Page 15 of Vengeance in Venice
“Is she beautiful?”
To his surprise, Solomon had to think about that. “I don’t know,” he said again. “But she is the sort of woman one remembers.”
“Giusti remembers,” Constance said. “She is the true cause of their quarrel, isn’t she?”
“I would not be surprised.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Murdered Savelli? Why now? Why not before or just after Savelli married her?”
“You don’t want it to be Giusti?”
Solomon slipped his arm around her waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “No, I suppose I don’t. I like him.”
“I actually liked Savelli, in an odd sort of a way,” she admitted. “I felt almost sorry for him somehow. Alone with his thugs and a woman they had wronged in his name. He loved his wife. I wonder if she loved him?”
“More than she loved Giusti, I imagine,” Solomon said wryly.
“Women marry for all sorts of reasons,” Constance said. “Especially, I suspect, in the midst of revolution and war.”
He looked down at her. “They married in 1849,” he said, “when the Austrians were taking back power. Savelli backed the Austrians. I wonder what Giusti was doing?”
“Fighting the Austrians,” Constance said. “By accident or design, she chose the winning side. I wonder where the jewels come into it?”
Perhaps it was inevitable, but still he felt the familiar stirring of excitement. “Are we investigating this crime, then?”
“We do seem to be,” she replied. “No honeymoon holiday for us.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Solomon murmured into her ear, which his lips suddenly found quite fascinating. “I’m sure we can fit both into our busy lives.”
The catch in her breath fed his own arousal, and he found her mouth, sensual and eager. That this amazing woman was his still astonished him. That her desire matched his own felt like a blessing, or even a miracle, both a relief and a wonder.
They were married and they were in Italy. There was nothing to stop them retreating to the bedroom in the middle of the afternoon. So they did.
*
It was afterfive o’clock before Foscolo called upon them. Constance, lethargic after her afternoon of love, tried to refocus her mind on murder and policemen, but only the realization that Solomon was likely to be the prime suspect—with or without Giusti—forced her back to reality with a bump.
Foscolo appeared to be an experienced man, though not yet forty years old, she guessed. Like other policemen she had met, there was a certain cynicism, even weariness about his eyes, but they were steady and perceptive and not without humor, and she doubted many people could lie to him successfully. Nor was heafraid to let admiration show in his face as Solomon introduced them. However, she doubted such appreciation made a blind bit of difference to his conclusions.
“Your husband told me of your ordeal at the hands of Signor Savelli’s servants,” he said, as the three of them sat down in the drawing room. It was still sunny and the doors to the balcony were open. “I must apologize for such lawlessness in my city. I only hope you came to no lasting harm.”
“None that will not heal.”
“I commend your bravery, signora. Perhaps you would tell me in your own words exactly what happened to you?”
Before she could speak, the drawing room door opened again. A servant said, “Scusi!” in a frightened voice and another man strode in.
Constance, something of an expert in judging men, found him a completely different specimen from Foscolo. A year or so younger, maybe, and considerably wealthier, he was definitely of the aristocracy. His eyes were neither cynical nor weary. On the contrary, they were bright and determined. A driven man. He also appeared to be irritated.
Foscolo and Solomon had both risen to their feet. It struck Constance that Foscolo was no less irritated than the newcomer. Just for an instant, it tightened his mouth and almost spat out of his dark eyes, and then his face smoothed into blandness.
“My superior, Signor von Lampl,” he said to Constance. “Signor, Mrs. Grey.”
Lampl snapped a bow, not without grace. “Mrs. Grey. Mr. Grey.” He turned to his underling and released a torrent of Italian that Constance could not follow. Nevertheless, she got the gist that Foscolo should not have come here without him, while Foscolo himself clearly saw no reason for his superior’s presence.
However, the Venetian inclined his head to the Austrian in apparent acceptance and returned to English. “Because of your status as an important visitor to our city, Signor von Lampl believes his presence is an important sign of respect to our British allies.”
