A Notorious Woman

Your heart! “Yes, signor. I will go with you to the ball.”

Chapter Six

The crowds were thick on the fondamento along the Grand Canal, a living, pulsing mass of flesh, breath, velvet and linen, jewels, masks. The scents of perfumes and people blended with the strange, sick sweetness that always seemed to rise from the canals, twisting, twining with the sounds of laughter and chatter and music to form a golden net that hung heavy over all of Venice. It was the day of the Feast of the Ascension, the day the ancient ritual called the Marriage of the Sea would be enacted. No one wanted to miss that.

Not even Julietta. She pushed her way through a knot of people, using her unusual height to advantage in seeking a fine spot to view the procession before it moved into the lagoon and out of sight. Bianca followed closely behind, clutching at Julietta’s sleeve so they would not be separated in the crush. At last they found a few empty inches at the edge of the canal, where they could watch and observe.

Julietta reached out to wrap her hand around a striped pole that would usually tether a gondola, but could today hold her in place, firm against the surgings of the crowd at her back and pressing on both sides. To her left stood a courtesan, henna-haired and perfectly rounded in her silver-spangled crimson gown, surrounded by a throng of admirers. The heavy perfumes of gardenia and bergamot rose from them, along with a copious amount of pungent wine. At Julietta’s other side stood a young couple and their two small children, obviously artisans to judge by their simple garments and their scent of plain soap. All manner of people, rich, peasant, old, young, nun, courtesan, mingled on this day, as they would until Carnival exploded to a close and sent them all scurrying back to their own worlds again.

Julietta gave the two excited children a small smile and turned her attention to the wide canal before her. The Doge had not yet appeared, but there was no lack of spectacle even so. Barges and gondolas lined the inky water, black and gold and white, sparkling like an emperor’s jewel case in the sun. Each craft was decorated with copious amounts of flowers and brightly coloured ribbon streamers. Music played from a few of the larger vessels, lively dance tunes from lutes and viols, mingling with all the laughter.

It had been many years since Julietta came to Venice; many times she had seen this pageant play out. Yet somehow it always awakened something deep inside her, her own laughter, her own mirth. It tumbled around in her heart like some unruly butterfly, reminding her of days when she was a young, carefree girl and longed for nothing so much as a fine festival, a dance, a song of courtly love. She never gave in to that wildness now, but it was still hidden there.

And she did like this day, the bright hope of it, the life that filled every corner, driving out death and decay even if only for a moment. Part of her high mood, she had to admit, had something to do with the thought of the evening to come, when she would see him again—Il leone, Marc Antonio Velazquez, whatever he wanted to call himself. She would see him, dance with him, and it filled her with an odd warmth she had no desire to analyse. It was dangerous, she knew that. He was a man of many secrets. Yet today she found it hard to take care, as she always should.

Thanatos was hidden by the crowd, the sunlight. Only Eros remained, full of mischievous romance. Or perhaps Dionysus, she thought, as she watched one of the courtesan’s young swains reel drunkenly, saved from toppling into the canal when one of his friends grabbed on to his fine satin doublet and hauled him back on to terra firma. The woman and her admirers fell into great peals of merriment, leaning against each other, passing around a bottle that was sure to cause more such scenes as the day went on.

“Signora Bassano! Such a rare pleasure.”

Julietta’s smile faded, wiped away as if it had never been as she heard those words. A smooth, charming, elegantly accented voice, hailing her from the water just below her perch, dimming the brilliant day. She could have vowed that a gray cloud eclipsed the sun, but when she glanced up at the sky it was as cerulean and flawless as before.

She tightened her grip on the wooden pole and stared down at the canal, feeling Bianca press closer to her side. Count Ermano Grattiano—just as she feared. His grand gondola, glossy black edged with copious frostings of glittering giltwork and sprays of black-and-gold plumes, had come to a halt only feet away. The velvet curtains of the felze were drawn back, leaving its occupants revealed to view.

As always, Count Ermano was as gloriously caparisoned as his vehicle, in a doublet of gold satin edged in ermine and gold braid, his hose striped white and gold, his sleeveless coat lined with more of the rare white fur. A diamond the size of an egg winked and dazzled in his cloth-of-gold hat, mocking her with its glitter.

The gem was well matched to its owner, Julietta thought wryly. Though her senior by many years, Count Ermano was still a very handsome man, with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed white beard, cold green eyes bright and shrewd in a lined, chiselled lean face. He had a quick, wide smile, an easy air that belied the power and ruthlessness below the sparkling surface. He had made a great fortune in the Veneto, by means rumoured to be both fair and foul. He held an important position in the Doge’s court, as a member of the Savio ai Cerimoniali, the committee which arranged state visits of foreign rulers, ministers, and ambassadors—the committee that had seen many of its members, including Signor Landucci, die so unfortunately of late. His home, Ca Grattiano, was one of the most glorious in the city. He had been married four times, all of them ladies of impeccable lineage, fortune and beauty, who passed away sadly before their time.

Now, he seemed to want to add Julietta’s small villa and farm on the mainland—the settlement she had received from her husband’s family when she left Milan—to his kingdom. Perhaps he even wanted to add Julietta herself, though she could not fathom why. He had every young, full-bosomed courtesan in the city at his beck and call, he did not need her tall, thin, dark self. Whatever he truly desired, he had been most persistent in seeking it. He came to her shop, sent small gifts, invited her to gatherings at his palace, ever since the day they met in San Marco.

Now he was even interrupting her jovial feast day.

But she had hesitated too long in answering his greetings. The people around her were beginning to stare in puzzlement, obviously wondering why she ignored such a very important man. Even the loud hum of laughter and talk had faded to a low buzz.

Julietta stared directly, boldly down at the count, who watched her with a narrow, patient smile on his finely drawn lips. Beside him, half hidden in the shadows of the felze, was his son, Balthazar, watching the proceedings with a scowl on his narrow, youthful face, arms crossed over his white velvet doublet. Balthazar was the heir to the Grattiano kingdom, Ermano’s only child, yet he always seemed to behave like an unhappy prince, filled with some half-hidden, seething anger. But he was a handsome youth, with fine, high cheekbones, mossy green eyes and dark, silken straight hair falling to his shoulders. There was something odd about him today, something familiar she had never sensed in him before…

“Good day, Count Ermano,” she called, giving a tiny curtsy of acknowledgement.

“Indeed, it is a good day, now that I have seen you, Signora Bassano,” he answered. His words and demeanour were all that was courtly and correct, yet a mocking note lurked in his voice, as it always did. He seemed to sense the disquiet he awakened in her, and revelled in it. “Forgive me for not calling in your shop sooner. I have been visiting my estates on the mainland.”

Ah, so that was it, Julietta thought wryly. And here she had thought her spell of repellence worked. Drat it all. “I trust all is well there.”

“Impeccably so, of course.” The count leaned over the side of the gondola, peering up at her with his bright emerald gaze. “Signora, would you care to join us for the procession? There is more than enough space for you and your maid.”

Julietta’s chest constricted at the thought of being confined with the Grattianos on that suffocatingly luxurious craft, and she clutched at the pole until splinters pressed into her palm. For an instant, darkness pressed in on the edges of her sight, and she wasn’t sure if she was still standing by the canal or caught in a dream-vision. Surely that was no ordinary gondola, propelled by a mortal boatman, but a craft of Charon, waiting to ferry her to the Underworld.

She heard Bianca gasp, felt the maid clutch again at her sleeve. Those prosaic things brought her back to earth again, and her vision cleared. The count watched her closely, as if to compel her to agree. Such strange eyes he possessed…

“No, I thank you…” she began.

“Ah, Signora Bassano, you cannot refuse me.” The count laid one beringed hand over his heart. “We are a lonely vessel of men, as you see, and ask only to be graced by your lovely presence for a brief while. I can offer you a fine view of the ceremony.”

Before Julietta could answer—could refuse—a great cry went up around them, drowning out whatever Ermano said next. The Doge appeared in his great ceremonial barge called the Buccintoro, gliding into place at the head of the procession. Andrea Gritti, the Doge himself, was resplendent in a robe of cloth-of-gold and ermine, much like Count Ermano’s own colour scheme. As the Buccintoro moved out to the lagoon itself, the other vessels followed. Music grew louder around them, growing to a celebratory denouement; flowers rained down in a shower of colour and scent. And standing just behind the Doge was—No! It could not be.

She peered closer, clinging to the pole, and saw that it was, indeed, Marc Velazquez, clad in rich blue velvet, jewelled cap in hand as he stared out to sea. His thick, dark hair tangled in the breeze, making him look like a pirate even as he stood in the most exalted company. He seemed every inch the dashing hero.

And she had agreed to go to a ball with him tonight! Should she really do such a thing, when she worked so very hard to be as inconspicuous as possible?

You will be masked, her mind whispered insidiously. No one will know it is you. Just look at him. Can you really resist the chance to dance in his arms, just once?

That blighted internal voice! Always tempting her. Yet she did take another glance. He was laughing, his head thrown back in mirthful abandon, strong and dark, a part of the sea and the sun. And she found she could not resist.

Count Ermano and Balthazar also turned to watch the procession, and Julietta took that split-second chance to slip away. Soon—all too soon—she would have to face her unruly passion for Marc Velazquez. But not just yet.

The private sala of the Palazzo Grattiano was echoingly quiet after the jubilant crowds outside, the dim firelight flickering on the white marble floors dour after the flash and colour of the festival. Marc was glad of the quiet, though; he could finally think, finally drop the façade of Great Hero, if only for a moment. And he needed to think. Badly.

He was alone now, as Ermano Grattiano had been detained below with another of the Doge’s counsellors. Marc crossed the room to one of the tall windows looking down on the canal, his boots echoing on that cold, immaculate floor. Heavy, deep-green velvet curtains hung there, blocking out the dying light of day. He parted the fabric, drawing it back to let in a ray of orange-pink sun.

The sala was not very large, as the grand public rooms of the palazzo were. It was not meant for balls or suppers, but for private family meals, quiet conversation. But it was opulent, the walls covered in elaborate tapestries depicting scenes from the life of St Lucy, the furniture carved and gilded, upholstered in pale green brocade. The massive marble fireplace looked like nothing so much as a monumental tomb, supported by straining, Atlaslike figures, surmounted by carved saints and seraphim.

It had been a very long time since Marc had been in this room, longer than he cared to remember. Yet nothing had changed, not an ornament or a cushion, only a few different portraits on one of the walls. It was still the same cold hell.

Marc pushed the curtains back all the way, sending light rushing into the furthest, dimmest corners, and leaned against the marble sill, crossing his arms over his chest. Below him, the canal was thronged with boats full of pleasure-seekers, people masked and flush with laughter and wine and the promise of pleasures that would come with the night. Soon enough, he would be one of them. He would don his cloak and mask, seek out the lovely Julietta Bassano for an evening of music and dance and—well, whatever might come along.

Julietta Bassano. He had thought of her more than he would care to admit in these last days. Her image would appear in his mind when he least expected it, as he dined off gold plates in the company of great families, as he listened to music in grand salas—as he lay in his strange bed at night. He would picture her, tall, fair and dark as the night, serene as the Madonna surmounting this fireplace. Always so quiet, so elegant, always keeping her own counsel.

But the dreams of midnight—ah, they were very different. Only last night he had envisioned her there in his rented chamber, her black hair falling over her shoulders and down her slender back, her austere black-and-white gowns vanished, clad only in a chemise the colour and texture of moonbeams. She leaned over him amid the satin cushions, a tiny half smile on her rose-pink lips. Softly, slowly, her fingertips touched his throat, slid down over his shoulder and bare chest, leaving a ribbon of fire in its wake. She bent forward, her hair brushing silkily against his cheek, and she whispered strange foreign words into his ears.

He had known, even in the dream, that she told him rare and wondrous secrets, secrets that held the key to his deepest desires. Yet he could not concentrate on them, could not remember them. He only knew her touch, her magical touch, only longed to feel the honey of her lips on his, her breasts pressed to his naked chest…

“Maledizione!” Marc slapped his hand flat on the marble sill, relishing the sting of it against his callused palm. He reached up and unlocked the window, shoving it open to let in a gust of cool breeze. The high, jewelled collar of his doublet was choking him, so he unfastened it and ran his fingers through the loose, tangled fall of his hair.

The chilly air cooled his blood, yet still he remembered that dream, how very real it had been, how it had shaken him. When he awoke to find the courtesan who came to him for the night sleeping beside him, her pale red-gold hair spread across the black silk sheets, he snatched her into his arms and kissed her awake. Yet even her great charms, practised and perfect, could not erase the dreams of Julietta Bassano.

She was only meant to be a means to an end, a link in the careful chain he had forged over so many years. He could let nothing stand in his way.

And yet there was something in her dark eyes…

The door to the sala creaked open, drawing him out of his thoughts on the puzzle of Julietta Bassano. Marc turned, only to find that it was not Ermano Grattiano standing there. It was his son, Balthazar, poised as uncertainly on the threshold of that room as he was on that of life itself. He was tall, ungainly in his leanness, full of a fire, a yearning that he could not yet understand or control, angry and restless.

Marc knew this because he had been much as Balthazar was at eighteen, bursting with the heat and passion of life. Yet Marc had only been the adopted son of a Spanish sea merchant, with only his own wit and ambition to bring to the world. Balthazar Grattiano would inherit all of his father’s vast holdings. Money, lands, fleets, jewels.

Women. Perhaps one in particular, a black-haired widow full of secrets? Marc studied Balthazar carefully for a moment. No, this slim youth could have no appreciation for the subtleties and mysteries of a woman like Signora Bassano. One day, perhaps, if he did not follow his father’s path, his consuming desire to possess and destroy.

Marc had no quarrel with young Balthazar. He even felt rather sorry for him, despite his rich inheritance to come. But Marc would not allow him to stand in the way of what he had come so far and given so much to accomplish. No one would stand in the way of that.

“Signor Balthazar,” he greeted, when the young man still hesitated in the doorway. “Good day to you.”

Balthazar’s jaw tightened, and he tilted back his chin to stare at Marc, a strange light in his pale green eyes. “I see my father has kept you waiting, Signor Velazquez.”