Rogue Spy

Forty-one

They sat in rush-bottomed chairs in the kitchen in front of the long hearth—two old people, brother and sister. They were rich, back in Tuscany, in land, farms, and vineyards. Rich in power, which was more important.

If they chose to sit in the kitchen with their feet at the fire, if they dabbled in fraud and bamboozlement, if they raised a pack of noisy, larcenous grandchildren in London or, barefoot, in the big villa in Tuscany, it was because a wise man does not forget his roots.

“The boys”—Giomar, Tonio, and Alessandro—had eaten hugely, downed a pitcher of red wine between them, and gone off to bed.

Bernardo drank hot watered brandy. Fortunata, a tisane of mint and cloves from a flowered teacup. “He’s upstairs now,” she said.

“Admirably silent.” They’d heard no sound when he entered the window on the floor above. Bernardo cradled the terra-cotta cup between his palms. “An Italian would serve as well, a family from Piedmont or Sardinia. One of the Rossi in Milan. We could find someone who would not meddle in politics.”

“A milksop.”

“He would be more welcome.”

“Not to Sara.” Fortunata was very sure. Two brown dogs sat at her feet, alert but silent, knowing there was a stranger upstairs, sensing he was to be tolerated, intrigued by this.

“To give her to someone so far from home, on this cold island, among the English . . .” Bernardo said what he thought of the English with the sweep of one hand.

“It is familiar to her. Confess, Bernardo, you agree with me. In all ways, she’s better off with an Englishman who will command some respect and keep her safe, but who will play no politics in Italy.”

“Or play only to British interests.”

“Which are our interests,” Fortunata said comfortably, “in the long run. They have no imperial ambitions in Italy. Next year or in ten years or thirty, this man or his sons will help us oust the French and the Austrians from Italy. He has made his start with his band of killers and idealists in the mountains. We will shine in the luster of his exploits when it becomes known the daughter of the house of Baldoni married Il Gatto Grigio.”

They sat, listening to the still of midnight and the small sounds of an old house on a cool night. They were not so old they could not remember what a man and woman would do in bed.

“Is he worthy of Cesare’s grandchild?” Bernardo looked into the cup he held. “We know nothing of his family, or even if he has one. I will investigate.”

“Do so. Though it would be a pleasure to acquire a spouse for the family who does not come with a horde of rapacious relatives.”

Bernardo set his cup on his knee and looked into the fire. “He is a warrior. A subtle, cunning man. Even-tempered. Ruthless when necessary.”

“Almost a Baldoni.”

Bernardo smiled. “Almost a Baldoni.”