“I like Caterina Gonzaga less. She’s arrogant, and she’s grasping, and since my father is bedding her now instead of you, I see a great deal of her.”

“Caterina Gonzaga?” The wife of the Count of Montevegio, a very pale and very proud beauty indeed who had always made eyes at Rodrigo. I could feel Orsino’s gaze on me. “I hadn’t heard,” I murmured, and cast my eyes down.

“You are surprised?”

“Your father intended so many . . . reforms.” To purify himself, and the church with it. A lifetime’s work, and I’d seen him filled with its terrible, bowed resolve after Juan’s death. A transmutation of sorts: Rodrigo Borgia into Pope Alexander VI.

“What did I tell you?” Cesare gave a lazy shrug. “His fits of reform never last long. He wanted you back within the month, didn’t he? The council he’d appointed to head all these great changes was gone shortly after.”

My heart squeezed again. I’d known my former lover would not find such a transformation easy—I’d received his letters, after all, begging me to come back to his side. But I hadn’t thought—

“Jesu.” Cesare looked almost amused, looking at me. “I’d not thought to see you disappointed.”

“Very.” No transmutation of Rodrigo Borgia after all. Base metal would remain unchanged, not turned to gold. Yes, it disappointed me.

Less noble, perhaps, was the small outraged part of me that thought, Caterina Gonzaga?!

“Your Eminence,” Orsino attempted, pink-faced with chagrin to be ignored yet again, but an authoritative voice overrode him from behind us.

“The Milanese envoy wishes to meet with you, Your Eminence. I’ll wager he can tell you if Lord Sforza is finally ready to sign his wife away.”

I whirled around, hearing that voice. But Laura had looked first, bored with all this adult talk over her head, and I saw her eyes go wide with delight as she saw the small figure in black and cried, “Leo!”

My eyes flew over my former bodyguard. He stood small and proud, holding a place of his own beside blank-faced, stone-eyed Michelotto, who had always given me the shivers. Leonello looked every bit as hard, head thrown back and boots planted, fingers drumming along his dagger hilt as he looked me over with casual eyes. I saw a court lady glance at Michelotto, glance at Leonello, and cross herself with a surreptitious little shiver.

Laura had wriggled down from my arms, running to him with her skirts bunched in her little hands. “Leo, Leo, I can read now, I can read anything, I told you I’d learn!” But he disengaged her without even a glance.

“Back to your mother, little one.” His deep voice was as cool as I remembered—and on his black sleeve, I saw he wore the badge of Cesare Borgia. Just like Michelotto. “I am no fit company for children.”