Death of a Duchess Read Free Page A

daughter was known by someone who took advantage of it to steal her.’
    ‘Ugo Bandini?’
    Sigismondo shrugged.
    The Duke turned restlessly away, and wheeled back. ‘This feud is costing me the peace of my city, and its prosperity. Jacopo has ruined a cousin of Bandini; there was a fire in a warehouse of di Torre’s that burnt a street down, that he swore was set by Bandini, and may well have been. They fight in the street, destroying goods and endangering innocent citizens. Trade is neglected to pursue this battle.’
    ‘Is it of recent birth, this feud?’
    ‘They have been rivals before, but the death of Matteo di Torre at a civic banquet started the worst of it. And all this time I am threatened by my neighbour, Duke Francisco of Castelnuova. And there is the girl Cosima di Torre, the boy Leandro Bandini, to unite the families... They insult me! I shall see these warring parents before the feast tonight. Can you find the girl?’
    ‘I can try.’
    ‘Tomorrow. I want you there at the meeting with these two tonight.’ The Duke clicked his fingers and extended his hands to a page who came hurrying with gloves. As these were being put on, Sigismondo spoke.
    ‘With respect, your Grace.’
    ‘With respect, Sigismondo? You have other thoughts?’
    ‘The scent will be warm still.’
    ‘You are free until the feast. I do not suppose that in the few years since first we met you have learnt to move more slowly.’ He strode off.
    Sigismondo, straightening from his bow, watched the Duke join the horses. A girl, her gold hair in a gold net, herself furled in a sable cloak, was talking to the gentlemen who waited, and caressing the big dun whose green and white trappings declared it to be the Duke’s. She curtsied as the Duke arrived, and he kissed her — his daughter Violante, child of an adored mistress who enjoyed the unfair advantage over all other mistresses of being dead and thereby faultless. Recently widowed, Violante had come back to her father, much to his delight.
    As he left the loggia, Sigismondo drew back deferentially before another nobleman. His entourage and dress showed his importance — he wore the furs and embroidered velvets of rank — and he had a strong likeness to the Duke, both in face and in a slenderness that showed even in their long hands, alike right to the shape of the nails. They shared that flare of nostril that spoke of a harsh temper, but this man must be the Lord Paolo, the Duke’s half-brother, whose reputation was of gentleness. Where he differed from the Duke was in the shape and colour of his eyes, dark eyes made melancholy by a curious downward fold of the upper lid, and in his olive complexion and dark hair. This, receding though partly hidden by the fur of his hat, made him look older than the Duke by more than his two years of seniority.
    He paused and said, ‘Sigismondo?’
    ‘My lord.’
    ‘I thought you must be he.’ Lord Paolo smiled. It was a smile that did not reach the sad eyes. ‘I am glad to have the chance to thank you.’
    ‘My lord?’
    ‘You saved my brother’s life. All Rocca owes you thanks. You choose to be modest, but it can’t have slipped your mind. I understand he employs you now as his agent?’ He gestured his entourage to stand away, out of hearing. ‘It must be about this bitter affair of the feud.’
    ‘His Grace mentioned the death of Matteo di Torre?’
    If the Lord Paolo noticed that his question had been answered with another, he merely laughed. ‘Alas. I seem heartless, I know, but I was next to him at the banquet. The trumpets sounded for the toast to his Grace, and poor Matteo, instead of rising to his feet with us, fell straight forward in his dish of scallops. Of course, his cousin Jacopo thought of poison, with a Bandini on Matteo’s other hand, but I — I thought of shellfish, and did not finish my excellent scallops.’
    This time the eyes had smiled, and Sigismondo’s face, by nature sombre, responded.
    ‘What about the