The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(44)

The days passed, but the Prince of Wales did not come to Richmond with his courtiers, nor did Mal visit on business of his own, and Coby began to regret this whole plan. She was making little headway with Lady Derby, who frequently disappeared on business of her own, often to Syon House according to the other ladies-in-waiting. Of course they all assumed she was visiting one of her lovers, or perhaps just gossiping with Essex’s sister, but Coby became increasingly convinced that Lady Derby was in league with the alchemist, Matthew Shawe. Why else visit a house where neither Essex nor Raleigh had been seen in months?

She went to the window of her apartments, from which she could just see the corner of Syon House if she pressed her face against the glass. Cream stone battlements rose above the line of trees, like a child’s wooden castle.

“Your son is very beautiful.”

Coby looked around with a start. Bartolomeo stood in the doorway, his head cocked on one side. She followed his gaze to the bed, where Kit lay sprawled as carelessly as a puppy, one hand pressed to his plump cheek. Susanna, half-hidden by the long velvet curtains framing the other window, paused in her sewing. The arrival of a visitor was of no immediate concern to her, as long as Kit was not disturbed.

“Thank you,” Coby said to the young man. When he did not immediately respond she added, “You speak very good English.”

“I learnt it from songs. I like your English music: your William Byrd and John Dowland.”

His voice was husky, like a boy’s on the verge of breaking. Or like a girl pretending to be a boy. Coby wondered if that was what she had sounded like, when she was being Jacob. No wonder everyone had thought she was younger than she claimed to be.

Bartolomeo nodded towards Kit. “He looks like his father?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he does.”

“A handsome man, then.”

“You can tell me, when you see him for yourself.”

“Oh?”

“He wrote to say he would visit soon.”

“To see his son. And you.”

“Yes.”

She gestured to the stool at her side, where Susanna had been sitting until she complained that the light was not good enough. Bartolomeo sat down, folding his long elegant hands in his lap. This close, Coby see that his cheeks were as hairless as a girl’s, and she couldn’t help wondering if the rest of his body was the same. A warm flush crept up from her collar. She cleared her throat.

“How are you finding England?”

“Cold.” Bartolomeo smiled, but Coby sensed a double meaning behind the word. Strange; the Princess had welcomed him, and the other ladies-in-waiting were already making wagers as to which of them he would fall in love with. Perhaps he was all too aware that he was no more than a pawn in their petty rivalries.

“We have had several bad winters in recent years,” she said, “but it is certainly colder here than Italy.”

“You have been to my country?”

“Only once. A journey to Venice, on the Queen’s business.”

“And how did you like it?”

“It was… different.”

Bartolomeo laughed. “Now you know how I feel. Everything is different here, not just the weather: the churches, the manners, the food–”

“You do not like English food?”

“It is very…” He broke off, frowning, as if searching his memory for the right word. “Heavy,” he said at last, patting his belly ruefully.

“Princess Juliana keeps a good table. The food here is richer than I have been used to, I must confess.”

“You have not always been a lady?”

This time his dual meaning was surely unintended, yet it still gave Coby pause.

“No. My parents were not of gentle birth.” Again, the Italian’s questions pressed into areas she did not wish to become common currency around the court. “Tell me about your own travels. Have you been to Venice yourself?”

“Alas, no. I grew up in the countryside near Rome, and travelled to the Eternal City as a boy.”

He fell silent, and Coby cursed herself for reminding him of his cruel treatment by the choirmasters.

“But more recently, you were in Portugal,” she said.

“Yes, at the court of Prince Joaquim.”

He proceeded to tell an amusing story about the prince’s pet monkey, which liked to ride in a cart pulled by a little dog and which had been trained to laugh at all the prince’s clever jests.

Kit stirred at their laughter, and Bartolomeo leapt to his feet.

“Please, forgive me, I did not mean to disturb your child–”

“There is nothing to forgive. He usually wakes from his nap around this time.”

“Then I will leave him to your care. Good day, Signora Catalin.”

He bowed and left before Coby could return the courtesy.

“Well, what do you make of that?” she said to no one in particular, staring at the closed door. “Surely he did not have to leave in such haste?”

She went over to the bed and held out her arms to Kit, but he scrambled down the far side and ran over to Susanna. The nursemaid put down her sewing and picked him up. Coby suppressed a pang of jealousy. After all, he was no more her son than he was Susanna’s.

“You cannot trust that one, mistress,” the girl said, setting Kit down on the window seat so he could look out into the garden.