The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

“We do appreciate the difficulty of the situation, my dear,” Colin said. “Thank you for your understanding.” I noted the very slightest hint of sarcasm buried in his tone. He would never believe I would be easily persuaded to step aside.

“Bien.” Cécile rose from the table. “Let us retire to the Sala dei Pappagalli and turn our attention to entirely different matters. Monsieur Benton-Smith, I am eager to learn more about you. Escort me downstairs and tell me all the shocking stories of your misspent youth.”

“I’m afraid there’s very little to tell,” he said, rising and offering her his arm. “At least in polite company.”

“I am many things, monsieur. Polite is not one of them.”

Colin and I retreated to our bedroom at the first opportunity, once he was convinced we weren’t insulting Cécile by abandoning her and I was reasonably certain that Darius was safe alone with her. Our room, on the second floor, was painted with scenes from a tragic thirteenth-century chivalric romance, La Chastelaine de Vergi. The chatelaine, in love with one of the knights in her uncle’s retinue, insisted that their relationship be kept secret from everyone. They used a little dog—trustworthy as he could not speak and reveal their relationship—as a signal to indicate when it was safe to meet. But the chatelaine was not the only lady to take notice of the knight. Her uncle’s wife, the duchess, yearned for his attention, too. When the loyal man rejected her, she accused him of treason. What followed was a mess of manipulation, treachery, and death. No one got a happy ending. The beauty of the paintings could not be denied—the little dog, in particular, was charming—but I wondered who had made the decision to commission the work. I would not have chosen scenes from it to decorate a bedroom. Had it, perhaps, commemorated the occasion of the arranged marriage of a bride whose heart longed for a different groom? I was sitting on a chaise longue contemplating the question when Colin emerged from the bathroom, ready for bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of loose silk pajama trousers.

“Are you truly content to leave me to my work?” Colin asked, brushing damp curls back from his forehead. Ordinarily, he would have approached the question more obliquely and prefaced it with his most distracting kiss, especially given his knowledge of the effect his current attire had on me. Tonight, though, he stood far away, in front of the fireplace, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“I can’t claim to be delighted by it, but there’s nothing else to be said. I have no choice in the matter.”

“I’m sorry. I prefer when we can work together.”

“It’s easier to tolerate being excluded when you’re off in parts unknown and I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing. Being here, knowing that I could help, is immensely frustrating.”

“Would you prefer to return home?”

“Would you prefer that I did?”

He came to the chaise and sat beside me. “No. I knew before coming here that I would have to work. I should have told you that from the first. You’ve no doubt ascertained that the break-ins are tied to something of larger significance to Britain. I wish I could say more, but I can’t. Despite knowing that, I wanted you with me. Not only because I hate us being apart but also because I value the contributions you make when we work together. Darius and I have faced countless difficult situations and always achieved what needed to be achieved; but I have seen, time and again, that your insights neatly complement what I do. You would be an asset to us.”

“Yet you are not allowed to make use of me.”

“No.”

“I’ve already set in motion a plan to learn whatever I can about Signore Spichio.”

“It would be dangerous for you to expose any of the work he did for us.”

“I wouldn’t do that, but might it not be useful to know other, broader things about him? What if his work did not lead to his death, but a bungled love affair or a dispute over money?”

“It’s unlikely in the extreme.”

“Whoever killed him could have covered his tracks by making use of some sort of ordinary problem he had. I may be able to learn things that could assist you in unearthing the truth. If you and Darius are nosing around his family and friends, you risk exposing your own roles. Don’t tell me you know how to be subtle. A wise gentleman informed me that everyone believes himself to be discreet.”

“I cannot deny that your assistance could prove useful, nor can I deny that I’ve known from the instant Tessa screamed that you would not be kept away from investigating.” He took my hands and squeezed them, hard. “I trust you absolutely, in ways that I could never make Darius understand or accept. I trust Cécile, but it’s not the same thing. If you choose to proceed—which I know you will—I need you to convince her that I know nothing of it. That way, she’ll be less likely to slip in front of Darius.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t answer so easily, Emily. It is an unwelcome slope you approach, deceiving a friend, a slope that can’t ever be climbed after you start your descent.” He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “It will plague you, every single day, even when you’re not being deliberately disingenuous, even when your conversation has nothing to do with the work at hand. You will have to learn to become comfortable with lies, so comfortable that you turn to them even when it appears unnecessary. You will learn that it is, in fact, always necessary, because the truth must be treated as a potential danger.”

“Do you lie to me?”

“Yes.” His voice was barely audible. “Not about things that matter, not between us. Only regarding my work, and then—in order to justify it to myself—only by omission, as if that