Launching into the second verse of his childhood song, he hailed a passing gondola.
Chapter Two
Cosma di Luna cast a glance over her creamy white shoulder and asked, “After the Englishman left the house of the healer, where did he go?”
In her dressing-table mirror, she observed her young informant gaping at her near-naked beauty with an ill-concealed hunger. Jacopo was such a pliable youth. The merest flash of her breasts was enough to enslave him to her command. She knew she could save herself many ducats if she paid for his information with her favors.
Cosma leaned closer to the mirror to apply a line of sooty kohl to her eyelids. She reveled in her position as one of Venice’s premier courtesans who entertained in her bed noble senators, sons of the aristocracy and wealthy merchants. She had no need to stoop to servicing a low-born, would-be bravo. Her coin and a well-chosen glance or two of her charms would suffice for the likes of Jacopo.
“Well?” she prodded the stupefied young man. “I presume that you did follow Messere Bardolph as I asked you?”
Jacopo ran his tongue over his lips. “Sì, Donna Cosma. First he went to the Rialto, where he drank wine with some acquaintances. He stopped by the beggar that sits on the steps of San Giacomo church and exchanged a few words with the man. Lord Bardolph gave him alms, as is his custom. Then he went to the bookbinders where he stayed a quarter of an hour or so if one can rely on the bells of San Giacomo.” Jacopo scratched his head in thought. “After that he visited the apothecary shop at the corner of Calle del Spezier and the Campo San Stefano.”
Cosma paused in her cosmetic applications. “What did he purchase?” she asked lightly, though her breath caught in her throat. Pray God, Francis had not caught the French pox. “You did ask, did you not?”
Jacopo grinned. “Sì, madonna, I know my duties. He procured a vial of an elixir for…that is…” He blushed and coughed into his sleeve. “To render him impotent, or so the apothecary swore to me.”
Cosma’s fear gave way to anger. Her fingers gripped the ivory handle of her brush until her knuckles turned white. What a villain with a smiling cheek! Though she had been his mistress for nearly four months, Francis had yet to complete the act of love with her. Usually he withdrew himself before the moment of truth. Other times, he claimed to be…uninspired. Was it any wonder that she had resorted to having him followed? If he slaked his appetites with another woman, Cosma knew she could soon remedy that situation. But why use a potion to deliberately deflate his desire?
The more she dwelled on Francis’s perfidy, the angrier she grew. His fear of impregnating her was truly an obsession, not merely a whim as she had first thought. Cosma narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she not the reigning Venus of the city? How dare he use her in such a fashion! Or, more to the point, not use her as any sensible man would.
“Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”
Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”
Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”
Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”
The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.
And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”
Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.
Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”
He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.
He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”
With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.
“Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”
“Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.
Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”
Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.
As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.
Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.
I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!
The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?
Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed