Page 18 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

I n the past, when Constance had insinuated herself into respectable Society, she had done so in the spirit of flimflam and a brash, devil-may-care attitude.

It had even amused her to think of her companions’ horror if only they knew she was the bastard daughter of a drunken whore and fence of stolen goods, and a genuine brothel madam in her own right.

That was before Solomon. She was no longer pretending to be his wife, though sometimes she still felt as if she were acting a part on the stage.

Like now. Entering the consulate reception on his arm, she had to stop her nervous hands smoothing her gown and fluttering about her hair.

She felt stiff, her smile like wax. She would never admit nervousness, even to Solomon, but in truth she would have died rather than let him down.

She tried to imagine she was in her own establishment, greeting guests at the civilized evening parties that were the tasteful prelude to expensive transactions. And that helped. At least she could relax her grip on Solomon’s sleeve to that of a mere vise.

Only the first person she saw was him .

The gray-bearded Englishman she had first noticed at the opera and then on the gondola sailing beneath the nearest bridge to their house.

She had forgotten all about him in the recent excitement, but now the odd nature of his stare came back with a vengeance, for he glanced over his companion’s shoulder and saw her.

For an instant, he looked stunned—he most certainly recognized her—but this time it was he who looked away.

Solomon winced, and she realized she had dug her fingers into his flesh rather than his coat sleeve. She loosened them at once. “Sorry. He’s here, that Englishman we keep seeing.”

“Well, it is the British consulate,” Solomon pointed out.

She was lost then in a maze of introductions as they were formally welcomed and a young man called Mr. Simons attached himself to them.

“I’m so glad you could come,” he gushed. “We had no idea you were in Venice until Mr. Kellar told us.”

“Mr. Kellar?” Solomon said, accepting a glass of wine that Mr. Simons ferried to them from a waiter’s tray.

“Mr. Sebastian Kellar,” Simons clarified, nodding toward the mysterious Englishman, who, in fact, was chuckling away with another unexpected figure—Ludovico Giusti.

For some reason, this gave Constance a fresh jolt. Was this Kellar somehow involved in Savelli’s murder? Or at least in her abduction by Savelli’s thugs? He had been watching her…

“Are you here in Venice for business or pleasure, Mr. Grey?” Simons asked.

“Oh, definitely the latter,” Solomon replied. “This is our wedding trip.”

“Oh! Congratulations, sir! I wish you both very happy indeed! Are you acquainted with Mrs. Hargreaves?”

It was, Constance realized, a familiar kind of party, designed to gather gossip and provide opportunity for British people to do themselves and each other favors in the way of trade and diplomacy.

Naturally, much of this involved fellow foreigners as well as Venetian natives, and Constance soon found herself in conversation with a British diplomat’s wife, two Italians, an American, and a German.

She had nothing to offer any of them, but they seemed flatteringly enchanted with her anyway.

Perhaps they were looking for an introduction to Solomon.

But it was clearly not the thing to chat too long to one group of people.

Everyone mingled, flitting from group to group like bees collecting pollen.

To Constance, the party was suddenly easy to navigate—it really was like evenings at the establishment.

She was only there to look pretty and make introductions.

Men laughed and admired her, almost eating out of her hand.

It even seemed her struggling Italian was improving.

She met up again with Mrs. Hargreaves and reminded herself why she had wanted to come. “Tell me, ma’am,” she said confidentially, “were you acquainted with Angelo Savelli, who died so tragically a few days ago?”

“Of course. I believe he would have been here tonight. So shocking! I have always found Venice such a delightful, friendly city.”

“Indeed, that is my experience. But someone murdered Signor Savelli. Can you imagine why anyone would possibly do such a thing?”

Mrs. Hargreaves shuddered. “That is for the police, my dear. They have to do something other than read people’s letters and spy on their conversations.

Talking of whom…” She glanced significantly across the room, and, following her gaze, Constance saw the Austrian policeman Lampl enter, along with Signor Premarin.

They appeared to be deep in conversation.

“He is that sort of policeman?” Constance said.

“Is there any other here?” Mrs. Hargreaves said cynically, and flitted away.

Constance sipped her wine and wondered if there were any truth in the older woman’s accusation.

She knew Venice well, after all. But Constance had found Lampl genuinely interested in the case.

She did wonder if he would be quite so interested in the murder of someone like Giusti, who was not Austria’s friend, but he had seemed to be encouraging Foscolo and asking pertinent questions of his own.

Perhaps she should approach him here in this sociable environment…

But before she could move toward them, someone else caught her eye—a maidservant in a slightly crooked cap and ill-tied apron, who was collecting abandoned glasses and plates onto the tray she carried.

She looked familiar, yet it took Constance several moments to place her.

The surroundings were vastly different, and the girl’s hair was considerably tidier.

Also, her expression was less exasperated, less aggressive.

But it was undoubtedly Adriana, the girl who appeared to live with the artist Domenico Rossi, though whether as maid, mistress, or model was not quite clear.

How odd to find her working here… Or perhaps not. No doubt the money was useful during Rossi’s lean—and drunk—periods.

Constance watched her balance the tray or her hip, add another glass to the collection, and then vanish with her burden through the service door at the back. The Englishman, Kellar, strolled across her line of vision, drawing her eyes with him to the elegant buffet table.

She cast a quick glance at Lampl and Premarin, who had been her original quarry. She still wished to speak to them.

But first, she thought, turning back to Kellar with a surge of determination, you .

She made no effort to disguise her goal, walking straight toward him, and as he turned from the buffet table, a small plate in one hand, he saw her coming.

The hand reaching for whatever delicacy was on his plate fell back to his side.

As their eyes clashed, he acknowledged her as before with a small inclination of his head and moved on.

It had never entered her head that he would try to avoid her after staring so often. Interesting . She changed her direction to match his and kept walking, like a warship on a course of interception.

And like the pursued ship, he paused, then turned to face the inevitable.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, abandoning his untouched plate on the nearest table.

“Good evening,” Constance replied. “Forgive me, but I seem to know your face so well that I’m sure we must have met before.”

She held his gaze with conscious boldness but sensed no threat. There was wariness and curiosity in his intelligent gray eyes and a hint of tension in his posture.

“No, we have never met,” he said. “But you do remind me of someone. I suppose this is where I should apologize if I offended you by staring. The similarity is really most marked. My name is Kellar. Sebastian Kellar. I am something of a roving diplomat in Italy, though I contrive to be in Venice as often as possible.”

She offered her hand. “Constance Grey. I am visiting the city for the first time with my husband. It is our wedding trip.”

There was no surprise in those amiable eyes. None of this was news to him. He had told the consulate staff who Solomon was.

“Allow me to wish you every happiness. Your husband is an interesting man. I had not realized he was so young.”

Was it Solomon who interested him, then? Why? “He will get older in the normal way of things. So, you must know Venice and all these people”—she made a small hand gesture encompassing the reception room—“very well?”

“I am acquainted with most of them.”

She held on to his gaze. “Perhaps you knew the man who died. Angelo Savelli?”

“I did. Another interesting man. And a tragic loss to Venice—also to Austria, I suspect.”

“And to Britain?”

He smiled faintly and took a glass of wine from the tray being offered. “Her Majesty’s government supports the notion of a united and independent Italy. Risorgimento . Savelli did not, but he was a man we could all work with.”

“Was he?” Wild ideas were flying through her mind. Had the British been able to work with Savelli? Or had they found him so unbending and so capable that their secret forces—even this roving diplomat himself—had removed him?

Is Kellar an assassin?

The notion chilled her blood, even while her brain scoffed at such melodramatic imaginings.

And yet those outwardly kind, affable gray eyes hid something.

Why had he noticed her? Was his notice the real reason Savelli had abducted her?

Had the Venetian’s outrage at her abduction been manufactured that night?

She had not thought so at the time, but…

She threw off the welter of speculation before it drowned her.

“Oh yes,” Kellar was saying, “I believe so. He was a good man in many ways. But I have heard your experience might be…different.”

She raised her eyebrows, refusing to hide or be ashamed. She had plenty of practice in that. “You heard about my abduction?”

His brow twitched very slightly. Surprise? Distaste? “Then it is true?”