One Knight In Venice. Tori Phillips

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      “Madonna?” Jacopo intruded. “Do you wish to hear the rest?”

      Cosma drew herself upright. “Of course,” she snapped. “That is why I pay you. What else did the canal rat do this afternoon?”

      Jacopo started to laugh at her remark, but choked instead when she glared at him. “He visited a wine shop where he dined and played at cards with several young gentlemen. I recognized Messere Niccolo Dandelli and his younger brother.”

      Cosma nodded. The Dandelli brothers were notorious rakes with full purses and empty time to fill—two of her favorite patrons. In fact, Niccolo had introduced her to Francis last November. She saw no problems in that quarter. “Go on.”

      The youth rubbed his nose. “Then he returned to his rooms at the Sturgeon where he napped, as is his custom. His landlord told me that Messere Bardolph is not used to the late hours we Venetians keep. He must prepare himself for night sport—and for you, madonna,” he added with a fawning look.

      And drink his kill-love liqueur, Cosma thought. A plague of fleas upon Lord Francis Bardolph! Aloud she asked, “Where is he now?”

      Jacopo folded his arms across his chest. “Still sleeping at the Sturgeon. I took this opportunity to report to you.” He gave her another hungry look.

      Cosma pretended not to notice his lust though she enjoyed her power over the callow boy. Opening a small casket on her dresser she took out a scudo. “Come, Jacopo,” she purred, holding out the money to him. “Come take your fee.”

      He all but ran across the distance between them. Just before he could grab the coin, she closed her fingers over it. “Kneel,” she commanded with a smile.

      He immediately dropped to the floor before her. His slavering obedience soothed her ruffled vanity. Leaning over, she allowed him to view a generous portion of her bosom. “Kiss my foot.”

      With a huge smile displaying a set of white teeth not yet stained with too much wine or missing from decay, Jacopo smothered her right slipper with his loud kisses. When he tried to pry off her shoe for further adoration, she dropped the scudo in front of his nose. The silver coin clinked on the cold tiles.

      “Enough for now, dear boy,” she murmured, pulling her foot free of his grasp. “Too many sweets will dull your appetite.”

      “Never,” he replied with a low groan of despair.

      Waving him away, she gave her attention to her mirror. “Be off! Return to Lord Bardolph’s inn and continue your vigil. Hurry before he wakes from his nap.”

      Jacopo stood, pocketed his wages, and tossed her a shrug. “He will sleep till five. He is a man of habit.” Casting her one final look of longing, the youth left the chamber and clattered noisily down the stairs.

      As soon as her minion was gone, Cosma put down her comb and the jar of hair pomade. Her toilette could wait a bit while she attended to a more pressing matter. Still fuming over Francis’s dishonesty at the apothecary’s, Cosma decided to raise the stakes a notch. If her so-called lover intended to use artifice to cool his ardor, she would employ the same method to bring him to her bed. This English lord was too fine a prize to let him slip away just because of some addlepated notion of his to not father a child. A baby was exactly what Cosma needed to bind herself permanently to Francis, his noble title and his fortune. Then it would be farewell to the exciting but extremely hazardous life of a courtesan.

      Cosma rose and crossed her bedchamber to her library next door. She surveyed her four shelves of precious books with pride of ownership. She possessed one of the finest private collections in all of Venice: books of poetry, romance, history, philosophy—and the arts of love. She ran her finger along the ribbed leather spines until she found the one she sought—a new addition to her store of erotic knowledge. The Perfumed Garden, written with exquisite detail by a Muslim sheik. She flipped through its pages until she came to the section dealing with aphrodisiacs. She chuckled to herself. Francis’s potion would be no match for the delicacies she would prepare for him tonight.

      I shall be a titled English lady before Easter!

      The great bell of Saint Mark’s Basilica tolled six in the evening when Francis put down his quill and rubbed his eyes. Another report completed for Sir William Cecil. Francis blew on the ciphers to dry the ink. He flexed his fingers after an hour of laborious writing in code. Then he raised his right hand and admired the way his fingers still moved without stiffness. God bless the black-haired healer! He wished he had learned of her months ago. What a delightful creature she was! Fresh—and so intriguing behind her mask. Not like Cosma, he reflected with a frown. She hid behind a mask of cosmetics, artfully applied, of course, but false all the same. He massaged the bridge of his nose. Cosma! How was he going to solve that problem?

      Initially she had been amusing and full of helpful gossip. Francis had enjoyed her company and taken the pleasure he allowed himself when sporting with a woman. At first she had only laughed at his precautions against conception, applauding him for his thoughtfulness. He had been happy enough to let her think her protection was his sole concern.

      Since Christmastide however, their easy relationship had undergone a change. Cosma demanded more from him than he was willing to give—and her font of information about the various members of Venice’s Great Council had decreased. Her usefulness now gone, Francis discovered that he had grown tired of her nagging personality. Recently she spoke of marriage in an offhand manner, but Francis had heard those words and seen that same calculating look in a woman’s eye before. The time had definitely come to end the affair, but he knew Cosma well enough to realize that she would not let him go peaceably. The break would be loud and messy; possibly dangerous if she sought revenge. He dreaded the confrontation.

      He stared at the green glass vial on the table. What sort of witch’s brew had that dog of an apothecary sold him? Francis hated the idea of drinking something foreign, but he hated even more the idea of succumbing to Cosma’s seductive wiles. He vowed to never father a bastard as he had been fathered. His mind comprehended this deepest fear but he could not yet discipline his body’s lustful inclinations. Only this morning, the mysterious Donna Jessica had stirred the desires that he thought he had banked against the assaults of Venus. Jessica’s fingers ensnared him when he had least expected it and her voice entranced him into a state of near bliss. Worst of all—he had enjoyed the entire experience and he looked forward to its repetition in two days’ time.

      Closing his eyes, he groaned aloud. His passionate nature ran too deep for him to completely subjugate it. He should not be surprised, considering the lusty histories of both his natural parents. Their fires flowed in his blood. Francis reached for the vial, uncorked it and sniffed.

      Hoy day! If the devil has an odor, this would be it. He grimaced. Church bells tolled the half hour. He dragged himself to his feet. At this rate he would be late to Cosma’s house and she did not take kindly to his tardiness. Best to keep her content for as long as possible. Only a few more weeks until the spring thaw made the roads passable; then he could kiss Cosma—and Venice—farewell.

      Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bottle to his lips and tossed its vile contents down his throat. Sweet Jesu! The taste alone was enough to convert a man to life-long celibacy.

      Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Cosma’s lemon-yellow house on the Rio di San Cassiano canal. Her second-floor solar was lit with many fat, sweet-scented candles in black iron holders. Her little handmaid, Nerissa, plucked a pleasing tune on her beribboned mandolin. Cosma herself rivaled the Goddess of Love in her diaphanous gown of pale yellow silk. Her perfume wafted across his nostrils СКАЧАТЬ