young courtesan, by the last person she’d ever want to see.
Ian Foscari, Conte d’Aosto, is known for being rich, handsome…and heartless. Finding Bianca over the dead body, he concludes she’s the murderer. Yet for reasons he cannot explain, her protests move him. He offers to give her one week to prove her innocence, but she’ll have to move into his house and be his prisoner. Her other option: the authorities and certain death.
Bianca has no choice but to agree to his maddening terms. She’s furious at having to cede her hard won freedom, and unprepared for the effect of his presence on her, for the longings he awakes in parts of her body she’s only studied in books. As Bianca struggles to focus on finding the killer, Ian fights his own battle between the undeniable attraction he feels for her and the painful scars of his past.
When their mutual attraction blazes to life, they are both dazzled by it’s force. Passion burns through their reserves, teaching them both to trust again. Love again. But this fragile alliance is soon tested. Lured into a web of scheming and betrayal, Bianca and Ian find themselves in a race against the clock to save their lives, their hearts, and the city of Venice itself.
Lady Killer
It’s a race against the clock—and natural law—when a murderer seems to return from the dead, hellbent on killing again.
Clio Thornton’s interest in solving the mysteries plaguing 16th-century London has put her at odds with her wealthy family. Stumbling upon a grisly murder, she’s determined to investigate it, even when all of her discoveries point to an impossible killer: the Vampire of London, vanquished by Viscount Miles Loredan, the soon-to-be husband of her cousin.
Miles Loredan killed the Vampire of London three years ago. When Clio comes to him with her theories, Miles finds them impossible to believe. But intrigued by her passion and her beauty, Miles agrees to hire her and support her investigation. What starts as a professional relationship soon becomes personal—and dangerous. Because Miles is betrothed to another woman. And Clio is the Vampire’s next target.
Secret Admirer
She’s got murder in mind.
Lady Tuesday Arlington has always used her painting as a refuge from the nightmares that plague her sleep. When her husband is murdered in a setting that uncannily resembles one of Tuesday’s paintings, the young widow becomes the prime suspect.
Lawrence Pickering, the Earl of Arden and an investigator in service of Queen Elizabeth I, begins to follow Tuesday’s every move, certain of her guilt—until Tuesday becomes a target herself. Intrigued by her knowledge of the crime scenes as well as her stunning beauty, Lawrence vows to protect her. But how can he stop a killer who appears capable of the impossible—invading Tuesday’s mind?
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Michele Jaffe, The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two
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