3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

would have any footman who manhandled the marchesa whipped and thrown into prison. No, I’ll tell you what Guido’s crime was. The marchesa had ordered a strawberry ice. The kitchen was out of strawberries, so he brought her lemon instead.”
    As I hung my head, feeling foolish, Gemma softened her tone. “Would you like some advice, Signore?”
    I nodded.
    “You have no idea of the things that go on at the Villa Fabiani. If you want to stay out of trouble, you’d best to stick to your business and let others stick to theirs.”
    I sighed. If only that were possible.
    ***
    Ten minutes before the concert, like players in a well-rehearsed show, more footmen appeared to dust the rows of chairs and replace guttering tapers with fresh. The musicians who made up the small orchestra entered with similarly practiced moves.
    The harpsichordist shuffled the musical scores, placing a light, lilting piece by Scarlatti on top. “By the cardinal’s standing order, we always start with this one.” He was a round-faced man wearing a starched linen stock that cut into the abundant flesh of his neck. His tone could have frozen a mountain stream in midflow. “Do you know it?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the others?”
    I nodded. I’d studied most of these songs at the Conservatorio San Remo where I’d spent my boyhood. Each of the seemingly straightforward arias carried a subtle challenge that could easily expose a mediocre singer’s limitations. The cardinal’s favorites revealed a high degree of musical sophistication. I understood why he’d chosen them, but the collectively cool demeanor of my fellow musicians presented a puzzle.
    A gong sounded, signaling the entrance of a splendid procession. The villa’s rules of concert etiquette were more involved than any I had encountered in my previous travels. A pair of Swiss guards in striped uniforms and ceremonial helmets led the way. A double train of brightly dressed ladies and gentlemen interspersed with black-cassocked priests followed, separating to fill the rows of chairs in orderly fashion. Lastly, a quartet of pages bearing heraldic standards marched down the aisle and stationed themselves at the corners of the dais.
    Without being told, I stiffened my spine like a soldier on review. At another gong, two cardinals clad in robes of scarlet silk topped by frothy capes of white lace started down the aisle.
    I took a hard gulp. One of these men held the papal election, and my brother’s freedom, in his bejeweled hands. I searched their faces as they neared the dais. With many bows, gracious smiles, and conspicuous protestations of humility, they invited each other to take the seat of honor.
    One cardinal was tall and broad shouldered, with dark good looks that were ruined by bags under his eyes and a pointed nose that continually sniffed the air like an alley cat on the prowl. The other cardinal was short and stooped, with a vacant, bemused expression, and well-padded torso. Which was Lorenzo Fabiani, the man I must captivate with my song?
    Abate Lenci provided the telling clue when the shorter cardinal finally succumbed to the other’s urgings. He applied his scarlet backside to the gilded chair, rocked from side to side to settle his bulk, then patted his robe for something that was clearly missing. The abate who’d guided me to Rome hustled forward and produced a snuff box and lace-edged handkerchief for the man who must surely be Stefano Montorio, the uncle who took a good bit of looking after. Bowing back out of the way with a tactful mixture of apology and concern, Lenci seemed determined to ignore me—until he sent me a surreptitious wink that brought an unguarded grin to my lips.
    The grin dissolved when I realized that the other cardinal was staring at me. So this was my host, Lorenzo Fabiani. Light from hundreds of candles glinted off the jeweled cross on his breast, but it was the gleam from his deep-set brown eyes that captured my attention. The noise of an audience