“Oh, the French,” Lucrezia had finally exclaimed when the discussion turned ponderously to the matter of which cardinals had been suborned to the enemy’s side. “Until the French actually land on my doorstep, I refuse to hear another word about them. I propose a game, instead—”

Each lady would present herself before the company as some famous work of art and be judged by the men to see who was fairest. “I haven’t had time to prepare,” Caterina Gonzaga said with a regal toss of her head, but that was brushed aside.

“I have,” Lucrezia said smugly, dimpling at her husband again.

“Well, that isn’t fair,” the Countess said, outraged as any wronged queen, but Giulia came to Lucrezia’s defense.

“We’ll improvise! Isn’t that half the fun?”

“Is a beauty contest between women ever a good idea?” I interjected into the commotion. “Doesn’t anyone remember how the Trojan War began?”

“We’re not going to war with the Trojans now too, are we?” one of Lord Sforza’s loutish country captains wondered. “Trojans—are they from France?”

Dio. But my groan was lost in the rustle and bustle as the ladies prepared themselves. Lucrezia as hostess had presented her little tableau first, and the little Primavera now sat with a great satisfied rustle of her white skirts. Lord Sforza captured her hand in his rough one and brought it to his lips, still besotted, and she smiled back at him with her other hand grazing her belly. Botticelli’s Primavera had been painted with a swelling belly beneath her flowery silks—I wondered if the Pope’s daughter could possibly be breeding yet. Quick work, my lord Sforza. Though the Pope would be livid: Sforza had not acquitted himself well in his father-in-law’s eyes of late. When not in bed with his new wife, the Count of Pesaro spent all his time vacillating between committing his soldiers with those of his French-allied family in Milan—or to the papal forces in Rome. Last I had heard, the Pope had got thoroughly tired of all the waffling and ordered him to do as he damned well pleased. Yes, the bloom had definitely gone from the Sforza alliance as far as His Holiness was concerned.

“My turn,” Caterina Gonzaga said, rising proud as an empress. Whispers and giggles as her maids escorted her behind a screen to change her dress, and the men were furtively talking about the French again and Giulia fingering the great pearl at her throat as God knew what thoughts stole the smile from her face, and then we were bidden to close our eyes.

“Now!” the Countess’s voice commanded. “Look at me now!”