“So that pretty head of yours is good for something besides growing massive amounts of hair.”

“You’re horrid,” I told him, but laughed. “Stand up, Leonello.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the mistress of the household, and I say so.”

“I am paid to protect you, not obey you.”

“I’ll pout,” I warned. “You don’t want to see me pout. I could bring down a city’s gates with my pout, the Holy Father says.”

“Who am I to contradict the Holy Father?” Leonello rose, and I picked up the measuring cord one of my robe makers had left behind.

“Arms out,” I ordered, and stretched the cord along the length of his arm.

“Am I being fitted for a rack?” he inquired as I measured his wrists, the width around his chest, the length of his back. “I assure you, it’s quite unnecessary. If you wish to punish me for my rudeness, you have only to cut off my access to the library.”

“I promised you a new set of livery,” I retorted. “I know you refused to wear that mulberry and yellow uniform the other guardsmen wear, and I don’t blame you because mulberry does nothing for your coloring. But you’re a disgrace in those disreputable boots and that doublet that doesn’t fit. I cut a very stylish appearance in Rome, and I’ll not be dragged down by a shabby bodyguard.”

“Dio, no one cares what I wear. My clothes will never be the first thing noticed about me.”

“Nonsense; you could cut a very fine figure if you tried. Have all the maids swooning.” I thought of Carmelina’s uncomfortably shifting eyes as I pestered her about Leonello. “Perhaps there’s an errand you can run for me when I’m done,” I added innocently. “Go down to the kitchens and talk to Signorina Carmelina?”

“And just what do you wish me to speak with our ill-tempered cook about?” A flare of interest in his hazel eyes; oh yes—I saw that with great satisfaction. Well, Carmelina was handsome in her lanky way—not pretty, with her long thin face and near-constant scowl, but she had beautiful dark brown eyes that flashed with her every change of expression, and she always trailed some tantalizing whiff of cinnamon or honey or sage in her wake. And the rosemary herbal rinses I’d pressed on her had tamed the wildness of her curly hair. I’d given her an entire vial and made her swear on the soul of blessed Santa Marta to keep using it.

“You might tell Carmelina to come see me when she’s got a lull between meals,” I remarked, carefully casual as I took the measure of Leonello’s left leg. “Have you seen what she’s done with her hair, by the way? I don’t suppose you noticed; men never do . . . Yes, tell her to come see me for a talk about the Sforza visit.”