Page 86 of Vengeance in Venice
“You are out and about, signora!” Rossi greeted them. “I am honored this should be one of your first calls.”
“It’s an accidental call,” Solomon confessed, “but no less welcome for that. You never mentioned an exhibition.”
“It was a sudden decision. Adriana arranged it and wheedled another few artists to join us—which brings in more people,” Rossi added, his eyes twinkling, “even if the other artists are not as good as me.”
“Then you won’t be working on our portrait for a few days?” Solomon said.
“I give Signora Grey time to convalesce. But I can come tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Adriana and the others will look after things for me here.”
“Yes,” Constance said firmly, before Solomon could answer. “Come tomorrow afternoon.” She needed to believe it wouldhappen, that by tomorrow afternoon, Solomon would be back, alive, at the Palazzo Zulian, and they would all be safe.
Chapter Nineteen
Solomon had hopedConstance would sleep through the dawn and not wake until he was back. But he should have known better. She was already awake and watching him when he slid from the bed.
Deliberately, he concentrated on what lay ahead, not on her, but somehow he was not surprised to find her washing and dressing beside him in the pale light of one candle. She said nothing until his shoes were fastened and he reached for his coat.
“Let me come, Solomon. I’ll keep out of sight and do nothing.”
“Then there is no point in your being there, is there?” With his coat on, he went back to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I will be fine. And you must stay here and remain safe.”
“But you have no one to watch your back.”
“One of Foscolo’s men will be there. And I will have Alvise.”
“And how many will be with Lampl? Any number of police and spies, including Savelli’s bodyguard.”
“If he means to attack me, he can’t allow so many people to know,” Solomon said patiently. They had had this discussion already. Twice. “I can take care of myself, Constance. I always have.”
She caught his wrists. “Don’t despise him as a pampered aristocrat, Solomon. Lots of them are vicious.”
“So am I.” He bent and kissed her. “I need to know you are safe. Otherwise, I may not be sharp enough.”
It was a low blow, and he could see her hating him for it. But she released his wrists and let him go.
“I love you,” he said gently.
She tried to smile, and if anything had convinced him to stay, that failed attempt would have been it. “I will love you when you come home.”
Solomon kissed her again, and her mouth clung to his for a moment before she stepped back. He left the room without turning back and made his way carefully down the darkened stairs to the front door, which he unlocked and relocked behind him.
Alvise awaited him in the boat, nodding a greeting as Solomon climbed in. Then he began to row toward the Grand Canal, apparently untroubled by the lack of light.
Solomon hoped it would not occur to Constance that Alvise could be Lampl’s spy in their household. Solomon had considered it himself before recruiting the gondolier’s help. But Alvise had already defended him in a scrap, and Solomon, who still regarded himself as a decent judge of character, had decided that even if Alvise did spy, he would not attack him.
So much depended on what Lampl did, on how he attacked. Would he provoke Solomon into attacking him so that he felt obliged to shoot in self-defense? Would he entice him close enough to try to slide a knife between his ribs, meaning to then heave him into the canal?
He just had to observe closely and react with speed. Solomon was not a brawler by nature, but life had taught him to be constantly aware, and he knew his own strengths. He was quietly confident.
Dawn was just beginning to break as Alvise tied up where they had agreed and they walked the rest of the way to theRialto Bridge by quiet streets. Alvise kept his distance in case Lampl saw him, but in the quiet, Solomon could just hear the faint footfalls, comforting, allowing him to concentrate on his immediate surroundings, the buildings he was passing, the corners he was approaching.
Even so, when he turned wide around a church-like building, the shadow detaching itself from the doorway took him by complete surprise. His fingers curled, poised, as a man fell into step beside him.
“Good morning,” said Ludovico Giusti.
You should not be here. Solomon’s skin crawled with sudden, unthinkable suspicion. Had they been wrong all along? Was Giusti, the great Italian patriot, a spy and traitor after all? Had he murdered Savelli for his own ends but on Lampl’s orders? Poisoned Constance? The possibilities rushed upon Solomon, trying to scramble his brain while he poised for an attack.
Did Lampl even write that letter?
