One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ cloak? He has been with us since we left Saint Mark’s. He is one of Cosma’s lapdogs.” He gave Jobe a rueful grin. “Methinks my mistress does not trust me to be faithful to her.”

      Jobe’s intuition scented an undercurrent of danger. “Are you sure this dog has no teeth?”

      Francis shrugged. “Tis but a pup—all ears and tales. Trust me. I have seen him skulking around Cosma’s house on several occasions.”

      “Pups can grow into vicious jackals,” the African muttered.

      Jobe spent the rest of the day in Francis’s company helping him to ease the pain of his loss. While the young Englishman paid their shadow no mind, Jobe kept a wary eye on the sallow-faced boy who hovered behind them at a short distance. The guttersnipe needed to learn a thing or two about the art of concealment and pursuit, Jobe decided. He almost pitied their dogged follower.

      In midafternoon, Francis surprised Jobe by announcing, “What a dolt I am! I have an appointment that almost slipped my mind.”

      Thinking that his companion meant that he had a meeting with an informant, Jobe turned to go. Francis put his hand on his arm. “Nay, do not leave me now. You must accompany me and keep me entertained for one more hour at least.”

      Mystified by Francis’s sudden animation, Jobe nodded. “I am yours to command for this whole day. Do we visit a house of pleasure, perchance?”

      Francis shook his head. “Surely you jest, my friend. Donna Cosma is all I can manage as it is. I speak of something that you will find infinitely more amusing—I am having my portrait painted by one of Maestro Titian’s pupils.”

      Laughter bubbled up from Jobe’s broad chest. “You? I did not realize that a rivulet of vanity ran through your veins. Tis rich news indeed.”

      Francis’s ears turned red. “Tis not for vanity’s sake but as part of my false persona. All wealthy travelers to Venice must have their portraits painted. Tis expected. I had barely been in the city a fortnight when I received at least a half dozen invitations to visit the studios of the city’s famous painters.”

      He turned down a calle. “Titian’s studio is at the far end of this street. The maestro’s work is superb but very costly. His pupils are apt enough for Lord Cecil’s expense account. Is our fledgling still with us?”

      Jobe did not need to turn around to know the answer. “Aye, though he grows weary.”

      Francis grinned. “A pity he cannot come inside. I fear he will have a long cold wait.”

      Jobe chuckled. Francis knocked upon a door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of green paint. After a few minutes’ wait and a second rap of the knocker, a harried young boy admitted them. With scarcely a nod of recognition, the child ushered the two tall men up a narrow flight of stairs and into a large chamber filled with the most amazing jumble of clutter that Jobe had ever seen. Half-finished paintings of every size leaned against the walls in haphazard formations. More paintings sat on easels that stood at random angles on the wide bare floor. A dozen or so young men, most of them covered with daubs of paint and all of them looking intense, worked at various projects. The odor of turpentine, paint and rotten eggs hung overhead. Jobe sneezed.

      Their page interrupted the most frazzled member of this fraternity and pointed to Francis. By way of greeting, the Englishman executed the most outlandish court bow. Jobe covered his snicker with another sneeze.

      “Signor Bassanio, a thousand pardons,” Francis gushed. “My dear friend Jobe, standing here before you, arrived quite unexpectedly this day and we have been gamboling about La Serenissima, Venice the most Serene, enjoying its delights. I fear that I have overstepped my time. I beg your forgiveness.”

      Jobe hid his grin. If he punctured Francis at this moment the boy would spew treacle instead of blood.

      Bassanio wiped his hands on his smudged smock. “No apology is necessary, my lord. It is always a pleasure to wait upon you.” He pointed to the high-legged stool set in a spot that caught the faint glow of the afternoon’s playful light. “Please take your accustomed seat, messere.”

      Francis doffed his cloak, shook the dampness from the plume on his hat and fluffed his sleeves. With a wide smile and graceful movements, he approached the humble stool and perched his hip upon it. He winked at Jobe.

      Despite his mummery, Jobe liked like him better for the pose. Francis should adopt it as his own—in moderation.

      Bassanio selected a covered canvas, screwed it into place on his easel and removed the cloth. “¿Signore?” He gestured to Jobe. “You may wish to see what I have done while I prepare my palette.” He stepped away with an expression of shy pride on his round face.

      “My pleasure,” replied Jobe, advancing closer to view the nearly completed portrait. He drew in a quick breath at the sight.

      “Tis that bad?” Francis asked in English. “I had planned to give it to Belle. Mayhap she should use it as a target for her archery practice. Well? What do you think of it?”

      “Tis a wonder to behold,” Jobe replied.

      Why had he never marked the resemblance before? The tilt of the head was the same. So was the merry sparkle in the blue eyes that Francis usually shielded from public view. The long legs, the tapered fingers and the easy set of the shoulders mirrored those same attributes of Francis’s true paternity. Unknowingly, the Venetian artist had set in paint a study not of Sir Brandon Cavendish but of his brother Sir Guy, the most handsome member of that illustrious family.

      Staring at the canvas, Jobe experienced a rare flash of hindsight. As if he were an invisible onlooker, he observed a scene in his mind that must have taken place thirty years beforehand. As clearly as he saw Francis perched on the stool before him, Jobe saw Guy as a young man glowing with good health and the pride of his victory in the day’s tournament. A ripe beauty with nut-brown hair sauntered into view, smiled and beckoned to the too handsome youth. With a lusty but silent laugh, Guy followed her into a colorful pavilion. The image shimmered in Jobe’s brain for a final moment before it shattered into the present.

      “Heigh ho, Jobe!” Francis called. “Have you wax in your ears? Tell me what the devil do I look like.”

      The African gave himself a shake. Clearing his throat, he smiled at his bewildered friend. “You have not seen it for yourself?”

      Francis made a face. “Bassanio has strictly charged me not to view my visage until he gives me leave to do so. Methinks he fears I will be displeased and refuse to pay him. Well? What say you?”

      Bassanio came up behind Jobe. The young painter eyed the bandoleer of knives. He gulped. “Does my work please you, signore?”

      Jobe smiled at him. “You have a true gift. You have caught his very soul.” And much more, Jobe realized as his prophetic insight once again took hold of him. A secret, greater than anyone suspected, lay hidden over the shoulder of the painted Francis.

      Bassanio grinned like a schoolboy. “Grazie, signore. Now, my Lord Bardolph, wipe away your doubts and do not move a muscle. I have much work still to do.” He dipped his brush into a golden hue and mixed it with a light brown color. “It is the highlights in your hair that elude me and I must work quickly. The daylight fades even as we speak.”

      Francis sighed with exasperation but said nothing while Bassanio commenced СКАЧАТЬ