Page 36 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

S olomon was shaken by the sudden reminder of her recent illness. That right now her weakness was caused more by mental shock than physical exertion was not much comfort. His first priority was to get her home and safe and calm.

She paid no attention to what he was ordering and doing, until she seemed to notice quite suddenly that she was in bed, in her nightgown, with a tray of food on her knees and Solomon sprawled beside her, fully dressed, with a tray of his own.

“Oh, Solomon,” she whispered. “Have I made a fool of myself?”

Though he could have wept, he merely gave her the gentlest of elbow nudges and spoke with deliberate calm. “Hardly. You are still weak, and I let you do too much. Yet still you solved the case.”

She smiled a little. Perhaps she heard the glowing pride in his voice. “It was being there, seeing him at the window. Until then, I had only been asking myself what either of us could have said to Lampl to frighten him. But the bodyguards must have told him.”

“We should have thought of it before. We know the Austrians have spies everywhere. But this is more than spying. This was using a government spy to plan a personal murder.”

Of course, she had worked that out too. “Lampl must have known of Savelli’s planned attack on Giusti and taken the opportunity to blacken him and Savelli further in Elena’s eyes by abducting a woman off the street at the same time.

Elena was meant to know about it. That’s why that Pellini and the other went alone by boat while the others were on foot.

It might have been bad luck that you and I were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I doubt luck had much to do with taking someone . ”

“And of course it provided more suspects to keep Foscolo busy and distracted from the truth.”

They ate for a little in silence. Then she said abruptly, “Are we just speculating again? A few hours ago, we believed implicitly that Foscolo was the murderer.”

“But this feels right. It fits.”

She nodded and reached for her watered wine. “But we still have no actual evidence. How do we prove it?”

“We’ll think of something. We have baited traps before.”

“And we have an ally in Foscolo,” she said more comfortably.

When her eyelids began to close, Solomon took the glass from her fingers and removed both the trays. As he returned to the bed, he saw that her eyes were open again, and smiling at him.

He rearranged her pillows so that she was lying more comfortably. Her fingertips skimmed across his cheek, and he paused. Her eyes were lethargic and clouded, her lips slightly parted. God, she was beautiful…

“It is terribly early to go sleep,” she said huskily.

Her invitation was unmistakable, and when he kissed her, so was her desire.

Aroused, he groaned into her mouth, only almost amused by the temptation.

Since their wedding, he had grown so addicted to her body that the last few days of abstinence had felt like famine.

Her passion battered at his resolve and came very close to defeating it.

Just a little, gentle love… Where is the harm?

He swallowed, closing his eyes. Because it was the comfort she needed in her exhaustion, not the exertion of passion. “Sleep first,” he managed. “I will hold you. Only hold you.”

It was not easy, but he managed it. And curiously, it soothed them both to sleep.

*

Paolo Pellini was restless and vaguely surprised to be still in the employ of Signora Savelli. It was not as if she feared to go out without her bodyguard, for though she did not go out often, she never took them with her when she did.

The bodyguards were bored and dealt with it in different ways.

Some drank and played cards until they couldn’t have dealt with an attacker except by falling on them by accident.

Ugo paced constantly and threatened to find other work.

Mario and Giovanni filled their days by helping the house staff and the boatman with his repairs.

Only Pellini was not bored, because he had his own tasks—reporting on the signora and her visitors.

And tonight, he rather thought he had something to report.

Accordingly, he made his excuses to his fellows, as he often did, and slipped out of the back door to the rougher steps where the smaller supply boats were tied up.

“Pellini,” Ugo said from the doorway.

Pellini glanced at him with impatience to be on his way. He didn’t like Venice. There was altogether too much water for a Tuscan who couldn’t swim. It was unnatural to live like this, and he wanted to go home. But orders were orders.

“What?” he said grudgingly, climbing into the boat and reaching for the rope that tied it.

“Don’t forget what you promised. Speak to the Austrian.”

“Yes, yes,” Pellini said, scowling with as much threat as he could manage. “If you keep your promise and shut your mouth on the subject.”

He pushed off from the steps and began to row without looking back. He supposed he would have to speak for Ugo. Otherwise the fool would blab of Pellini’s double loyalties to the others and his usefulness here would be over.

At least then I could go somewhere else . Preferably somewhere inland, with no larger stretches of water than the odd fishpond.

He rowed fast, for he was a little later than he meant to be and would not be let in after eleven.

The Austrian lived in an unobtrusive house, annoyingly on the water, and though it could be reached by foot, Lampl insisted that his minions use the back door, which, like the Palazzo Savelli, had to approached by boat.

As usual, the large, stony-faced servant opened the door before Pellini had the chance to rap it with his oar.

The man’s nostrils flared with undisguised distaste. “What?”

Sometimes, Pellini fantasized about the canal flooding in the heavy rain and sweeping the large man’s body away to the lagoon, where it would be eaten by fish. One day, he might help that fantasy along.

For now, he smiled with mock affability. “Oh, just thought I’d drop in for a chat. You’re always such good company. Is he there?”

Without a word, the servant shut the door, but Pellini knew better than to leave. By the time he had tied up the boat, the door was open again. Pellini climbed the step and went in.

Lampl’s windowless “office” reminded him of the little-used room at the Palazzo Savelli where they had taken the captive foreign woman. A comely wench she was, too, yet Savelli had thrown her back, which was a damned waste of a female.

Lampl sat at the solitary desk, busily writing. “Well?” he said, without looking up.

“They were there again, the Englishman and his wife.”

Lampl sighed. “Where?”

“Outside the palazzo, at the back, looking.”

The pen stilled. Lampl glanced up, removing the spectacles from his nose. “Looking at what?”

Pellini shrugged. “Just the back of the building.”

“With what purpose?” Lampl sounded bored, yet Pellini knew instinctively that he wasn’t.

“Who knows? They’re obviously still poking about the murder scene.”

“Where were you?”

“At the dormitory window.”

“Did they see you?”

“ She did,” Pellini said with a satisfied grin. “Looked white as a sheet—petrified.”

“Did she.” It wasn’t even a question. Lampl didn’t believe him. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. Told the boatman to row on.”

Lampl sat back in his chair, his eyes oddly chilling. In rare moments of honesty, Pellini admitted that this cold, correct gentleman, who never lifted a finger—physically—against a soul, scared him far more than the large servant with the fighter’s poise.

“Wait,” the Austrian said at last. “I might have instructions for you…”

*

In the circumstances, it was not surprising that Solomon dreamed of his wife’s warm, soft body, of her hair falling against his chest as her lips traced sensuous patterns on his skin, and her hands swept delicately across his hips.

He almost purred with pleasure. And when, smiling, he opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around her to hold her closer, her weight was suddenly real and fiercely arousing.

“Solomon,” she whispered, raising her head, though only to move and kiss his mouth. “Love me now,” she whispered against his lips, and gave him no choice.

He might not have been able to hold back the storm, but at least he kept some kind of rein on his starving desires, holding on to tenderness until the final, shattering conclusion.

Afterward, sprawled across him, she murmured lethargically, “Positively the best start to the morning.”

Solomon could not disagree, though he gently, half anxiously, pushed her hair off her face to see if he had hurt her or tired her unbearably.

She was smiling with contentment, the shadows beneath her eyes faint now, and her eyes themselves brilliant and happy. “I’m better,” she said.

He stroked her hair. “I believe you are. I am all the better for that myself.”

It meant that when they rose and dressed and went sedately downstairs for breakfast, he felt capable of anything. He even felt optimistic about bringing Lampl down.

Beyond the dining room window, the sky was cloudy yet did not remind him of home.

“When do you suppose Foscolo will come?” Constance asked when the servants had left them alone. She was risking a cup of coffee for the first time since she was poisoned. Solomon noticed but did not comment.

“I don’t think he will. If there are spies everywhere…”

She set down her coffee. “Then why not in a house rented to foreigners?” she finished for him. “I don’t believe I like that idea.”

Solomon, having been through the same thought process himself, said, “Look on them as gossips. They are not really there to control us but the local population. The Austrians got a huge fright in 1848. They are not about to let it happen again if they can avoid it. And local people are poor enough and desperate to enough to take payment for harmless information.”

“Like the Venetian policeman calling on us?” She frowned. “Who do you think—”

“Don’t,” he said. “Not if you want to stay sane and enjoy our time here.”