Her bodyguard was standing in front of her, not more than an instant after she opened the door. Francesca had no idea where he'd come from. Nor did she care--that was what he was being paid for, after all.
'Have this taken to Casa Montescue, Louis. No--better yet, take it yourself. I'll be safe enough here tonight and I want to be certain it goes directly to the person addressed. Let no one else see it. Understood?'
Louis examined the name on the note and nodded. 'Easy enough,' he said, and was gone. Francesca watched him leave, wondering if she'd hear any sound at all.
She didn't, of course. Louis Marillac had come highly recommended.
* * *
The next evening, when she opened the door, the man who entered made no attempt to walk quietly. Not that he clumped, even as big as he was. The noise his feet made was more in the way of a shuffle. As if he were trying to disguise embarrassment.
'Mademoiselle de Chevreuse,' he said, bowing and kissing her hand. 'I was delighted to receive your invitation to pay you a visit, of course. Didn't feel I could refuse. But--'
'Please, come in!' Smoothly, Francesca closed the door and guided him into a chair. 'And I insist you call me Francesca.'
The man cleared his throat. 'Francesca, then. But--'
He fell silent, obviously groping for words. 'I must explain--'
'You need explain nothing.' Francesca smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'I asked you to come, did I not? I am well aware of the straightened financial circumstances you are suffering from at the moment. I simply wanted the pleasure of your company, that's all.'
The man stared up at her; his eyes disbelieving, at first. Then, slowly, the stiffness in his face began to ease. 'It's been a long time,' he murmured.
'Too long, I think.' Francesca took his hands and lifted him out of the chair. 'Come.'
* * *
Quite some time later, as he stared at the ceiling of the bedroom, the man's face had lost all of its customary sternness. 'I haven't felt this good in years.'
'Not so old as all that, eh?' She lifted herself on one elbow and smiled down at him, running her hand across his wide chest.
He rolled his head on the pillow and met her gaze. 'What do you want from me, Francesca?'
'I want you to think about the future, for a change. That's all, Lodovico. Your grand-daughter is my best friend. Your--obsessions--are not good. Neither for her nor for you.'
For a moment, the old man's face grew fierce. Then, he chuckled. 'I make no promises. But . . . yes, I'll think about it.'
'You'll do more than think about it, you old vendettist!' Francesca laughed. 'If you've got any coins to spend, I'll expect you to spend them on me. I dare say I'm a lot more capable at what I do than those incompetent assassins and spies you've been wasting your money on.'
He grimaced. 'True enough. And what else?'
She studied him for a moment. 'Does there need to be anything else, Lodovico? Your company has been quite a pleasure, I assure you. It's not often I meet a man who understands--or cares--how a woman's body works.'
'There's always something else, Francesca.' He placed a hand on hers and gave it a little squeeze. 'That's not intended as an insult. I sometimes think courtesans are less predatory than anyone. But there's always something else.'
'As you say: 'true enough.' ' She sat up in the bed. 'I've decided I love Venice, Lodovico. And when something I love is threatened by enemies, I believe in taking steps.'
'Well said!' he growled. A moment later, he was sitting up beside her. 'Tell me what you know. If there's a threat--' The growl became a rumble, as if an old lion was awakening.
'There's your 'what else,' Lodovico,' she whispered, placing a hand back on that great wide chest and giving it a caress. 'There's still a lot of muscle there, you know?'
