Page 68 of Vengeance in Venice
“Savelli was a handsome young man,” Premarin continued, “everything I am not. He even made an effort to talk to her, to listen. Which I did not. Oh, it woke me up to my own behavior, my own frailties as well as hers. In some ways, I am too late. She knows I do not love her.”
“How does she know?”
“Because Venice is a small city. Everyone knows I asked Elena first. Elena Savelli, as she is now.”
Grey’s eyes grew sharper. Premarin doubted he could have hidden if he’d tried. “You were in love with Elena.”
“And I could not have her, so I took another, any other, for convenience. Bianca’s family were generous. She was convenient. Only she isn’t now. She is a worry to me, Signor Grey. The first time, I followed her from suspicion. After that, from fear for her safety. She never noticed me. I only hope no one else noticed either of us.”
Grey stirred, as though moving on. “On the night that Savelli died, you followed her to his house as usual. The front of the house?”
Premarin nodded.
“You did not go by boat?”
“It’s a simpler walk, and clearly neither of us wished to wake the gondolier.”
“What time was this?” Grey asked.
“About two? After three by the time we left.”
“Did you see Savelli at his window? Hear his voice? See any of his servants?”
“Nothing. No one.”
“What about on the way home? Did you see anyone in the streets? On the canals?”
“There were a couple of boats. I didn’t look.” Premarin stopped, frowning. “Wait, though—I did see someone in a boat, drinking straight from a bottle and shouting occasional obscenities. The man is a known drunk, so I hurried to catch up with my wife. But he didn’t appear to notice her. He seemed to have some fixed purpose, though he could not keep his boat in a straight line. He bumped into several that were tied up and swore at them all.”
“Where was this?” Grey asked urgently.
“On the Grand Canal, though I think he turned off because I couldn’t see him the next time I glanced over my shoulder.”
“Going in which direction?” Grey demanded. “Toward Savelli’s house or away?”
“Toward, I suppose.”
“And this man was known to you? Who is he?”
Premarin could see that Grey already knew, but he said it anyway. “Rossi. Domenico Rossi.”
Chapter Fifteen
Challenging an aggressivedrunk is rarely wise. In the old days, Constance would have found a way to distract him. Perhaps she had grown lazy in recent years, because in her establishment, on the rare occasions a man misbehaved, she had merely to snap her fingers and two burly young footmen would have the transgressor out of the front door before he or anyone else noticed. They never made a fuss in the street. After all, who wanted to be discovered by friends, neighbors, or the police shouting outside a brothel?
This was an entirely different situation. She was alone in a secluded garden with a man who might have killed already and arranged the poisoning that still seemed such a terrible, personal attack.
And Rossi was undoubtedly angry. His eyes had seemed to flare into fury as soon as she mentioned fighting, but there was more there. Fear? Desperation? Although not a particularly large man, he was big enough and unpredictable enough to be a threat. And he was poised, his very stillness unnatural and unnerving.
“I do not fight,” he stated with a sudden softness that chilled her. “I am an artist.”
“And a very fine one.” Flattery was an old and successful weapon, but she was still afraid to release his gaze. “But you are still human. Anyone would resent being dismissed as you were by Signor Savelli. And the signora…such a beautiful lady.”
His eyes softened in reminiscence. “Fire and ice and strength,” he said, and then his gaze refocused. “I wanted to paint her very badly.”
“Did you love her?”
A moment longer, he stared at her and her healing stomach lurched with fresh fear. She clasped it and her pile of papers and tensed for the blow, whatever it would be.
