Jobe nodded. “One of England’s finest. Now he takes his place among his noble ancestors and leaves his earthly cares to his son.”
Cosma’s expression changed subtly. “And his son is…?”
Jobe hooded his dark eyes. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, the tenth Earl of Thornbury.”
Francis crumpled the letter. The earl was Sir Thomas—it had always been. Francis could not yet imagine Brandon filling those large shoes.
Cosma flicked her tongue between her teeth. “Then you are now an earl’s son, Francis,” she whispered. She did not add, “And one day you will be the next Earl of Thorn-bury.” Francis heard her unspoken words inside his head and it sickened him. She sickened him.
“Guard that rash tongue of yours, madonna,” Jobe told her in a deceptively gentle tone. “One day it will be your downfall.”
Cosma ignored the warning but Francis heard it. “Heed him,” he snapped at her. Jobe possessed a rare gift—the ability to see events in the future for everyone except himself.
“The Earl of Thornbury is a very important title in England?” she prodded.
Francis pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his cloak, hat and doeskin gloves. “God rest his soul, he was the most important man in my life,” he told her as he stalked toward the wide staircase. As he spoke the words, he realized how true they were and his sorrow doubled. “Come, Jobe,” he called over his shoulder in English. “We must hie ourselves to Saint Mark’s. Mass has already begun.”
Cosma recognized the name of the great basilica that stood in the heart of Venice. Running after Francis and Jobe she asked, “You are going to church, Francis? Now? I thought you and God were in disagreement.”
“It is time I made some amends,” he shouted back up the marble stairs. “My grandfather deserves it.”
“Then return to me soon, caro, and I will comfort you.”
Jobe clapped his hat on his head. “Hold, woman! Can’t you see that his mirth has fled?”
Cosma opened her mouth but Jobe held up his hand. The fire in his eyes silenced her. “Remember the words I have told you, mistress.” Then he followed on Francis’s heels.
Rather than take a gondola to the piazza, Francis and Jobe hurried through the sinuous narrow streets toward the great church. The mist-draped piazza already teemed with masked revelers celebrating the pre-Lenten season of Carnevale. Francis ignored them just as his grief blotted out Cosma’s unashamed avarice. When he had the fortitude, he would deal with her later. For now, he would pray for his grandfather’s soul in the afterlife and remember the great man who had loved him—like a son.
A reedy-voiced priest droned the Latin ritual as Francis and Jobe slipped through one of Saint Mark’s massive doors. The huge vaulted domes high over their heads gleamed dully with gold-spangled mosaics depicting biblical tales. The white faces of the painted saints looked strained and pouchy under their eyes, as if they had been carousing all night. The hundreds of candles flickering before altars and shrines did little to dispel the pervasive gloom of the massive building’s interior. When Francis’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he noticed that very few worshipers attended the divine services.
Francis sank to his knees on the cold marble paving and folded his hands in prayer. The geometric pattern of the floor made him light-headed so he closed his eyes. While he half listened to the familiar words of the Mass, Thomas Cavendish flashed through his memory. Dredging up long-forgotten prayers, Francis whispered them in the chill air. Never had he felt so desolated as he did at this moment. His anger at himself for missed opportunities in the past joined his regret for a future now empty of Sir Thomas’s imposing presence.
Francis roused himself from his meditations when Jobe tapped him on the shoulder. “The priest has finished,” the African whispered. “And my bones are chilled.”
Blinking away the vestige of grief, Francis rose heavily to his feet. He had no idea how long he had knelt on the hard floor but now his knees ached. Even inside his gloves, his fingers felt like icicles. He rubbed warmth back into them.
“I pray your patience a moment longer, my friend,” he said to Jobe. “I must buy a taper and light it for Sir Thomas.”
Without waiting for his friend to reply, Francis made his way to the church’s porch where an ancient nun presided over a tray of beeswax candles. Selecting a long one, he paid for it and returned to the main aisle where he searched for a place to light it. Jobe followed him in respectful silence. Francis realized that the Catholic rituals were completely foreign to the African, and he appreciated Jobe’s faithful company all the more. In the small Chapel of the Cross, Francis pressed his candle into a vacant holder, lit it with a waxen spill, and whispered one final prayer.
A faint but familiar scent wafted on the cold air. Francis lifted his head and sniffed. A rich Arabian perfume filled his nostrils and stirred a pleasant memory. Signorina Jessica? He spun on his heel and peered into the huge dark body of the church.
Jobe moved to his side. “What is it?” he asked in a low tone. “Danger?”
Still scanning the interior, Francis shook his head. “Nay, tis an angel, methinks, and one that I long to see soon again.” Never was he in more need of Jessica’s healing touch than now. His heart beat faster.
Jobe lifted his dark brows. “A woman?” he asked with surprise.
Francis stepped into the yawning nave. “Aye, but more than that. You will understand when you meet her. Ah! There she is!” He spied a slim cloaked figure at a side door.
He broke into a trot across the undulating, uneven floor. If she managed to slip away before he could reach her, he would lose her among the holiday crowd in the piazza. “Signorina Jessica,” he called softly as soon as he dared.
The woman turned. Her white-painted mask shone starkly from the folds of her dark hood. Francis called her again. “Signorina Leonardo? I crave a word or two.”
Placing her hand on the large brass doorknob, she paused like a startled deer in a wooded glen.
Francis drew to her side. Jobe lingered in the shadow of one of the stone pillars.
“Donna Jessica?” Francis asked again, though he was sure it was she. Her perfume enveloped him with its enchantment.
“Messere,” she murmured, drawing her hood lower over her hidden visage. Her hand trembled. “I hope you are feeling better this morning.”
He placed his hand on his chest. “In body yes, but my heart is broken in twain.”
She stepped closer to the door. “Pray do not jest with me. It is not seemly to play trifling games inside God’s house.” She turned to go.
Francis touched her arm. “Forgive me. I do not sport with you, Donna Jessica. I have just learned that my grandfather is dead. Do you have a healing potion for a grieving heart?”
She looked up at him. Her eyes shimmered behind the mask. “Your pardon, messere, I mistook,” she whispered. “You have my deepest condolences.”
Francis took her hand in his. “May I escort you back to your home? Just hearing your voice is balm to my sorrow.”
Her trembling increased. “It is already daylight outside and I am late. I beg your pardon, Lord Bardolph, but I must hurry away.”
He refused to relinquish her hand. “Then I shall attach wings to my feet and fly with you.”
“Like Mercury?” A half smile brightened her lips below the mask. “But it is not possible. You are a great personage and I am a nobody. We should not be seen together. My company demeans you.”
“Never,” he protested. He longed to shed the disguise of his garish clothing and his pretense of nobility. “I swear upon yon Holy Cross that all my wealth runs in my veins, not in my purse or position.”