His grip was far too firm to resist anyway. Even if she'd really wanted to.
CASA DORMA ----------
"You have used the children quite enough. Go any further and you imperil your souls."
Eneko Lopez's words were spoken softly; but, to Enrico Dell'este, they seem to ring through the luxurious salon in Casa Dorma like hammer blows on the anvil in his workshop. As always, the concept of uncertainty seemed utterly foreign to the Basque priest.
The Old Fox's lips twisted in a wry smile. "If the Grand Metropolitan of Rome refuses your request to found a new order, Father, you might consider taking up prophecy as your new vocation. I'm quite sure you could learn to carve stone tablets, with a bit of practice."
A nervous little laugh rippled through the salon. Lopez, showing that easy humor which--oddly enough--always lurked beneath his implacable surface, flashed the Duke of Ferrara a quick grin. Then nodded, acknowledging the hit.
The acknowledgement, of course, did not sway him for a moment. "The fact remains, milord, that you cannot manipulate everything for political purposes. Not without risking eternal damnation."
Petro Dorma coughed, drawing attention his way. "There's no need to argue the theology involved, Father Lopez. As it happens--for political as well as personal reasons--I agree with you."
Dorma had not spoken so far, since the discussion over the fate of Marco's marriage to Angelina had first begun. Everyone had expected him to be one pole of the debate--and quite the opposite one--so his statement brought instant silence.
"A Case Vecchie who is wise instead of shrewd," murmured Eneko. "Truly we have entered a new age of miracles."
Again, laughter rippled through the room--less nervously, this time; almost with relief.
Dorma shrugged. "I have done my best for my sister. But the fact remains that Angelina is . . . unstable. And Venice cannot afford to have Marco Valdosta in an unstable marriage. Nor, for that matter, can it afford to have Katerina Montescue develop the reputation of an adulteress."
He gestured with his head toward the great window overlooking the Grand Canal. Even though the window was closed, and the Piazza San Marco was some distance away from the Dorma palace, the roar of the huge crowd filling the streets and piazza in triumphal celebration was loud enough to be heard easily. Now in its second day, there seemed no sign yet that the festivities were abating.
"Some of that applause is for the Emperor, of course. Charles Fredrik is the first Holy Roman Emperor to visit Venice in two centuries, and since his visit--unlike the last one--is seen as a show of support for Venice, the crowd is casting its republican sentiments aside."
"For the moment," growled Lodovico Montescue. "If the Emperor isn't smart enough not to leave within a few days, you watch how fast that'll change. And good it is!"
"Oh, stop being a grouch," drawled Dell'este. "Look on the bright side. The Montagnards have been dreaming for years of the day when the Emperor would enter Venice--and now that it's finally happened, they're all hiding in their cellars."
He and Lodovico exchanged cold smiles.
Petro Dorma sighed. "Montescue, your house is still in dire financial circumstances. So you can't afford assassins anyway."
"I can," interjected Dell'este immediately. "And Lodovico can find them for me." He turned his head and smiled gently at Antimo Bartelozzi, seated in a chair behind him. "No offense, Antimo. But I always feel it's wise to consult the local experts."
Antimo nodded solemnly. "Quite so, milord."
"Enough!" snapped Petro. He glared at the Old Fox. "Ferrara is not in charge of Venice. Insofar as anyone is, at the moment, I am. I'm certainly in charge of the Lords of the Nightwatch." Discreet as ever, he did not add: the Council of Ten, also. "So if I discover either of you--or both together--have been conspiring to assassinate Montagnards, I'll take measures. Don't think I won't. I've had enough--so has Venice--of these damned factional wars."
The Old Fox was tempted to rise to the challenge--and just how will you take measures against Ferrara, Venetian?--but he resisted the temptation easily enough. He had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, from entering a pissing match with Petro Dorma. Besides--
"I give you my word, Lord Dorma," he said, almost insouciantly. "But it won't stop the crowd from doing it. Word is the Arsenalotti have organized their own assassins. And the canalers are guiding them to the Montagnard hideouts."
Petro made a face; then, shrugged. "What the Venetian commons do at the moment, to settle their scores, does not concern me. They'll crush the snake and be done with it. Casa Vecchie vendettas take on an insane life of their own."
Lodovico Montescue had the grace to flush and look away. A bit to his surprise, Enrico Dell'este found himself doing the same.
"My word," Dell'este repeated. This time, with no insouciance at all. After a moment, with a tone of aggrieved resignation that brought another little ripple of laughter, Lodovico added his own vow.
"Good enough," said Petro. Again, he gestured at the window. "What I was about to say, however, is that most of that applause is not for the Emperor. It is--as everyone here knows--addressed at Marco and Katerina." He rubbed a hand over his bald pate, smiling ruefully. "About whom the wildest rumors are sweeping the city."
"What's wild about them?" snorted Lopez. "Marco Valdosta does carry the Mantle of the Lion. And wears the Crown also, it seems." Seeing the uncertainty in the faces of the hard-headed Venetian grandees in the salon, the Basque chuckled harshly. "Oh, yes--have no doubt about it. Metropolitan Michael tells me he was able to study enough of what Dottore Marina left behind to understand what happened, even if he could not duplicate the thing himself. I'm not sure anyone could, except a Grimas."
From the back of the room, where he had been sitting uneasily in a chair--he was not accustomed to such society--Father Mascoli spoke up for the first time. His words were soft, but firm for all that. "There were many witnesses, milords, who saw the lion leave and return to the pillar. I have spoken to several of them."
Petro swiveled in his chair and examined the priest. It was at his insistence that Father Mascoli had come. "You have spoken to Sister Evangelina?"
Mascoli nodded. "Yes, Lord Dorma. And she has agreed--provided Angelina is not coerced in any way."
Petro nodded and turned back. "I have not coerced her. In fact, it was Angelina who first made the suggestion herself."
His round face took on an expression which was partly one of chagrin, partly one of fondness. "My sister's moods swing back and forth, rather unpredictably. At her best--" He straightened in his chair. "Her marriage to Marco was a fiction, as all here are well aware. Angelina, in her way, has grown very fond of Marco. And seems now to have become determined not to be an impediment to his happiness."
He raised a fist to his mouth and coughed into it. "She proposed, in fact, a simple annulment on the grounds that the marriage was never consummated. Which, as it happens, is quite true in this case. But--"
He broke off, his expression clearly showing his unease.