The Prince (The Florentine 0.5)(3)
“It’s generous of you to share your illustrations.” The Prince spoke ironically. “How fortunate for you that you acquired them in secret and not on the open market.”
He waited for the professor’s reaction, inhaling surreptitiously for the purpose of analyzing the Emersons’ scents.
The professor’s scent was unremarkable. From it, the Prince divined that the man was healthy and more than a little arrogant, the virtues in his life not yet fully formed.
It was clear he had a protective streak. Both the sharpness of his blood and his body language indicated that he would give his life for the young woman standing behind him.
The mere idea was provocative.
Having read the professor’s character through the aromas of his body and blood, the Prince turned his attention to the charitable Mrs. Emerson.
Initially, she smelled of virtue—of compassion and generosity. The Prince found the perfume of her goodness surprising and most pleasing. As if it were a reflex, his eyes moved to the drawing of Beatrice displayed nearby.
“Yes, I count myself lucky. Enjoy your evening.” With a stiff nod, Gabriel moved away, still gripping his wife’s hand.
The Prince remained where he was and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply once again. As Mrs. Emerson moved away, something unpleasant and downright wretched teased his nostrils.
The Prince opened his eyes at the stark realization that Mrs. Emerson was ill.
Her kindness and charity almost masked the unpleasant undertone to her scent, but there it was, lurking in the background like a serpent.
The Prince and his kind were adept at detecting various defects and diseases in human beings. Perhaps it was innate or a product of adaptation. But whatever the reason, the ability enabled his species to choose between desirable and distasteful food sources.
Through his skill, he could determine that Mrs. Emerson’s blood lacked iron. That much was certain. But there was something seriously wrong with her; something he’d not scented before, which made her repugnant to him.
However, her virtues were real enough. He was surprised to discover she was not the pampered society wife he’d thought she was.
The Prince’s gaze followed the Emersons to the opposite end of the hall where they huddled together, whispering furiously.
With one last conflicted look at Mrs. Emerson’s pretty face, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Chapter 2
Prudence was another of the Prince’s remaining virtues.
His anger had not been quenched. Of course, he’d been feeding it for over a century. It grew, like a fattened pig, every time his attempts at discovering the whereabouts of his precious Botticelli illustrations failed.
At the right time, he’d have his justice but not in a public place. Certainly not in the middle of a society event, amidst photographers and journalists.
No, he’d follow the Emersons and when they left the gala, he’d attack. But he’d spare Mrs. Emerson’s life.
The Prince retained some vestige of a moral code. Not because he believed good works would save him—he knew they wouldn’t. He possessed a moral code because he’d never been able to abandon aspects of the code he observed when he was human.
More specifically, he did not take goodness from the world. At least, not intentionally. This meant that Mrs. Emerson’s virtues must be preserved.
Besides, she was ill. It was more than likely her sickness, whatever it was, would mete out its own punishment and soon.
He would not pardon the professor, however.
Earlier that evening, Dottor Vitali delivered a speech in which he traced the provenance of the illustrations from the professor back to an unnamed Swiss family. The Prince had been surprised by this revelation.
He’d been ever more surprised to discover his illustrations had been so near for so long. He’d searched for them in vain for years, even to the point of dispatching his second in command to scour most of Western Europe. Lorenzo had returned empty-handed and without prospects.
After dealing with the Emersons, the Prince intended to interrogate Vitali about the identity of the Swiss family. Then he’d send an envoy to Switzerland to discover how and from whom they’d acquired his property.
He knew one thing and the thing gave him cold comfort—whoever had stolen the illustrations from his house was not of his kind. This meant that the thieves, whoever they were, were long dead.
He’d tortured and killed his entire staff of servants in the days after the theft. He knew some of them had to have been involved, even unintentionally. But he’d never been able to discover who’d been involved or how.
With such thoughts in mind, the Prince faded into the background of the gala, as was his custom when he mingled with human beings. He had no interest in their petty pursuits or inane conversations. He was present for one purpose and would not be distracted from his goal.
He waited until he saw the Emersons steal away from their guests and ascend the large stone staircase to the second floor. He trailed them from a respectable distance, easily distracting the security guard who was posted at the foot of the staircase.
When he arrived at the second floor he found the corridor abandoned.
He followed the Emersons’ scents to the Botticelli room. Peering through the door, he saw them entangled in a passionate embrace.
With scant reflection, he decided to enter the room and admire the artwork, but to do so unseen. It had been some time since he’d viewed the works of the Uffizi in person. The affairs of state kept him busy, as did his other pursuits.