Page 39 of Vengeance in Venice
Paralyzed, silently weeping, she could not even see the Madonna now except as a blue-and-gold blur. But she could not hide from God or her sin. And she would never have Angelo to lend her strength.
Lost. I am lost. What have I done…?
Chapter Nine
In the past,when Constance had insinuated herself into respectable Society, she had done so in the spirit of flimflam and a brash, devil-may-care attitude. It had even amused her to think of her companions’ horror if only they knew she was the bastard daughter of a drunken whore and fence of stolen goods, and a genuine brothel madam in her own right.
That was before Solomon. She was no longer pretending to be his wife, though sometimes she still felt as if she were acting a part on the stage. Like now. Entering the consulate reception on his arm, she had to stop her nervous hands smoothing her gown and fluttering about her hair. She felt stiff, her smile like wax. She would never admit nervousness, even to Solomon, but in truth she would have died rather than let him down.
She tried to imagine she was in her own establishment, greeting guests at the civilized evening parties that were the tasteful prelude to expensive transactions. And that helped. At least she could relax her grip on Solomon’s sleeve to that of a mere vise.
Only the first person she saw washim.
The gray-bearded Englishman she had first noticed at the opera and then on the gondola sailing beneath the nearest bridge to their house. She had forgotten all about him in the recent excitement, but now the odd nature of his stare came back with a vengeance, for he glanced over his companion’s shoulder and saw her.
For an instant, he looked stunned—he most certainly recognized her—but this time it was he who looked away.
Solomon winced, and she realized she had dug her fingers into his flesh rather than his coat sleeve. She loosened them at once. “Sorry. He’s here, that Englishman we keep seeing.”
“Well, it is the British consulate,” Solomon pointed out.
She was lost then in a maze of introductions as they were formally welcomed and a young man called Mr. Simons attached himself to them.
“I’m so glad you could come,” he gushed. “We had no idea you were in Venice until Mr. Kellar told us.”
“Mr. Kellar?” Solomon said, accepting a glass of wine that Mr. Simons ferried to them from a waiter’s tray.
“Mr. Sebastian Kellar,” Simons clarified, nodding toward the mysterious Englishman, who, in fact, was chuckling away with another unexpected figure—Ludovico Giusti.
For some reason, this gave Constance a fresh jolt. Was this Kellar somehow involved in Savelli’s murder? Or at least in her abduction by Savelli’s thugs? Hehadbeen watching her…
“Are you here in Venice for business or pleasure, Mr. Grey?” Simons asked.
“Oh, definitely the latter,” Solomon replied. “This is our wedding trip.”
“Oh! Congratulations, sir! I wish you both very happy indeed! Are you acquainted with Mrs. Hargreaves?”
It was, Constance realized, a familiar kind of party, designed to gather gossip and provide opportunity for British people to do themselves and each other favors in the way of trade and diplomacy. Naturally, much of this involved fellow foreigners as well as Venetian natives, and Constance soon found herself in conversation with a British diplomat’s wife, two Italians, an American, and a German. She had nothing to offer any ofthem, but they seemed flatteringly enchanted with her anyway. Perhaps they were looking for an introduction to Solomon.
But it was clearly not the thing to chat too long to one group of people. Everyone mingled, flitting from group to group like bees collecting pollen. To Constance, the party was suddenly easy to navigate—it reallywaslike evenings at the establishment. She was only there to look pretty and make introductions. Men laughed and admired her, almost eating out of her hand. It even seemed her struggling Italian was improving.
She met up again with Mrs. Hargreaves and reminded herself why she had wanted to come. “Tell me, ma’am,” she said confidentially, “were you acquainted with Angelo Savelli, who died so tragically a few days ago?”
“Of course. I believe he would have been here tonight. So shocking! I have always found Venice such a delightful, friendly city.”
“Indeed, that is my experience. But someone murdered Signor Savelli. Can you imagine why anyone would possibly do such a thing?”
Mrs. Hargreaves shuddered. “That is for the police, my dear. They have to do something other than read people’s letters and spy on their conversations. Talking of whom…” She glanced significantly across the room, and, following her gaze, Constance saw the Austrian policeman Lampl enter, along with Signor Premarin. They appeared to be deep in conversation.
“He isthatsort of policeman?” Constance said.
“Is there any other here?” Mrs. Hargreaves said cynically, and flitted away.
Constance sipped her wine and wondered if there were any truth in the older woman’s accusation. She knew Venice well, after all. But Constance had found Lampl genuinely interested in the case. She did wonder if he would be quite so interested in themurder of someone like Giusti, who was not Austria’s friend, but he had seemed to be encouraging Foscolo and asking pertinent questions of his own.
Perhaps she should approach him here in this sociable environment… But before she could move toward them, someone else caught her eye—a maidservant in a slightly crooked cap and ill-tied apron, who was collecting abandoned glasses and plates onto the tray she carried. She looked familiar, yet it took Constance several moments to place her.
The surroundings were vastly different, and the girl’s hair was considerably tidier. Also, her expression was less exasperated, less aggressive. But it was undoubtedly Adriana, the girl who appeared to live with the artist Domenico Rossi, though whether as maid, mistress, or model was not quite clear.
