The Shadowed Heart. Nina Beaumont

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,