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