Smiling, the servingwoman curtsied, then took the floral tribute and hurried up the stairs.
Patrick joined his host. “He hasn’t changed,” he began, accepting a small silver goblet of wine as he sat down.
“What did you tell him?” Lord MacDuff wanted to know.
“What he needed to know. We have put him in a delicate position, situated as San Lorenzo is between France and Italy,” the earl chuckled. “If the truth should ever come out, Sebastian di San Lorenzo will profess ignorance, outrage, whatever the situation calls for, my lord. He will protect San Lorenzo at all costs, which he should and which is his right. And if Lord Howard is curious as to my presence, you will adhere to the story that I am here with my lover. You will profess ignorance of all else.”
“Do you believe we can weaken the alliance, Patrick?” the ambassador asked.
“Nay, and neither does the king, but he felt that we must make an attempt at it. Even if Venice and the Holy Roman Empire insist on adhering to their agreement with the Holy League, they will have certain doubts, which I shall plant in the minds of those who come to treat with me. They will be less enthusiastic and more cautious than they have been. That is the best that we shall do, Ian. But we shall do it! Henry Tudor has not won yet.”
“Do you know who it is you will meet with yet?” Lord MacDuff asked.
“Nay. But I have a suspicion that the artist from Venice who is arriving in another day or two, and who the duke is feting, may be one of the gentlemen I am to deal with. He is a member of the Loredano family, and he has made a name for himself as a former student of both the Bellini brothers. No one would suspect a Venetian artist of political intrigue,” the earl chuckled. “But I do not know. I shall have to wait and see. Sebastian insisted that Rosamund and I attend this fete. He is curious, of course, to meet her, and still, I suspect, fancies himself a great lover.”
“His adventures have not been quite so public in recent years,” Lord MacDuff said with a smile. “As he has grown more portly and less fleet of foot, he is not so apt to want to find himself facing an angry husband or father.”
“His son, I imagine, has taken over for him,” the earl said dryly.
“Nay! Lord Rudolpho keeps a mistress, but he is discreet,” the ambassador noted.
“I thought he would be like his father,” Patrick said. “I remember saying so to my daughter once. He has fathered enough children.”
“Aye, and all those lasses, to boot,” Lord MacDuff chortled.
The earl stood up, draining his goblet. “I want to thank you for your hospitality, Ian MacDuff. Rosamund has never been out of England until now, except for her brief visit to our court. She has been made to feel most welcome.”
“She is a fair lass, Patrick,” Lord MacDuff said, “and has beautiful manners, according to Pietro, who, as you will remember, values such things. The servants are happy to have a woman in the house being that I am a crusty old bachelor.”
“I would like to remain until spring,” the earl said.
“You are more than welcome,” came the smiling reply. “I think if I had such a lovely woman to love, I would want to remain here until spring, too.”
Patrick left the ambassador and hurried upstairs to his apartments, where he found Rosamund being fitted for her gowns. He sat down to watch, giving Celestina a friendly nod.
“I hear,” the seamstress said, “that you are going to the fete for the Venetian, Patrizio. It will be a grand event, for the duke will be anxious to impress the artist Loredano. The festivals and fetes they have in Venice are said to be spectacular. Our duke will have to go to some effort to affect any admiration from his visitor.” And she chuckled.
He laughed. “How the hell do you know we are going to the duke’s fete? I have only just now come from the palace.”
She rolled her black eyes at him, a gesture he realized he well remembered. “Patrizio, this is San Lorenzo. Here, everyone knows everyone’s business. The English ambassador is curious to meet you, by the way. He wonders why a former Scots ambassador to the duchy has suddenly shown up here. Now.”
“The English are always suspicious of the Scots,” the earl said casually. “Is that not so, my love?” He addressed Rosamund.
“Always,” Rosamund agreed pleasantly. “The Scots, you see, cannot be trusted, Celestina. Should the neckline be that low?”
“It is the fashion here, madame,” Celestina answered her.
“It is higher at the Scots court,” Rosamund noted.
“It is colder at the Scots court,” the seamstress said pithily. “Here in the south we like the breeze to caress our skin on a warm winter’s night. Is that not so, my lord?”
“I think the neckline is most correct,” Patrick agreed with her.
“Will you think it so correct when this duke ogles my breasts?” Rosamund asked innocently.
“He is permitted to ogle, my darling,” the earl told her. “But nothing more.”
The two women laughed.
