I brushed away a flash of memory—pale shoulders dusted with freckles like cinnamon and smelling like wild thyme, a long hard body stretched over me, and that was a thought that had returned a touch too frequently to my mind for comfort lately. Perhaps it really was well that Bartolomeo had left.

I flicked it out of mind like a dusting of flour off the fingertips and cupped the flame about my taper as I went into the wine cellar. The smell of must and stone, wine and wood; casks in orderly rows with their neat labels in my writing. I kept a far closer eye on the wine stores than Marco ever had—he seemed to think he should leave it all to the palazzo steward. “Marco?” I called. “Marco, are you here yet?”

“Maestro Santini’s lent you out for the night,” a male voice slurred from the shadows. “I’ll be the one entertaining you this evening, my pretty.”

I turned and saw a handsome young man leaning against the cellar’s stone wall. Very handsome, in fact; lean and well-built in an embroidered doublet and curly-toed shoes like a Turk, auburn hair falling in his eyes. The Duke of Gandia had already broached one of the wine casks stacked all around us. He toasted me with the cup in his hand, dark eyes gleaming.

Marco, I thought frozenly. It had been Marco’s writing on the note he sent; I knew it so well. But I was looking at Juan Borgia, and my heart began to thud like clods dropping on a coffin.

Marco, what did you do?

“You’re not really very pretty at all, my pretty,” the Duke of Gandia continued as genially as though he had not noticed my horrified stare. “Not in a gown, anyway. Put you in hose and boots, though—” He gave a leer and whispered, “Signorina Giraffe. Or was it a giraffa?”

That thrice-damned costume. Why had I ever let Madonna Giulia—and how had he ever recognized—never mind. I pushed both those thoughts aside, giving a wary curtsy with the taper still clutched in my hand. “Gonfalonier,” I said, keeping my eyes on the floor. He liked to be addressed by his military rank now, rather than his ducal title. Oh, the great conquering hero. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean. But if you and your men—man”—yes, just one guard standing impassive against the stone wall beside the cellar door, one of Juan’s uncouth unshaven soldiers—“require refreshment, I will be pleased to see you fed in the kitchens.”