Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.
Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.
Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils with intoxicating invitation. Though the elixir did not sit well in his stomach, Francis was glad he had drunk it. Cosma had obviously woven her gilded web for his complete downfall tonight.
“Come, let us sup, my love,” she murmured after recovering from his cool greeting. “Tell me the news of your day.”
He glanced at the table set for a feast. Wine sparkled in pink glass goblets and silver-covered dishes crowded the nearby sideboard. His stomach growled with a mixture of hunger and revulsion. He swallowed. “My day was nothing but loud talk among half-wits.” He dismissed his activities both innocent and subversive. “I had much rather feast upon your conversation, gattina mia—my little kitten.”
Cosma flashed a wide smile as she pulled him toward her repast. “Then I will not deny you the pleasure of satisfying your appetite—all your appetites,” she purred.
With a resigned sigh, Francis lowered himself onto the padded leather armchair. He had absolutely no appetite for anything—food or otherwise. Cosma seated herself opposite him. Outside her window a creeping fog swathed the lantern lights of the houses on the opposite side of the canal in a soft damp glow. The misty gray vapor muffled the singing of the gondoliers as they plied their slim black boats through the still water. With graceful movements born of practice, Cosma uncovered a dish.
Francis’s stomach roiled at the aroma of the savory eel soup. “I fear I am not very hungry,” he muttered. He took a sip from his brimming goblet. Hopefully the wine would settle the discontented humor of his digestion. Damn that poxy apothecary!
Cosma’s brown eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “A taste here, a bite there, caro mio.” She allowed a small pout to cross her rouged lips. “I had this meal prepared especially for you.”
Francis picked up his spoon. “Then I shall eat it especially for you,” he replied. It was a shame that he felt so out of sorts since Cosma employed one of the best cooks in Venice.
Lifting her goblet, she toasted him. “You do me honor, my lord.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “And how was your visit to Signorina Leonardo?” she asked in a light tone.
At the mention of Jessica, a smile creased Francis’s lips. The memory of her voice and her touch gave him delight despite his current discomfort. “A most welcome one, I assure you, gattina.”
A small frown knotted between Cosma’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “Indeed? I should think you would find her affectation for the mask a bit…how do I say it? Bizarre.”
Francis sipped more wine to ease the eel down his throat. His ruffed collar felt very tight. “Not in the least. In fact, I found it added to her charm.” He glanced at the groaning sideboard. Spikes and nails! How many more of these covered dishes was he supposed to consume?
Cosma blotted the corner of her mouth with her damask napkin. “Did you know that her parents were Jewish? The Spanish Inquisition forced them to convert—or so I have been told.” She poured him more wine from a beautiful pink glass decanter. “One cannot help but wonder how far from the tree the apple falls.”
Francis concealed a burp behind his napkin. “Are you implying that Donna Jessica is a Jew?” His belly filled with wind of a most disagreeable sort. He unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop to the floor.
Cosma lifted her shoulders in a sketch of a shrug. The action bared her flesh down to her breast. “I merely relate the gossip of the city, my love, as I know it entertains you.”
He gently pushed away the half-eaten soup. “Donna Jessica appeared to be as Catholic as I am.”
A lie since he had very little interest in religion. The rift between old King Henry and the pope had squashed most of Francis’s interest in spiritual matters. He came from a Catholic household that had been forced to practice their faith in secret now that the young King Edward pursued with zealous fervor the propagation of the Protestant creed throughout England. Whatever her religion, Jessica was probably more devout than Francis had ever been.
Cosma shrugged again, baring her other shoulder. “It matters not to me in the slightest.”
Francis mopped his damp brow. “Nor to me. Jew or Catholic, Jessica is a wonder and that is God’s own truth.”
Cosma pouted. “Indeed,” she muttered. Then she lifted the lid of the largest platter. “Perhaps these will titillate your fancy.”
Francis gulped down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “What are they?”
“A dish of doves,” she cooed.
He rolled his eyes to the gilded vaulted ceiling. “Oh, me, pigeons again? It is well that so many of them flutter in the Piazza San Marco to fill your larder, Cosma.”
She placed one of the tiny golden fowl on his plate then sucked on her fingers in a provocative manner. “Prepared with hot spices from the East and roasted with onions.”
He groaned inwardly. He should have guessed that Cosma’s supper would harbor an ulterior motive. Lady Katherine Cavendish, Brandon’s wife, was well versed in the lore of aphrodisiacs. Years ago she had taught Francis the hidden properties of many an innocent-looking meal. Onions for a man’s virility; hot spices and peppers to excite sexual impulses; eels to stimulate motion in bedsport—and those blasted doves? The special pets of Venus herself. Francis gulped more wine, but instead of settling his much-distressed stomach it only made things worse.
Cosma, ignorant of Francis’s gastronomic turmoil, pulled off some of the succulent pigeon breast with the tips of her white teeth. She curled her long pink tongue around one of her fingers and languorously suckled it. “My food is not to your liking? Oh, dear! I have displeased you—and after I tried so hard to make this meal a warm one. To heat you after a day spent in the cold air outside.” A tear shimmered in her eye.
Francis blew out his breath with exasperation. “Don’t weep!” he snapped. Weeping women completely unnerved him. On the one occasion when his mother had wept in his presence, Francis thought he would die. “Your supper surpasses all delights.” He stuffed a whole roasted onion into his mouth and chewed it with loathing.
Cosma immediately brightened. “I hope not all delights,” she hinted. “There are others yet to come.”
Francis’s