Читать книгу The Shadowed Heart - Nina Beaumont - Страница 9

Chapter One

Venice, October 1767, the first day of Carnival

Chiara’s hand stole toward the slim dagger concealed at her waist as the man who held her arm tightly turned her away from the brightly lit Piazza San Marco. Her breath quickened shghtly as he steered her down a shadowy passageway, which was just wide enough for three people to walk abreast, but the handle of the weapon dug comfortingly into the palm of her hand and kept panic at bay.

If he noticed her apprehension, the man ignored it as he hurried her along. Finally he stopped in front of a door, the wood faded and cracked with age and moisture. Raising his hand, he knocked twice with his fist.

“We’re here,” he announced, giving her a fleeing look.

“You told me that you would take me to the house of a great lady.” Chiara wrenched her arm out of his grasp and shifted away, prepared to run or to use her dagger, whichever seemed more expedient. “I do not believe that a great lady would go near such a miserable place.”

The man looked down at the girl. The flickering light of the single lantern that hung above the door gave her skin a sallow cast, but he had seen it in daylight and knew that it had the golden color of a ripe apricot. The eyes of a startling blue were wary but held no fear.

She had spirit, he thought. He would keep her for a while and she would make him a nice sum. And when he was done with her, there were plenty of back-alley pimps who would take her off his hands. He felt a small flash of guilt, but it was easy to suppress it with the image of his daughter, who lay still in her bed no matter what new and expensive treatments the doctor invented for her.

“It is as I told you. This is the casino of Signora Giulietta Baldini, the widow of Ser Luigi Baldini.” He had no trouble injecting a smooth confidence into his voice, for—this time—he happened to be telling the truth.

“If you were from Venice,” he continued, “you would know that he was a very rich man. And you would know that Venetian ladies receive guests in their homes only on formal occasions. They have little houses like this one where their guests can enjoy themselves as they please in more intimate surroundings.” His fleshy mouth curved in a mocking grin. “But isn’t that something you should know? If you truly have the sight, that is?” He reached for her arm.

“I see what is given to me to see. Sometimes it is a great deal and sometimes it is nothing at all.” Chiara evaded his grasp. “Having the sight does not make me all-knowing.”

The man laughed, the sound echoing a little between the high buildings. “You don’t have to be all-knowing, little one.”

In fact, he thought, it was better for her that she was not. He leaned down toward her, his movement distracting her from the hand that snaked out from beneath his voluminous black cloak to curl tightly around her arm.

“All you have to do is tell a few fortunes like you did in the piazza this afternoon.” She had wrapped a shabby black shawl tightly around her, but an expanse of pale skin remained visible above the small gathered ruffle of her blouse and his gaze skimmed approvingly over her. “And be pleasant to Signora Giulietta’s guests.”

The door opened with a creak and Chiara turned to see a footman in costly green-and-gold livery holding a large candelabra.

“You are late, Manelli. Signora Giulietta is getting impatient.” The footman turned sharply and moved toward the narrow staircase.

Her fingers on the hilt of her dagger, Chiara allowed herself to be pulled into the small entry.

A small table with curved legs, chairs upholstered in rich, wine red velvet and expensive candles in gilt sconces on the walls gave some small reassurance that this house was indeed that of a great lady. Laughter and the sound of a mandolin drifted down the stairs, together with the scent of coffee, perfume and warm candle wax.

She thought of the coins she had earned today and tucked into the shabby purse she wore around her waist. She thought of the coins she had been promised for the evening’s work and how they would enable her to pay for her sister’s care at the small farm she had found near Padua. But, most of all, she thought of how it brought her one step closer to finding her father and getting the revenge that had been the focus of her life for more than two years.

She lifted her eyes to the florid face of the man the footman had called Manelli. “Let go of my arm,” she said softly.

As Manelli looked into the girl’s eyes, they lost all expression until they became as blank as glass.

She sensed greed and an almost casual brutishness, but the anxiety she sensed was stronger than either one so she looked at that more closely. An image rose of a young woman lying in a bed. She saw the woman sit up and hold out her hand. “Babbo, ” the woman said and smiled.

Chiara blinked and focused on Manelli’s face. He had grown a little pale beneath the ruddiness and she gave a satisfied little nod.

Manelli watched the strange light fade from the girl’s eyes. He felt an icy chill along his back and told himself that it was only the October wind blowing in from the still-open door. “Don’t worry. Your daughter will be healthy again.” Manelli was staring at her. Then she saw a desperate hope seep into his eyes and she smiled. “It is so,” she said. “I have seen it.”

Turning, she moved to follow the footman up the stairs toward the blazing lights.

Irritated by Giulietta’s inane chatter, Luca Zeani turned away and slung one leg carelessly over the arm of his chair. Picking up a mandolin, he plucked its strings absently. He heard the tinkle of coins in the next room and briefly considered joining one of the games. Perhaps a few hands of faraone at high stakes would speed his pulse a bit and burn off the indolence that had crept into his blood since his return to Venice.

But the languor that seemed to infect all of Venice kept him in his chair, his long, slender fingers idly strumming the mandolin. His half-open eyes were fixed on a gilded stucco border near the ceiling, but what he saw was the sunlit blue of the open sea.

The ache of longing for the sharp, clean air of the sea drifted through him, but even that did not rouse him from the languidness. It was so easy to give oneself to pleasure in this city where no one seemed to think of anything else.

The atmosphere of temptation and sensuality gripped you like a fever, he mused, making the pleasures offered the only reality. More real than the fact that he was in Venice to speak to the Great Council in the name of Admiral Angelo Emo, demanding more men and ships to fight the Barbary pirates. More real than the masked man who had approached him to speak seductively of freedom and renewed vigor for the sickly Venetian Republic.

Luca saw Giulietta rise from her seat beside him, and he gave a small sigh of relief. She was very beautiful and in bed she was as accomplished as a high-priced courtesan, but she was a tiresome woman. The showy necklace of rubies and diamonds that he had thought to give her as a parting gift had been in a cabinet in his apartments for weeks, but somehow it always seemed simpler to allow things to go on as they were.

When he felt the touch on his shoulder, Luca looked up in surprise, not having heard anyone approach him. But there was no one beside him.

Sitting up straight, he looked around him to see who could have touched him. Across from him, an elderly man dozed in his chair and, on his other side, a masked couple was engaged in such fervid flirtation that they seemed in imminent danger of forgetting that they were in public.

He looked across the room to where Giulietta stood speaking to a heavyset man and a tall young woman who was wearing a multicolored skirt that molded her hips—and again felt a touch. But this time he would have sworn that he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his skin just above his heart.

Putting the mandolin aside, he leaned forward, his hands propped on his ivory-colored silk breeches. Deliberately he met the young woman’s gaze. She was staring at him with such undisguised animosity that he stiffened, his own eyes narrowing.

Intrigued, he rose and sauntered to where Giulietta stood, cupping his hand around her neck more by habit than desire.

“What have we here?” he asked, never taking his gaze away from the girl’s eyes, which were the color of the Adriatic when the midday sun was upon it. Eyes that held hatred, more relentless and cold than he had ever encountered.

“A Gypsy fortune-teller. She will look into our guests’ future and then—” she paused and gave a malicious little laugh “—entertain them. An amusing little diversion, don’t you think, caro?” She looked up at Luca, leaning back to press her neck still more firmly against his fingers.

Giulietta’s words passed Luca by unheard as he stared into the girl’s eyes. He had made his share of enemies in his twenty-seven years, but he had never seen such loathing, not even over the point of a sword.

For the first time in weeks he felt the prickle of real excitement. A riddle to solve, he thought. A riddle involving a woman whose face would have done justice to one of Titian’s portraits. As he tore his gaze away from her eyes to allow it to drift over her, he felt an absurd pleasure in her lack of artifice.

Her curls fell beyond her shoulders in a tangled black mass and had obviously never seen the creams and lotions Venetian women used to bleach their hair to a fashionable blond color. Her lips, the color of strawberries, needed no rouge. Her golden skin was untouched by powder and, instead of a beauty patch, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

He felt his body tighten with that first, pure, sweet rush of arousal, untainted by skillful tricks or stimulants. His gaze returned to her eyes.

They were still trained on him, but they were strangely unfocused now as if she were looking far beyond his face. Baffled by the sudden change, he found his interest piqued still further. This was definitely a puzzle he wanted to solve.

It was him. Chiara stared over the lady’s shoulder, not quite believing what she was seeing. That hair the color of ripe wheat, unpowdered and uncurled in defiance of fashion, merely tied back carelessly with a dark ribbon. That chiseled, perfect profile.

No, she thought, shaking her head to clear it. She must be mistaken. She could not possibly have the good fortune to stumble across the man she hated so fiercely. Perhaps even more than she hated her father.

Then he turned to face her and she knew that she had not been mistaken. There could not be another mouth like that in the whole world, its sensuality promising both pleasure and cruelty. This is what Lucifer must have looked like, she thought. The fallen angel who had chosen to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.

She watched him rise and come toward her and, despite her hatred, which was so real its bitter taste lay on her tongue, she found herself much too aware of the man’s beauty.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him. Beneath the cover of her shawl, her hand moved to the dagger hidden in the folds of her clothes and touched the hilt. This dagger had spilled his blood once before and it would spill his blood again.

She drew her hand away from the metal with an effort. Not today, she told herself. She would have her revenge, she swore, but not today.

As she stared at him, the hatred inside her was suddenly pushed aside as if by an invisible hand and she heard a voice within her. The voice of the spirit that sometimes called to her, telling her to dip down to that shadowy region of impressions and images and look inside the man who stood before her.

She saw light. A clear, pure light like the rays of the rising sun. She searched for the darkness, for the evil that she was certain would be there. But all she saw was the light. Surely this was some kind of trick, a clever ruse to blind her. It was then that she saw it.

Behind the figure wreathed in light, she saw the dark apparition. She recognized his perfect features, his fine form. Recognized, too, the evil aura that surrounded the dark figure. The aura that was almost palpable.

So he was versed in the secrets of the occult, she thought. He had wanted to blind her with his light so that she would not see his darkness. But he would not succeed, she thought triumphantly, for she had seen the evil.

She pulled herself back to reality and saw that he was still looking at her. There was more than curiosity in his eyes. He was looking at her in the way that men looked at women.

But it was not the devilish, naked lust that she had seen that night in the Gypsy camp on the outskirts of a small town in Tuscany. The lust that had been glittering in his dark eyes even after he had slaked it on the unwilling body of her sister.

This time it appeared in a different guise. It was a desire that was far more subtle and seductive. For a fraction of a moment it reached out to touch her before she was able to draw back and protect herself against it

“Well, get on with it”

Giulietta’s sharp voice intruded into Luca’s sensual reverie. He watched the odd glow fade from the young Gypsy’s eyes. For a fraction of a moment before the hatred returned, he saw a softening, as if he had touched a string within her that had resonated with a harmonious sound.

“But get rid of that ugly black shawl of hers.”

The petulant tone of his mistress’s voice had Luca looking at her with irritation. It occurred to him that this was the strongest emotion that he had felt toward her in days. Perhaps it really was time to finally give her the ruby necklace and send her on her way.

“And you really could have cleaned her up a bit, Manelli.” The ivory sticks of her fan of fine painted parchment clattered as she waved it in front of Chiara’s face. “But I suppose some might find that wild, crude look appealing.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, just make sure my guests are well pleased, Manelli. I’m counting on you.”

Obediently Manelli plucked the shawl from Chiara’s shoulders and pulled her toward the first group of guests, who were already tittering expectantly.

Giulietta hooked her hand through Luca’s arm to take him away from the clutch of people who had drawn close together to hear what the young Gypsy had to say, but he resisted.

“You seem inordinately interested in her, caro.” Her rouged mouth pursed in a pout and she leaned close, inviting his caress.

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Luca raised an eyebrow. “To pique your guests’ interest?”

“But you’re not a guest, you are—”

He lifted a finger to her mouth to silence her and, extracting his arm from her grasp, shifted so that he could watch the young Gypsy’s face.

The guests crowded around her, thrusting their palms toward her, their voices raised in a babble of questions.

“I do not read palms.”

Luca straightened at the sound of her voice. It was low and husky for a girl so young. A voice that would go well with Gypsy fires.

“I cannot look at your whole life. You can ask me a question and if I am allowed to see the answer, I can tell you.”

Murmurs greeted her statement, which had been made in a clear voice that carried no apology.

“What a sham,” Giulietta hissed. “Manelli will not see a lira from me.”

Absently Luca shushed her as someone wearing a bautta, a kind of domino that was the simplest and most popular carnival disguise, stepped forward. The molded white mask covered the upper two thirds of the face and a black lace hood fell to the shoulders, making it impossible to say if the person beneath the disguise was a man or a woman.

The figure brieny lifted the black tricorn hat in a mocking salute and sketched a bow, revealing the dark silk breeches beneath the floor-length black cloak.

“Tell me, will the woman I love finally surrender?” The question was asked in a scratchy whisper.

Luca watched the young Gypsy’s eyes again grow unfocused, glassy. She went so completely still that she did not even seem to be breathing.

Minutes passed. Then Luca saw her chest move with a deep breath, saw her eyes lose that odd, empty expression.

“The woman you love will surrender many times,” she said. “But she will never surrender her heart.”

“Why not?” The scratchy whisper asked.

“Because her heart belongs only to herself.”

The figure made a gesture of disbelief with a gloved hand.

Chiara looked directly into the eyes visible through the slits of the mask. “No man will ever love you better than you love yourself, signora.”

Gasps of surprise and flustered giggles greeted her words.

Manelli gripped her arm and leaned close to her ear. “In Venice, the mask is to be respected above all things.”

Chiara wrenched her arm away and stepped away from the man’s smell of onions and cheap wine. “Those who do not want to know the truth should not ask me questions.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” the masked figure said, the voice undisguised now and obviously female. “She spoke only the truth.”

The woman laughed, reached into a pocket and handed Chiara a gold coin. Then she turned sharply, her cloak belling out for a moment before it settled around her again, and strode toward the door.

There was a moment of stillness, for everyone had recognized the voice, although no one was impolite enough to acknowledge that openly. It was the fabulously wealthy and eccentric Signora Laura Paradini. Laura Paradini, who had broken every rule in an already permissive society. Laura Paradini, who had outlived three husbands while half the patrician women in Venice took the veil for lack of marriage-minded men.

Everyone in the room seemed to start talking simultaneously at this sign of approval and began to press closer to the Gypsy. Suddenly everyone was eager to have the Gypsy answer their questions.

But Chiara pushed her way past the people milling around her. She had to talk to the woman. For the few moments that she had looked inside this woman, she had felt the presence of her father. She had not seen him, but he had been there just the same.

She had to know if the woman knew him. Perhaps she was the key to finding him. Perhaps she was the key to her revenge.

“Signora!” Chiara reached the door to see that the woman was already halfway down the stairs. “Wait, please.”

The woman turned, her mask ghostly in the dim light. “I must hasten to find that surrender you promised me.” She raised her hand in a wave. “Perhaps we will meet again.” She waved again and ran down the stairs, her cloak floating behind her.

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you mad?” Manelli grabbed her, afraid that she would flee. He had already seen that Signora Giulietta was not pleased with him.

Chiara shook off his hands. She would find the woman, she swore to herself, and through her she would find her father—after she had wrought the vengeance that a kind fate had placed in her path. Her eyes searched out the blond man in the crowd.

Yes, she thought as she returned to where the crowd stood waiting for her. Today had brought her good fortune, and vengeance—more vengeance than she had ever hoped for—would be hers.

His arms folded across his chest, Luca leaned against the wall that was covered with fine leather stamped with a delicate gold pattern. He had not taken his eyes off the girl for the past hour. He had watched her as she had seemed to descend time after time into some secret place, her eyes becoming unfocused and blank, her body growing as still as if she were dead. And when she moved again, she had every time said something that impressed the questioner with its accuracy.

He had always considered himself an enlightened, pragmatic man. A man who did not believe in the supernatural—not in Gypsy fortune-tellers, not in divine deities—so he was certain that this had to be some kind of a trick. And he was determined to find out just what her trick was.

And why did she look at him with such hatred in her eyes? Perhaps he could change the hatred to something softer. He acknowledged the excitement she aroused in him. Acknowledged it and relished it. It had been a long time since he had felt anything so strong or real.

“No! That is untrue what you say there!” The voice rose hysterically over the hum of conversation. “I will have you turned over to the Inquisitors—”

Giulietta moved quickly toward the shouting man, her hooped skirts of oyster-shell colored satin making her look like a caravel in full sail.

“But, my dear Savini, how can you get so worked up about the words of a silly little Gypsy.” She wound her arm around his and tugged him away, at the same time signaling Manelli with her eyes. “Would you expect her to speak Gospel?” She smiled up at him. “Now I have a little proposal for you on how we shall resolve this.” Leaning closer, she began to whisper in his ear.

Luca watched how Giulietta skillfully soothed the disturbance. Within moments, she had poor Savini under her spell. The guests had dispersed around the room and were drinking coffee and brandy again, gossiping desultorily as if nothing unusual had happened. And Manelli had bundled the Gypsy girl off to one of the small side rooms.

Luca pushed away from the wall and followed them.