“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