Erik glanced around, trying to keep himself from fidgeting. Francesca's apartment was on the third floor of the Casa Louise. It had a large salon and a balcony and windows--real glass windows--looking out over the hustle and bustle of the Grand Canal. As always when he arrived to round up Manfred, she had greeted him like a lady when he came in the door--and, as always now, she was dressed like one.
Well . . . a lady with a taste in low-cut upthrust bodices. Erik found it nearly as distracting as her nudity had been. While they waited for Manfred to get dressed, Francesca--as always--engaged Erik in genteel conversation. He had found her intelligent, well-read, and with a political background that made him feel naive. To his back- country Icelandic-Vinlander values, a whore was a whore. A lady was a lady. The concept of a 'courtesan' was new to him, and he still wasn't sure how to deal with it. Or how to protect his charge from her. Or even--a very new and heretical thought, this--whether his charge needed to be protected from her.
'You can't really stop him, you know.'
How had she known what he'd been thinking about? Well, it was no use beating about the bush. Despite his warnings, either Manfred had said something to her or her very quick mind had picked it up. 'I must,' Erik said stiffly. 'It is my duty to care for him. To keep him under my eye and train and protect him . . . from entanglements too.'
Francesca laughed musically. 'Poor Erik! He must be a great trial to you.'
It was all Erik could do to keep himself from agreeing. Manfred was a tearaway. There was no getting away from it. Half the taverns and a fair number of the women in the Empire could testify to that. 'I do what I have to do, madame.'
She gurgled. 'The title is premature, Erik. But it is correct. I shall either be a madame or simply retire with considerable wealth after a career as a courtesan. Perhaps marry one of my clients, at the end--some plump, cheerful rich old merchant looking to stay cheerful in his dotage. I have no long-term designs on young Manfred. He is amusing and . . . energetic. He is also young. His fancy will turn elsewhere, and some sweet young thing can be very grateful that I have polished him a little.' She patted Erik on the arm gently. He tried very hard not to be distracted by her soft skin. 'He is safer here, with me, than on the street. The owners of this building take great precautions. There are mistresses of men from all factions, and courtesans who could entertain a man who is Montagnard tonight and one who is a Petrine legate tomorrow. This is one of the safest places in all Venice.'
There was some shouting and catcalling down on the canal below.
'Ah.' Francesca smiled. 'They must have found him.'
'Who?'
Francesca moved to open the doors onto the balcony. 'Someone has been spending a great deal of money looking for a youngster who got himself into trouble with a girl. If my informant is to be believed, with one of the daughters of the Casa Dorma no less! It is a long and complicated romantic story.'
Erik blinked. 'Do you know everything?'
Francesca dimpled. 'I do my best.'
They'd gone out onto the balcony as the gondola which was drawing the comments drew near.
'Ah. That must be him. The dark-haired one in the bow.'
Erik looked. And saw a very recognizable handsome blond-haired man also in the gondola. 'Do you also know who the blond fellow is?'
Francesca looked amused. 'Of course. Caesare Aldanto. Once of Milan. Reputed to have once been a Montagnard agent. A sellsword under the shadow of the hand of none other than Ricardo Brunelli.'
'He's also the man who is directly responsible for us meeting you, Francesca,' said Erik dryly.
She smiled again and turned him back to the warm apartment. 'Then I owe him. But I don't think I'll tell him. So, he set up that . . .'
'Fiasco. It would have been different if Manfred hadn't deliberately fooled me and been there too. I would have probably been dead--certainly injured. Your 'sellsword' is awfully good with that sword of his. So he takes orders from Ricardo Brunelli. Who is this Brunelli? By your tone he is a big cheese here in Venice.' Erik hoped his tone did not betray the fact that he intended to see the cheese sliced down to size.
'Have you found Erik a girl, my demoiselle?' asked Manfred, who had finally come out of the bedroom, giving Eric a brief glimpse of a rumpled large brass bed.
Francesca turned to him. 'Manfred, did you dress entirely by guess? Come here! Let me fix your collar. Your friend has ambitions on killing the head of the house Brunelli.'
Manfred was obviously better informed than he was. Probably by Francesca. 'Ha. You don't start low, do you,
