Page 48 of Vengeance in Venice
Her brow twitched. “You mentioned Kellar. Sebastian Kellar? Why should he wish your wife—or my husband—ill?”
Because he had confessed his disreputable past to Constance just by asking after her mother? If it bothered him, why mention Juliet at all? He was a subtle and possibly dangerous man, but did he carry poison around in his pocket just in case he ran into someone he wanted rid of?
“I doubt he does,” Solomon admitted. “And if he did, he should have dealt with me in the same way.”
“But you will take her away now, won’t you? You will both leave the city and never come back. And the police will pick some criminal at random to execute for Angelo’s murder.”
Solomon rubbed the back of his neck, easing an ache he hadn’t noticed before. “Why wouldn’t they want the truth?”
“Oh, I’m sure they do. They just don’t insist on it. Someone will pay, preferably someone who is guilty ofsomething.”
He dropped his hand back into his lap. “You are cynical.”
“I am realistic. And I mistrust Austrian oversight in this case. It means they want a quick result, and Foscolo will go along with it. They must discourage people from doing away with Venetian allies of Austria.”
“You are saying that even if the murder is not political, its investigation is?”
“Of course. Signor Grey, let me order some food for you, and then you must rest. I will sit with your wife and call you when she wakes, or if there is any change.”
He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze straying to the other side of the bed where he had slept since they had arrived in Venice. He wanted nothing more than to crawl in beside Constance and hold her.
But this was not about him. He needed to do what was best for Constance.
He glanced back to Elena. The woman’s rather hard eyes softened, though she must have read the suspicion in his own.
“Whichever maid you trust most, have her sit in here too. Just for an hour or two.”
*
Every part ofConstance ached, outside and in. Behind her was a nightmare of sickness and purging and general awfulness. She felt too weak even to move. Yet she was no longer afraid. For amoment, in fact, she felt so peaceful that she wondered if she had died, and quickly opened her eyes.
If she was dead, so was Elena Savelli, who regarded her over the top of the book in her hands. The book lowered. “You look better. How are you?”
“Not dead. Where is Solomon?”
“In the dressing room. I persuade him to rest.”
“That is good… What time is it?”
“Just after two of the clock.”
“In the afternoon,” Constance said cautiously. “The afternoonafterI was taken ill?”
“Exactly.” Elena spoke in rapid Italian, and the maid Constance had not even noticed—her name was Maria, and she had occasionally helped Constance to dress when Solomon was otherwise engaged—rose and went out with a quick, tremulous smile. “She goes to fetch fresh wine and water, which is all the doctor will allow you.”
“I am so thirsty. What is in the glass?” Constance looked at the bedside table.
“The same, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t let you drink it.”
“You were not at the consulate.”
“I see you understand what happened to you.”
To her horror, weak tears started in her eyes. Fortunately, Solomon emerged from the dressing room with his hair on end and his shirt open at the throat, and she tried to lift her arms toward him. And then he was on the bed with her, cradling her against him.
“I thought I was with child,” she wept, and he stroked her hair and kissed her temple until the door clicked and Elena was no longer there. Constance sniffed and gave a watery laugh. “I scared her off. Why did she come?”
“Because she felt sorry for you, I think. And you told her to look after me.”
