“It’s Lucretius,” Colin said. “From his only work, “De Rerum Natura—On the Nature of Things—a poetic explanation of Epicurean philosophy and physics. Written in hexameter. If I recall correctly, the passage has to do with the idea that objects cannot be created from nothing. The first beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye. You will not be able to see the material that makes them up, but it existed long before the things in question. He also believed that there is no afterlife, and hence, no need to fear death.”
We had dined late, not sitting down until after Colin and Mr. Benton-Smith had removed—to where, I had no idea—Signore Spichio’s body from the courtyard. The subject was entirely avoided at the table, not out of respect for decorum but because Cécile and I were meant to take no part in any discussion of the man’s death. Apparently, they hoped this would persuade us to pretend that nothing unusual had happened; and for the moment, at least, I was content to let the conversation drift from Botticelli to Lorenzo the Magnificent to Michelangelo.
When we’d finished eating, Colin produced a bottle of port brought from our cellar in London and passed it around the table. I saw it for what it was: an apology for cutting me out of his investigation. It was well played, a nod to his acceptance of my habit of drinking a beverage reserved by polite society for men alone, a reminder that he considered me an equal. The fortified wine took the edge off my irritation, just as he knew it would. A box of fine cigars provided additional balm.
“Dangerous ideas,” Mr. Benton-Smith said, puffing as he lit one for himself, only after first having assisted me with my own. “How is the church to control its flock without the threat of hell?”
“Or the promise of heaven,” I said. “I’ve not read Lucretius. Tomorrow, Cécile, we will look for a bookshop.”
“You’re unlikely to find it here in English. I can have Hatchards send it if you’d like.” My husband’s tone was congenial, his deep voice full of warmth. I appreciated the effort, even as I resented its cause. No amount of kindness could make me forget about Signore Spichio’s murder.
“That would be lovely, Colin, thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for it, as I’ve decided to embark on a new project. I found the Lucretius quotation among graffiti on the landing walls. Further exploration revealed more writing in the kitchen, the lavatories, and other spots in the house. I want to record all of it and translate it into English.”
“What a marvelous idea, Lady Emily,” Mr. Benton-Smith said.
“You need not be so formal,” I said. “Please call me by my Christian name.”
“Only if you address me as Darius.”
“With pleasure. Dare I hope you’re named for the Persian king?”
“My father dabbled in archaeology as a young man. He was particularly keen on Persia and spent time at the site of Persepolis. Which is a terribly roundabout way of saying, yes, I’m named for Darius the Great. Not an entirely happy situation. Whenever I was caught doing something naughty, dear old Pater was wont to remind me that the name means he who holds firm to good. Quite the burden for a young boy.”
“At least he didn’t call you Xerxes,” I said. “It would be even harder to live up to being a ruler of heroes, in this day and age.”
“Your husband did not exaggerate when he lauded your knowledge of history. I’m impressed, Emily.”
“You needn’t bother with flattery. It doesn’t ease the sting of knowing nothing about the murdered corpse in the courtyard.”
Darius glanced across the table to Colin, who shrugged. “She’s not easily put off.”
“No, I’m not,” I said, “but I promise I shan’t give either of you a hard time. I do understand the need for discretion and that the decision to keep your work to yourselves is not yours alone to make. Forgive me if I reacted badly. Seeing the body was a shock. It’s not my first brush with violent death, but I never quite manage to take it in stride.”
“As you shouldn’t,” Darius said. “I’m well aware of the laudable role you’ve played in bringing murderers to justice. Lose the horror at seeing a body and you lose a piece of your humanity, a piece I consider essential to solving a crime. If one does not care, one cannot succeed.”
“What a morbid topic,” Cécile said. “If Kallista and I are to have no part of your investigation, would it be too much to beg that you not torment us with reminders of it?”
“It would be best if we refrained from mentioning poor Signore Spichio,” I said. “It’s all I can do to resist digging in and looking for clues. If that’s forbidden, I shall have to try to pretend the two of you gentlemen aren’t doing exactly that.”
“We do appreciate the difficulty of the situation, my dear,” Colin said. “Thank you for your understanding.” I noted the very slightest hint of sarcasm buried in his tone. He would never believe I would be easily persuaded to step aside.
“Bien.” Cécile rose from the table. “Let us retire to the Sala dei Pappagalli and turn our attention to entirely different matters. Monsieur Benton-Smith, I am eager to learn more about you. Escort me downstairs and tell me all the shocking stories of your misspent youth.”
“I’m afraid there’s very little to tell,” he said, rising and offering her his arm. “At least in polite company.”
“I am many things, monsieur. Polite is not one of them.”
Colin and I retreated to our bedroom at the first opportunity, once he was convinced we weren’t insulting Cécile by abandoning her and I was reasonably certain that Darius was safe alone with her. Our room, on the second floor, was painted with scenes from a tragic thirteenth-century chivalric romance, La Chastelaine de Vergi. The chatelaine, in love with one of the knights in her uncle’s retinue, insisted that their relationship be kept secret from everyone. They used a little dog—trustworthy as he could not speak and reveal their relationship—as a signal to indicate when it was safe to meet. But the chatelaine was not the only lady to take notice of the knight. Her uncle’s wife, the duchess, yearned for his attention, too. When the loyal man rejected her, she accused him of treason. What followed was a mess of manipulation, treachery, and death. No one got a happy ending. The beauty of the paintings could not be denied—the little dog, in particular, was charming—but I wondered who had made the decision to commission the work. I would not have chosen scenes from it to decorate a bedroom. Had it, perhaps, commemorated the occasion of the arranged marriage of a bride whose heart longed for a different groom? I was sitting on a chaise longue contemplating the question when Colin emerged from the bathroom, ready for bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of loose silk pajama trousers.
“Are you truly content to leave me to my work?” Colin asked, brushing damp curls back from his forehead. Ordinarily, he would have approached the question more obliquely and prefaced it with his most distracting kiss, especially given his knowledge of the effect his current attire had on me. Tonight, though, he stood far away, in front of the fireplace, arms crossed over his bare chest.
“I can’t claim to be delighted by it, but there’s nothing else to be said. I have no choice in the matter.”
“I’m sorry. I prefer when we can work together.”
“It’s easier to tolerate being excluded when you’re off in parts unknown and I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re doing. Being here, knowing that I could help, is immensely frustrating.”
“Would you prefer to return home?”
“Would you prefer that I did?”
He came to the chaise and sat beside me. “No. I knew before coming here that I would have to work. I should have told you that from the first. You’ve no doubt ascertained that the break-ins are tied to something of larger significance to Britain. I wish I could say more, but I can’t. Despite knowing that, I wanted you with me. Not only because I hate us being apart but also because I value the contributions you make when we work together. Darius and I have faced countless difficult situations and always achieved what needed to be achieved; but I have seen, time and again, that your insights neatly complement what I do. You would be an asset to us.”
“Yet you are not allowed to make use of me.”
“No.”
“I’ve already set in motion a plan to learn whatever I can about Signore Spichio.”
“It would be dangerous for you to expose any of the work he did for us.”
“I wouldn’t do that, but might it not be useful to know other, broader things about him? What if his work did not lead to his death, but a bungled love affair or a dispute over money?”
“It’s unlikely in the extreme.”
“Whoever killed him could have covered his tracks by making use of some sort of ordinary problem he had. I may be able to learn things that could assist you in unearthing the truth. If you and Darius are nosing around his family and friends, you risk exposing your own roles. Don’t tell me you know how to be subtle. A wise gentleman informed me that everyone believes himself to be discreet.”
“I cannot deny that your assistance could prove useful, nor can I deny that I’ve known from the instant Tessa screamed that you would not be kept away from investigating.” He took my hands and squeezed them, hard. “I trust you absolutely, in ways that I could never make Darius understand or accept. I trust Cécile, but it’s not the same thing. If you choose to proceed—which I know you will—I need you to convince her that I know nothing of it. That way, she’ll be less likely to slip in front of Darius.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t answer so easily, Emily. It is an unwelcome slope you approach, deceiving a friend, a slope that can’t ever be climbed after you start your descent.” He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “It will plague you, every single day, even when you’re not being deliberately disingenuous, even when your conversation has nothing to do with the work at hand. You will have to learn to become comfortable with lies, so comfortable that you turn to them even when it appears unnecessary. You will learn that it is, in fact, always necessary, because the truth must be treated as a potential danger.”
“Do you lie to me?”
“Yes.” His voice was barely audible. “Not about things that matter, not between us. Only regarding my work, and then—in order to justify it to myself—only by omission, as if that mitigates the sin.”
“I’ve always known that,” I said. “I am confident that if it did matter, you would tell me, regardless of the consequence. I trust you to keep only the right secrets.”
He dropped his head to his chest. “Deceptions, even worthy ones, take their toll. I want to beg your forgiveness but am not hypocrite enough to do so. I’ve never doubted the necessity of keeping my work separate from you.”
“And I want to admonish you for hiding things from me, even as I’ve never doubted the necessity of your doing it.” I tilted my head and half grinned. He rarely allowed anyone, myself included, to see even the slightest chink in his emotional armor. I would not make it harder for him than I knew it already was. Eventually, I would acknowledge the effort it must have taken for him to confide these thoughts, but now he needed something else. “Well. Not never doubted the necessity. Accepted it, yes. Begrudgingly. Reluctantly. Wandsomely. With ill humor. Against my will. Without patience. Shall I continue?” I placed one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his chest, feeling his firm muscle beneath my palm.
“I’d prefer you didn’t, at least not your reproof.” He looked into my eyes with such intensity I found it difficult to breathe. “Before we turn our attentions to things more pleasant, we ought to establish some ground rules. For our work.”
“I shan’t let Cécile know I’m telling you anything,” I said.
“I will ensure Darius is equally unaware, but that will be simpler than keeping Cécile ignorant. She knows you well. Darius does not. It would be helpful if you could somehow persuade him you’ve lost interest in what we’re doing.”
“I can try, but he does know my history with investigations. As for Cécile, she and I have already planned to investigate quietly, without letting you know what we’ve learned until absolutely necessary. Can you tell me anything harmless about Signore Spichio? His full name, perhaps?”
“I can’t, Emily. To reveal information about a confidential source would be a serious breach. Darius shouldn’t have let his surname slip when he saw the body,” he said. “We ought to agree on a way to communicate what you learn without either of our friends suspecting what we’re doing.”
“We share a bed, Colin,” I said. “How difficult can it be?”
“There may be nights I don’t return to the house, or times when something is too urgent to wait until evening. We can’t do what Darius and I do—beg to be excused so that we can discuss something sensitive. We shall have to be more creative. An amorous signal might do.”
“Amorous?”
“Yes. Florence is a romantic place. You may be swept away by its charms. You may require the attentions of your husband more frequently and less discreetly than usual.”
“I am not about to make it obvious that—”
“Of course not. But a not-quite-subtle longing glance can go a long way, my dear. Darius will notice and never, ever question.”
“Cécile will notice and have many questions.”
“I’ll leave it to you to decide how much you’d like to tell her. About the amorous details, not the rest.”
“It’s awfully convenient, Colin, deciding that your work now requires frequent amorous encounters.”
“I would never insist we act upon said longing glances once we’re alone. They needn’t be more than pretext for an exchange of information, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
“You’re an evil, evil man,” I said.
“Of course, if you’d rather I bring the promises of those glances to fruition, I would never object.” He traced a finger along the neckband of my nightgown.
“I’m beginning to see a benefit to the discretion required by your work. Secrets, in the right circumstances, can be most invigorating—” I stopped speaking, only able to gasp given what he did next. I gave no further consideration to secrets or anything else for a long, long time. This new arrangement of ours looked to be quite promising.