“No reason.” If Cesare Borgia truly felt that dark unspeakable lust that had led to Anna’s death and all the others, perhaps there were warning signs among the maids in the Borgia household. “Do they flee Cesare’s attentions as they do Juan’s?”

“No.” Carmelina hesitated. “Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“The Duke of Gandia, he’s a lout, but he might give you a coin afterward if you pleased him.” As I’d thought, yes. “And he’s quick,” Carmelina added with a snort. “Beatrice the laundry maid said it took longer to wring out a wet shirt.”

I couldn’t help a laugh. Definitely not the style of my painstaking, pain-taking murderer. “And Cesare?”

“He doesn’t pay, not ever. And he’s not quick.”

“Is he rough?” A man who liked blood might also like bruised flesh, in his milder moments.

Carmelina’s hand circled her own wrist unconsciously, rubbing it. “How would I know?”

I studied her. “Are you blushing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She had the recipes up to her nose again, hiding her face. I nudged them down.

“You are blushing. Don’t tell me you’ve had a roll in the hay with Cardinal Borgia, Signorina Cuoca.”

“Why would he look at the palazzo cook when he has the most expensive courtesans in Rome?”

“Why are you dodging the question?” I grinned at her glower. “Besides, all highborn lordlings like a low woman now and then, young Cardinal Borgia included. A deliberate roll in the mud, such filthy pleasure to be found . . .”

I said it crudely, with a certain obscene gesture, and Carmelina’s eyes flared again. “Is that what you’re keen on, Messer Leonello? Hearing all the details?” A disgusted shake of her head. “Don’t bother me with your perversions.”

“I have a reason for asking,” I said, and felt a pang of alarm that surprised me. No smiles now. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She looked me right in the eye. “He was gentle as a lamb.”

“You’re lying.” I felt the tautness in me again, the hunt. “What did he do? Hit you? Tie you?”

She smiled. “You know, I think I feel like walking for a while.” With an arrogant flip of that pointed chin, she left me in possession of the field, sliding down the side of the wagon and marching ahead to join her red-haired apprentice where he was kicking a stone through the dust.

Gentle as a lamb, I thought, and kicked one boot against the boards underfoot. Liar. That gesture, circling her own wrist unconsciously. Marking a bruise that had long healed? The kind of bruise that would come, say, from having the arms pinned down.