Veiled Passions. Tracy MacNish

now, Samuel Ellsworth thought he could conduct business with her brother as if nothing had happened? She’d kept it all secret, and now he had the audacity to think that she would tolerate his presence?

      Kieran would die first.

      As Rogan and Kieran made their way through the ballroom, they saw that Nilo had removed his hat and was fanning Emeline, who still leaned against the window.

      Rogan knelt at his wife’s side and spoke softly with her. He stood then, and turned to Kieran. “I’ll carry her out. Let’s go.”

      Kieran hesitated only for a moment. Inwardly cringing at how it would hurt them and how callous she would seem, she said, “Would you mind overmuch if I stayed on here for a time, and enjoyed a bit more of the festa?”

      Rogan’s expression became incredulous. “Emeline is ailing, and you want to dance?”

      “I was merely thinking that Emeline needs to lie abed, and there’s naught I can do for her. ’Tis not indifference, Rogan, but simply practicality.”

      “Yes, stay,” Emeline said softly, settling the matter. “I have seldom seen you have such fun. ’Tis a good diversion for you, and I would be pained to have caused you to miss it.”

      “Thank you, Emeline,” Kieran said softly, and she moved to embrace her. “I do so hope all is well with the child,” she whispered in her ear.

      Emeline squeezed Kieran tight. “Pray ’tis so.”

      “Of course,” Kieran lied again. She’d ceased praying years ago, after a night spent praying to be spared a horrific choice, and months after, praying for an absolution that never came. “Sleep well.”

      Rogan consulted his timepiece. “Two hours, Kieran, and see to it that Nilo knows where you are at all times.”

      “Thank you, Rogan.”

      Rogan lifted his wife and cradled her in his arms. He left the ballroom by way of the terrace. Kieran took Emeline’s evacuated seat and waited until she was certain that Rogan would have had time to get into a gondola and head back to their rented palazzo.

      When she decided enough time had passed, she rose and turned to Nilo. “I need to go above stairs.”

      Her tactful phrase told Nilo all he needed to know: his mistress needed to use the facilities. The great, hulking African escorted her through the crowded ballroom and to the bottom of the steps that curved to the upper level.

      Kieran ascended them, her heart pounding, her belly churning. Never mind what she felt, her determination was set. She would personally see to it that whatever the cost, Samuel Ellsworth would not enter into business with her brother.

      Aboard his elegant burchiello, Matteo de Gama hunched over a high stakes bank of faro. They played with real money, no checks or chips. Sequins and ducats were piled around each punter, the biggest stack in front of Matteo. The banker tried to cover his dismay behind a disaffected mien. He could not, however, hide the bead of sweat that formed on his upper lip. The man was all in, and had just bet the turn. Matteo didn’t mind the case keeper; he counted cards the way he seduced women: After years of practice, it had simply become second nature. Though Matteo’s expression never changed, he coppered the bet and waited for the banker to make the turn.

      The swaying of the burchiello picked up as the rowers turned onto the Grand Canal, heading in the direction of a man who had summoned Matteo to ask a favor. Because Matteo had a game slotted for that evening, the other players joined him on his burchiello to play en route.

      The turn revealed the final three cards in Matteo’s favor, and the banker let out a small moan as he slid the last of his sequins across the board and added to the glittering pile in front of Matteo.

      “Time to take a break, gentlemen?” Matteo asked. He rose and crossed the marble floor to his well-stocked liquor and wine cabinet. At his orders, small, bite-sized finger foods had been set out, dried dates and cheeses, anchovies and olives. “Come, eat. We will play again after I see what Vincenzo is in need of.”

      The banker, Leonardo, accepted a large glass of wine and took a piece of cheese. While the other men talked and laughed about the game as they counted their remaining monies and loaded up the dealing box, Leonardo drank and ate as if it were his final meal.

      “My wife will slay me,” Leo said with finality. “First she will cut off my penis and feed it to the pigeons in the square. And then she will cut out my heart and leave me to lay dying in our bed.”

      “Playing with your wages again?” Matteo inquired.

      “Worse. Playing on credit.” Leo took a huge gulp of wine, glanced over his shoulder, and leaned in with a confidential whisper. “I am in debt to several men, a few of whom are unsavory.”

      Matteo shook his head in sympathy. Gambling, for Matteo, was a way of life. It was how he paid his rents, padded his coffers, and afforded life’s luxuries. For others, however, it could become something much darker, a compulsion, and it had led to many a man’s death when creditors came calling. Sadly, it seemed Leonardo had succumbed to that sickness.

      “More wine?” Matteo offered.

      “All I need is a few chips and a chair, and I’m certain I can recoup my losses.” Leo held out his glass as Matteo poured, and as he watched the dark red liquid fill the goblet, he chewed his bottom lip pensively. “You know, for a price, I would let a little information slip your way.”

      A desperate man’s final plea. Pitiful. “What price, and how am I assured this information pertains to me?”

      Leo glanced back to the table at the bank of faro. “I assure you, if I were you, I would want to know.”

      The piles of coins by Matteo’s seat glittered, and Leo looked on longingly. The thing about desperate men was they were often willing to go to extreme lengths to save their necks. Matteo studied Leonardo for a moment: wide, earnest eyes, sweaty brow, trembling hands. He was afraid of his wife, definitely, and was frantic to get back into the game, but was not likely lying about having information. Matteo was curious enough to wonder exactly how little Leo would take in exchange for his tidbit. “Two sequins.”

      “You insult me. Twenty.”

      “Ten, and nothing more.”

      “Twelve, and I will divulge names.”

      “Done.”

      Leo sent a searching look around them, making certain none of the other men listened. It was painful for Matteo to watch him; every thought, emotion, need, and desire stood out in plain relief on his thin face. It really wasn’t a wonder as to why he’d been reduced to selling information.

      “Gia, the daughter of Paulo DelAmicio, has gone to her father and revealed that a certain man seduced her and left her with no virtue and no promise of marriage.”

      Cold dread formed in Matteo’s gut. Paulo DelAmicio was a dangerous man. But his lusty daughter had been irresistable.

      “Whomever that man was,” Leo said, his tone indicating he knew precisely who wooed the beautiful young girl, “might want to consider leaving Venice before he is divested of his head. I hear there’s been a high price lain upon it.”

      “Interesting information, indeed, though useless. Shame on me for falling for your ruse.” Matteo bowed slightly, his demeanor unaffected despite the apprehension that gripped him. He turned to the other men. “As always, our time was enjoyable, but I must cut it short. As you know, I have an appointment.” He swept his winnings into a leather pouch, counted out twelve sequins and pressed the payment into Leo’s waiting palm.

      Matteo excused himself and left the grand room of his burchiello to seek out his boatmen. Within minutes the vessel was brought to the side of the canal, the gamblers were asked to leave, and a man was discretely dispatched to send word to the man who was expecting Matteo.

      Signore de Gama, it seemed,