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A Notorious Woman
Amanda McCabe
Venice belongs to the mysteries of night, to darkness and deep waters. And so does Julietta Bassano. The beautiful perfumer hides her secrets from the light of day, selling rosewater to elegant ladies rather than taking her rightful place in society.Enter Marc Antonio Velazquez – a fierce sea warrior determined to claim her! Seduced by his powerful masculinity, Julietta begins to let down her defences. But in the city of masks, plots spiral and form around Marc and Julietta – plots that will endanger their lives, and their growing love…



Praise for Amanda McCabe
Let award-winning author Amanda McCabe enchant you with this sensual tale of Venetian perfume, passion…and deadly peril!
“The immensely talented Amanda McCabe”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Amanda McCabe is one of the freshest voices in the Regency genre today”
—Rakehell
“Amanda McCabe…has a tremendous knack for breathing robust life and gentle humour into her lovable characters”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Miss McCabe’s talent for lively characters and witty dialogue is always a winning combination”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Excerpt
Julietta stared down at him, mesmerised.
She watched his fingers toy with the fringe, and for a second she had a vision of that touch on her, trailing over her skin, lightly caressing the curve of her neck, the soft underside of her arm, circling a pebbled nipple that strained for his touch, his kiss…
She sucked in a sharp breath, closing her eyes against the alluring temptation. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine, smoke, wine, flesh. The drumming grew faster, deeper, thrumming deep in her stomach. Closing her eyes did not erase her desire; it only intensified it, sending images of their bodies entwining, rising and falling to the rhythm of the music, humid heat flowing around them. Perhaps that was what she feared when she was with him – that the tiny bud she pressed down so hard within herself would burst into full, ungovernable bloom as he touched her, and would never be suppressed again.
That she would lose all control, lose herself, within him. And that she could never allow.
Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen – a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class.
She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA
, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network – even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe. tripod.com and http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com

Previous novels by the same author:
To Catch A Rogue*
To Deceive A Duke*
To Kiss A Count*
*Linked novels

A Notorious Woman
By

Amanda McCabe



MILLS & BOON®
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

Prologue
Venice, 1525
Her quarry was within her sight.
Marguerite peered through the tiny peephole, leaning close to the rough wooden wall as she examined the scene below. The brothel was not one of the finest in the Serene City, those velvet havens purveying the best wines and sweetmeats, the loveliest, cleanest women—for the steepest prices, of course. But neither was this place a dirty stew where a man should watch his purse and his privy parts, lest one or the other be lopped off. It was just a simple, noisy, colourful whorehouse, thick with the scent of dust, ale and sweat, redolent with shrieks of laughter and moans of pleasure, real or feigned. A place for men of the artisan classes, or travelling actors here for Carnival. A place where the proprietor was easily bribed by women with ulterior motives.
She had certainly been in far worse.
Marguerite narrowed her gaze, focusing in on her prey. It was him, it must be. He matched the careful description, the sketch. He was the man she had seen in the Piazza San Marco. He did not look like her vision of a coarse Russian, she would give him that. Were they not supposed to be built like bears, and just as hairy? Just as stinking? Everyone in France knew that these Muscovites had no manners, that they lived in a dark, ancient world where it was quite acceptable to grow one’s beard to one’s knees, to toss food on to the floor and blow one’s nose on the tablecloth.
Marguerite wrinkled her nose. Disgusting. But then, what could be expected from people who lived encased in ice and snow? Who were deprived of the elegance and civility of France?
And it was France that brought her here tonight, to this Venetian brothel. She had to do her duty for her king, her home.
A bit of a pity, though, she thought as she watched the Russian. He was such a beauty.
He had no beard at all, but was clean shaven, the sharp, elegant angles of his face revealed to the flickering, smoking torchlight. The orange glow of the flames played over his high cheekbones, his sensual lips. His hair, the rich gold of an old coin, fell loose halfway down his back, a shimmering length of silk that beckoned for a woman’s touch. The two doxies in his lap seemed to agree, for they kept running their fingers through the bright strands, cooing and giggling, nibbling at his ear and his neck.
Other women hovered at his shoulder, neglecting their other customers to bask in his golden glow, in the richness of his laughter, the incandescence of his skin and eyes.
And he did not seem to mind. Indeed, he appeared to take it all as his due, leaning back in his chair indolently like some spoiled Eastern lord, his head thrown back in abandoned laughter. He had shed his doublet and his white shirt was unlaced, hanging open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, glimmering with a light sheen of sweat. The thin linen hung off one shoulder, revealing its broad strength.
No lumbering Russian bear, then, but a sleek cat, its power concealed by its grace.
Oui, a pity to destroy such handsomeness. But it had to be done. He and his Moscow friends, not to mention the Spanish and Venetian traders he consorted with, stood in the way of French interests with their proposed new trade routes from Moscow to Persia, along their great River Volga and the Caspian Sea. It would interfere with the French trade in silks, spices, furs—and that could never be. It was even more vital now, after the king’s humiliating defeat at Pavia. So, Nicolai Ostrovsky would have to die.
After one last lingering glance at that bare, golden skin, Marguerite turned away, letting the peephole cover fall into place. She had her task; she had done such things for France before, she had done worse. She could not hesitate now, just because the mark was pretty. She was the Emerald Lily. She could not fail.
There was a small looking glass hanging on the rough wall of her small room, illuminated by candles and the one window. She gazed into it to find a stranger looking back. Her disguises often took many turns—gnarled peasant women, old Jewish merchants, milkmaids, duchesses. She had never tried a harlot before, though. It was quite interesting.
Her silvery blonde hair, usually a shimmering length of smooth waves, longer even than the Russian’s, was frizzed and curled, pinned in a knot at the back and puffed out at the sides. Her complexion, the roses and lilies so prized in Paris, was covered with pale rice powder, two bright circles of rouge on each cheek and kohl heavily lining her green eyes.
She was not herself now, not Marguerite Dumas of the French Court. Nor the lady who had strolled, modestly veiled and cloaked, through the Piazza San Marco in the bright light of day, watching Nicolai Ostrovsky in his guise as an actor. An acrobat, who juggled and jested and feinted, always hiding his true self behind a smile and the jangle of bells. Just as she did, in her own way.
Voila, now she was Bella, a simple Italian whore, come to Venice to make a few ducats during Carnival. But hopefully a whore who could catch Nicolai’s eye, even as he was the centre of attention for every woman in the place.
Marguerite stepped back until she could examine her garb in the glass. It was scarlet silk, bought that afternoon from a dealer in second-hand garments. It must have once belonged to a grand courtesan, but now the gold embroidery was slightly tarnished, the hem frayed and seams faded. It was still pretty, though, and it suited her small, slender frame. She tugged the neckline lower, until it hung from her shoulders and bared one breast.
Hmm, she thought, examining that pale appendage. Her bosom was good, she knew that; the bubbies were not too large or small, perfectly formed and very white. Perhaps they were meant to compensate for her rather short legs, the old scars on her stomach. But they seemed a little plain, compared to the other whores’. Marguerite reached for her pot of rouge and smeared some of the red cream around the exposed nipple. There. Very eye-catching. For good measure, she added some to her lips, and dabbed jasmine perfume behind her ears. Heavy and exotic, very different from her usual essence of lilies.
Now she was ready. Marguerite lifted up her voluminous skirts, checking to see that her dagger was still strapped to her thigh, its point honed to perfect sharpness.
She smoothed the gown back into place and slipped out of the small room. The corridor outside was narrow, running behind the main rooms of the house, the ceiling so low she had to duck her head. It was also deserted. But even here she could detect the sounds of laughter and moaning, the clink of pottery goblets, the whistle of a whip for those with more exotic tastes. Marguerite hoped that was not a Russian vice. Baring her backside for the lash would surely reveal the dagger.
She turned down a small, steep flight of stairs, careful on her high-heeled shoes. The low door at the foot of the steps led out of the secret warren into the large, noisy public room.
It was like tumbling into a new world. Noises here were no longer muffled, but loud and clear, echoing off the low, darkened ceiling. Smoke from the hearth was thick, acrid, blending with the perfumes of the women, the smell of flesh and sex and spilled ale. The wooden floor beneath her feet was sticky and pockmarked.
Marguerite stood for a moment in the doorway, her careful gaze sweeping over the entire scene. Card games and dice went on by the hearth, serious play to judge by the great piles of coins on each table, the intent expressions on the players’ faces. There was drink and food, plain fare of bread, cheese and prosciutto. But whores were the first commodity, any sort a man could fancy. Short, tall, fat, thin, blonde, brunette. There was even a young man clad in an elaborate blue satin gown. He was quite good, too, with smooth skin and silky, black hair. ’Twas a shame he couldn’t do something about that Adam’s apple.
Marguerite surveyed them dispassionately, her competition for this one night. She knew she was beautiful, had known it since she was a child, taken to Court by her father. She was not vain about it. It was merely an asset to her work, particularly at times like this. She was fairer than any of the others here, even the boy in blue. Therefore she should be able to catch Nicolai’s attention.
Her competition was less now, anyway. Many of the women who had clustered around him were scattered, sent by the proprietor to see to the other patrons. There were just the two on his lap, halfdressed in their camicias, wriggling and giggling. Marguerite straightened her shoulders, displaying her bosom in its red silk frame, held her head high, and sauntered slowly past the Russian and his harem. She let her train trail over his boots, let him smell her perfume, glimpse her white breast, her half-smile. Once past him, she glanced back and winked. Then she went on her way, seeking a cup of ale.
Now—well, now she waited. In her experience, a touch of mystery worked better than fawning attention, which he obviously got enough of anyway. She sipped at her ale, carefully examining the room behind her in an old, cracked looking glass hanging on the wall. The two whores were still on his lap, but she could tell his full attention was no longer on their full-blown charms. He sat forward on his chair, watching her, a small frown on his brow. She turned slightly toward him, her pretty profile displayed. A slight impatience made her fingers tighten on the cup. He had to come to her before anyone else did! She flicked lightly at her lips with her tongue, and tossed her head back.
Whatever the secret charm, it worked. She turned away again, and in a few moments she felt him close to her side. How warm he was, yet not in a heated, lascivious, overpowering way, as most men were. More like the summer sun in her childhood home of Champagne, touching her skin with light fingers, beckoning her ever closer. He smelled like the summer, too, of some green, herbal soap behind the salty tang of sweat and skin. Of pure man.
She swivelled toward him, smiling flirtatiously. He had eased his shirt back over his shoulders but his chest was still bare, and he stood near enough that she could see the faint sprinkling of wiry blond hair against his skin. Gold on gold.
“Good evening, signor,” she said, every hint of a French accent carefully banished.
“Good evening, signora,” he answered, giving her a low bow, as if they were in the Doge’s palace and not a smoky brothel. His eyes were blue, she noticed. A clear, sky-like expanse where anything, any wish or desire or fear, could be written.
And they watched her very carefully. The laughter he shared with the other women was still there, but lurking in the background. He was a wary one, then. She would have to be doubly cautious.
For an instant, as that blue gaze met hers steadily, unblinking, she felt a prickle of unease. A wish that she had worn a mask, which was ridiculous. The heavy make-up was disguise enough, and he would not see her after tonight.
Marguerite shoved away that unease. There was no time for it. She had to do her task and be gone.
“I have not seen you here before,” he said.
“I am new. Bella is my name, I have just arrived from my village on the mainland to work for Carnival,” she answered, gesturing for more ale. “Do you come here often, then?”
“Often enough, when I am in Venice.”
She laughed. “I would wager! A virile man like yourself, I’m sure the pale, choosy courtesans of the grand palazzos could never keep you satisfied.” The ale arrived, and she handed him one of the goblets. “Salute.”
“Na zdorovie,” he answered, and tossed back the sour drink. “Venice is truly filled with the most beautiful of women, signora. Lovelier than any I have ever seen, and I have travelled to many lands. But I do prefer company more like—myself.”
Marguerite glanced toward the boy in blue. “Yourself, signor?”
He laughed, and she was again reminded of summer and home, of the warm, sparkling wine of Champagne. “Not in that way, signora. Closer to the earth.” She must have looked puzzled, for he smiled down at her. “’Tis a saying from my homeland.”
“You are not from here, either.”
“Nay. I can see where you might mistake me, though, given my excellent Italian,” he said, giving her a teasing grin. “I am from Moscow, though many years removed from that place.”
“Ah, that explains it, then.”
“Explains what, signora?”
“The virility. For is Moscow not snowbound for much of the year? Much time to spend in front of the fire. Or in a warm bed.”
“Very true, signora.” His arm suddenly snaked out, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. For one flashing instant, Marguerite was caught by surprise and instinctively stiffened. She forced herself to go limp, pliant, arching back against his arm.
Through her skirts and his hose she felt the press of his erection, hard and heavy. “No ice tonight, I see, signor.”
“The Italian sun has melted it away—almost.”
She smiled teasingly up at him, twining her arms about his neck. His hair was like satin spilling over her fingers, cool and alluring. She tangled her clasp in its clinging strands, inhaling that clean, warm scent of him. “I’m sure this Italian sun could finish the job completely, signor. You would never feel the touch of ice again.”
In answer he kissed her, his lips swooping down on hers so quickly she had no time for thought. She could only react, respond. His kiss was not harsh and bruising, but soft, gentle, nibbling at her lips, luring her to follow him into that sunshine and forget all. For a moment, she did forget. She was not Marguerite Dumas, not the Emerald Lily. She was just a woman being kissed by a handsome man, a man who ensnared her with a blurry, humid heat, with his scent, his strong arms, his talented lips. She pressed closer to him, so close the edges of her being melted into his and she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. His tongue pressed into her mouth, presaging an even more profound joining.
Overwhelmed, Marguerite eased back. She needed her own ice now, the cold thoughts, precise actions. Not this, this—lust. This need. The Emerald Lily did not have needs, especially not carnal ones. Nicolai Ostrovsky was a task, nothing more.
Why, then, was it so very hard to remember that as she stared up into his pale blue eyes?
She made herself smile. “You are hot tonight, signor.”
“I told you the Italian sun has made me so.”
“Then come with me, signor, and I’ll cool you off—eventually.” She untangled her clasp from his hair, reaching down to take his hand. His fingers held hers tightly, holding her prisoner as she led him toward that small doorway she earlier emerged from.
They climbed the narrow stairs, Nicolai ducking to avoid the rafters overhead. The quiet enclosed them again, the loud, bright world shut away, and Marguerite felt her heart thud in her chest, felt her skin grow chilled. The time was almost upon her.
At the entrance to her little room, Nicolai suddenly reeled her close to him, spinning her lightly around to press her to the wall. Marguerite’s heartbeat quickened—had he discovered her, then? Was she caught in a trap of his own?
He did not slit her throat, though. He merely held her there, pressed against her in the half-light, staring down at her with those otherworldly eyes as if he could see into her soul. Her sin-riddled soul.
“Where did you come from, Bella?” he said softly. His accent was more pronounced now, the edges of his words touched with some icy Russian music.
Marguerite smiled at him. “I told you, from the mainland. This is our most profitable time of year, but one has to be in Venice to make the coin.”
“Have you been a whore long, then, dorogaya?”
She laughed. “Oh, yes. Decades, it seems.”
“Miraculous, then. For you still have your teeth, your clear eyes…” He reached down to trace the underside of her naked breast, the soft, puckered flesh. His thumb flicked lightly at the rouged nipple, making her shiver deeply. “Your smooth skin.”
“I was born under a lucky star, signor. My father always said so,” she said, still trembling. And that was one true thing she said tonight. Her father had told her that when she was a child, holding her up on his shoulder so she could see the clear, bright stars in the Champagne sky.
But then her star faded, and here she was in a Venetian brothel. Bound up with this beautiful puzzle of a man.
“A lucky star on the mainland,” he said.
“Just so. You must have been born under an auspicious sign yourself, to be so handsome.” She spoke teasingly, but it was also true. Such beauty and charm should belong to no ordinary mortal. He was blessed. Until tonight.
This was a fateful hour for them both, then.
“If we are both so fortunate, then, Signora Bella, why are we here?” he murmured, as if he truly could read her thoughts. “A whore and an actor, who must both sing for their supper. Can we even afford each other?”
“I am not so expensive as all that,” Marguerite said. She went up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “Not for you. I think we are alike, you and I, whores and actors both in one. And we do love our homelands, though we don’t want to admit it.”
He pulled back, staring at her as if surprised by her words, but she wouldn’t let him go. She caught him closer, kissing him with every secret passion of her heart.
“You didn’t come from any human land,” he muttered roughly against her neck, his lips trailing a fiery ribbon of kisses along her throat, her shoulder. “You come from an enchanted fairy realm, and you’ll surely vanish back there at the dawn.”
“’Tis hours until then,” Marguerite gasped. “We have to make the most of the night.”
Nicolai captured her breast in his kiss, laving the pebbled, rouged tip with his tongue until she added her hoarse moans to the others of the house. That hazy, hot passion descended on her again like a grey cloud, and she felt so weak, so warm and yet shivering. Through that fog, she felt him reach down and grasp her hem, drawing her skirt up.
The cold draught on her bare leg brought sanity crashing down around her. Non! He could not see her dagger, or all would be lost. She pulled away, laughing. “I said we had all night, signor! We don’t have to rut against the wall.” She drew him toward the small cot tucked beneath the room’s one window. Later, when her task was done, she would escape through that portal, vanishing over the rooftops of Venice. Not to any fairy kingdom, but to a curtained gondola where “Bella” would disappear for ever.
She lightly pushed Nicolai, unresisting, on to the sheets, standing above him for a moment, studying him in the moonlight. His golden hair spilled around him on the rumpled, dingy linen. So handsome—so unreal. He smiled wickedly up at her, a fallen angel.
“So, we can rut on a bed like civilised beings?” he said.
“Exactly so.” She leaned over him, tracing the muscled contours of his chest with her fingertips. The arc of his ribs, the flat, puckered discs of his nipples. So glorious, like a map of some exotic, undiscovered country. She felt the pace of his heartbeat, racing under her caress. “We can savour each moment. Each—single—touch.” She kissed his nipple, tugging its hardness between her teeth, tasting the salt of his skin.
Nicolai shivered, and she felt the pull of his fingers in her hair, the shift of his body under hers. He was so hard against her hip, his whole body taut as a bow string. Oui, he was under the spell of desire now. She couldn’t let herself fall prey to it, too.
“How much will this cost me?” he said tightly.
Marguerite eased up his body until she lay prone atop him, pressed close. “Your soul,” she whispered.
Then she acted, as she had before. As she was trained to do. She drew up her skirts and snatched the dagger, in the same smooth motion rising up from his chest and lifting the blade high. She had a quick impression of his eyes, silver in the moonlight, his body laid bare for her to claim. She had only to plunge the dagger down into that heartbeat, and an enemy of France would be gone.
But those eyes—those inhuman, all-seeing eyes. They watched her steadily, not even startled, and she was captured by their sea-like depths.
Only for an instant, one quicksilver flash, but it was enough to lose her the advantage. Nicolai seized her wrist in a bruising grip, tightening until her wrist bone creaked and she cried out. Her fingers opened convulsively, and the dagger clattered to the floor. He swung her beneath him, pinning her to the bed. No lazy, debauched, lustful actor now, but a swift, pitiless predator. Just as she was.
Marguerite was well trained in swordplay and the use of daggers and bows, in courtly fencing and rough street brawling. She knew tricks and dupes to compensate for her small size and feminine weakness. Yet she also knew when she was truly defeated, and that was now. She knew what it was she saw in those eyes. It was doom.
As she stared up at him now, she felt strangely calm, as if she was already hovering above her body, watching the scene from the rafters. Her victim became her murderer, and it was no less than she deserved for her sins. This day had been long in coming. If only she could not die unshriven! She would never meet her mother in heaven now.
But she did see her avenging angel, rising above her in the darkness. He scooped up her dagger, examining the blade while he held her firmly down with his other hand, his strong body. She felt the full force of that lean strength; the smooth, supple muscles that held him on a tightrope or in a backflip now held her easily in place.
He stared at the dagger, so thin and perfectly balanced. So lethal. The small emerald embedded in the hilt gleamed. “Why me?” he said roughly. “Why try to kill a poor actor?”
“You are not a poor actor, Monsieur Ostrovsky, and we both know it,” she said in French. “You have secrets to equal my own.”
“What are your secrets, mademoiselle?” he answered in the same language.
Marguerite laughed bitterly. “It hardly matters. I have failed in my task, but I take my secrets to the grave.”
“Do you, indeed? Well, that might be a long time from now, mademoiselle. I have the feeling that fairies, like cats, have many lives. You are young; I’m sure you have some to go.”
Marguerite stared up at him, baffled, but his face gave nothing away. He was as beautiful, as cold, as the marble statues in the piazza. Her passionate lover was gone. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is, that this is not your night to die. Nor mine, though you would have had it otherwise.” The dagger arced down, but not into her heart. It sliced into her skirt, cutting away thick strips of silk. Holding the blade between his teeth like a corsair, he bound her hands and feet tightly, with expert knots.
“What are you doing?” Marguerite cried, bewildered. This was not how the game was meant to be played! “I would have killed you! Do you mean you won’t kill me? You won’t take your revenge?”
“Oh, I will take my revenge, mademoiselle, but not on this night.” He tied off the final knot around her wrists, so firm she could not even wriggle her fingers. “It will be some day when you least expect it.”
Once she was trussed up like a banquet goose, he leaned down and pressed one gentle kiss to her lips. He still tasted of herbs, ale and her own waxen rouge. And he still smelled of an alluring summer day. Quel con!
“I just can’t bring myself to destroy such rare beauty,” he whispered. “Not after your fine services, incomplete though they were. Adieu, mademoiselle—for now.”
He tied the last strip of silk over her mouth, and opened the very window Marguerite had planned for her escape. As she stared, infuriated, he gave her a wink, and with one graceful movement leaped through the casement and was gone.
Marguerite screamed through her gag. She arched her back and kicked her legs, all to no avail. She was bound fast, caught in her own scheme. And the cochon didn’t even have the decency to kill her! To follow the code all spies and assassins adhered to. At least French ones.
“Have his revenge,” would he, the beautiful, arrogant Russian pig? Never! She would find him first, and finish this task, no matter what. No matter how far she had to go, even to the frozen wastes of his Russia itself.
For the Emerald Lily never failed.

Chapter One
Venice—1525
Oh, yes. He was really dead.
“Madre de dio,” Julietta Bassano whispered, leaning close to examine the man’s corpse, sprawled across the rich silk cushions of his gilded bed. It had not been an easy death, nor a pretty one. His face, so florid in life, was turned a dark, mottled purple-blue, his black beard matted with bile and spittle and blood. The wide, staring, sightless eyes were dotted with tiny spots of red, and his stiffening limbs were thrown wide in abruptly frozen death throes.
No—not an easy demise at all. She recognised the signs. She had seen them in her own husband three years ago, as he collapsed in the middle of their own bed, convulsing and heaving.
“Witch!” he had screamed. “Sorceress! You have murdered me.” And his clawlike hands had snatched at her gown, his blood and vomit spraying her flesh with death.
No! she thought sternly, closing her eyes and her mind to the memories. Giovanni was long dead; he had deserved his end, the pig. He could not hurt anyone ever again.
Unlike this man…
Julietta opened her eyes to stare down at the corpse of Michelotto Landucci, noble of the Most Serene Republic, high member of the Savio ai Cerimoniali. His richly brocaded robe hung open, revealing a heavy, hairy stomach, a flaccid, blue-tinged member. With a snort of disgust, she grabbed the edge of a silk sheet and drew it up over him, hiding him from view.
Behind her, she heard a soft, frightened sob, a stifled gasp. Julietta tried to take in a deep, steadying breath to calm herself, but the stench of death had grown too strong. It stuck in her nostrils, clung to her hair and cloak. Clasping the black velvet closer about her throat, she spun around to face the woman who huddled in the shadows of the palatial bedchamber. Cosima Landucci, wife—nay, widow—of the man beneath the sheet. Unlike her spouse, she was still fully dressed in an elaborate gown of gold-embroidered blue silk. Thick, dark red hair spilled down her back and fell over her white, unlined brow, proclaiming how very much younger than her husband she was. Just a child, really.
A child whose husband lay poisoned in his own bed. Well, well. She would not have thought it of timid little Cosima. People were surprising. Ever surprising.
“What happened here, signora?” Julietta asked, as gently as she could. She knew this girl—Cosima had been a loyal patroness of Julietta’s perfume shop for almost two years, coming in weekly to buy her special scent, jasmine and lily, and to talk to Julietta. And talk, and talk, as if she had no other friend in the world but her perfumer. And Julietta had been glad to listen. She felt sorry for the girl, who seemed so lost and unhappy despite her fine gowns and flashing jewels. She—well, she rather reminded Julietta of herself so long ago, when all her dreams of marriage and family were shattered in the face of cold reality.
But this—this was something else altogether.
“Well, signora?” Julietta prompted, when the girl just went on sniffling.
Cosima pressed a lace handkerchief to her face, her hands shaking. “I—I do not know what happened, Signora Bassano!”
“You were not here? You simply came in to find your husband dead?” Julietta gave a pointed glance at the dainty slippers and jewelled headdress discarded on the lavish Turkish rug.
Cosima followed her gaze and shook her head, the waves of red hair spilling over her shoulders. “No, I was here. We had just returned from a supper party, and he—he…” Her soft, little-girl voice faltered.
“Requested his conjugal rights?”
Cosima slowly nodded.
“Hmm,” Julietta continued. “What else did he do?”
“D-do?”
Julietta suppressed an impatient sigh. Dio mio, but they did not have all night! Already it grew very late, and the Landucci household would be up and about in only a few hours. Julietta wanted only to discover what this girl wanted of her, why she had summoned her here, and then be on her way. She had her own business to attend to, business of far more import than a silly patrician woman and a dead husband who no doubt greatly deserved to be dead.
What was the point of this whole exercise?
Yet she knew she could not rush Cosima, or the girl would collapse entirely. Already she was trembling like a winter leaf in the cold wind.
“What did he do before he demanded to bed you? For you are still dressed, madonna.” Julietta gestured towards Cosima’s gown, the sleeves still neatly tied in place, the gold lace on the high-waisted bodice smooth.
Cosima bunched the handkerchief in her fist. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her skin chalk-white. “He drank some wine, as he always does before—before…Quite a lot of it.”
Julietta frowned. There were no goblets or ewers around the chamber. Cosima’s tearful gaze flickered to the floor, and that was where Julietta saw it—the jewelled stem of a silver goblet, barely glimmering under the edge of the bed. She knelt down and drew it from beneath the heavy fall of velvet bedclothes.
In the very bottom of the cup rested the dregs of dark red wine, stagnant as blood, already drying at the edges. Julietta lifted it to her nose and sniffed cautiously. A faint hint of some green, grassy scent met her sensitive nose, along with the sweet headiness of the expensive wine. And something else. Jasmine and lily—Cosima’s own perfume, mixed by Julietta’s own hand and poured weekly into Cosima’s vial of blue Murano glass.
Julietta set the goblet aside and peered once more into the black depths under the bed. Her nose wrinkled at the copious amount of dust—the maidservants were obviously not as diligent as they should be. Yet there was more than dust and dirt. There was the faint sheen of celestial blue glass.
She snatched it up, holding it to the light. The vial was empty, the silver stopper gone, but the scent of jasmine and lily still clung about it. Along with that strange touch of green grassiness.
It was a scent Julietta was all too familiar with.
“Poison,” she whispered. It echoed in the vast chamber like a death knell.
“No!” Cosima shrieked. She dashed across the room, throwing herself to her knees beside Julietta. She clutched at Julietta’s arm, her pretty face a rictus of despair and terror. “He cannot have been poisoned, and if he was I did not do it. Please, Signora Bassano, you must believe me!”
Julietta resisted the urge to shake off the girl’s clinging hands, and instead held out the empty vial. “If you did not, madonna, then someone is at great pains to make it seem as if you did.”
Cosima stared at the blue glass with wide, horrified eyes. “No. I did not—did not love my husband as a good wife should, you know that, signora. But I am a good Catholic! I would never imperil my mortal soul by…” Her expression crumpled, and she was in tears again.
“Basta!” Julietta seized the girl’s arm and gave her a shake. “No time for that now. Your servants will be up soon, and we have much to do.”
Cosima sniffled, and looked up at Julietta with hope writ large on her face. “You will help me?”
Julietta stared at Cosima, once again seeing herself as she once was. Young, alone, afraid. So very afraid. And with good reason. She wanted more than anything to walk away, to flee this cursed house and this troublesome girl. Yet she could not.
“I will help you,” she said shortly. “But you must do everything I say, and quickly.”
Cosima nodded eagerly. “Of course, signora! I will do whatever you say, if you will just help me again.”
“Call my maidservant, Bianca, she waits in the corridor. The two of you must build a fire in the grate, a large one, as hot as possible.”
Cosima nodded and scrambled to her feet, scurrying out the chamber door in silence, tears apparently forgotten. At least the girl could move fast when need be.
When Cosima was gone, Julietta also stood and went to the window. No one was about so late at night, not even a boatman or street prostitute. The Feast of the Ascension, when Carnival would officially commence, was still days away. She pushed open the casement and stared down at the canal two stories below. The blue-black water was calm, barely lapping at the base of the palazzo in tiny, white breaking waves. The water knew how to keep its secrets—always. Julietta took the goblet and the vial and tossed them out as far as she could.
For an instant, the fading moonlight caught on the tainted objects, sparkling and dancing. Then they were gone, vanished with the merest splash as if they had never been.
“Madre de dio,” she whispered, “do not let it begin again.”
The sky was tinged the merest pale gray when Julietta finally made her way home from the Palazzo Landucci, Bianca trailing behind her as they slipped through the narrow calli back to their dwelling north of the Rialto. Julietta ached with exhaustion, every nerve crying out for rest, sleep, blessed forgetfulness. She would not sleep this morn, though, she knew that well, nor for many nights to come.
Not after all she had done.
The only sounds were the click of their shoes against the cobblestones, the creak of loose shutters in the cold breeze. No one was yet about, not even the vendors setting up their wares on the Rialto and in the fish market. The air was chilly, thick with mist and the sticky-sweet smells of the water. The pastel colours of the stucco houses, all pink and yellow and orange in the sunlight, were gray and white as the stars blinked off above them and the moon faded.
Julietta drew deeper into her cloak, pulling the hood closer about her face, hurrying her steps towards home and the illusion of safety.
“Signora…” Bianca began, drawing up beside Julietta in a rush of pattering steps. She sounded out of breath at their pace.
“Not here, Bianca,” Julietta murmured. “’Tis not safe.”
They turned into a narrow passageway which led to their own campi, a small, well-kept square with a large marble fountain in the centre, where all the residents could gather fresh water. A few nights more and that fountain would run with wine for the pleasure of throngs of costumed revellers.
As the bells of the church of San Felice tolled the hour, Julietta skirted around the fountain, pulling a key out of her cloak’s secret pocket. At the blue-painted door of the dwelling that served as both shop and residence, she lifted the key towards the brass lock.
A sharp, clanging noise behind her stilled her hand, and she whipped around, every muscle tense and poised for action. Her hand flew to her side, where a serviceable dagger rested in her sash. Her gaze darted around the campi, from corner to corner, searching out any hint of danger.
Were they followed? She felt as if someone watched her, their stare like pinpoints of fire on her skin.
Yet there was nothing to be seen. Her neighbours’ dwellings were all silent. As she watched, a cat streaked past the fountain, the only sign of any life.
Bianca let out an audible squeak of relief. “Only a cat, madonna,” she whispered.
“Sì,” Julietta answered, unconvinced. Yet, still, there was nothing to be seen. They were, to all appearances, alone. “We should get inside.” She turned back to the door, and, as swiftly as she could move her trembling hands, opened the lock and ushered Bianca inside the dim dwelling.
Only once the solid wooden panels were closed and locked behind them could she draw a breath again.
Safe. For now.

Chapter Two
So. That was the famous Julietta Bassano.
Marc Antonio Velazquez stayed in his hiding place in the narrow space between two tall houses for a long time after Signora Bassano slipped into her home and out of sight. He watched as a faint golden glow of light appeared in the window of the first floor, the floor where her perfume shop did business. Watched as the light faded, only to reappear above, a welcoming beacon in the mist-shrouded chill of a Venetian winter morning.
She was not what he had expected. He had expected beauty, of course, beauty of the fashionable sort demanded in Venice: golden hair, azure blue eyes, rounded bosom and hips. A canvas that Florentine Botticelli brought to glorious, feminine life.
Julietta Bassano would never be mistaken for La Primavera. She was tall and very slim in the plain black-and-white gown that could be glimpsed beneath her enveloping cloak. There were no soft curves of bosom, hips and belly, as was desirable in these demanding days. There were only straight lines, long legs, narrow shoulders. The hair that escaped from her hood was black as the night around them, not the gold that ladies spent hours sitting in the sun wearing a crownless hat to achieve. He had not been able to see her face clearly, but it seemed as slim as the rest of her, a pale oval, with sharp cheekbones, sharp chin.
For all that, though, there was something—something enchanted about her. She carried mystery and sadness about her like a second velvet cloak, something palpable and so alluring.
Marc could never resist a mystery, a complication. It was his great downfall in life. Yet he would never have thought her to be Ermano’s sort of woman. There was not an ounce of giggling, golden softness about her. Just darkness, and hidden daggers.
No, not Ermano’s sort. But very much Marc’s.
Perhaps this task would be more enjoyable than he had ever anticipated. Enjoyable—until he had to destroy her. Very regrettable, indeed.

Chapter Three
Julietta set the last bottle into place on the gleaming shelf, balancing on her tiptoes atop a footstool to examine the array of sparkling glass, ethereal ivory, luminous onyx. Most of her patrons brought their own vials to be filled with their choice of scent, but a few liked to buy new containers and were willing to pay a great deal for the finest quality. This shipment, newly arrived from France, should do very nicely.
Julietta tilted her head to one side. “What do you think, Bianca?” she said. “Is the display enticing enough?”
Bianca left off polishing the long marble counter and came to scrutinise the sparkling bottles. She was typical of her people, the Turkish nomads, small, thin, dark, barely coming up to Julietta’s waist when she perched on the footstool as now. But she had been as steadfast a friend as Julietta could wish for, ever since those bleak days when she fled Milan for the masks of Venice.
“Very fine, madonna,” Bianca pronounced with a grin, reaching up to flick her rag at the shelf. “And certain to bring us a very handsome profit, now that they have arrived at long last.”
“Sì, now that the Barbary pirates are driven away,” Julietta answered. The pirates had plagued Venetian shipping for many months earlier in the year, harrying the trade convoys with their shipments of spices, silks, wine, sugar—and jewelled perfume vials. Julietta had missed her lavender from France, her white roses from England and the more exotic blooms and spices from Egypt and Spain. Then, the pirates were destroyed, in a tale so filled with adventure and danger it stirred even Julietta’s rusty, unpoetic soul. The salas of Venice were buzzing with nothing but stories of Il leone, the brave sea captain who destroyed the wicked pirates and saved the sacred shipping of La Serenissima. Bianca herself, after seeing his triumphant arrival in Venice last week, had talked of nothing else.
“If I was a skilled poet, Bianca, I would write an epic about Il leone,” Julietta said lightly. She stepped down from the stool, brushing her hands on the linen apron covering her black-and-white gown. “It would make us a great fortune. Troubadors would vie to recite it, to set it to music and to play it in all the great salas!”
“You have a fortune, madonna,” Bianca protested. Though she laughed, her dark, round little face wrinkled in puzzlement. And well might she be puzzled—Julietta rarely succumbed to whimsy at all, she was far too busy, far too cautious for that. After the night they had just passed at Palazzo Landucci, whimsy seemed even further away than usual.
Yet somehow—ah, somehow the daylight made things seem rather different. Even the city, so deserted, so haunted in the mists before dawn, was transformed by the pale winter sunlight, by thoughts of dashing sea captains and wicked pirates. In the small campi, people hurried by, intent on their morning errands. Laughter and jests rang out, blending with the everpresent bells of San Felice. Soon, very soon, it would be Carnival, the most profitable time of year for the shop. And, early that morning, after a mere two hours of fitful sleep, she had heard mass at San Felice, asking absolution of the night’s sins.
If only absolution could mean perpetual concealment, as well. And if only Count Ermano did not make an appearance today. She had had quite enough of drama and danger without the count’s ever-pressing attentions.
“You are right, Bianca,” she said. “We do have a fortune, so the world will never be inflicted with my poor poetic skills. I must still be giddy from lack of sleep.”
Bianca nodded slowly. “Of course, madonna. You should rest, go back to your bed for a few hours.”
“No, no. It is almost time for us to open. Perhaps I will have a siesta at midday. Now, would you fetch some of the essence of chamomile from the storeroom? I will finish mixing Signora Mercanti’s tincture.”
Bianca nodded and hurried away, her brightly striped skirts swishing over the freshly swept tile floor. As the store-room door clicked shut behind her, Julietta went back to tidying before they opened.
There was not a great deal to do—the shop was always kept immaculate, for fear dust or dirt could contaminate the sweet wares, wares Julietta spent hours blending and preparing. Every vial, every jar and pot and amphora, contained the toil of her own hands, the products of her own careful study. And the ladies of Venice, courtesan and patrician wife alike, flocked to buy them, to beg her to mix a magical scent for them alone.
Julietta stepped away from the counter, her back to the blue-painted door as she examined her little kingdom. It was small, true, yet it was all her own, from the mosaic tiles of the floor to the white plastered ceiling. It was the only thing she had ever had for herself, the only thing she had ever loved. And the small room, hidden in the corner behind its secret panel—that was most especially hers.
She reached out for a small bottle on the counter, a blue glass vial studded with silver and tiny sapphires that had strayed from one of her careful displays. She held it to her nose and smelled jasmine and lily.
Jasmine and lily. Hurriedly, she replaced the bottle, which was meant for Cosima Landucci, back on the counter, but the heady sweetness of it clung to her fingers, reminding her of her night’s work. As she stepped back, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror hung behind the counter. Her hair was still neatly braided and coiled about her head, covered by a black lace veil. Her black-and-white gown, touched only by a hint of scarlet in the ribbons of her sleeves, was as neat and quietly elegant as ever after she removed her apron. But her face—her face was as pale as a phantom.
Or a witch.
The bell on the door jangled, announcing their first patron of the day. Julietta took a deep breath of sweetly perfumed air, trying to will colour into her cheeks, and painted a bright smile on her lips before turning to greet the newcomer. “Buon giorno! Welcome to…”
But the polite words faded from her tongue when she came face to face with her patron. This was not a golden-haired courtesan or a veiled matron here in search of a special perfume or lotion, or something else, something darker, something poured secretly beneath the counter. This was a man. And what a man, indeed.
He was tall, with powerful shoulders outlined by a fine doublet of dark red velvet, closely cut and unadorned by lace or embroidery. A shirt of creamcoloured silk, soft and with the sheen of springtime clouds, peeked through the jagged slashings of the sleeves and the silk closures at the front of the doublet, rising up to a small frill framing a strong, sun-browned throat, a vee of smooth bronze chest.
Julietta’s gaze moved inexorably, unwillingly, downwards to plain black hose and Spanish leather shoes buckled with shining gold. No elaborate codpieces shaped like a conch shell or a gondola to display and enhance his masculine equipment, no gaudy striped hose. No popinjay, him. Yet not a man unaccustomed to luxury, either. Her regard slid back upwards, past the narrow hips, the powerful shoulders, the muscled chest. His face was cast half in shadow by the brim of his red velvet cap, but she could see the large, blood-coloured ruby clasped in that cap, the teardrop pearl that dangled from his left earlobe. No—not unaccustomed to luxury at all.
Glossy, dark brown hair, streaked with the gold of the sun, fell in thick waves from beneath the cap, brushing his shoulders. And his lower face could be glimpsed, a strong jaw, close shaven, darkened by the sun, set off by the glistening white of the pearl. Not a soft merchant, then, or a banker who spent his days softly indoors. Not a churchman, assuredly, yet not a poor sailor or shipmaker from the Arsenal.
A man of power, certainly, of wealth and fine looks. Not a man who drenched himself in cologne, either; Julietta’s sensitive nose told her that, even across the length of the shop. He smelled only of fresh, salty air, faintly lemony, clean. What would such a man need from her shop?
Ah, yes—of course. A gift for a lady. And here she stood, staring at him like a lackwit, gawking at his shoulders and chest and lovely hair as some alleyway putta would.
Julietta straightened herself to her full height, reaching up to check the fall of her veil. “Buon giorno, signor,” she said again, dropping a small curtsy.
“Buon giorno, madonna,” he answered. His voice was deeper than she expected, rougher, with the hint of some strange foreign accent. Not a Venetian, then. “I feared you would not yet be open for custom.”
“We are always open for such eager patrons, signor,” Julietta said, touching the tip of her tongue to suddenly dry lips. There was something strange about this man’s voice, something that seemed to reach out and wrap itself around her with misty, enticing caresses. Something about his scent…
Could he be a sorcerer? A magician from foreign lands?
Do not be a fool, Julietta! she told herself sternly. He is a man, like any other.
A man who could be a very profitable customer, to judge by the ruby and the pearl, the fine velvet, if she did not drive him away with her gapings and gawkings. Julietta stepped even farther away from him, back behind the safety of the counter.
“And what can we assist you with today, signor?” she asked briskly. The pierced bronze brazier set on the tiled floor was warm now; she added small sticks of scented wood to the coals, filling the cool air with the smell of white roses. “Our selection of fine scents is unparalleled in all of Venice.”
He moved closer to the counter, the short red velvet cape swung over his shoulders by a thin gold cord falling back to reveal sable lining, rich and soft. The bars of light from the windows fell across him, illuminating him like a stained-glass saint as he swept off his cap and lightly brushed aside the waves of his hair.
Julietta’s lips, so dry, turned numb at the sight of his eyes. They were blue—nay, not blue, turquoise, like the waters of the Mediterranean, pure and bright, startling in that sun-browned skin. Piercing. All-seeing.
A sorcerer, indeed.
Il diavolo.
Her fingers tightened on the scented sticks still in her hand, and she felt splinters pierce the skin. With a soft cry, she turned to fling them into the brazier. Turned away from those eyes.
“That is what I have heard, madonna,” the man said. She sensed him leaning lightly against the counter, watching her closely.
“Heard?” she muttered stupidly. Sì—she was behaving stupidly all round. She was a grown woman, a widow, a shop owner. She should not be unsettled by anyone.
Nay! I am not afraid, she thought fiercely. She swung around to face him fully, her head high.
A small smile played about his lips, lips as finely formed as the rest of him, full and sensual. He was younger than she would have thought; only the faintest of lines creased the edges of those sorcerer’s eyes, lined his slightly crooked nose. Who was she to be made so nervous by such a young man, no matter how rich, no matter how fine?
“I had heard that this is the finest perfumerie in Venice,” he said easily, “and that I must pay a call here.”
“I am flattered, signor.” Julietta moved slowly to the very edge of the counter, resting her hands flat on the cool marble surface, near the soft velvet of his sleeve. His body emanated warmth, and again she had that odd sense of unseen fingers reaching out to wrap around her, entice her. Yet she did not move away. “And what is it I may assist you with today? A gift for some lovely lady? No woman can resist a sweet scent blended only for her. In a jewelled bottle, perhaps? A pretty token of admiration.”
His smile widened, and he leaned his elbows on the counter until he looked up into her face, beguiling and gorgeous. “Alas, I am a newcomer to Venice, and have not yet found the lovely lady who would accept my tokens of admiration. But I do seek a gift, for a very special woman, indeed.”
Julietta felt her brow wrinkle in puzzlement. “A woman not of Venice?”
“Nay, a lady of Seville. I try to find her fine trinkets wherever I go, so she may know I am thinking of her.”
The frown broke as Julietta’s brows arched in a sudden stab of emotion hitherto unknown to her—jealousy. “Your wife, signor?”
He laughed then, a rough, musical sound, warm like a summer’s day. The faint lines around his eyes deepened, crinkled in a mirth that seemed to demand an answer. Julietta pressed her lips tightly together to hold in a chuckle, even though she knew not what the joke could be.
“Nay, madonna,” he said. “I am a seafarer, and have no wife. I seek a gift for my mother.”
His mother! Madre de dio, but she did seem doomed to foolishness this day. “You seek a gift for your mother?”
“Sì, one, as you said, blended only for her. She is very special, you see.”
“Very beautiful?” She would have to be, with such a son as this.
“Yes, and very sweet, very devout. Innocent as the morning. What would you suggest, madonna?”
Ah—here was something she could understand, rationally and coolly. The blending of the perfect scent. Julietta retrieved a tray from beneath the counter, a slotted ivory container holding vials of many precious oils, neatly labelled. Her fingertips danced over their cork stoppers. “Roses, of course,” she murmured. “And—perhaps violets? Violets from Spain. What do you think, signor?”
She held out the vial, and he leaned close, inhaling deeply. Too deeply; he choked and sputtered.
Julietta laughed softly. “Not so much! This is pure essence of violet, very strong. Here, like this.” She shook a small drop on to her wrist, drawing the lace frill back from her skin. She held the bare flesh out, the drop of oil shimmering.
He reached out in turn, balancing her wrist in his fingers, and Julietta caught a ragged, sharp breath in her throat. His fingers were long, warm, callused, bisected by tiny white scars. A gold ring set with a gleaming ruby flashed on his smallest finger. He held her delicately, but there was leashed power in his touch. His gaze was focused downwards on her wrist, his breath warm on her skin. Slowly, oh, so slowly, he bent towards the beckoning drop of oil, his lips moving closer…
“Signora, have you seen the lotion for Signora Lac—” Bianca’s voice, familiar, prosaic—and shocked—burst whatever spell Julietta was under, whatever web the turquoise-eyed sorcerer wound about her. Julietta snatched away her hand and stepped back, shaking the lace back down over her wrist.
“I did not realize you had a customer,” Bianca said slowly, stepping up to Julietta’s side. Her quick, dark eyes were sharp and curious as she regarded her employer. “How do you do, signor? I hope you have found—Oh!” Bianca broke off on a breathless exclamation. She dropped the jar of lotion, which miraculously did not break, but went rolling away beneath the counter as her hand flew to her mouth. “Il leone,” she whispered.
“Bianca, whatever are you talking about?” Julietta asked irritably, leaning down to retrieve the jar. She felt suddenly bereft, chilled to be deprived of the sorcerer’s touch—and angry at herself for feeling so!
As she straightened, jar in hand, Bianca moved away around the corner, gliding like someone under a spell.
A spell such as the one Julietta herself had fallen under.
“You are, aren’t you?” Bianca breathed. “You are Il leone? I saw you last week when you arrived in the city. It was glorious! You are a hero. Il leone.”
Perhaps it was Julietta’s imagination, but she fancied she saw a blush, of all things, a faint stain of dull red spread across his sun-browned cheekbones. Il leone, truly? The fierce sea warrior who drove away the plague of pirates? A muscle ticked along his square jaw. Embarrassment over his great fame—or anger?
“Ah, signorina,” he said, reaching out to take Bianca’s hand and bestow a light kiss on her wrist. “You are too kind. I merely did what any concerned citizen would do. Pirates are such a nuisance.”
“Oh, no!” Bianca cried. “You fought the pirate captain single-handedly, with only a dagger. You destroyed his fleet with your guns and lost no men of your own. You are—Il leone.”
“I prefer to be called by my own name, Marc Antonio Velazquez. And whom might I have the honour of addressing?”
Bianca stared up at him, enthralled. “I am Bianca, Signor Velazquez. And this is my employer, Signora Julietta Bassano, of course. We are honoured that you have come to our shop.”
“Honoured, indeed,” Julietta echoed. “I had no idea such a hero has graced us with his custom. You must allow me to give you the perfume as a gift, signor.”
“Ah, no, madonna!” he protested. “It is very valuable…”
“And we would have soon had no inventory at all, if not for your bravery. Please, allow me to give you this gift. In appreciation.”
“Thank you, madonna.” He gave her a small bow, watching her so closely she was forced to glance away or make a fool of herself yet again.
“Signor Velazquez has commissioned a scent for his mother in Spain, Bianca,” she said. “If you would care to call again in two days, signor, the perfume will be complete.”
“Two days,” he murmured. “So very long until I can return?”
Julietta shrugged. “Art takes time, signor. It is delicate and cannot be rushed.”
“Oh, sì,” he answered, “I do know that.”
The door to the shop burst open, bells jangling, to admit Signora Mercanti, one of Julietta’s regular patrons. Her wrinkled, powdered cheeks were red with excitement, her dark eyes bright. In the flurry of her furs and ribbons, the scurrying of her servants, the barking of her lap-dogs, Signor Velazquez slipped out of the shop, unseen by anyone but Julietta. She slid to the side, watching out the window as he crossed the campi, a splash of scarlet amid the pastel crowds. He joined another man, a tall, plainly dressed figure, by the fountain, and together they left the campi, vanishing down the narrow passageway, out into the great city.
Two days. He would be back in two days.
“Have you heard, Signora Bassano?” Signora Mercanti cried, grabbing Julietta’s arm and drawing her into the bustle of the shop. She could scarcely puzzle after a man with such flutterings and flounces about her. “There is a great scandal abroad this morn. My maid heard of it in the market this morning.”
Julietta shook her head, reaching down to scoop up one of the yapping dogs and hand it over to a servant before it could do its business on her skirts or her clean tile floor. “There is always great scandal in Venice, signora.”
“Oh, but this is very great, indeed! Michelotto Landucci was found dead in his bed this morning, expired right beside his sleeping wife.”
Julietta froze. The remembrance of Cosima Landucci and her dead husband was like a sudden splash of cold seawater, driving out the last remnants of hot lust for Il leone. How could word of it already be swirling down the calli and canals? But then, this was Venice. How could it not be?
“Indeed?” she said, as calmly as she could. “Is the manner of his death known?”
Signora Mercanti shrugged. “They say apoplexy, after too fine a supper and too young a wife. But is it not odd, Signora Bassano, that he is the third member of the Savio ai Cerimoniali to die since only November? Oh, Signora Bassano, I just thought of something! Is Signora Cosima Landucci not one of your patrons? She will be in seclusion, of course, but perhaps her maidservant will come here today, and we shall know more.”
Signora Mercanti plumped herself down in a cushioned chair and accepted a sweetmeat proffered by Bianca, obviously prepared for a long, cosy stay in the shop. The bell over the door jangled again, as more customers poured in, full of talk of the Landuccis, of the upcoming Carnival balls, and of Il leone and his heroics.
Il leone. Julietta tossed one more glance at the window before disappearing into the fray. She was filled with the most incomprehensible urge to run after him. To beg him to help her escape on his great, fast ships.
Escape. Yes. If only she could. If only he could vanquish her fears as easily as he had those pirates. But she knew that could not be. Her demons were beyond even the reach of the celebrated Il leone.

Chapter Four
“Well?” Nicolai asked. “You have seen her?”
Marc paused to glance over his shoulder once more at the blue-painted door surmounted by the swinging wooden sign traced with the image of a perfume bottle. For just an instant, he imagined he saw her there. Julietta Bassano—tall, cold, proud, distant, yet not, he sensed, completely indifferent. Her pale cheeks had turned the most delightful of rose-pinks when he’d caressed her wrist. “I have seen her.”
“And?”
Marc shrugged. “I am not sure what old Ermano sees in her,” he lied.
Nicolai laughed, a loud, warm sound that caused two pretty maidservants to stop and glance at them with interest. It was hardly the time for attracting attention, though, as delightful as that would be later. Marc steered his friend into a near-deserted tavern, where they soon found themselves ensconced in a darkened corner with a pair of goblets of cheap ale and some meat pies.
“I would imagine he sees her fine villa on the mainland, her fertile fields there,” Nicolai said, leaning back lazily in the splintered wooden chair. His brilliant Arlechino silks were put away in favour of plain russet wool, his bright golden hair pulled back tightly. Yet there was still the attention-seeking quickness of the born actor in his blue eyes, the impatient gestures of his long hands. Marc wondered again if his old friend could stay the course of this scheme.
But Nicolai was one of the few people Marc could trust, and as a travelling player he had been everywhere, knew everyone. He was intimate with every dark, dirty corner of La Serenissima, could coax free its secrets and its gossip in a way Marc, who had been away from Venice since he was six years old, could not yet hope to do on his own.
Not yet, but soon. Soon, this serene city would lie on its back for him and splay her jewelled legs like a two-scudi whore, and it would give up to him all he desired, all he demanded. All he had planned and worked for since he was a child.
And God help anyone who got in his way. Even a woman with night-dark hair and white skin scented with flowers and sadness.
Marc tossed back a long swig of the rough, cheap ale. “No villa or farm seems worth the fuss Ermano is making. One would think he had enough of those already.”
“Perhaps the exalted count knows he is being made a laughingstock by his determined, and very public, pursuit of the widow Bassano,” Nicolai said, his voice touched only at the very edges by the sound of his long-abandoned Russian homeland. “And it has made him more determined.”
Marc remembered Julietta Bassano’s eyes, as dark as black ice and twice as perilous. “I am sure that is true.”
Nicolai took a long sip of the ale, his gaze constantly scanning the dim tavern. “What is your next step, my friend?”
“Why, to woo the beautiful signora, of course,” Marc answered, with a humorless laugh. “She is the key to this entire affair.”
“And with the freedom of Carnival upon us, who knows what will happen?”
“Exactly.”
“Just take care, Marc, I beg of you.”
Nicolai’s tone, always so full of cynical merriment, was suddenly quiet and solemn. Marc tossed him a puzzled glance over the rim of his goblet. “I always do. How else could I survive the life of seafaring mercenary?”
Nicolai shook his head. “Ermano is well known for his treachery, even in a city as perilous and deceptive as Venice.”
Marc had a quick, flashing memory, an image of golden hair spread across a marble floor, sightless blue eyes, a gaping red wound on a white throat. “Well, I know it.”
“Yet you are still willing to bargain with the devil?”
Marc swallowed down the bitter dregs of the ale. “I must. I have come a long way to see this through, Nicolai. There were vows made, and I must fulfill them. It has been far too long.”
“As I thought. You have always been a stubborn mule, ever since I met you in that filthy brothel in Germany.”
Marc laughed. “But you needn’t be a part of it any longer. I have no wish to be the ruin of the few friends I possess. It is my quarrel alone, after all.” Even as he said the words, though, Marc knew he could not lose Nicolai’s help; knew he had to keep it by any means possible. Nicolai had saved his life in that brothel, and Marc had saved his in return, threefold. He needed his friend at his back now, when it mattered more than ever.
Nicolai grinned, back to his merry Arlechino self. “And what else would I do to amuse myself in these dull days? The troupe does not move on to Mantua until after Carnival and Lent, when merriment will be wanted again. Until then, my meagre skills are at your disposal, Il leone.” Something swift and dark flashed deep in Nicolai’s eyes, quickly veiled by another laugh. “I doubt most of Venice would agree it is your quarrel alone, though. I think they would beg leave to share it.”
Before Marc could question him, the tavern door opened, admitting a rush of cold air and pale sunlight—and Julietta Bassano’s maidservant. The girl strolled over to the counter, her striped skirts and fringed shawl swaying.
“Signora Bassano’s maid,” Marc muttered. “I believe her name is Bianca.”
“Ah.” Nicolai nodded sagely. “A lady’s greatest confidante is often her maid. And this one just seems full of—knowledge.” Without another word, Nicolai slid out from behind the table and crossed the room to Bianca’s side. In no time at all, flirtatious giggles echoed through the dusty air, like unfurled streamers of bright ribbon.
Marc dropped a few coins beside the empty goblets and took his own leave. Nicolai would be occupied for quite a while to come.
Outside the tavern the day was cold, but the early morning fog had burned away leaving pale, yellow-gray sunlight to light up the dark waters and pastel houses. Marc drew his short cape closer about him and melted into the crowds hurrying along the fondamento. With his cap pulled low, no one recognised him as Il leone and he was free to wander where he would.
Strangely, his feet desired nothing more than to return to Julietta Bassano’s blue door. To lose himself amid the sweet, soft scents of her shop, to watch the tall, elegant lady as she moved behind the counter, proffering up violets on her fair skin. She was truly a glorious mystery, one he looked forward to unravelling one silken skein at a time.
But not yet. Even as he half turned towards her campi, he knew it was far too soon. He told her he would return in two days; two days for her to think of him, for her wary intrigue to deepen into the first blooming of need and desire. Two days for him to think of her, as well, to think of all he longed to obtain from her. Two very long days.
In the meantime, he had important work to do. He stepped forward to summon a passing gondola.
Julietta sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. Her skin felt cold, icy cold, despite the fire still smouldering in the grate and the thick coverlets piled atop her. She shivered and ran her hands over her face, shaking her head hard to rid it of the mist of dreams. It didn’t work—she still felt as if someone was watching her, staring into her very soul until all her secrets lay bare.
She leaned over to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a flickering red-orange glow into every corner of the small chamber. There were no soulsnatching demons there, of course; she was alone, as always. Only stacks of books on every table and chair, a few pieces of clothing strewn about in black-and-white streamers, a half-drunk glass of wine.
“Just a dream,” she whispered. Not even a dream she could remember. Only bright, flashing fragments of movement and colour remained. And a pair of searing turquoise-blue eyes.
Julietta tossed back the bedclothes and swung her legs to the floor, wincing as her bare feet touched the cold wooden planks. Her fur-trimmed dressing gown was tossed at the foot of the bed, but she ignored it, crossing over to the window in only her thin linen chemise. The cold was good. It shocked her into a waking reality where no dreams could touch her.
The moon, a glistening, silvery-yellow crescent, hung high in the glossy black sky. ’Twas hours until daylight, then. Hours until sunlight and work could distract her. Everything always seemed closer, more suffocating in the night. The past, the future, all inescapable.
But Venice belonged to the mysteries of night, to darkness and deep waters and shadowed doorways that promised so much. It made the night so tempting, ever beckoning her forth from the careful construction of her safe lies. “Come to us,” the waters whispered. “Come to us, belong to us, as you know you do, and we will show you delights you could not even dream of. We will give you all you desire, all you seek, if you will just surrender.”
Surrender. The one thing she could never do. Julietta Bassano was born to stand solitary, to fight always against who she was, who she feared to be. Yet on nights like this one…
On nights like this, Eros and Thanatos, love and death, entwined in the narrow calli of the city, and she had such sharp, sweet longings. She loved Venice, because she and the city were one in the night, neither of them ever what they seemed to be.
Julietta leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the deserted campi below and remembering the man who had visited her shop that morning. Il leone. Marc Antonio Velazquez. By whatever name he went, he was dangerous. She knew that the instant he touched her hand, and her flesh came alive at the stroke of his.
Shrugging the heavy braid of her hair back from her shoulder, Julietta reached out to push open the window. She closed her eyes as the cold night air washed over her face and throat, along the curve of her breasts bared by the low neck of the chemise and, for one moment, she imagined it was his hand on her skin. His callused sailor’s touch sliding roughly over her shoulder, tracing a crooked line of fire lower, ever lower, his breath cool and sweet, making her shiver in sweet anticipation…
Madre de dio! Julietta’s eyes flew open, and she found herself alone, staring down at the emptiness of the campi. From a distance, echoing, she heard laughter and music from some merry gathering, but no turquoise-eyed sorcerer watched her. No caresses reached out for her.
Dangerous, indeed. Once, long ago, when she was young and foolish, she had thought her husband handsome and charming, had fancied herself in love with him like a maiden and a knight in a poem. She had craved his kisses, worshipped his voice and touch and glance. That had shattered in an unfathomable rush of hellish violence that killed the girl she had been for ever.
After Giovanni died and she came to start a new life in Venice, Julietta took a couple of lovers, gentle, unassuming, discreet men whose kisses were pleasant and sweet, but did not move her to the dizzying heights she felt when first with Giovanni. Neither did they ever cast her into black despair.
Marc Antonio Velazquez could do that. She sensed it, knew it. There was something hidden about him, concealed behind his good looks and fine clothes, his polished manners. Only one cloaked soul could recognise another. He was a complication she did not need. Her life was good now. Settled. Safe.
As safe as she could ever make it.
Men such as Il leone had no place in her world. She had to make sure of that.
Julietta shut the window and latched it before taking up her dressing gown. As she slipped it over her chemise, she left her chamber on careful, silent feet. Bianca snored softly on her truckle bed in the corridor, but Julietta just crept past her, down the narrow stairs to the darkened shop. The shutters were drawn tightly over the windows, the door solidly locked and barred; no one could possibly be spying on her here. Still, she glanced carefully over every inch of the room, every vial and jar, before creeping over to the hidden panel set in the wall.
Her fingertips quickly found the tiny knot of wood and pressed hard. The panels slid apart to form a fissure just large enough for her to move through. She lit a branch of candles before shutting the secret door behind her again, closing herself into her own private world.
There were no windows or skylights in her hideyhole; the only light came from the soft flicker of the candles. It was a small chamber, yet held all she could need. Long, narrow tables were pushed against two of the walls, laden with scales, beakers, silver bowls, a mortar and pestle and a variety of spoons and knives. The other two walls held shelves piled with books: ancient volumes she had painstakingly and at great expense collected over the past three years or had inherited from her mother and grandmother. There were also several covered baskets and pottery bowls, rows of stoppered bottles. Suspended from the dark wood rafters were bunches of dried herbs along with other, stranger materials. Ones she would never want the patrons of the perfumery just beyond the wall to see.
Never.
Julietta quickly went to work, for the night was half gone already. She spread out her materials—a beaker filled with clear liquid, small scissors, the mortar and pestle—and lit a small bowl of oil. Narrowing her eyes, she gazed up at the herbs, gauging which ones suited her purposes tonight. Angelica, yes; nettle, rue, and marjoram—all of them held great powers of protection and wisdom. Using the little silver scissors, she snipped a sprig from each and put them in the silver bowl.
Her herbs gathered, she knelt beside the table, hands tightly clasped and eyes shut. “Oh, Great One,” she whispered. “I pray that the mysteries will be revealed to me this night, and my place in the world restored. Help me to see the truth. Guide me in my actions. Protect me.”
And help me to divine what this Signor Velazquez seeks here in Venice, she added silently.
“Amen.” Julietta crossed herself, and stood up to reach for the herbs she had chosen, the mortar and pestle. These hours, deep in the secret cloak of night, belonged only to her, to the lessons she had learned so long ago from her poor mother, from her grandmother. They had to belong only to her—or they could mean her very death.
Yet somehow, despite the dangers she knew all too well, she was compelled to this. Compelled to use her knowledge to help other women whenever possible. Women like Cosima Landucci—women like herself. Not even the threat of the stake could stop that.
And not even a sorcerer’s turquoise eyes could turn her purpose. It was set—and done.

Chapter Five
“Madonna!”
Bianca’s voice, echoing amid the crates and boxes of the store-room, startled Julietta, nearly causing her to bash her head on the case she was unpacking. As it was, she stumbled backwards, a jar of oil clutched in each hand. She had been counting the new arrivals, completing the shop’s inventory, but really, her thoughts were far away, drifting inexorably to the experiment that bubbled and fermented quietly in the secret room.
And trying not to drift to Il leone.
“Yes, Bianca, what is it?” she said, placing the jars carefully back into the padded case. “Do you need my help in the shop?”
Bianca closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, covering her mouth with her handkerchief amid a flood of giggles. “He is here.”
Julietta knew immediately the he that Bianca meant. She turned away from the maid to hide her suddenly warm cheeks, busying her hands with tidying the inventory ledgers on the floor beside her. She had to compose herself, to stop this absurdity immediately, or she would soon find herself giggling away, just like her silly maidservant!
This was business. That was all.
“Signor Velazquez?” she said.
“Sì. And looking even more lovely than before.”
“Well, then, Bianca, the perfume he ordered is behind the counter, in the purple glass bottle. You can package it up for the ‘lovely’ gentleman.” Yes, that was it—send the man on his way without even seeing him.
But life could never be so simple. “Oh, no, madonna. He is asking to see you especially.”
Asking to see her, was he? Why should that be? If she had time to puzzle it over now she would, but that would have to wait for later, when he was gone and she was alone in her room. Right now, though, she had a business to run, and he was a very important customer.
An important customer who wished to see her. Especially.
Julietta pushed herself to her feet, removing her apron and brushing the dust of the store-room from her black skirts. A strange, cold apprehension fluttered in her stomach, but she ignored it and strode past Bianca, opening the door to the shop. Bianca slammed the door back into place as soon as Julietta was past her, leaving her alone in the shop.
Or rather, not quite alone.
They had been busy in the morning; so many people wanted their new scents for Carnival, and customers had crowded the shop to claim their purchases and hear the latest gossip of the Landucci death and the doings of Il leone. Now there was an early afternoon lull, and Marc Antonio Velazquez was the only person in the room.
He was half turned away from her, examining a display of the new French oil burners, which gave her a moment to examine him. She had begun to think that surely her mind had exaggerated his charms, painted him as taller than he was, stronger, darker, a figure of poetic fantasy. But, no—he was everything she remembered. He wore green today, dark forest-green velvet as subtle and rich as his red garb of two days ago, trimmed only with silver-edged slashings on the sleeves and a pale silver fox lining to his short cloak. He held his green velvet cap in one hand, turning it lazily in his long fingers, and the fall of his glossy dark hair gleamed in the sunlight.
The pearl still dangled from his earlobe, emphasising the strong, clean line of his jaw. A small frown creased his brow as he stared at the burners, yet she sensed that he did not see them at all, that his mind was very far away.
Just as hers had been these past two days.
She wondered what he thought of, what dwelled behind the façade of the elegant hero, the brave sea captain all Venice lauded. No, not just wondered— longed to know. Her chest ached with the need, a need she had thought long dead and buried, a need to understand another human, to know she was not alone.
Yet why should that be, with this man, this stranger? For that was all he was, a stranger she had glimpsed only briefly and now fancied such dramas over. She was surely blinded by his beauty, as every woman in Venice was these days. She heard little else in her shop except the doings of Il leone, the ladies he danced with at balls, the honours the Doge showered on him. Julietta would have thought herself sick of him—if she had not so eagerly listened to every scrap of gossip.
Yes, that was all it was, a fantasy, built of sleepless nights and the growing excitement of Carnival. He was merely a man, as any other.
“Buona sera, signor,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. “Welcome back to our shop.”
He spun towards her, his thoughtful frown lightening into the charming smile she remembered. His eyes seemed somehow darker today, blue-green as deep seawater, not as turquoise. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a quick salute. Quick—yet not unaffecting. Gentlemen usually merely brushed the air above a lady’s knuckles, yet he actually touched his mouth to the skin of her fingers, soft as a cloud, warm as summer. His breath, sharply indrawn, swept across her wrist, then he released her, stepping away with a suddenly solemn expression etched on his face.
Julietta stepped away, startled. “I—your perfume is ready, signor. I bottled it in purple Murano glass, the colour of violets.” She ducked behind the counter to retrieve the vial, taking a bit longer than was necessary to fetch it in order to find her serene centre again. She had felt something when he touched her hand so intimately. Not merely sexual attraction, though, of course, that was there, but something more. A quick swirl of something dark, hidden and vast.
It had been such a long time since her mother’s gift visited her. Could it be coming back now, of all times and with this man? What could it mean?
Julietta rose from behind the counter, holding the bottle carefully in hands that longed to tremble. She wanted to run from the shop, to flee into the fresh, cold air and keep going until she left Venice altogether and found herself all alone in a country field. Yet she could not. Not yet. Not now.
He moved to the other side of the counter, his head bent to examine the gift. His hair fell forward in a shining curtain, hiding his face from her view for a moment, and she felt so very foolish. Had she not just told herself that he was merely a man? There was surely no magic here, no hidden darkness waiting to suck her down to its depths.
“It is beautiful,” he said quietly.
Julietta turned the glass, the light from the windows catching at its perfect facets. It was beautiful, one of the finest pieces from her favourite Murano glass blower. It was the deepest of purples, set with tiny amethysts and stoppered in gold filigree. A fitting tribute for a hero. “I hope your mother will like it.”
“She will love it, just as she would love all of Venice, if I could but show it to her.”
“The city does, indeed, have many beauties, especially at this time of year,” Julietta said. “The Piazza San Marco, the Doge’s Palace, the glorious bridges…”
“The beautiful women?”
Julietta gave a startled laugh. “Those, too. The ladies of Venice are well known for their beauty and grace.”
His gaze moved from the bottle to her face, watching her steadily with blue-green intensity. “One in particular, I would say. Lovely beyond any other.”
The words were flirtatious, yet no light grin touched his lips. What lady could he mean? Julietta wondered with a sharp pang. “Ah, signor, have you now found a lady to accept your tokens of affection, as you said you had not when we first met?”
“Not yet,” he answered, leaning against the counter with a smooth, catlike grace. She saw so clearly where he had earned his pseudonym. He was like a lion, indeed, sleek, beautiful, dangerous. “But soon, I hope.”
“If you seek gifts for her…”
“I would, if I knew how to best please her.” In one quick, gentle movement he caught her hand in his, running the rough pad of his thumb over the simple silver ring she wore. “She does not appear to care for jewels.” His gaze slid over the plain black cloak hung on a hook by the store-room door. “Or rich furs.”
Her? He meant to impress her? When every woman in the city vied to strew flowers beneath his feet, join him in his bed? Julietta nearly laughed with disbelief, but his gaze remained steady, serious, never wavering from her face.
What was happening here? Surely she was no gullible girl to believe he desired her, no matter what guilty, secret hopes lurked deep in her heart. She remembered that brief swirl of darkness she had felt when he touched her hand. Something was happening between them, something she wanted so desperately to explain, to know.
Julietta drew her hand from beneath his, but leaned closer, until she could smell the clean ocean scent of him. “Carnival is a special time. Some say it is even—magic,” she whispered. “Masks can set people free, can make them see the truth behind the disguises we all bear. Desire can come to reality then. Perhaps you will find what you seek in the nights of secrets, signor. Perhaps you can find what you always wanted.”
They stared at each other in charged silence, not touching, yet close, so very close. Julietta did not know where her words came from. Her mother had always said that Julietta held herself inside too much, always thinking, planning. Sometimes, my daughter, she had told her, you must simply say what is in your heart.
Easier said than done, of course. And look where speaking her heart had got Julietta’s mother. Yet Julietta knew that what she said was true. Carnival was a time out of time, a time when the truths of her life—the hidden room, Count Ermano, her past in Milan, everything—could vanish for a night. Behind a mask, anything was possible.
“Do you verily speak truth, madonna?” Marc said roughly.
Julietta nodded. Follow what is in your heart, a voice whispered in her mind.
“Then will you do me the honour of accompanying me to a ball in the Piazza San Marco tomorrow night, after the Marriage of the Sea?” He watched her very closely, his gaze unreadable.
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.”
Marc shrugged. “It is no hardship to wait in such a grand chamber, with such a glorious view.”
Balthazar came into the room to join Marc at the open window, the last rays of the day’s sun sparkling off the tiny diamonds sewn on his white velvet doublet. He wore a belt of more diamonds and deep purple amethysts, and another diamond hung from his ear, large as a thumbnail, set in an elaborate filigree of gold. Despite these great riches, he radiated only unfocused anger. Passion with nowhere to go.
Marc wondered briefly if he should introduce the young man to the pale courtesan of last night. She was beautiful and very skilled, but unfortunately he could not quite recall her name. And it seemed Balthazar had no trouble attracting female attention of his own. Below them, a silvery blond beauty who had been lounging in a gondola, her scarlet stockinged legs carefully displayed, sat up and gave him a dazzling smile and a wave. Balthazar in turn gave her a small nod. So, the thwarted passion was not of a sexual nature.
It had to be something deeper.
“They say you are much favoured by the Doge,” Balthazar said, still watching the woman in the red stockings. His tone was careless; only the stiff set of his shoulders betrayed even an inkling of his real feelings, whatever those could be.
“I have been very fortunate since I came to Venice,” Marc answered. “Many people have shown me kindness.”
“Why should they not? You are Il leone. My father has also shown you great favour.”
Marc studied the young man carefully, pushing down a flash of impatience with Venetian dissembling. “Your father and I have business together.”
“Mutually beneficial business, of course.”
“Does anyone conduct any other sort?”
“Indeed.” Balthazar turned away from the blond beauty to face Marc. His eyes were like sea glass now, almost iridescent. “Yet not everyone appreciates the favour you have been shown. They think you are merely a condotierre, hired sea power.”
“I have certainly faced my fair share of jealousy before, Signor Balthazar. It follows any man of any consequence, great or small. But I appreciate the warning.”
There was the sound of footsteps on the marble stairs outside the room, the faint echo of masculine laughter. Balthazar’s gaze flickered to the doorway. “My father does not easily tolerate challenges to his position. Even from business partners.”
“I have no desire to be a counsellor to the Doge. I will be gone from Venice soon enough.”
Balthazar nodded. “Still, one can never be too careful in this life, Signor Velazquez.”
He left Marc’s side and crossed the room with his loping, youthful gait, passing his father in the doorway without a word.
“Ah, Signor Velazquez,” Ermano said heartily. “I am glad to see that my son has been keeping you entertained while I concluded my business. I have sent for wine and refreshments.”
“Your son seems a promising young man,” Marc commented. He turned back to close the window, for the marble room had begun to grow chilly with the passing of the day. Below, torchlight shone on Balthazar’s white doublet and diamonds as he climbed into the blond courtesan’s gondola. She looped her arms about his neck, leaning into him as they glided away.
“Promising?” Ermano stared down at the canal with narrowed eyes. “You are very kind to say so and, of course, I have great hopes for him. He is my only son. Yet I fear he has too much of his mother in him. She was from an excellent lineage, but of little spirit.”
With a beringed hand, he gestured towards one of the newer portraits on the wall, a depiction of a pale, plump lady overwhelmed by satin, sable, and jewels. The fourth Countess Grattiano. Marc pretended to study the painting, yet, really, he watched the count. Marc was much the same height as Ermano, taller than the average, but the count was wider, sturdier, his once well-muscled form turning slowly to fat. His white hair and beard were still thick, his gaze shrewd. He was an ageing lion, but powerful, alert, not yet ready to yield his glory to an unsatisfactory cub.
“I was married four times, you know?” Ermano said pensively. “All ladies of wealth and family, they served my fortune well, yet only one could give me a child that lived. A child of such surliness, such weakness. I fear for all I have built once I am gone.”
“Many youths pass through such dissatisfied phases. Signor Balthazar is young. He may well yet grow out of it.”
“I pray so.” Ermano turned his gaze on Marc, his eyes as green in colour as Balthazar’s, but more focused, less diffused with anger. “I would wager you never passed through such a ‘phase,’ Signor Velazquez. Your parents are fortunate, indeed, to possess such a son.”
Marc nearly laughed aloud at the delicious irony. “I will pass on your kind words to my mother, Count Ermano. Perhaps they will help her to forget the days of my youthful rebellion, when I refused her plan for me to enter the Church.”
“Your father is not living?”
Marc had a quick memory of Juan Velazquez, tall, swarthy, quick to temper, quicker to laugh. He had taught Marc all there was to know about ships and sailing, had imbued his adopted son with his own great love of the sea.
“Alas, no. Only my mother, who now resides in a convent near Seville.”
“She is blessed, to have produced a son who can be called Il leone.” Servants came into the sala, interrupting their conversation to set out platters of sweetmeats. A tall, dark, silent Turk poured spiced wine, bowing out of the room as Marc and Ermano seated themselves on the brocade chairs beside the massive fireplace.
“I have not yet given up hope, though,” Ermano went on. “It is true I am not a young man, but neither am I so very ancient. I could yet father more sons to inherit, perhaps even daughters who could marry well and bring further glory to the Grattiano name.”
The count intended to wed again, to produce yet more offspring to rain anger down on northern Italy? Marc nearly choked on his wine at the prospect. “I wish you good fortune in such an endeavour, Count,” he managed to say.
Ermano nodded thoughtfully. “Their mother would have to be strong, of course. No more weak-blooded signorinas. And intelligent, with a certain fire to her. I understand you have now visited Signora Bassano’s shop. Twice.”
Ah—so that was it. Ermano thought the tall, mysterious Julietta was just the woman to mother this great new brood. Marc could almost feel sorry for her. He placed his goblet of wine on the nearest inlaid table and faced the count. “I have. She seems a very—interesting lady.”
Ermano chuckled. “Sì, she is that. And very difficult to get near. She is so very prickly, like the artichoke. Yet I am sure that once one gets to her core it is quite—sweet.”
Marc felt a muscle tick along his jaw, tightening at the merest thought of Ermano putting his plump, jewelled hands on Julietta’s “sweet core.”
“Does she seem to like you?” Ermano continued, oblivious to Marc’s anger. “Will she talk honestly to you?”
Marc took a deep breath, bringing in the scents of the sugary cakes and Ermano’s mossy perfume. “It is difficult to say. She is, as you say, rather prickly. And very cautious.”
Ermano waved his hand in a careless gesture. “Ah, well, she will come around. You are Il leone, hero of the republic! You must continue to visit her, gain her trust. Then we shall proceed to the next stage of our plan.” He lowered his goblet to stare solemnly at Marc over its rim. “You will not be sorry you have agreed to help me, Signor Velazquez. I have much influence in Venice. I can be a great friend—or a terrible enemy.”
Marc returned the steady regard, not flinching, not turning away. As am I, Ermano, he thought coldly. As am I.

Chapter Seven
“Well, Bianca, what do you think? Shall I disgrace my escort?” Julietta turned slowly before her mirror, gazing back over her shoulder to make sure the fall of her skirt was straight and elegant.
Bianca clasped her hands before her and nodded, black eyes shining. “Oh, madonna! It is beautiful. Where have you been hiding it?”
“In that clothing chest, of course.” Where it had been packed away from her trousseau over all these years, unworn, unneeded. Julietta was not even sure why she had kept it. Most of her other grand clothes had been left behind in Milan. Elaborately embroidered silks and velvets were impractical in the shop, too obtrusive and ornate. Perhaps she had kept this one out of some strange sentiment. Or perhaps she had known that one day she would need it again.
Julietta turned back to face herself fully in the mirror. Her chemise was of ivory-coloured silk, thin, soft, shot through with glistening golden threads that echoed the bodice and skirt of gold lace over gold satin. Sleeves of cloth-of-gold were tied on with thin white ribbons twisted with tiny gold beads. It was a few years out of fashion; the sleeves were narrower and the skirt a bit fuller than was strictly desirable, the waist too high. But the lace was still sumptuous.
As Bianca took up a needle and thread and began to stitch up a tiny tear at the hem, Julietta fussed with her hair. Usually hair was not her foremost concern. She always brushed and braided it in the morning, pinning it up and covering it with a sheer veil so it was out of the way of her work. No trouble at all, and she did not miss the elaborate coiffures of her early married days, all twisted and oiled plaits and curls. Tonight, for some reason she could not even explain to herself, she had left it down like a girl. It fell in a straight black curtain to her waist, entwined with gold and white ribbons.
Bianca broke off her thread and stepped back. “You look like the sun itself, madonna.”
“Let us hope I do not look like mutton dressed as lamb,” Julietta muttered, repeating a long-forgotten favourite saying of her old Scottish nursemaid.
“Madonna?” Bianca asked, her face creased in puzzlement.
“It means I hope people do not think I am an old widow trying to recapture my vanished youth.”
“Oh, no! You are not so very old, signora. And you will be masked, anyway.”
“To hide my crone’s wrinkles!” Julietta laughed, and reached for the mask resting on a nearby table. It was of fine white leather, carefully trimmed with gilt, fashioned in the shape of a cat’s features. She held it up to her face, and it did, indeed, seem to have a transformative quality. She was not herself, not Julietta Bassano, sensible shop owner, respectable widow. Yet who was she?
Only the night could tell. And what would Signor Velazquez think of her new aspect? Would he be proud to take her hand, to lead her into the crowd, into the dance? Or did he regret already the whim of inviting her tonight?
Julietta slowly lowered the mask to find her own brown eyes staring back at her in the mirror. What had possessed him to invite her to the ball? She did not understand, particularly after seeing him with the Doge today. He was greatly favoured in this city, much sought after and courted. Any woman would be proud to be seen with him at the festivities. Yet he had chosen to invite her.
Why?
Her heart had been full of suspicion for so long she hardly knew any other way to be. People always had hidden motives to their words and actions; there was always so much swirling just below the calm, dark, quiet surfaces—much like the waters of Venice themselves. Nothing was ever what it seemed, not really. Marc Velazquez was no exception, she knew that just by looking into his opaque blue eyes. As turquoise as the sky, and just as vast and changeable. Clear skies in the morning could mean violent storms in the evening, and a wise woman—a woman with her own secrets to hold—would avoid storms of the sort produced by men such as Il leone. They could prove deadly.
And yet, and yet…
There was that strange feeling when he held her wrist in his hand, when he leaned close to look into her eyes. It was a storm of a different sort, warmer, more alluring, yet every bit as dangerous. And it would not be denied. Secrets and deceits—yes, there were those in abundance. But she was being pulled along by this new swirl of emotions, and they would not let her go just yet.
Nor did she want to be released. Not right now. Carnival had obviously entered her blood, spreading a lust for life she had imagined long buried. The mask, the gown—they all conspired to make her forget herself this night.
She slipped on her shoes, a new pair of high-heeled gold-brocade slippers fastened with white ribbons, and wandered over to her open chamber window. The crowd was thick tonight, not as aristocratic as the gathering in the Piazza San Marco would be, but just as merry. They were masked and cloaked and costumed, dancing on the cobblestones, drinking the wine that flowed from the fountain.
Tonight began a time out of time, a moment when the cares and griefs of life could all be forgotten and joy snatched at like a bright jewel. Every person in Venice was caught up in the whirl—why should she not be? She had been careful for so very long. She just wanted to laugh, to dance, to drink wine until she was giddy with it.
“It is only one night,” she whispered. “What could happen?”
As if in answer to her query, a delicate missile landed with a crack on the bricks by her window, and the sweet, heady scent of roses wafted through the air, along with a shower of bright confetti. Julietta gave a startled laugh, and leaned over to watch the paper and bits of shell float to the ground below. A perfume egg, one of the hallmarks of Carnival, an eggshell carefully emptied and refilled with perfume, had just been lobbed at her head! The laughter grew in her throat, bubbling up in an irresistible flood. She clapped her hand to her mouth, yet it would not be held back.
As Bianca came up to her side to see what was funny, Julietta scanned the area for the culprit. She did not have to search far. He stood near her very doorstep, a tall figure clad in a black velvet doublet and silver hose, his black cloak covered with iridescent silver stars and crescent moons. Though he wore a mask, a silver sliver of moon, and his dark hair was tied back, she knew him at once.
Marc Antonio Velazquez. Il leone. He grinned up at her, his teeth white even in the torchlight. A pirate’s smile, filled with wild glee as he prepared to board an enemy vessel.
Julietta shook her head wryly, and leaned out of the window to touch a smear of the perfume with her fingertips. She brought it to her nose to smell, and found the roses touched with a strange musk. “An inferior product, signor,” she called.
He laughed, a deep, rough sound that made her shiver. “Madonna, your own perfumes are much too fine to waste on mere bricks and mortar! Yet I would happily spread precious myrrh and lilies beneath your feet if it would please you, along with the finest pearls of the Orient, amber of Russia, sapphires of India…”
“Then you would be a fool, indeed,” Julietta answered, her laughter threatening to bubble up again. “Crushed pearls never did benefit anyone.”
“Then permit me to enter your dwelling, madonna, and I will drape the pearls about your white throat, carpet your very chamber with the sapphires, twine emeralds in your hair, if you will but smile at me like that again.”
Julietta felt an answering smile tug at the corners of her lips and next to her Bianca was giggling into her apron. But she would not give in. It was far too early in the evening for such ridiculous flirtations. Later in the evening, after more wine and music, perhaps…
“You are a silver-tongued devil, Signor Lune,” she said.
“I have learned from the best, Signora Sol,” he answered. “Poets and players who are the finest of their craft.”
“Ah, then, you must not waste it on such a one as I,” Julietta said. “I have no need of pearls and sapphires and I allow no one admittance to my dwelling. Not even poets.”
“Alas, my sun, I am wounded!” He clasped one hand to his heart. “Have I nothing to offer you? Nothing that may tempt you?”

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