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

which collapsed, leaving my hair hanging down to my waist. He kissed me, then sighed. “Right. Work first.”

“Must we?” I asked. “This subterfuge is more arousing than I’d expected.”

“It will only get more so, I promise.” He walked away from me and leaned against the wall and then, seeming to remember it was decorated with centuries-old paint, moved to the door. He leaned there, but only for a moment before straightening up and starting to pace. “What do you have to tell me?”

“I spoke to Lena, who revealed herself to have lied quite substantially.” I related to him the contents of our conversation.

“So Ridolfo is violent. I can’t say that comes as a surprise. I don’t have any evidence to lead me to believe he killed his brother, but it’s quite possible whoever did kill Marzo is deliberately trying to make us think otherwise.”

“Your assassin might be using Ridolfo to throw our suspicions away from him?” I asked.

“Precisely.”

“We don’t have evidence to tie Ridolfo to the crime, but neither do we have evidence that condemns anyone else.”

“I have enough to feel confident Ridolfo is not involved,” he said.

“You can’t share it.”

“No.”

“I understand.” I studied every detail of his handsome face. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or your methods, but I can’t agree that we should dismiss Ridolfo’s potential involvement.” He opened his mouth to reply; I raised my hand to stop him. “I’m not making an attempt to persuade you to share your evidence. I know you can’t. At the same time, however, I feel strongly that something in this mess between the brothers and Lena is pertinent.”

“Ridolfo was not in Florence at the time of Marzo’s death.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am.”

“Lena thought—”

Now it was his turn to stop me. “Like you, I believe she’s being deliberately dishonest. Whether that is to hide something she knows or to misdirect us, I can’t say, but it would be helpful if you would continue to try to determine what is motivating her.”

“I shall keep at it.”

“As for this curse…” He paused, and I could tell he was no longer in agent-of-the-Crown mode. He peeled off his dinner jacket and fumbled with his cuff links. “Are you making it all up? It would be quite clever if you were. Darius is completely taken with it and hasn’t the slightest suspicion that you’re investigating Marzo’s death.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I can’t,” I said. “The treasure is mentioned in books, and given that all the jewelers on the Ponte Vecchio are familiar with stories of the curse, it’s likely a well-known local legend.”

“Do you give it any credence?”

I considered the question. “Everyone knows about the bonfire of the vanities and Savonarola’s gangs of boys who forced Florentines to give up jewelry, art, books, anything deemed sinful. It’s not outrageous to conclude that some citizens of the Republic would have chosen to hide things they considered precious.”

“Savonarola was executed little more than a year after the bonfire in question. On the same spot, too, if I recall,” Colin said. “Wouldn’t whoever hid the treasure have taken it back out afterward?”

“Not if she’d been executed herself, burned under Savonarola’s orders.”

“I can’t claim expertise on the subject, but I don’t remember Savonarola burning great swaths of the Florentine population. He did like torture, though. Believed the fear of it was enough to control people. Of course, for that to work, you first must employ the punishment, often enough that the general population becomes afraid. Even so, I’m not convinced it’s an effective measure. At any rate, it’s possible that your Renaissance lady fled the city, fell ill, died—there are numerous explanations of why she might not have ever removed her treasure from its hiding place.”

“And the stories of the curse could have sprung up, as they often do, when people search for explanations of the deaths of loved ones,” I said.

“Quite. Regardless, hunting for treasure, though a pleasant diversion, is not going to bring us closer to learning the identity of Marzo’s killer. Which is why you’re brilliant to focus on it. Or at least appear to. Now, are there any other pressing concerns we need to discuss? If not, I’d like to explore the promises held in that longing look you cast my way when we were in that wretched latrine. Have you any objections?”

Naturally, I did not.

 Lake Garda,

148020

I had never traveled far beyond Florence, only to my family’s villa in the countryside, a short drive from the city, but I hardly noticed the view from the carriage that took me to the villa on the shores of Lake Garda. I’m sure it was beautiful; I did not care. The housekeeper led me to a spacious suite of rooms where Alfia helped me bathe and change into a fresh gown. While she unpacked my belongings, a maid took me to her mistress.

Fabbiana Cambio greeted me in an ornately furnished room off of which was a loggia that overlooked the lake. She bore a shocking resemblance to her brother. They both had the same green eyes, the same dark brown hair, the same elegant posture. But her face was paler and she coughed frequently.

“You poor thing,” she said, not even introducing herself. “I will do what I can to make you comfortable here.”

“I’m grateful to you, but I’m certain that Giacomo—Father Cambio—I don’t know how to address him anymore—”

“It would be best if you found a way to stop thinking about him altogether, Mina. There will never again be a need for you to address him.”

“But surely he’ll come, he’ll want to see—”

“His child?” She pressed her lips together and shook her head, ever so slightly. “He won’t. He never does.”

“Never?”

“Mina, you are not the first, nor will you be the last. I’m accustomed to my brother’s shortcomings, of which there are many. Sometimes I wish the consumption would take me, so he’d no longer have a convenient place to send you girls.”

“How many have there been?”

“It doesn’t matter. I spoke to your slave.