Page 37 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

She stared at him, then a smile began to form. “I never realized you were quite so pragmatic. And wise.”

Or stupid.

“So we should just go out and hope he comes upon us by accident?” she said.

“If you are up to it.”

Her eyes were suddenly wicked. “Oh, I am up to anything now.”

Fortunately, perhaps, a servant returned bearing a sealed letter on a tray, which he presented to Solomon, then bowed and departed.

Solomon broke the seal and caught his breath. It was in English and written by a fine hand.

My dear Mr. Grey,

It is imperative that we meet where we will not be seen or overheard.

I dare not be seen helping you, but please know that you and your wife are in danger.

Her illness was no accident and I can provide you with proof of her would-be murderer.

You, sir, must present this proof, not I, for I should not be believed and would end up like poor Savelli.

You must take this chance and bring all to justice.

Come to the Rialto Bridge tomorrow at dawn. Tell no one and burn this letter immediately.

Yours in desperation,

Rudolf von Lampl.

“I think,” Solomon said thoughtfully, “your theory is about to be tested.”

“What theory?” she asked.

“That you are up to anything. This is from Lampl. He wants to meet tomorrow at dawn. And he wants me to burn this letter.”

She leapt up from her chair, snatching the letter and reading its carefully phrased English. “He has signed it to make you think he is genuine,” she said, her voice high with sudden fright. “But he isn’t, Solomon. It’s a trap.”

“He does seem to have baited his first.”

*

Giusti had never lacked courage. But as he marched boldly up to the front door of the Palazzo Savelli, he wondered if he was being the most arrant coward, for he would not even ask to see her. He couldn’t.

He rapped confidently on the door while his heart quailed.

As soon as the door opened, he thrust his parcel into the surprised hands of the servant. “For Signora Savelli, with the compliments of Ludovico Giusti. Please give it to her immediately.”

He was already turning away on the last word when the servant stood back, opening the door wide to reveal Elena herself, halfway across the foyer. She seemed to be frozen in mid-stride, as though she had heard his voice. She looked…stricken.

His throat closed up. He could not speak.

But his paralysis seemed to release hers. Her expression smoothed and she walked gracefully toward him. He would have bolted, if he could.

“Signor Giusti.”

It was formal, but better than “Leave.”

He bowed and forced his tongue to move. “Signora. I did not mean to disturb you.”

The servant offered her the package, and she took it, her unreadable gaze still on Giusti.

“I am not disturbed. Come in.”

Oh dear God, help me… He could not refuse, did not want to, although this meeting was what he had been trying to avoid.

He stepped inside, heard the door close behind him as he followed Elena through the charming foyer and up the staircase to her drawing room.

It all looked different since he had last been here.

Not faded and empty like his own place, but fresh and splendid and curiously comfortable.

Homely. It had never been homely before.

She sat in one of the chairs grouped by the window and, at her invitation, took one at a respectful distance. She put the parcel on the table between them as another servant appeared with wine and cicchetti.

She waited until they were served and the servant departed before she again picked up the parcel.

“How are you?” he blurted, though whether he was trying to distract her or himself with such a stupid question, he didn’t know.

“Bored,” she said. “The house feels empty. Now that everyone has presented their dutiful condolences, they leave me respectfully—and with some relief—in peace. Patriotic Venetians despise me anyway, and Angelo’s friends suspect I killed him.”

He had forgotten her blunt, humorous way of speaking, the honest, brave way she faced everything. But she had unwrapped the parcel while talking and now spilled the jewels into her lap.

She regarded them in silence, unmoving except to stop her father’s ring from rolling off onto the floor.

He could not bear the quiet and rushed again into speech. “I did not mean to be here when you received them. It felt like rudeness and pressure, which I do not at all mean to inflict—”

“Why now?” she interrupted. “Because he is dead?”

“Yes,” he said miserably. Slowly, her gaze lifted to his and he couldn’t bear it. “Not because I imagine he left you destitute. Not even because there is no point if I can’t annoy him. Just because they are yours.”

She placed her father’s ring on the table beside her glass, which reflected the intense blue of the stone, and waved her hand over the little pile in her lap. “They were always mine.”

“And I should have returned them long ago. I meant to—except when he annoyed me with his demands—but…” He reached rather wildly for his glass and took a sizeable gulp.

“But what?” she asked, and he knew she would not leave it alone.

He met her gaze. “I was afraid that once I returned them, I would no longer have any excuse to see you.”

“You weren’t exactly using them as an opportunity. Have you decided you don’t want to see me after all?”

He shook his head. “It just all seemed so silly, so pointless. So…dishonest.” And God help him, the truth would out. “You broke my heart, Elena.”

She swallowed. “I think you broke mine too, over a longer period. During the siege, I stopped feeling. I felt I couldn’t and still survive. You and I caused all that. Angelo stopped it. He was safe, and I did love him.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them again because he couldn’t bear not to see her. “Safe love. I was never safe. I’m still not. But I am constant.”

“I wished you would find someone else and then you would stop all this.” She waved her hand over the jewels in her lap again.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet, and she let her eyelids fall to cover it. “Damn you, Ludo, don’t make me feel .”

“Feeling is the point, Elena. All of it.”

Her gaze flew back to his, outraged and accusing.

He smiled crookedly. “You see?”

To his surprise—and unspeakable relief—she let out a breath of laughter. Once, he would have stayed to try to build on that instant of empathy, pushing his luck. Older and wiser, he rose to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t mean for the wine. He meant for that moment, for receiving him in the first place.

She did not stand with him, merely swiped something off the table beside her and held it out to him. Slowly, he stretched out his hand, and she dropped her father’s ring into his palm. “This is yours. It was my gift. Unless you are returning it.”

Although she spoke carelessly, without emphasis, he saw the vulnerability in her eyes. She was afraid he would refuse. Exactly what this meant, he did not know yet. He suspected neither did she. But it was a beginning, a renewal, an opportunity.

He put the ring in his pocket. “ Arrivederci .” Until we meet again.

He felt he was walking on air. He reached his own house, it seemed, without engaging his brain, simply by his body’s memory. But once there, reality arrived back with a thump.

Foscolo was waiting for him.

*

In the afternoon, Solomon and Constance wandered into an old building with an open door and a large bill advertising an exhibition of paintings.

It was a pleasingly normal thing to do after their “accidental” meeting with Foscolo at a coffeehouse, where he sat with them for ten minutes in casual conversation that was anything but.

Constance almost jumped at the paintings to distract herself from a plan she could not like, but which Solomon had already agreed to. Even so, she was not entirely surprised to see Domenico Rossi’s face beaming at them from the center of the room.

He detached himself from the group of obvious fellow artists around him and hurried toward them.

He seemed to be sober, possibly because Adriana was in charge of distributing wine to the visitors.

In spite of everything, the sight of the girl with bottles and glasses sent a shiver down Constance’s spine.

“You are out and about, signora!” Rossi greeted them. “I am honored this should be one of your first calls.”

“It’s an accidental call,” Solomon confessed, “but no less welcome for that. You never mentioned an exhibition.”

“It was a sudden decision. Adriana arranged it and wheedled another few artists to join us—which brings in more people,” Rossi added, his eyes twinkling, “even if the other artists are not as good as me.”

“Then you won’t be working on our portrait for a few days?” Solomon said.

“I give Signora Grey time to convalesce. But I can come tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Adriana and the others will look after things for me here.”

“Yes,” Constance said firmly, before Solomon could answer. “Come tomorrow afternoon.” She needed to believe it would happen, that by tomorrow afternoon, Solomon would be back, alive, at the Palazzo Zulian, and they would all be safe.