Page 1 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

A s the curtain came down on Signor Verdi’s newest opera, Constance clung very tightly to Solomon’s hand.

The music had been sublime, the subject of La Traviata perhaps a little too close to home, dealing as it did with a tragic courtesan.

Not that Constance considered herself remotely tragic.

On the contrary, her life seemed to have turned into something magical and wondrous, and the opera music heightened everything into pure emotion.

The Venetian opera lovers clearly had their doubts about the performance, for there were catcalls amongst the applause. Constance glanced at Solomon, lifting her eyebrows.

“Well, some of the singing was a little weak,” he said. “And it does require quite a feat of imagination to believe that particular lady to be dying young of consumption.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

He rose, drawing her with him. “Of course I did.” His eyes were warm and intimate, and she marveled all over again that she should have this amazing man to share her life with. Her husband, Solomon Grey, the true source of all her emotion.

She smiled and led the way from the box to join the throngs in the passage. The crowd was loud and lively, but she did not mind. The Italian language was curiously musical, even when hordes of people talked at once.

It was just as they stepped out of the theatre and into the street that she saw the Englishman again.

She had noticed him before, just after the first act, in a box close to theirs, gazing at her quite fixedly.

Constance, used to men’s stares for all sorts of reasons, had thought nothing of it beyond the fact that he appeared somehow very British in his severe evening dress.

Now her wide skirts almost brushed against him, and again he was looking right at her.

He must have been in his early fifties, tall and fit, wearing an expensive opera cloak and a silk hat on his iron-gray head.

When she caught him staring, he merely smiled and touched the brim of his hat.

It was a civil smile, neither threatening nor lascivious, but there was no embarrassment either, let alone apology for his obvious interest.

Constance ignored him and turned back to Solomon.

Venice at night was enchanting, full of grand squares lit by lamplight and dark, narrow passages. Waterways glinted in the moonlight, scattered with lanterns on the myriad boats that acted like the much more mundane hackney cabs of London.

“Did you see that Englishman?” she asked as they walked in the opposite direction of the crowd toward the Rio di San Luca, where their boat awaited them. “Do you know him?”

“Which Englishman?”

“The one we passed just at the theatre door. He looked at me. He was watching me at the last interval too.”

“Men are always watching you. It is something I must grow used to. I thought you already were.”

He was right. She had worked hard to inspire men’s notice and there was no real reason to be outraged by that particular gentleman’s unthreatening attention. “I wondered if you knew him and that was why he looked.”

He covered her hand with his, drawing it further into the crook of his arm. “He stares because you are beautiful and look especially lovely tonight. You forget to hide your emotions when you watch the stage. You are breathtaking.”

It was her own breath that vanished at his words.

In the fortnight since their marriage, he had made her several such unexpected compliments, which meant all the more to her because he was not a man to give them easily.

Quiet and self-disciplined, he never showed his passion to the world.

But he showed it to her, and that was the greatest compliment of them all.

She laid her cheek against his arm. “I do love you, Solomon.”

The world was perfect. At her side, this wonderful, complicated man, and surrounding them, this stunning city of unbelievable beauty and serenity.

More immediately, people walked past them in various directions, and when they reached the water, some descended the steps to where their private boats awaited.

The boatmen called to each other, guiding their distinctive craft with great dexterity.

Constance and Solomon strolled on along the side of the Rio di San Luca.

She was in no hurry, and they had asked their boatman to wait some distance from the Teatro la Fenice. They liked to walk.

Every few yards there were steps down to the water, and the further they walked, the fewer waiting boats they saw.

It was a fine night, and the moonlight reflected off the water, along with the boatmen’s lights.

They approached their own boat at last. Alvise, their oarsman, or gondoliere , waved, still worried they would not be able to find him. Solomon lifted a hand in return.

“What is going on there?” he said suddenly.

She followed his gaze beyond their boat to the next stairs, where a group of men appeared to enjoying a spirited altercation.

“No doubt a quarrel over politics or some finer point of philosophy. Or trade.” They had observed many such arguments, most of which were good-natured if loud.

But this one seemed to have turned ugly.

The men had surrounded one of their number. Punches were thrown. Constance was sure a blade glinted as the victim went down under the combined assault.

Solomon swore under his breath. “Wait here.” He sprinted down the walkway, calling out in the hope of frightening off the attackers.

Alvise groaned and leapt up the steps from his boat. Constance gathered up her skirts and flew after Solomon. She wished she had filled her reticule with stones—an old trick she had used to defend herself in the past—for she had no other weapon to hand.

Ahead, the victim seemed to be back on his feet but still under attack, though two of the men had turned to face Solomon. Constance tried to run faster, but her arm was suddenly grasped from behind, pulling her up with a bump. A torrent of Italian told her it was Alvise.

“We need to help him!” she raged, trying to tug herself free.

But Alvise’s usual friendly submission had vanished. He would not obey. “No, signora. You stay, or I cannot go.” His voice was hard, impatient, forcing her to accept that he would be more use to Solomon than she would. And if he had to stay here protecting her, then Solomon would be alone.

“Go,” she whispered.

Nodding curtly, he released her and loped toward the fight, drawing something from the belt of his trousers that glinted in the moonlight.

When she was sure Alvise would not look back, she began to move after him, forcing herself to walk sedately while trying to make sense of the melee ahead.

The two men came out of nowhere, grasped an arm each, and started dragging her toward the dark passageway on their right. She opened her mouth to call out, and a rough hand clapped over her face.

*

Solomon’s joining the fight appeared to merely irritate the practiced thugs setting about their outnumbered victim. When he charged into the melee, hoping to scare them off, they tried to swat him away as though he were an annoying mosquito.

Interesting, he thought, as he forced his way to the victim’s side. This young man, breathing rapidly, was already bloodied and winded, but seemed game enough, even flashing Solomon a very brief and weary smile of gratitude before a fist swung viciously for the side of his head.

It was Solomon who blocked the punch, grasping the attacker’s arm and swinging him into his comrades, who were trying to surround their victim again, separating him from Solomon. They staggered into each other, allowing the defenders a moment of respite.

Solomon charged, head down, felling one man before swinging around, both fists flying to connect with another. The original victim, apparently heartened by this success, got in a few blows of his own.

Solomon’s main worry was the blade glinting in the light of a passing boat.

Its wielder was not so much stabbing as slashing, and it was only a matter of time before he injured or even killed someone.

Solomon brought him down with a well-aimed kick to the knees, and stood on the man’s wrist before swooping down to retrieve the knife from his nerveless fingers.

And then Alvise joined the fight, which changed the numbers to four against three.

The attackers clearly did not like these odds, for they melted suddenly into the darkness, hurling only insults and threats as they backed off away from the canal to a narrow passage.

Beyond them, back where Solomon had left Constance, two men were dragging a woman into darkness.

Constance .

He might have made some animal noise of fear, or it might just have been in his head.

He didn’t care which. He was already pounding down the street toward where he had last seen her, no conscious thought in his head except that he could not lose sight of her.

All other concerns, recriminations, and regrets had to wait before the one vital necessity of keeping her in sight until…

Someone caught his arm. “Signor, there is no point!”

The passageway was empty. The victim of the attack and Alvise stood on either side of him. He shook them off, but the man he had helped clung determinedly to his arm.

“No, signor. I don’t believe they will hurt her. And I know where they are taking her.”

Solomon stared at him, torn. Every second he wasted talking, Constance got further away from him. “This is part of your quarrel?”

“You helped me. They think she is connected to me, that this will hurt me.”

“Where?” Solomon barked. “Where have they taken her?” Could he even believe this bloodied stranger?

“Palazzo Savelli.”

Solomon flicked his gaze at Alvise. “Do you know it?”

Alvise nodded once. He exchanged some rapid words with the other Venetian. Solomon paid no attention. He was already striding back toward his boat.

“Send the police,” he threw over his shoulder at the victim.