in Nicholas Satyr’s blood as he caught the tantalizing hint of Faerie magic riding on the air.
He surveyed the swarm of humanity at the afternoon festivities now underway in the Renaissance gardens of the Villa d’Este. The wildly integrated assemblage of jugglers, musicians, and costumed artisans mingled with Rome’s social elite. Most had ventured the twenty miles for a day in the country, as he had.
But they had come for different purposes.
Neither the fountains nor the other entertainments on offer held his interest at the moment. He had other business here. The business of finding a specific prey—one who was destined to become his wife.
For the past week, Nick had attended every such social gathering of any consequence in the offing in Rome. It now appeared Feydon had miscalculated. The first of the Faerie brides wasn’t to be found in Rome after all. Today he’d taken a chance he might locate her here, in nearby Tivoli instead. His hunch appeared to have borne fruit.
Still, he’d wasted precious time tracking her in Rome. Thus occupied, he hadn’t buried himself in feminine flesh for days, a considerable dearth for one of Satyr lineage. He would find remedy in the arms of his meretrice—or mistress, as the English more politely called their bought whores—later that evening.
Nick strode into the crowd, his concentration focused on his task. His keen olfactory senses sorted through perfumes and natural Human odors, searching, testing, rejecting.
There was no question King Feydon’s daughter lurked somewhere in this throng of Italian and English society.
But where?
Amid the greenery, enormous hats with dancing plumes vied for attention with swagged, embellished skirts. Since Napoleon’s fall, fashions had turned away from high-waisted, slim-fitting gowns in favor of a more romantic look. Waists were now well cinched, and skirts belled across the landscape like oversize parasols.
His height allowed him to gaze easily across the sea of faces, passing over the male ones and pausing on those of the females. It was unlikely he would know her by sight. She would be hiding any outward manifestations that might betray her parentage, as he did. No, he would have to rely on scent alone.
Pausing at the base of the steep steps leading to the gigantic Water Organ fountain, he looked toward the statue of Bacchus, seeking inspiration. Instinct had him turning to stroll the Avenue of One Hundred Fountains. Here mythological creatures and gargoyles lined the path, spouting and sputtering with cascading waterworks.
He stilled, his interest sharpening. There it was again. A faint but unmistakable Faerie fragrance. He started in its direction, only to be brought up short when a fleshy hand gloved in canary yellow tapped his shoulder.
“I say! That you, Satyr?”
Nick turned to find two couples with whom he had a marginal acquaintance. The persona of respectable aristocrat slipped over him like a carefully constructed cloak. He gave them a polite nod. “Lord and Lady Hillbrook. Signore Rossini, Signora Rossini.”
Today’s event had been organized at Lord Hillbrook’s instigation. Wealthy Englishmen such as he commonly wintered in Italy, often sojourning well into spring to escape England’s chill. But the first hint of Italy’s infamous summer heat always saw them scurrying homeward.
“Unusual to see you at one of our little occasions,” Lord Hillbrook enthused. He stroked his profuse side-whiskers, which pointed in a dozen directions as though uncertain of the direction his conversation might go. “Honored to have you.”
“I don’t visit Tivoli as often as I might like. But as I happened to be here, I wouldn’t miss one of your functions,” Nick commented affably. “’Tis a credit to its hostess.”
Lady Hillbrook preened under his praise. “You Italians are so temperate in your weather. In England it would be difficult to hold an open-air event this time of year, fearing rain.”
“Ah, but there can be such a thing as too much sunshine. Our vines welcome the occasional spring shower,” said Nick. “Too little rain makes for puny grapes.”
“Speaking of which, you haven’t forgotten we’re in for fifty cases at the auction this autumn,” Signora Rossini reminded him. Though it was warm, she wore a tight-laced crimson gown that was making a heroic effort to cinch her ungainly proportions into some semblance of an hourglass shape. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and brow, and she occasionally mopped it with a monogrammed handkerchief.
Lady Hillbrook discreetly nudged her husband with a satin-covered elbow.
“One hundred cases here,” Lord Hillbrook was prompted to add.
“Sending for it on the sly as usual?” Signore Rossini asked.
Hillbrook nodded, rocking on his heels. “English laws are quite set against sales of the bottled stuff, you know. The practice of selling it by the measure continues, so we’re forced to purchase on the sly or become bottlers if we’re to drink.”
He moved his walking stick toward Nick’s calf as though to nudge him conspiratorially. He wisely thought better of it and merely asked, “I suppose you’ll be asking an obscene amount for your vintage this year, eh? Yours seem to be the only vines spared from the current blight.”
Nick tensed. “We’ve been fortunate in that we’ve seen no signs of it so far.”
“’Tis said every field in Europe has been affected by the pox. Some devastated,” said Signore Rossini. “And no cure in sight. I understand no one is even certain of its cause.”
“The matter of the blight has naturally been of great concern to my family. As I said, we count ourselves fortunate that so far our fields remain unaffected,” Nick replied coolly.
“Odd, that,” mused Lord Hillbrook.
“Scusi?” Nick turned his full attention on the gentleman, who promptly withered under his piercing stare.
Satyr lands were protected by the ElseWorldly powers he and his brother interlaced around them. Therefore, their vines hadn’t been afflicted thus far with the dark spots that had begun to appear on the vines of nearly every other vineyard in Europe. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Humans began to speculate on the reason his fields had been spared.
“I say, meant nothing by it,” said Hillbrook, flushing to match Signora Rossini’s gown. “Everyone knows the Satyr label is impeccable. Nothing odd at all, really. No doubt it’s simple dumb luck, er—”
His wife frowned and shook her head, causing his words to dwindle away.
“I assure you dumb luck isn’t what protects us,” said Nick. “While the blight persists, every precaution has been undertaken to protect our grapes from its ravages. It’s difficult to know how to limit exposure, since its cause remains unclear. However, we limit access to our vineyard and take care that contaminants are kept out.”
Signora Rossini leapt into the awkward silence that fell. “Really, such talk is too serious for so lovely a day. Now, Lord Satyr, you must tell us. Have you visited the botanical exhibits yet?”
Enthusiasm sparkled in Lady Hillbrook’s eyes, and she leaned toward her companion. “The study of flora is all the rage in England. I myself have indulged and have acquired many interesting specimens.”
Nick smiled with easy charm. “Indeed? I regret I haven’t yet had an opportunity to explore the exhibits. You will excuse me? I find I’m most anxious to investigate.” With a cursory bow, he left them.
Setting the matter of the pox aside for the present, he once again threaded through the crowd, stealthily sorting, considering, and discarding. As he passed the Fountain of the Dragon at the center of the gardens, the young ladies daintily plied their wiles, vying to turn the head of one of the obscenely wealthy Satyr lords. If he could but find such tenaciousness in field workers, he would engage them in employment at his vineyards in an instant.
Their eyes said they