“I shall look forward to our next meeting,” he murmured, kissing her hand.
“I did not know Lord MacDuff was giving a feast in a few days’ time,” Rosamund said.
“Neither does MacDuff,” the earl replied with a grin. “I would prefer it if I could speak with Venice first. That is why you will tell the artist that you are considering his invitation but that you would like to see his studio first. I will come with you. If he is our man, he will use that opportunity to approach me. Our visit to his studio will not arouse anyone’s suspicions. Neither will the baroness’ visit to the embassy for a feast.”
“I think that if you come with me the Venetian will not approach you. He will have his guard up and consider that you come because you don’t trust him to be alone with me. He may even think I am King James’ emissary. Let me go alone, and then you shall call for me. When you do, you shall ask to see his studio and say you are considering allowing the maestro to paint me. I shall feign weariness and retreat to the street for fresh air at that point. If he is your contact, he will certainly speak with you then, and no one shall be the wiser.”
The Earl of Glenkirk smiled admiringly at Rosamund. “You really do have a taste for intrigue, my love,” he said. “I think King Henry has lost a valuable ally in you.”
“Hal does not consider women intelligent enough for much more than futtering,” she answered him dryly. “I do not understand it, for his grandmother, the Venerable Margaret, was highly intelligent, and his father respected her for it. Everyone who knew her did. Everyone but Hal. I always thought he was a little afraid of her.”
“I like your plan, my love, but we shall execute it together, lest the maestro think you otherwise interested in his advances,” the earl said. “Come, and let us tell him.”
They crossed the room together to where Paolo Loredano was now standing surrounded by a bevy of young women. Rosamund almost laughed aloud at the look in his eye as he contemplated each lady with the delight of a boy offered an entire plate of his favorite sweets all for himself. The artist, she decided, was vain and had obviously been quite spoiled by the women in his life. But their path to him was suddenly blocked by Lord Howard, the English ambassador.
“What,” he demanded of the earl without any preamble, “are you doing here, my lord? I find it odd that James Stewart should send his first ambassador back to San Lorenzo after so many years.”
Patrick looked almost scornfully at the Englishman. “I am no longer a young man, my lord. Highland winters are difficult for me now. It is not your affair why I am here, but I shall tell you, for you English have such an untrusting nature. This lady is my mistress. We wished to be out of the eye of the court at Stirling in order to enjoy each other’s company without interference. San Lorenzo has a marvelous climate in the winter, and so I chose to bring us here. There is nothing more to our visit than that. What could have possibly made you think otherwise?”
“Who would care what you do, my lord?” Lord Howard said scathingly. “Except for the brief time in which you served your king as ambassador here, you are unimportant.”
“The lady is a close associate of the queen’s, my lord,” the earl replied. “Does that satisfy your curiosity? Now, step out of my way, please. I wish to speak with the artist about painting my lady’s portrait.”
Lord Howard moved aside without another word. The woman with Lord Leslie was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not quite place her. He would have to think upon it. Was she one of Margaret Tudor’s English ladies? But no. They had all been returned to England years ago. Still, he knew he had seen the woman with the Earl of Glenkirk at some time and place before today. And he did not believe for one moment that Patrick has casually decided to come to San Lorenzo to escape the cold of Scotland’s winter. Yet that part might actually be true. Scotland’s winters could be vile.
But no ships from Scotland had put into the port of Arcobaleno recently. How had Glenkirk and his companion gotten here? A French ship? Most likely, as the Scots were so tight with the French. He would consider it, for his instincts told him that all was not quite as it appeared.
“I believe he has recognized me,” Rosamund said softly when they were well past the English ambassador. “He does not know who I am, but he knows he has seen me before. We have not ever been formally introduced, so hopefully he cannot make the connection.”
“Even if he did, what would he make of it? You are a beautiful woman who has run away with her lover. There is nothing more to it,” Glenkirk reassured her. They had now reached the Venetian and his admirers. “Maestro!” the earl said jovially. “I believe I may want you to paint my lady’s portrait, but she is hesitant. May we come and see your studio one day soon?”
“But of course,” Paolo Loredano said in equally jocund tones. “I will receive guests between ten o’clock in the morning and siesta, and again in the evening. Send to me when you are to come.” His black eyes caressed Rosamund’s features. “Ah, Madonna, I shall make you immortal!” Then he took her small hand up in his and kissed it lingeringly, releasing it with reluctance.
“You flatter me again, Maestro Loredano,” Rosamund murmured, and her lashes brushed against her cheeks but once before she looked up at him again and smiled a brilliant smile. “I shall look forward to visiting your studio, but I am not yet certain if I will allow you to paint me. Are you a very famous painter in Venice?”
He laughed at what he considered her naivety. “Only my friends Il Giorgione and Titian surpass me, although it is said my portraits are better than theirs,” the artist bragged. “If I paint you, Madonna, your beauty will be everlasting even if you grow old and haggish.”
“I suppose you mean to reassure me.” Rosamund pretended to consider. “But first I must see just what it is an artist does to obtain a portrait.”
“Come, my love,” the earl said. “The dancing will soon begin.
“Yes,” she answered him. “If I am to keep him intrigued long enough for you to learn if it is he you are to treat with, I must flirt with him. He is not, I can see, a man who would take rejection lightly. It would offend his sense of who he is, my lord, and so I flirt with him, and he is flattered enough to want to continue what he thinks is his pursuit of me along the road to eventual seduction. It means naught to me. He is a popinjay of the sort I cannot really abide. I met many like him at my king and your king’s court. Surely you are not jealous, Patrick? You have no need to be. You must certainly know that! When our eyes first met, my love, I knew I had not really lived, or loved, until you. I would hardly throw all of our happiness away over that Venetian braggart.”
He stopped, drawing her into an alcove of the hall. His hand cupped her face tenderly. “I am not a young man, Rosamund, and I fear you will one day realize it. I had the same feelings when we first met, but sometimes I am afraid I will lose you too soon when the truth is that I do not want to lose you at all. I know one day we must part, but if we were to part because you loved another man, I do not think I could bear it, though I would, for your happiness is all that matters to me now.”
Her eyes shone with bright tears. “If my girls were older, Patrick, I should leave Friarsgate for you, which is something I never thought I would say, for I love Friarsgate with every fiber of my being. If I knew for certain that it was safe from my uncle Henry and his kin, if Philippa, my eldest, were old enough to manage without me, then, my love there should be no question of our ever parting. But none of this is so, nor is it likely to be very soon, and so we shall eventually part-you to return to your Glenkirk and I to go back to Friarsgate. However, until then we shall be together, and we shall love each other for a lifetime of being apart.” She stood on her tiptoes then and kissed him sweetly.
“I am too old to have my heart broken,” he told her.
“I will not break it, my lord,” she promised him.
“You must remarry one day, Rosamund,” he told her.
“Why?” she asked. “Friarsgate has its heiresses, and I shall want none after you, Patrick Leslie.”
“A woman needs a man to protect her and to love her,” he replied.
“You love me and will even from the distance that will one day separate us. And as for me, I am perfectly capable of defending what is mine. I always have.”
He shook his head. “You are an amazing woman,” he told her.
“So it has been said of me before,” she teased him, and now he laughed again, which had been her intent.
They could hear music now, and they stepped from the alcove to watch the dancing, for Rosamund was not ready yet to join the merriment. The duke’s musicians played well. His guests all seemed to be beautiful, and the clothing was colorful and magnificent. While her gown was far more daring in design than one she would have worn in England or in Scotland, Rosamund could now understand the difference in style. Even in the summer, the climate at home was not as delicious as was San Lorenzo in late February. She had never known such warm weather, and she was not certain she could live year-round in such a climate. But for now it seemed just right to her.
