“You flatter me,” I murmured.

“—but that pretty-faced, mush-brained cousin of Carmelina’s lured her to the Duke to get a debt erased, and he’s going to pay.”

“With his life? What about ‘Thou shalt not kill?’”

“Our Lord never said anything about ‘Thou shalt not beat him to a pulp.’”

I felt my smile widen. “He didn’t, did He?”

“Maestro Santini wagered her!” Bartolomeo burst out. “They’re cousins; they learned to cook in the same kitchen; maybe they even shared a bed—” A bitter twist of his mouth at that. “He must have been fond of her, with all that behind them. And he still gave her to the Duke of Gandia! Even though he’d have seen the other maidservants in this house who have caught the Duke’s eye, the same ones I saw with their bruises and—” The red-haired boy stopped, a pulse beating fast and furious in his jaw. “Sweet Jesu, I’ve never seen her like she was tonight. She’s quivering like a jelly. If I’d been there in that wine cellar—”

“You’d have defended her gallantly, I’m sure,” I said. “And you would have been killed.”

“Maybe,” he said with a steeliness that pleased me. “And maybe I can’t touch the Duke of Gandia. People like him never pay for the things they do. But Marco Santini’s no higher in this world than I am, and I’m going to break every bone in his body.”

“Excellent idea,” I said. “I can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“But I do.” I pushed away from the wall, advancing on him. “What if I told you the Duke of Gandia wasn’t as out of reach as you think?”

“What do you mean?”

What do I need to kill a pope’s son? I thought.

The will—yes. The site—I had one in mind. The lure—trickier, but I had an idea there too. And as for the final piece, the accomplice. Someone tall, someone strong, someone resolute. Someone with good reason to hate Juan Borgia.

“Sit down, Bartolomeo.” It was quite dark now, but that was good. Murder is better planned in the dark, where the angels cannot eavesdrop. “I have a proposition for you.”

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

He who places great trust will end up greatly deceived.

—BARTOLOMEO SCAPPI, MASTER COOK

Giulia

You,” I informed my Pope’s favorite son, “are not welcome here.”

Juan Borgia laughed, throwing his auburn head back so it gleamed in the morning sunshine. I continued to look down at him cold-eyed from the marble steps where I’d come to block his path from the courtyard into the palazzo, my pet goat at my heels.