ballroom. The lines at his eyes and mouth, plus the abundant gray threads in his natural black hair, led me to put his age at about fifty. A decidedly healthy and energetic fifty.
I suddenly realized I was staring more than good taste allowed. If I didn’t want to be chucked out of the villa posthaste, I would have to be more prudent. A footman glided past with a two-handled tray. I plucked a wineglass off its silver expanse and moved closer to the immense fireplace. Because the space directly before the blaze became uncomfortably hot after just a few minutes, there was a constant flow of ladies in wide, panniered gowns edging forward to warm their bare shoulders, then retreating with fluttering fans. I tucked myself among them. With my eyes lowered to my glass, I tuned my ears toward Cardinal Fabiani and Prince Pompetti.
“…on your own, tonight?” the cardinal was asking.
“For the moment.” Pompetti’s response held the promise of infinite possibility.
“I had hoped to meet the lady who is so often at your side these days. They tell me her beauty is most remarkable, for an Englishwoman.”
“Lady Mary is blessed with both beauty and brains. Her father subscribes to radical notions about the education of females. Mary Sysonby reads Latin as easily as English or Italian and is as well versed in history as any male scholar of my acquaintance. She is assisting me in compiling a catalogue of my collection.”
“I see,” the cardinal said regretfully. “She must be one of those tiresome women who are constantly at war with their irrational natures. Are you certain her society does you credit?”
“I find Lady Mary’s company quite charming,” Pompetti answered smoothly. “As I’m sure you will, once you’ve met her. Unfortunately, the lady had other business to attend to tonight.”
“Ah-ha, I knew it.” The cardinal thumbed the cleft in his well-formed chin. “It’s all part of a plan. You sent your petticoat antiquarian on the trail of the Etruscan pot, so you could politick without distraction.”
The prince laughed. A little too loudly, I thought. Then he bent his head to the cardinal’s shoulder and continued to converse in low tones.
Santa Maria! How was I supposed to learn anything if people insisted on whispering?
I had to get closer. Letting the crush of satin and damask skirts sweep me farther from the fire, I circled around to a perfect listening post at the back of Fabiani’s throne-like chair. The phrases “a great devotion to the Blessed Mother” and “willing to bow to wiser heads” had barely met my ear when I felt a pecking tap on my shoulder.
“Signor Amato, found you at last.” Abate Lenci was grinning like a sailor released from his ship after a four-month voyage. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Zio Stefano wants me to present you.”
Lenci swept his arm toward the buffet table, where Cardinal Stefano Montorio was digging into a plate piled high with orange and scarlet balls of melon. I cast a glance toward the golden chair. Pompetti was still whispering and Fabiani was nodding seriously. But there was nothing for it. I allowed myself to be led away.
In a moment I was kneeling to kiss Montorio’s ring, grimacing from the sticky juice that covered his flabby hand. The cardinal barely attended to Lenci’s introduction. He waved his fork as words of praise competed for limited mouth space with morsels of half-chewed melon.
“You did us proud, Signore,” he finished in a loud monotone intended to be heard by as many as possible. “Naples may boast of her Caffarelli and Siena of her Senesino, but you reminded everyone that the very best singers come from Venice.”
“You are too kind, Eminence.”
“No, no. I’ll admit to a tin ear where music is concerned, but Fabiani was impressed and he’s a connoisseur. He likes to be mysterious, but I could see that you fascinated him, and that’s all that matters. Eh?”
Montorio didn’t bother to lower his voice,
I suddenly realized I was staring more than good taste allowed. If I didn’t want to be chucked out of the villa posthaste, I would have to be more prudent. A footman glided past with a two-handled tray. I plucked a wineglass off its silver expanse and moved closer to the immense fireplace. Because the space directly before the blaze became uncomfortably hot after just a few minutes, there was a constant flow of ladies in wide, panniered gowns edging forward to warm their bare shoulders, then retreating with fluttering fans. I tucked myself among them. With my eyes lowered to my glass, I tuned my ears toward Cardinal Fabiani and Prince Pompetti.
“…on your own, tonight?” the cardinal was asking.
“For the moment.” Pompetti’s response held the promise of infinite possibility.
“I had hoped to meet the lady who is so often at your side these days. They tell me her beauty is most remarkable, for an Englishwoman.”
“Lady Mary is blessed with both beauty and brains. Her father subscribes to radical notions about the education of females. Mary Sysonby reads Latin as easily as English or Italian and is as well versed in history as any male scholar of my acquaintance. She is assisting me in compiling a catalogue of my collection.”
“I see,” the cardinal said regretfully. “She must be one of those tiresome women who are constantly at war with their irrational natures. Are you certain her society does you credit?”
“I find Lady Mary’s company quite charming,” Pompetti answered smoothly. “As I’m sure you will, once you’ve met her. Unfortunately, the lady had other business to attend to tonight.”
“Ah-ha, I knew it.” The cardinal thumbed the cleft in his well-formed chin. “It’s all part of a plan. You sent your petticoat antiquarian on the trail of the Etruscan pot, so you could politick without distraction.”
The prince laughed. A little too loudly, I thought. Then he bent his head to the cardinal’s shoulder and continued to converse in low tones.
Santa Maria! How was I supposed to learn anything if people insisted on whispering?
I had to get closer. Letting the crush of satin and damask skirts sweep me farther from the fire, I circled around to a perfect listening post at the back of Fabiani’s throne-like chair. The phrases “a great devotion to the Blessed Mother” and “willing to bow to wiser heads” had barely met my ear when I felt a pecking tap on my shoulder.
“Signor Amato, found you at last.” Abate Lenci was grinning like a sailor released from his ship after a four-month voyage. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Zio Stefano wants me to present you.”
Lenci swept his arm toward the buffet table, where Cardinal Stefano Montorio was digging into a plate piled high with orange and scarlet balls of melon. I cast a glance toward the golden chair. Pompetti was still whispering and Fabiani was nodding seriously. But there was nothing for it. I allowed myself to be led away.
In a moment I was kneeling to kiss Montorio’s ring, grimacing from the sticky juice that covered his flabby hand. The cardinal barely attended to Lenci’s introduction. He waved his fork as words of praise competed for limited mouth space with morsels of half-chewed melon.
“You did us proud, Signore,” he finished in a loud monotone intended to be heard by as many as possible. “Naples may boast of her Caffarelli and Siena of her Senesino, but you reminded everyone that the very best singers come from Venice.”
“You are too kind, Eminence.”
“No, no. I’ll admit to a tin ear where music is concerned, but Fabiani was impressed and he’s a connoisseur. He likes to be mysterious, but I could see that you fascinated him, and that’s all that matters. Eh?”
Montorio didn’t bother to lower his voice,
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