A BALDONI SAYING

She knew he’d come to her window. Not a sound in the night, but she knew he was there.

It crossed her mind that he had come to many windows this secretly. The deaths that haunted him had begun this way. It would be healing to him to use his skills on such benign purposes.

She got out of bed in her shift, slipped on shoes, and padded along the blue carpet to the window, which was open, even though it left the room chilly. She carried a knife with her, being prudent, but laid it aside on the table when she looked out and saw him below.

His hair was perfectly white under the moon, disheveled and unraveling from its tie. He was outside the window, sitting on his haunches, keeping an eye on the empty backyard and maybe studying London.

She said, “Have you come visiting, or did you climb up to enjoy the view?”

“I promised Bernardo I wouldn’t go to your room tonight.”

“Did you, now?”

He would not come into her room, only this close. Close enough, maybe, to hear her turn in her bed or sigh in her sleep. He wouldn’t lightly break his word, once given.

“I’m not sure why. It had something to do with your great-aunt Fortunata fixing me with an unwavering stare.”

“You are wise to be terrified of her.”

“That’s what I thought.” Pax tilted his head back to look up at her. He looked natural and at home, standing on a bit of roofing in the night. He was, maybe, being the Gray Cat right now.

She leaned out the window and reached her hand out to him. He reached up to take it. They could just clasp hands.

He said, “You’re beautiful.”

“You can’t see me.”

“I don’t have to see you to know you’re beautiful. Moonlight become woman. Light and darkness. Chiaroscuro, painted on the night.”

She wasn’t certain what “chiaroscuro” meant. With luck, a month from now she would be living with him in a studio in Florence, pretending to be his model and his lover, spying upon the French and the Austrians. She’d best acquire the language of artists.

But not tonight.

The kitchen rumbled with voices and rattled with the clanking of pots. The women of the house—the men, too—were cooking for tomorrow. Every spy and swindler in London and a surprising number of quite respectable folks would be in this house to witness her wedding.

Everyone acted as if a solemn and significant merger of great houses was going forward. Perhaps it was. Uncle Bernardo had explained matters to her at length, involving at least a dozen families and much of the north of Italy.

Aunt Lily had been more succinct. “You have an obscene amount of money. I’ll put my man of business on it. He’s used to dealing with obscene amounts of money.”

She’d signed a marriage contract two inches thick, in English and Tuscan. Frankly, she’d rather not think about it.

As he sometimes did, Pax followed thoughts she hadn’t spoken. He said, “When I asked you to marry me, I didn’t know you were rich.”

“I didn’t know you would be an earl, so we’re even.”

“I’m not going to be an earl.” Flat words, holding a heavy cargo of annoyance.

“A dozen men heard the Merchant say you were legitimate. Eventually it’ll get back to your grandfather.”

She felt a little nerve in his hand twitch. “Who will ignore it, the way I do. Just lies. The Merchant spitting a last drop of venom. There’s no proof, in Amsterdam or anywhere else.”

But most likely there was. That would be the Merchant’s long, subtle vengeance—to give his family a French spy as the next heir. The proof, when it turned up, would be watertight. Pax would find it difficult to escape the Royal College of Heralds.

“In any case,” she said, being tactful, “we won’t be around to argue the succession to minor English earldoms. We’ll be in Florence, living in a garret, spying on all and sundry.”

“A garret with good light and a big bed.”

If they were going to talk about beds, she was too far away from him. She couldn’t see his face in this romantical dimness. She hooked her hands onto the windowsill and spilled forward into the dark, making her careful way down the slope of the roof. Soon, he would be holding her.

He stood before her. His big, warm hands cradled her at her hips as she slid close. He stretched out, long and easy under her hands, taking his coat off. He held it so she could get her arms in. The sleeves ran long and she had to fold them back twice.

“This marriage won’t be legal.” He found her hands and took them in both of his and settled the two pairs in the space between them. “We’ll get married again somewhere in France. A dull civil ceremony.”

“And once more when we get to Italy. I think my grandfather will insist on it, and another huge celebration. We’ll be very thoroughly married before we’re through.”

“I don’t know why they’re letting me have you. Your family.” His thumb indicated the voices in the kitchen. She felt it where their hands were locked tight. “Maybe it’s about making you Danish. The French will leave Danish property alone.”

“So will the Austrians, when they next invade. Denmark is a small but useful neutral country. But this has nothing to do with Denmark. My cousins approve of you.”

The angular planes of his face were sharp and dark. Slowly, he freed his hands from her hold and took them to lie heavy on her shoulders. “They think I shot my own father to save your life.”

“You did. They are shocked, but approving. This is the meat of tragedy and romance to the Baldoni. Fifty years from now, grandmothers and aged aunts will tell stories about you and pity you and praise you for a grand heroic gesture. If there were an initiation to be a Baldoni, you passed it this morning.”

“You know it wasn’t like that.”

“Nonetheless, they believe it. You are one of us now. They like the scent of vengeance about this, too. It consolidates your reputation among the young men. We’re a ruthless lot, we Baldoni.”

“Not vengeance.” Pax’s eyes, which saw the world with such pitiless clarity, were turned inward. “All the evil that old man had done, all his schemes and plots . . . but all I thought about when I pulled the trigger was keeping you alive. There’s no meat for the Harpies to sink their claws into. No unclean horror. No sacrilege. Now all I feel is relief that you’re here, alive, under the sky with me.”

She had to smile. “I’m relieved, too.”

“It felt inevitable,” he said. “When I took off after him on Semple Street, I think I already knew I’d kill him.”

“Somebody had to. I’d have disposed of the matter myself if I’d been faster. The Fluffy Aunts were sneaking around the outer fringes of that mob with the same intention.”

He shook his head. “I’m his son. He was my problem to clean up.”

She could imagine how hard it was for him to say, “I’m his son.”

She reached up to the long-fingered, rough-skinned hands that grasped her shoulders and pressed them tighter to her. “He wanted death, you know.”

Pax looked past her, out into the night. “I know.”

“You saw it, too. He wanted death at your hands,” she said. “So he left you no choice but to kill him. There was nothing ahead for him but humiliation, trial, and execution, so he bought a quick martyrdom. And he made you suffer.”

“He tried,” Pax said.

“If you feel the Furies breathing on your neck, he’s won. If you think these”—she squeezed his hands, tight, to make perfectly clear what she meant—“are stained with blood—”

“They are.”

“With his blood. We’re not children, you and I. Our innocence was problematic at best. If you look at your hands and see unclean blood, he’s won. If you—”

“I can see what he tried to do. None of it worked.” Pax’s mouth closed over hers. He freed himself from her grip and slid his arms around her to nestle the two of them together. He set his forehead to her forehead. He whispered, as if he were telling secrets. “I’ve done worse things than rid the world of that bastard. I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”

He would, though. His Service had chosen him for terrible deeds because he was honorable to the core of his being. She’d chosen a man who would do whatever was necessary and pay for it afterward in bad dreams. The best sort of man.

In their married life, she’d try to do whatever killing became necessary, as a loyal wife should.

“I’m glad you’re untroubled,” she said, softly in his ear. “I begrudge that man even a small victory over you. Can we leave this damp and windswept roof and find better shelter in that shed? That one. Do you see? One small pony quarters there at the moment and he won’t object to our visit. A huge heap of hay was delivered this afternoon and piled into the back corner. It’s quite clean.”

“That’s coincidence, I suppose. Not connivance from your cousins and aunts.”

“Entirely coincidence,” she agreed.

Slowly, carefully, giving it all his attention, he kissed her. And kissed her. Warmth grew between them, and then heat. Clouds covered and uncovered the moon.

After a while they left their chilly perch and sought more privacy.

Joanna Bourne has always loved reading and writing romance. She’s drawn to Revolutionary and Napoleonic France and Regency England because, as she puts it, “It was a time of love and sacrifice, daring deeds, clashing ideals, and really cool clothing.” She’s lived in seven different countries, including England and France, the settings of the Spymaster series.

Joanna lives on a mountaintop in the Appalachians with her family, a peculiar cat, and an old brown country dog. Visit her online at joannabourne.com and twitter.com/jobourne.