she and her stepbrother shared. On that last fateful visit he and his wife had made to Italy, she had flaunted the incestuous relationship until Lady Cova had been goaded into openly acknowledging her awareness of it. And her disgust for it. So naive.
In so doing, Lady Cova had shown herself to be a threat. Their enemy. If she were to expose their secret to the world, few would understand. By then, her stepbrother had grown tired of his wife’s cold English bed. He had quickly seen the wisdom of dissolving the marriage in the only way open to them.
His wife’s death.
Arranging it had proven surprisingly simple. Just three bottles of rotgut wine for the coachman and a shallow cut to a carriage axle that ensured it would break along its trip. The rest of her plan had been equally easy.
Following Lady Cova’s demise, the bereft family had come to Italy, and Izabel had opened her home to them. It pleased her to know society at large thought well of her willingness to care for her nieces and to see to a betrothal for Jane. Appearances were so important.
Amusing how things had worked out in the end. Her stepbrother’s marriage to his English milksop, which had once so pained her, now worked to her advantage. The match had produced Jane.
Jane, of unearthly parentage, who was of a good age for marriage.
At last.
Her stepbrother’s length swelled and grew more determined within her mouth as she competently sucked him off. Only when his cream finally spurted and dribbled down her throat did she rise and lead him to her bed.
5
Jane knelt on the brick path that wound through her aunt’s garden and jabbed her small spade into the soil, loosening and turning. She discovered a sickly patch of variegated applemint and lifted it.
“Poor dear. Not to worry. I’ll fix you right up. I wonder, which of the mulches would you prefer?”
“Do they ever talk back?” a girlish voice teased from behind her.
Jane gave a start and glanced over her shoulder to find her younger sister, Emma, grinning at her.
She smiled and shrugged, casually moving so her body shielded the bed where she’d been working. “If they could, I imagine they’d be denouncing our aunt’s previous gardener. He neglected them shamefully.”
“But they’re improving under your care,” said Emma, craning to see Jane’s handiwork.
Jane was unsurprised to notice that Emma held a book in her skirts. She motioned toward it, hoping to divert her sister’s attention. “What do you have there?”
Emma held up the leather-bound tome and opened it to a particular passage she’d marked with a strip of velvet.
“It’s Carl Linnaeus’ Philosophia Botanica. I have decided to attempt to plant a floral clock such as he describes. Just imagine being able to tell the time simply from the blooming and fading cycle of a blossom.”
Jane’s brows rose. “The horologium florae? Many of the plants he suggests for the clock are wildflowers, are they not? Will you be able to locate them all here in Tivoli?”
Emma shook her head. “’Tis unlikely. But I’ve begun a survey to determine the opening and closing hours of native Italian plants. In place of any plants I cannot collect to match the twelve Linnaeus describes, I shall find substitutes that reflect the same timing!”
“Brilliant!” Jane enthused. Both sisters were intensely fond of botany. While Jane’s interest lent itself to actual tactile work among plants, Emma’s tended toward a more scholarly endeavor.
“Read to me while I finish up here,” Jane invited. “I’ve forgotten precisely which plants the clock calls for.”
Emma situated herself on an ironwork bench and began reading aloud.
Jane positioned herself so her interaction with the plants couldn’t easily be observed. There were some secrets she must keep safe, even from Emma.
Under her care, loam enriched. Tendrils sprouted and curled lovingly around her fingers. Weeds shrank away. Foxglove and orange blossoms sprang to life. Wilting snapdragons perked and brightened, their color intensifying as if by magic.
If only she could work such magic for her sister.
For she was deeply worried about Emma. Of what she might become—a creature like herself, possessed of an unnatural strangeness that must be hidden.
In mere months, Emma would reach her thirteenth year. For Jane, the change from girl to woman at thirteen had naturally meant moving from padded stays into the restriction of corsets. But at the same time that society had dictated her body be forced to morph into an hourglass shape, another equally unstoppable metamorphosis had begun within her.
Though Emma knew nothing of Jane’s bizarre abilities, their mother had. And that knowledge had caused everything to change between them. Her mother had stopped loving her, stopped touching her, and had watched her with new wariness. Jane had soon learned to conceal much of what she was.
Concealment. The word put her in mind of the lord with the pale blue eyes who had visited her tent at Villa d’Este.
She arched her back, stretching.
“Jane!”
At their aunt Izabel’s summons, the sisters exchanged hunted looks.
Emma jumped up and pulled at Jane’s arm. “Let’s hide.”
Jane forced a teasing grin to her lips. “Save yourself. Go finish your reading elsewhere. It’s me she wants.”
“Jane!” the shrill voice called again, nearer this time.
Emma mimed a face of comical terror and then grabbed her book and scampered away.
Jane understood her sister’s feelings completely. With reluctance she stood and removed her apron.
Her aunt tsked in annoyance when she saw her.
“Your fascination with this grubby garden is beyond my understanding. Just look at you. Filthy!”
Izabel smoothed Jane’s hair into place, and Jane let her. She tried to pretend such brusque assistance was offered with familial kindness.
“Disgraceful color. But there’s naught to be done about it, I suppose,” said Izabel.
Jane ignored the insult. Her pale blond hair, pointed chin, and fair English skin were very like her mother’s. While Emma had inherited their father’s ash-brown hair and eyes, Jane mirrored nothing of him.
Izabel dipped her handkerchief into the small garden fountain. When she returned, it was to scrub dirt from Jane’s cheek with dimpled, beringed hands.
Jane had avoided the touch of others for years, out of necessity. She only permitted it when it was unavoidable or to earn necessary coin in her fortune-telling.
“What does my appearance matter?” she asked, ducking away. “I have no plans to venture out.”
Slapping the soiled cloth onto the stone rim of the fountain, Izabel frowned, etching lines around her lips. “We have a guest. Or, rather, you have a guest.”
“Who?” Jane asked warily.
“You shall see. It will come as a welcome surprise, I’m sure.”
With trepidation, Jane followed her aunt into the salotto. There she found her father waiting, along with a signore who was becoming all too familiar to her.
Both men stood when the ladies passed through the tall white and gold doors.
“Buon giorno, Signorina Cova,” the visitor told her in greeting. Though his mouth smiled under his dark mustache, his small eyes did not. His checked waistcoat was well fitted and tasteful, his trousers creased. His dark hair was slicked and styled. He was as fastidious and presentable as