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    He scowled irritably and threw open the door of Bianca’s dungeon. Finding herself not only not in a dungeon but instead on the threshold of the most magnificent apartment she had ever beheld, Bianca could not contain an exclamation of delight. The walls of the first room were frescoed with women of every age and every country, each in their native costume. There were female warriors in metal armor and Roman women in long gowns, and women naked but for the brightly colored designs painted on their bodies. With difficulty Ian ushered her from the sitting room into the main room of the suite. Surrounded by frescoes depicting ancient goddesses was a large bed hung with deep blue velvet. Bianca was so tired and overwhelmed by the beauty not only of the paintings and furnishings but also of the man beside her that she neglected to consider the impropriety of standing in a bedroom with him. She touched Ian’s arm gently and whispered, “This is the most extraordinary room I have ever seen.” She turned her gaze from the paintings to the man and, seized with a most indecorous urge, kissed him on the cheek.
    Ian’s mind reeled between past and present. A woman in his house. A kiss. This room. As Ian looked down at her, Bianca saw his eyes darken into a cold slate gray. She shrank away from him, conscious of having somehow offended.
    “That was very improper, Signorina Salva. See that it never happens again.” He turned on his heel and moved toward the door.
    “It’s a very bad habit, you know,” Bianca said quietly.
    Ian stopped abruptly and turned to face her from the safety of the threshold. “What did you say?”
    “Running away like that. Making a grandiose pronouncement and then leaving the room without hearing what anyone else has to say. It’s almost cowardly.”
    Bianca felt a surge of rage fill the room. Ian looked at her, anger legible in every contour of his face. When he spoke his voice was dangerously low and cold.
    “If I were you, signorina, I would save my wit for tomorrow. You will need every particle of it to keep me from turning you in as a murderess.”

Chapter Four
    Ian finished reading the decoded letter aloud and passed it to Sebastian on his right.
    “It arrived this morning, brought in by a fisherman. I’ll never understand how our L. N. uncovers these things, but he’s not been wrong yet.”
    The other four men around the table nodded in agreement. None of them had ever met their English cousin, Lucien North Howard, earl of Danford, but not for lack of trying. Miles and Crispin, who passed at least half the year on their estates in England, were by now accustomed to receiving polite denials to their invitations and being informed that their cousin was “sadly unavailable” by his genteel but slightly menacing butler in London.
    The only indisputable sign of his existence was his frequent, copious correspondence. It arrived from all over the world and by means of the most fantastic conveyances. It might come on Arboretti ships or in the hands of a foreign messenger who disappeared as quickly as he came. The letters always mixed personal anecdotes and travel descriptions with business advice. Without this counsel even Ian’s outstanding business acumen could not have made Arboretti one of the largest and wealthiest shipping conglomerates of its day. On L.N.’s advice they had expanded from their original cargo of lumber into every thinkable product from every place in the world. Arboretti ships carried fabrics, wines, spices, plants, animals, munitions, gold, silver, gems, anything that could be bought in one place and sold at a profit in another. In only eight years, they had grown from having the six ships left to them by their grandfather to having a fleet that rivaled those of most city-states on the peninsula.
    As a member of the English ambassador to Venice’s entourage, their grandfather Benton Walsingham had fallen in love with Laura Foscari-Dolfin, the only daughter of an