One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

had not given his skin that greenish tinge that appeared on some paintings he had seen during a covert trip he had made to Madrid. It was bad enough that he would be preserved in these gaudy clothes for all time. In any event, Belle would have a good laugh at his expense.

      Bassanio stepped back and cocked his head. “Fine,” he pronounced.

      With relief, Francis got off his stool. “Finished? May I see it now?”

      The painter shook his head. “I only meant that I was finished for today. The good light is gone.” He dropped his cloth over the easel. “You can come next Wednesday?”

      Francis hid his disappointment. Portrait-sitting was indeed a rare form of torture. “Sì,” he agreed. He retrieved his cloak and turned to Jobe who still appeared to be lost in the forest of his own thoughts.

      “Have you seen enough art for the day?” he bantered.

      Blinking, Jobe nodded. He placed a ducat in the hand of the surprised painter. “My thanks, signore, for a most excellent afternoon.”

      Bassanio’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Come again, signore! Come often. Indeed, it would be an honor to paint you! I am your humble servant.” With more drivel of the same sort, Bassanio showed them out into the narrow street.

      Francis drew in a deep breath of the early evening air. Another light mist from the lagoon curled around the house corners. “Tell me, Jobe, what did you see in there?”

      The ebony giant chuckled. “I saw a painted fool.”

      Francis knew there was more. “And what else? Come now, I saw your face. You had another vision. Tell me.”

      Jobe gave him a searching look before he answered. “Very well. I beheld a dangerous secret, one that is bright-shining like the sun in splendor. For many years it has lain hidden deep amid the roots of your family. Soon it will be revealed but how or when, I do not know.”

      Which family, Francis wondered, Bardolph or Cavendish?

      Assuming a lighter mood, Jobe draped his arm over Francis’s shoulder. “Where away? Do we sup with the delectable Donna Cosma?”

      Francis stared up at the chimney pots across the way. He had no desire to see his husband-hunting mistress. “Not I tonight, my friend, though I would not deny you that singular pleasure if you wish it.”

      Jobe stroked his beardless chin. “How now? Surely the wench expects you. Your landlord gave me the impression that you always spent your evenings at her establishment.”

      Francis thought of the sweet, mysterious, fascinating Jessica. “Tis time for a change, methinks. Let us repair to my inn where mine host serves a passable meal, and we shall have a long talk in private. I am anxious to hear all the news of…of home.”

      Jobe nodded with a grin. “Then I am your man. I will purchase a bottle of sweet wine and then I will fill your nighttime hours with so many tales that you will cry ‘enough!”’

      “Good!” Francis savored his pleasant thoughts of Jessica. “The morrow will come more quickly.”

      Jobe’s laughter rumbled up from his throat. “Methinks I scent l’amore!”

      Francis snorted. “When pigs fly.”