3 - Cruel Music (26 page)

I had no doubt that Gemma had turned to extortion to raise her dowry. But threatening Lorenzo Fabiani had proved to be a very bad idea.

Clutching the painting, I imagined the cardinal weighing his prospects. The amount of money that would seem like a fortune to Gemma would barely leave a dent in his purse, but allowing an ambitious, determined young woman to walk away with his secret carried a dangerous risk that would follow him forever. What had the cardinal called Gemma: a person of no significance in society or government? I sighed as I stared at the untutored letters of her signature. Cardinal Fabiani had strangled Gemma with no more compunction than swatting a mosquito.

Now what? I intended to use the painting as leverage to induce Cardinal Fabiani to transfer his support from Di Noce to Stefano Montorio, but if I weren’t careful, I could end up as dead as Gemma. One thing was certain, it would be folly to confront him with the evidence in hand. I needed to find my own place of concealment, but where? I spent several minutes in furious concentration. My room? The garden pavilion? One of the passages behind the tapestries?

“Idiot!” I gave myself a sharp knock on the forehead. The marchesa had handed me the best hiding place of all. The flour barrel had sheltered the painting for several weeks, at least. Who knows how many times Gemma and the old lady played their desperate game of hide and seek with the painting? But Gemma was gone, and the marchesa’s memory no longer extended beyond her childhood. I was the only one who knew.

I must hurry. Digging like a dog burying a bone, I returned the painting to its floury cache. The dusting of white I’d created on the red floor tiles and marble shelves also had to be dealt with. I didn’t dare leave any trace of unwarranted interest in the villa’s flour stock. By the time I’d cleaned every surface and stowed my rag and broom, it must have been almost midnight.

The cook’s parlor door was shut and the servant’s staircase deserted. I took those stairs two at a time, intending to wait up for the cardinal and confront him as soon as he came in. When I reached the second floor, I stepped into blackness. The small lamps that usually illuminated the night hallways had been extinguished.

Pausing to let my eyes adjust, I palmed the hilt of my dagger. A stealthy click met my ears. I could just make out a dark figure letting himself out of my room. It wasn’t Guido. The footman was much stockier and had no reason to skulk in the shadows.

The figure scuttled away toward the cardinal’s suite. I could have stayed where I was, but I was sick to death of secrets. I wanted to know who had been in my room. I launched myself down the hall. The collision with the dark figure sent us both staggering. After wrestling the slight man to the carpet, I found myself astraddle a squirming, whimpering bundle of bones.

“Shut up!” With my left hand, I pinned his jaw askance. With my right, I positioned the blade of my dagger behind his ear. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Tito! It’s me—Rossobelli.” The abate made a pitiful squeak. “Thank the good Lord, I’ve found you in time.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“You must flee! Now!” Rossobelli whispered frantically as I pushed him into my room and shut the door. “Take what money you’ll need to get out of Rome and go. Just go, for God’s sake.”

I lit a candle and located a decanter of brandy. The abate needed a glass badly. He was trembling, near hysteria.

“Here, calm yourself.” I handed him a glass. “Take your—”

“You don’t understand,” he cried, knocking my hand away, splashing brandy onto my waistcoat. “Sertori is at the front entrance. He’s brought constables, Tito. He means to arrest you for Gemma’s murder.”

I let the brandy soak into my waistcoat unchecked. “He found the body?”

“They brought her up just before the light failed, and he had a warrant drawn up this evening.”

“Has Cardinal Fabiani returned?”

“No. He’s meeting with the Montorios tonight.”

“At the Palazzo Venezia?”

The abate gave a quick nod. “Yes. But…Tito…I don’t think you can count on him for help. If it comes down to a choice of giving up you or the marchesa…”

Or himself, I thought, as I swiveled my head at the sound of distant commotion.

Rossobelli stepped to the door and opened it a fraction. “They’re inside the villa. I told Guido to make them wait outside, but the constables must have pushed through.” He spied my cloak thrown over a chair, grabbed it, and shoved it into my hands. “Come. His Eminence’s suite is empty. I’ll send you out his private entrance. Do you remember the way through the aqueduct passage?”

I nodded, suppressing a shiver. How could I ever forget?

Darting glances over my shoulder, I followed the abate down the corridor and into the cardinal’s bed chamber. With a grunt, he shifted the priedieu with the flickering candles that were kept continuously lit. As he illuminated a lantern from one of their flames, a question rose to my lips.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked with a gulp.

“Helping me escape Sertori. I always thought that you considered me more enemy than friend.”

Rossobelli clenched his jaw. Fine beads of sweat had formed on his sharp, red cheekbones. He had the look of a man who might be sick at any moment. He handed me the lantern and unhinged the bookcase that concealed the stairway.

“Just go,” he said.

“Not until you have told me why.”

“Ancona,” he answered in a faraway tone, “my boyhood home. The prettiest town on the Adriatic seacoast. My father should be supervising a harbor full of ships, and Ancona’s people should be well-fed and comfortable.”

“You’re warning me away because of the Ancona project?”

“No.” He hung his head. “It’s because of Ancona that Magistrate Sertori is here. I suggested that he question old Benelli about dumping Gemma’s body.”

“I see. You’re the one who sent the anonymous note.”

He writhed miserably. “It was wrong, I admit it. It’s just that His Eminence is so taken with you. Before you came to the villa, I felt sure that Di Noce would carry the day and shepherd the Ancona project to conclusion—Prince Pompetti and His Eminence seemed in such perfect sympathy. But then
, with a Montorio supporter practically living in the cardinal’s pocket…”

“It’s the music I make that he admires, not my clumsy attempts at politicking.”

“Perhaps, but I was determined to make the most of every opportunity that might benefit Ancona.”

“Including my arrest for a murder I didn’t commit?”

“It must have been the Devil himself who tempted me. I was weak…and too quick to sin. Can’t you see that I’m trying to make reparation?” He opened the bookcase a little wider. “Please, Tito, get out of Rome before Sertori finds you. Once you cross the boundary of the Papal States, you’ll be safe. Otherwise…I won’t be able to live with myself.”

I entered the dark passage, lantern in hand, but paused on the top step. “Did the Devil also give you the idea of sending some ruffians to run Benito down? Was that your first attempt to get me out of the villa?”

Rossobelli’s jaw dropped. He appeared horrified. “No, nothing of the sort. Benito met with a tragic accident…did he not?”

“There was a witness who saw the cart run him down deliberately, and you seemed most interested in his condition.”

“I was, but only because I felt sorry for the little man. I would never—” Drawing a quick breath, the abate looked over his shoulder. “They’re in the corridor. Run, Tito. Godspeed.”

The bookcase clicked shut.

I am as fond of my skin as the next man. I cannot claim that I gave no thought to hurrying straight to the kitchens, digging the painting out of the flour, and presenting it to Sertori with my theory about why Fabiani strangled Gemma. But I couldn’t desert Alessandro in that cowardly fashion. If our places were reversed, I knew that he would move heaven and earth to save me. Besides, I tended to agree with Liya that Sertori would prefer the quick arrest of a powerless singer to a pitched battle with a prince of the Church.

The aqueduct at the bottom of the stairs was just as narrow, still, and damp as I remembered, but I scuttled through the first section clinging to one firm goal: find Fabiani. At the stone steps that led up to the pavilion, I paused and gathered my cloak tight. It wasn’t the chill, but the act of passing over the very route that Rossobelli and I had traversed with Gemma’s lifeless body. I pushed forward. The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles. Finally, a draft of fresh air touched my cheeks. Mindful of the bats I had encountered before, I covered the remaining yards to the mouth of the aqueduct in a stumbling crouch.

A rumble of thunder greeted my clumsy exit. Lightning flashed above the hills to the east, its jagged silver threads providing a glimpse of angry clouds swirling against the dark sky. At least the rain had held off. With the help of my lantern, I located the twisting path through the bushes whose tops were whipping to and fro in the wind. Pulling the hood of my cloak well forward, I began the long walk to the Palazzo Venezia.

***

It was late, I wasn’t expected, and my muddy boots and stained waistcoat failed to impress. I had to produce my card and shuffle my feet in the drafty entryway while a footman sailed off with my bit of pasteboard on a silver salver. He soon returned in a dignified version of a trot.

“This way, Signor Amato.”

I followed him with my heart in my throat and was announced at the door of the study where Senator Montorio had delivered his ultimatum. I found both Montorio brothers and Cardinal Fabiani seated before a dwindling fire with all indications of having a companionable chat. A tray of fruit and cheese had been set out, along with a decanter of amber liqueur. The globe of the world had been removed to one corner, and the wide writing table was piled with papers.

Antonio Montorio greeted me with a smile. He stepped forward and, for one dizzying moment, I thought he meant to embrace me. “Ah, the wind has blown our nightingale to us,” he said. “This is a surprise, Tito, but a welcome one. Cardinal Fabiani has been singing your praises.”

Stefano Montorio did not rise. His armchair was slightly removed from the group, and he stared into the fire with shoulders slumped and chin resting heavily on one hand. I knew that pose. I used it whenever I had to play the role of a general whose army had just been decimated.

Across from him, Cardinal Fabiani sat ramrod straight, eyes brilliant and pointed nose twitching in outright curiosity.

The senator continued in an ebullient vein. “The weather is fierce tonight. You must be chilled. Won’t you join us in a glass?”

I almost refused, wary of disordering my senses with drink when I had not dined or supped. But I needed a restorative; the fine French Cognac proved to be the very thing. The warmth that spread over my chest emboldened me to ask to speak to Cardinal Fabiani alone.

“Lorenzo?” Senator Montorio questioned his guest with a raised eyebrow.

Cardinal Fabiani nodded. After the senator had roused his brother with a tap on his shoulder, the two Venetians left the room.

“Come near the fire, Tito.” Fabiani sat forward and bumped his chair so close that the tips of his satin slippers were nearly in the ashes.

I followed suit.

“Just a precaution,” he elaborated. “Even Montorio’s practiced spies cannot stand in a flame without getting burned. Now, what do you want?”

“Magistrate Sertori came to the villa with a warrant for my arrest.”

He grimaced, casting an eye toward my muddy boots. “It appears that you put the old aqueduct to good use.”

I saw no point in reciting the facts of my flight from the villa. Time was of the essence. “Desio Caporale,” I said flatly.

“Who?” he inquired smoothly, politician to the hilt.

“Desio Caporale, groom on the Fabiani estate in Tuscany. You know—your father?”

The cardinal opened his mouth, then shut it and pressed himself back into the chair. “Tito, Mama doesn’t know what she is saying anymore. Her mind is completely addled. Whatever she told you, you can’t believe—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” I put in. “And I know that she didn’t kill Gemma.”

Fabiani’s face was covered by a sheen of sweat that glowed in the firelight. “You had better tell me what is on your mind, Tito, and be quick about it.”

I let him stew a moment, then commenced. “There exists a certain painting of a bay stallion held by the groom, Desio Caporale. When her mind was clearer, your mother recorded your birth history on the back of the canvas. It was witnessed by her maid Gemma. But then, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

The cardinal would neither admit nor deny. He regarded me with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Gemma had ambitions far beyond her station. You paid her to be your spy in the Pompetti household, but she wanted more. In her time with the marchesa, she had managed to discover that Pope Clement was not your father, and she knew where the proof could be found. Gemma asked you for money.” My throat faltered. It was getting very hot.

Fabiani wiped his brow with a snow-white handkerchief. He sighed. “Is that what you want? Money?”

“I don’t need money. What I need is my brother out of prison, safe and sound. That will only happen when Stefano Montorio is elected to the papacy. I will trade you the painting of Desio Caporale for your unqualified support of the Venetian cause.”

Fabiani made a weary gesture. “As you see, Senator Montorio is quite pleased with my promises.”

“But you have made the same promises to Prince Pompetti,” I replied in a bitter tone.

Fabiani rose and poured Cognac into his heavy-bottomed goblet. He raised the decanter in question, but I shook my head. He returned to lean over the back of his chair with glass in hand.

“That’s the way the game is played, Tito. Once we go into conclave, there will be many rounds of balloting, with cardinals switching loyalties right and left. I won’t know who I’ll deliver my votes for until the last minute.”

“I need your solemn word that you will support Stefano Montorio.”

He stared at me with something close to admiration. “You’re as determined as that sly vixen Gemma.”

“So you admit that she tried to extort money from you?”

He nodded. “I met Gemma in the garden pavilion to hear her report on Prince Pompetti’s ridiculous revels. Aurelio was once my best friend in Rome, but since that misdirected Englishwoman put him under her spell, his harmless fascination with his ancestors has turned into something that could lead to a great deal of trouble.” He glanced down, swirling the Cognac in his glass. “I was digesting Gemma’s latest information when the maid started making demands. She was so sure of herself, so resolute. You would have thought that she was a queen and I her servant.”

“Of course you couldn’t allow that. Did you use the scarf to throw blame on your mother? Or was it just the nearest thing to hand?”

The goblet slipped from his grasp and bounced to the hearth with an explosive crash. We watched in horror as a tongue of fire shot from the smoldering logs to the Cognac. Jerking his scarlet robes around his knees, the cardinal jumped aside. I stomped on the blue flames until my boots had driven them down. By common consent, Cardinal Fabiani and I backed away from the fire until we had reached the globe in the corner.

“I didn’t kill Gemma,” he said in a fierce whisper. “It was Mama. You know that.”

“I know nothing of the sort. I’ve spent many hours with the marchesa. I don’t believe she possesses the strength to strangle Gemma, even in anger. It was you. You are ashamed of your real father and terrified that all Rome would know of your deception.”

“Ashamed? Ah, Tito, you are very much mistaken.”

“Am I?”

He narrowed his eyes and leaned over the globe. “Do you really have time for this? Shouldn’t you be taking a fast coach out of Rome?”

“The painting is safely hidden for now, but if I leave the city tonight, it will eventually be found by…” I shrugged. “Who knows?”

He spun the globe in thought for a moment, then spoke softly. “I could hardly be ashamed of Desio. He first set me on a horse when I was four years old. Over the years, he introduced me to every stream and badger hole on the estate. Those rides with him represent the happiest memories of my life.”

“Did you know that he was your father?”

“Not then. Like everyone else, I believed my father to be the Marchese Fabiani, a mean-tempered bully who’d as soon cuff me as look at me. I didn’t know the truth until after…”

“After what?”

He stopped the spin of the globe with a smack from his palm. “The history of my family isn’t pretty, Tito. Our lands are too low for grapes or timber, the soil too poor to support a rice crop. Over the years, we survived by currying favor at the Medici court. My mother wielded her influence in the bed chamber, and her husband was a favorite drinking companion of Grand Prince Ferdinando. I was left behind on the estate. As a small child I would be in the way, and as I grew, I could only make my mother appear older than she wished. I didn’t mind. I grew to manhood with Desio as my mentor and friend. If only those golden days could have lasted,” he reflected with a yearning smile that changed the whole nature of his face.