Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

the matter.”

      “And what is your theory?”

      “Quite simply that he’s never met any woman he’s wanted to marry.”

      The lawyer lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “Among so many?”

      Dyckman shrugs. “We each have our own criteria. You said yourself that he’s an unusual man. Perhaps he’s looking for something very rare.”

      “Which is what?”

      Dyckman shrugs again. “Unless he finds it, we’ll never know.”

      “Stafford,” Buchan says, leaning across his desk, “I am not the enemy, and your friend is a famous—I will not say infamous—man. Anything more you can tell me about him may help me in my dealings with Mr. Chadwick.”

      “You still want to know about Mario’s women.”

      “I want to know why a man extravagantly romantic enough to wish to buy a house for a young woman he never saw before yesterday should still be a bachelor. I simply refuse to believe that he could have escaped unscathed all these years. You say that you can tell me about him? All right, then”—he leans back in his chair—“tell me about him.”

      “Well, would it surprise you to learn that he’s always had a penchant for the ladies? His stepmother …” Dyckman smiles at the memory. “His stepmother once told me that all her friends loved attending sewing circles and musicales and other such ladies’ meetings at her house because Mario would go from chair to chair, kissing the hand of each guest and telling her how lovely she looked.”

      “Considering whom we’re speaking of, is that so remarkable?”

      “Daniel,” Dyckman says. “He was twelve years old at the time.”

      The lawyer laughs and cocks his head. “So this is not something he’s cultivated as he’s grown older.”

      “Oh, no … it’s bred in the bone. He told me once that since he was thirteen he’s spent more time in the confessional, and on his knees, doing penance, than any three men he’s known … and I think he was only half joking. Mario likes women a great deal.”

      “So do I, Stafford. But when I was thirteen I wanted nothing more than to go swimming with the boys in the summer, and watch the trains pulling into the station. That, I guess, is what makes the difference between Mario Alfieri and me.”

      “That,” the young man grins, “and the fact that he can sing like a god.”

      “The clear implication being that I do not.”

      “I’ve heard that the minister asked if you would be kind enough to mouth the hymns,” Dyckman answers, “because you were throwing the organist off-key. By the way,” he says casually, “one of Mario’s sisters did tell me that once, years and years ago, he did want to marry.”

      Buchan shifts in his chair. “Did he, indeed?”

      “It was a very brief affair, very intense. Mario was wild about the girl. She was a year or two older than he … also a singer, apparently. She refused his offer of marriage … wanted her own career, and ran off with some German landgrave with a castle on the Rhine, several schlager scars, and a small private army, who promised to help her. Mario’s family were pleased that she was gone: he was just becoming famous, singing all over Italy, and had refused several plum roles because he would not be separated from her. He went half mad when she left him, and tried to get her back, but the landgrave wouldn’t let him near.” Dyckman is smiling no longer. “He never saw her again.”

      “When was this?”

      “About fifteen years ago. Fiorina—Mario’s youngest sister—was only five when it happened, and remembers nothing of it herself … but it’s still spoken of in the family from time to time.”

      “Fiorina told you this?”

      “Yes. She’s Mario’s favorite.” He stares down at his hands. “Mine too.”

      Buchan’s lips twitch, but he chooses to ignore Stafford’s confession. “And the woman he wished to marry?”

      “Fared badly, or so the family heard, although they tried to keep it from Mario. The landgrave did nothing to forward her career, nor had he ever intended to … that had been a ruse to get her into his bed, nothing more. He tired of her after about a year and passed her on to the captain of his guard, who kept her for several more months.” Dyckman lifts his shoulders. “After that she disappeared. I don’t know if Mario ever learned what became of her, or if he would care any longer, if he did. It was all a very long time ago.

      “Once she was gone he threw himself into his singing, sang everywhere in Italy—all over Tuscany and Umbria, in Parma, Venice, Modena, Turin, Naples, Genoa, Bologna, Rome … everywhere. Began to make a name for himself in other cities, too—London, Paris, St. Petersburg. And then he met Verdi.

      “Back in the early sixties, when Mario was a child, his father had been at the center of the Risorgimento in Florence. Leading local and sometimes national figures would meet at his house … the writer Manzoni and Verdi among them. Mario auditioned at La Scala in eighteen eighty, for the role of Alfredo in La Traviata. Verdi was at that audition. He’s a tough old bird, is Maestro Verdi, and he isn’t easily impressed, but he asked to meet Mario afterward. When they were introduced, and he found out that Mario was the son of his old comrade … well, it would have made no difference if he hadn’t had the voice, but between sounding like a god and being his father’s son …”

      Dyckman smiles. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

      The chimes of Trinity Church ring out one o’clock, and Buchan rises from behind his desk. “Thank you,” he says, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “But that is enough history for one day. Will you join me for lunch? There’s a small restaurant nearby with an excellent cellar. I should like to hear what it’s like to be an American expatriate living in Europe.”

      “Gladly. And I should like to know what you can tell me of Slade’s ward,” Dyckman says as he draws on his gloves. “Having been away for the past five years, I never even heard of her until yesterday. Who is she?”

      “That, my dear young man, is a question to which many people would like the answer. I suspect, now that Henry Slade is dead, that only Thaddeus Chadwick really knows.”

      “Is he likely to tell?”

      Buchan snorts. “Thaddeus Chadwick does not give things away. There is a pretty price tag attached to everything he touches, even knowledge. Signor Alfieri will have to pay handsomely for that house if he really wants it.”

      “He wants it, Daniel. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

      “It may prove too dear even for him.”

      Stafford shakes his head. “The price won’t matter.”

      “Don’t be naïve; price always matters, even if only as a point of pride. On the other hand, what a thing costs is not always measured in money.”

      “He will pay what he needs to buy the house.”

      “But not if Miss Adler is not there, or so he has said. Therefore, what price do you assign to her? What is she worth?”

      “All I can tell you,” Dyckman says as they make their way down the stairs, “is that for someone normally so reasonable, Mario becomes the most intractable human being once he has his heart set on something. Nothing sways him.”

      “Ah, Stafford; I fear he has met his match in Mr. Chadwick. Well, this should prove an interesting contest. My esteemed colleague has evidently made up his mind that Miss Adler is not to be an issue in the sale of the house, and Signor Alfieri has his heart set on having her under his roof. Which of them will prove stronger in the long run, I wonder?”

      Dyckman laughs, as they reach the sidewalk. “And what, pray tell, happens