Starling (125 page)

Cass shook her head, but couldn’t bring herself to speak. She was
desperate for absolution, and if she opened her mouth, she feared the
entire story would come rushing out. So many lies, so many deaths.

Seraphina tried again. “You look lovely as a blonde.”
Cass was wearing Flavia’s wig again. She smiled tightly.
The gondolier moored the boat and each of the girls alighted onto

the wooden dock. Inside, the courtesans all split up as they entered
the portego. Arabella sidled over to one of her regular admirers, and
Seraphina and Flavia joined the group of dancers. Cass loitered just
inside the doorway, getting her bearings, surveying the scene. Dubois patrolled the room flanked by a pair of men carrying clubs. Personal guards. Apparently, after Belladonna and Piero’s untimely
passing, he feared for his life.
Good,
Cass thought.
Let him understand what it is like to be afraid.

She fell into the mix of dancers, moving in circles and clapping
hands with several different men while she observed Dubois. He
wore brilliant gold breeches and a black doublet with slashed sleeves.
Bright red fabric poked through the slashes. Both his hat and boots
were adorned with scarlet ribbons. He didn’t appear nervous. In fact,
he walked with the same regal but casual stride as always, stopping
frequently to kiss women on the hand or clap noblemen on the back.
He never once glanced in Cass’s direction.

As Dubois accepted a glass of wine from an attendant and joined
a pair of senators who were chatting near the table of food, Cass
grabbed a candle from a table along the wall and slipped away to
begin to search for the hidden room Feliciana had mentioned.

She passed back into the portego and headed for the far side of the
dancers, where a second hallway led to the back of the palazzo.
There was a dining room, a library, and a pair of bedchambers, one
of which had to be Dubois’s.

The first room was too simple to belong to the master of the estate.
The bed wasn’t large enough, the furniture not ornate. Cass gave the
room a cursory check and then turned back to the hallway. As she
crossed the threshold, a shadow moved in the corner of her vision.
She spun around, but the corridor was empty.

Suddenly she heard a scream. Then a crash. The sound of tromping footsteps. The music stopped abruptly. Il Sangue de Mezzanotte
had arrived.

Cass crept to the edge of the portego for a closer look. The room
was teeming with men in masks. Women clutched protectively at
their jewelry while their escorts shepherded them toward the stairs
that led to the front door. Some of the braver—or perhaps more
foolish—men were engaging the mercenaries. Cass stifled a scream
as she saw a man wearing a senator’s gold medallion around his neck
try to tackle a mercenary from behind. The mercenary—she was almost certain it was Zago, the man who had practiced sparring with
her at Mazzanotte Island—bent low and flipped the politician over
his head. Then he lifted him by the fabric of his tunic and sent him
flying backward into a platter of meat pies.

“We only want Dubois.” Rowan’s voice boomed across the chaos.
“The rest of you should leave.”
Cass didn’t see Joseph Dubois, but two of his guards appeared
from the lower level of the palazzo, their clubs drawn. “Send for the
Town Guard immediately,” one hollered toward the stampede of
people heading for the door. No one turned to acknowledge him, but
Cass knew at least a few of the attendees would report the intrusion.