Page 4 of Vengeance in Venice
“No,” Constance said, all the more furious because her words came out hoarse and faint. “I do not excuse you, and—” She broke off, coughing, and her captor, muttering under his breath, strode to a jug on a pretty inlaid table and poured a glass of water, which he brought to her.
She would have loved to dash it in his face, but she needed the drink, and she needed answers to the questions clamoring to form in her shaken mind. She drank. And looked about her. The room had grand proportions and had once probably been handsome, although now it bore signs of neglect, such aschipped, faded paint, and smelled somehow unused. There were no pictures on the wall, no carpets on the floor. It was sparsely furnished with two chairs and the small table. Was this to be her prison?
“You are English?” her captor said.
It spoke volumes for her weakened state that she was actually grateful he spoke her language. “I am. And suddenly I think very ill of Venetian hospitality.”
“I am not surprised. I can only apologize once more for your rough treatment. Please, sit.”
Again, she wanted to remain standing, but she needed to recover her physical strength more than retain her pride. At least he did not touch her, merely indicated the ornate chair closest to where she stood. She sank into it and took another sip of water. He remained standing.
A new possibility occurred to her. “Are you thepolice?”
His eyebrows flew up. “No, I am a private citizen.”
“In my country, you would be charged with kidnapping and hanged.”
“I should not go unpunished in mine, either. My fools misunderstood their orders and acted on their own initiative. Never a happy event. However, they associate you with one Ludovico Giusti, whom I think you know?”
The apology had faded from his eyes, leaving them hard and watchful.
“I do not,” said Constance. “I have been in the city a matter of days.”
“And yet you sent your men to the aid of Giusti.”
She tilted her chin. “My husbandsent himself to the aid of a man being attacked in the street by at least four others. If these were your men…”
“Giusti has something of mine. Of my wife’s. I need it returned.”
Constance stared at him. “So you send your thugs to beat him in the street? Is there no law in this city?”
To her surprise, a hint of color seeped into his cheeks. He seemed to be a serious, rather stiff man, and yet he was not old, surely not much over thirty.
“There is, of course,” he said awkwardly. “But some things go beyond law. To honor.”
“What honor is there is four men beating another to steal from him? In abducting a woman alone because her husband and servant had gone to the aid of the poor victim?”
“Giusti is no victim,” he snapped. “Andheis the thief, not I. My question is, what were you and your husband even doing there, since you claim not to know Giusti?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Returning from the opera.”
He blinked, as though that were the last answer he had expected. “Which theatre?” he barked at last.
She arched her eyebrows. “La Fenice.”
“What did you hear?”
“Verdi’s new work,La Traviata. And what business is this of yours?”
The man dragged his fingers through his hair. “None,” he said bitterly. His shoulders slumped. “Clearly none. Allow me to escort you to wherever you are staying.”
For a stunned moment, she was speechless. Her jaw probably dropped. “I would not allow you to escort me from the room. Where is my husband?”
He actually looked flustered. “I do not know. My men ran off, frightened of being identified when your boatman joined the fray. They mistook your husband for your servant.”
Then he was alive, surely he was alive… Emotion burst into words. “He is no one’s servant. Your men must be imbeciles. You may hire me a boatman entirely unconnected to you.”
“Madam, if I am seen hiring another boatman for a lady…” he began, clearly startled. “Consider my wife—”
