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attention remained upon the stage, but her shoulders shook slightly. James heard a suppressed giggle to his left, from the only other female in the box. He didn’t look that way but went on vigorously dabbing with the towel.
    The red-faced prince pushed his hand away. “Stop! Enough! Go away! Ottar! Where is my servant? Ottar! ”
    Simultaneously, a few hundred heads swiveled their way and a few hundred voices said, in angry unison, “ Shh! ”
    Ninetta’s aria was about to begin.
    â€œ Perdonatemi, perdonatemi ,” James whispered.“ Mi dispiace, mi dispiace. ” Continuing to apologize, he backed away, the picture of servile shame and fear.
    La Bonnard turned round then, and looked James full in the face.
    He should have been prepared. He should have acted reflexively but for some reason he didn’t. He was half a heartbeat too slow. The look caught him, and the unearthly countenance stopped him dead.
    Isis , Lord Byron had dubbed her, after the Egyptian goddess. Now James saw why: the strange, elongated green eyes…the wide mouth…the exotic lines of nose and cheek and jaw.
    James felt it, too, the power of her remarkable face and form, the impact as powerful as a blow. Heat raced through him, top to bottom, bottom to top, at a speed that left him stunned.
    It lasted but a heartbeat in time—he was an old hand, after all—and he averted his gaze. Yet he was aware, angrily aware, that he’d been slow.
    He was aware, angrily aware, of being thrown off balance.
    By a look, a mere look.
    And it wasn’t over yet.
    She looked him up. She looked him down. Then she looked away, her gaze reverting to the stage.
    But in the last instant before she turned away, James saw her mouth curve into a long, wicked smile.

Chapter 2
    And up and down the long canals they go,
    And under the Rialto shoot along,
    By night and day, all paces, swift or slow;
    And round the theatres, a sable throng,
    They wait in their dusk livery of woe,—
    But not to them do woful things belong,
    For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
    Like mourning coaches when the
      funeral’s done.
    Lord Byron, Beppo
    T he two women giggled like schoolgirls as their gondola made its way through the sable throng clustered at the Fenice’s rear door.
    â€œOh, but did you see Lurenze’s face when he came back, and found the Russian count in his place?” said Giulietta. “Like a little boy with his pretty blond curls. He stood, so, with his mouth hanging open.” She mimicked the prince’s dismayed astonishment. “Poor boy. He was so disappointed.”
    â€œBoy, indeed,” said Francesca. “He’s like apuppy—and I’m not sure I have the patience to train him.”
    â€œThe young ones have so much energy,” said Giulietta. “But too often they are clumsy.”
    â€œAnd they’re in a great hurry,” Francesca said. “Still, he’s very beautiful.”
    â€œAnd he is a prince. And he has a fine fortune. And a generous nature.”
    â€œIt would be a coup, I agree,” Francesca said.
    â€œAnd yet you hesitate. Is this because of the comte de Magny?”
    â€œHe has no power over me,” Francesca said.
    â€œYou are not still angry with him?”
    â€œI’m done with letting men tell me what to do—and he had the audacity to advise me about lovers. He even objected to the marchese .”
    â€œBellaci? To what can anyone object? When I think of the jewels he showered upon you, I wonder how you could leave him.”
    â€œA year and a half in one man’s keeping is long enough,” Francesca said.
    The longer an affair continued, the greater the danger of becoming attached. She’d never do that again.
    â€œYou don’t miss him, your handsome marchese? ” said Giulietta.
    â€œWhen men are gone, I’m always glad they’re gone,” Francesca said. That included