6 - Whispers of Vivaldi Read Online Free PDF Page B

that could destroy the reality and humor I loved about The Duke .
    “The wreck is no more ridiculous than the rest of the story.” Passoni’s gaze narrowed. “And it would mean so much to me.” His mellow voice suddenly rasped like a steel point splitting satin. “I would view it as a personal favor.”
    No longer the dilettante lingering in his library with cups of chocolate and volumes of philosophy, the Savio showed himself as the merchant-aristocrat shrewd and clever enough to be appointed one of Venice’s “wise men.” Savio alla Cultura—the wise man who oversaw the regulation and licensing of the entire array of Venice’s cultural activities. Not only the opera, but printing, bookbinding, play houses, news gazettes, and more.
    I inhaled deeply. A hasty compromise was in order. I could only hope that the beauty of the rest of the opera would balance out this absurd plot alteration.
    “Excellency,” I replied with a respectful nod, “your pleasure is my command. I will see that The False Duke is changed to include your shipwreck—not just a run-of-the-mill illusion, mind, but the biggest and best. Our machinist—Signor Ziani—has been begging for a new challenge.” And will probably kill me for promising one of this magnitude, I thought.
    “Delightful.” The Savio grinned. His shoulders shuddered under the silk of his dressing gown. “It will be hard to wait. I’ll be on pins and needles.”
    “Then may I inform Maestro Torani that we have your formal permission to proceed?”
    He opened his mouth, but before he could speak a word, the door opened and a young woman entered in a whirl of pink skirts and lace-frothed petticoats. She was the very picture of a Venetian beauty—a plump little sparrow with white shoulders and a barely restrained profusion of red-gold curls. She ran across the study, encircled Passoni’s neck in a hug, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Papa, no. Don’t give Tito your promise about the opera just yet.”
    My heart sank as I rose to make my bow. Two more seconds and the Savio’s approval would have been mine. Two seconds.
    Passoni laughed and swung the girl around onto his lap. “Little minx. Were you listening at the door again?”
    “Papa, how would I ever know anything if I didn’t?” They both laughed uproariously while I remained standing, tricorne under my arm, a smile plastered over my disappointment.
    The Savio introduced his daughter, Beatrice, but I already knew who she was. I’d seen her in his second-tier box at the theater, sitting at the railing beside her father while the faded Signora Passoni and her devoted cavaliere servente watched from the back seats. The signora was known as a woman of impeccable dignity and virtue, unfortunately weakened by intermittent bouts of ill health. The presence of her cavaliere was in perfect keeping with the practices of Venetian society. Every married woman of status had her personal Sir Galahad, a “friend of the house,” who kept her company while her husband was engaged in his own amusements. How much, and in what precise manner, these companions profited by the relationship was entirely up to the woman.
    But back to Beatrice. My long-distance view from the stage hadn’t prepared me for the sheer sparkle of the girl. Beatrice was a fresh breeze on a muggy day. A gulp of chilled limonata on a parched throat.
    Passoni stroked errant curls from her cheeks. “Now, my pet, tell us why I should not grant Signor Amato’s request.”
    “I’ve had a letter from Cousin Amalia. She attended an opera—part of some civic celebration in Milan—that absolutely astounded her. She shivered, she wept. She swooned so completely that Uncle Ludovico had to send their footman for a vinaigrette of smelling salts.”
    “Your cousin is prone to faints, I think.”
    “Oh, Papa. Amalia wasn’t the only one. Many ladies, even several of the gentlemen, fainted from sheer pleasure.”
    “Who wrote this opera that produced such a