Page 50 of Vengeance in Venice
Neither of them had been at the consulate, and his instinct was to look more closely at exactly what had happened around Constance’s glass. Someone there had put something in her wine, and they needed to know who quite urgently.
When Rossi had stomped off, irritated by Constance’s absence, Solomon raked in the desk for Constance’s notes and, taking them with him, retreated back to the bedroom. If she was up to the task, it was time to compare notes and work out who had poisoned her. Once they knew that, surely they would find Savelli’s murderer too.
Chapter Eleven
Constance had fallenasleep again, her water glass, drained, on the bedside table. For a moment, Solomon stood looking down at her. A year ago, he had never even spoken to her, and yet now, she was everything. A fresh surge of fear washed over him, for she was so weak, he knew he could still lose her.
It was not the first time she had been hurt in the course of one of their investigations. She had been hit on the head, almost burned alive…but he would not think of that. Because, always, she bounced back, going blithely on with the investigation, approaching the next with excitement and the same vital curiosity that had first drawn him to her. It was something they shared.
Part of him was still screaming that it was madness to expose her to these dangers, whatever risks he took on his own account. Of course, it was Constance’s decision, not his, and she had made it clear he had no right to dictate to her, only to discuss. Theirs was a partnership.
Not now. Since they had married, he had every right to rule her. Though he could just imagine her reaction if he tried to do so. Laughter surged into his throat, catching at his breath, and turned abruptly into tears.
“Oh, Constance,” he whispered, sinking down on the bed. “Why are you so impossible, so wonderful, sonecessary…”
A knock sounded at the door, and he hastily dashed his sleeve across his face. Rossi was right—he should change his clothes,though the matter seemed the least important in the world right now.
“Avanti,” he called, and Maria came in with the doctor.
Disturbed, Constance woke again and was given more to drink from Donati’s own hand. Watching him almost as closely as he watched Constance, Solomon found his hopes rose, for there was a definite spark of approval in the doctor’s eyes.
He asked her questions, listened to her heart, then sent her to the privy with Maria’s support. It broke Solomon’s heart to see her walking like an old woman.
“Is the danger past?” he asked when he and Donati were alone.
“No,” said the doctor, “but I would say it is definitely reduced. Her body is shocked and severely weakened and will take some time and care to recover. But she is a healthy young woman. And a lucky one. I would guess she ingested very little of the poison.”
“Do you have any idea what the poison was?”
Donati sighed. “I cannot be sure. It could be one of several.” Deliberately, he met Solomon’s gaze. “I reported the incident to the police.”
Solomon nodded. “I am surprised they have not called.”
“They may be suspicious of you, Signor Grey,” Donati said bluntly.
Solomon nodded. He had expected that, and it scarcely mattered.
Constance returned and answered a few more probing questions from the doctor, while he pushed the glass back into her hands and gestured to her to drink.
“No food until tomorrow,” he said at last.
Constance gave a tired smile. “That will be no hardship.”
“And then only the lightest gruel, or thinned soup,” Donati instructed her, rising to his feet. “I will speak to your cook on my way out.”
Maria went with him to show him the way.
Constance leaned her head back against the pillows and reached for Solomon’s hand. “I feel as if I’ve marched for miles across London, and I only walked a few yards to the next room and back.”
“They are big rooms,” he said encouragingly.
She laughed, and it sounded to him like the finest music. Then she said, “Will you open the curtains and the window, let me see the city? I don’t want to waste this time.”
He rose and obeyed, letting the light flood in. The afternoon sun was still shining on the water and the bridges and streets, the old and beautiful buildings, the passing boats. Somewhere close by, a blackbird sang, and in the distance, he could make out a gondolier’s song.
He returned to the bed and kicked off his shoes so that he could stretch out beside Constance. She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. She had always felt surprisingly delicate in his hold, but now she felt fragile like glass. Very thin, fine glass.Foolish imagination, of course.
She said, “How was it done, Solomon? I only had one glass of wine.”
