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

of each of them. Darius bore no visible marks of violence, but when he stood to refill his plate at the sideboard, he was limping.

“I see you are in no better shape than my husband,” I said, pouring myself a cup of tea.

“Hargreaves saved me from what might have been a very bad outcome.”

“What happened?” Cécile asked.

“I shouldn’t bother to inquire,” I said. “Gentlemen are most unwilling to share the details of their exploits with us ladies. I suppose we should be grateful neither of them was flung off someone’s roof. Please tell me no one witnessed whatever transpired. It’s embarrassing enough without wondering if every Brit in Florence already knows about it.”

“It was nothing, really. Mortifying though it is, I admit to having taken more drink than I could handle last night, in a vain attempt to dampen the blow of losing Spichio. Your husband tried to stop me, but I was rather pigheaded about the whole thing and staggered off back toward my rooms without waiting for him to leave the tavern, which was the scene of my disgrace. I assure you it is not a place frequented by tourists. I hadn’t gone more than a block before thieves set on me. No doubt they could sense my vulnerability the moment they laid eyes on me. I was in a disgraceful state. Fortunately, Colin had followed me and fought them off before they could cause any serious injury. He even managed to retrieve my watch, which they’d taken. It was a gift from my grandfather when I received my degree at Cambridge. I would have hated to lose it.”

“Am I correct in assuming that Monsieur Hargreaves was harmed in the struggle?” Cécile asked.

“I’m afraid so, although his injury looks worse than it is.”

“Mon dieu, not his face?”

“No permanent damage done,” I said, returning my teacup to its saucer. “I do appreciate your candor, Mr. Benton-Smith, and can only admonish you to, please, try not to entangle my husband in any further such incidents.”

“That you do not use my Christian name wounds me,” he said. “I hope I have not lost your friendship.”

I gave him a wry smile. “Of course not, but you must have expected I wouldn’t be pleased at hearing such a story. I know how it is with gentlemen. You all do things of which we ladies disapprove. Do try to avoid us learning about them.” Cécile shot me a confused glance.

“I promise to do that and, further, shall worm my way back into your good graces,” Darius said. “I assure you this was not the sort of behavior in which I ordinarily indulge.”

“I should hope not,” I said. “I think you ought to let Colin have a lie-in, so whatever the two of you have planned for the day, delay it.”

“I quite agree, Lady Emily. Where are you off to?”

“The church at Santa Croce, to see Michelangelo’s grave,” Cécile said.

“Machiavelli is buried there as well.” I folded my napkin and put it on the table as I rose from my seat. “I thought I might leave flowers for him.”

“Machiavelli?” Darius squinted, looking at me with disbelief.

“I’m a great admirer of his work,” I said. “Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are. It pays to heed his words.”

“I shall never underestimate you, Lady Emily.”

I bestowed on him my most charming smile, took Cécile by the arm, and steered her out of the room.

“What is going on, Kallista?” Cécile asked as we stepped into the crowded street in front of the house. “I do not believe Monsieur Benton-Smith was attacked by petty criminals.”

“Nor do I.”

“Monsieur Hargreaves is not seriously injured, I hope?”

“Not so far as I could tell, but I thought it better to let him sleep than to conduct a thorough examination. The sooner we can figure out who killed Signore Spichio, the sooner Colin and Darius will be out of danger.”

“And this, I assume, is why you are leading Monsieur Benton-Smith to believe you’re an ordinary concerned wife?”

“Yes. It’s best that we don’t give him any reason to suspect we’re investigating on our own. Let him think I’m nothing more than an uninterested society wife.”

“Then it might not be advantageous to quote Machiavelli, Kallista. Hardly the thing for an uninterested society wife.”

“I said uninterested, not uninteresting.”

Tessa had written out directions to the Spichio home, which was only a few blocks from the church of Santa Croce, where I’d told Darius we were going. When being deceptive about my plans, I stay as close to the truth as possible. To do otherwise risks inadvertently making a mistake when later recounting what one has done. Cécile and I would visit the church, but only after first talking to the dead man’s family.

The Spichios lived a little more than a mile from Kat’s palazzo, a short walk on a day that was fine, sunny, and bright, more like summer than autumn. Much as I welcomed the feeling of setting off with purpose, when we reached their building, I paused, uneasy at disturbing them in their grief. When I could delay no longer, I rang the bell. A few moments later, a man in his mid-twenties opened the door. I asked him—in Italian—to direct us to the Spichios’ apartment.

He frowned. “I am afraid this is not a good time. My family is in mourning.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “Marzo was a friend of mine. We are here to offer our condolences.”

“A friend?” He looked incredulous, but motioned for us to follow him. We climbed four flights of stairs to a shabby doorway. A long, dark corridor led to a modest parlor, where a middle-aged woman, swathed in black, sat on a settee. She was flanked on one side by a shrunken elderly grandmother and on the other by a young girl of astonishing beauty with red lips like a Cupid’s bow, flawless skin, and thick dark hair.

“Signora Spichio, I am Lady Emily Hargreaves, and this is my friend Cécile du