The Rossetti Letter (v5) by Christi Phillips

reason return, and the truth become apparent: the real Venice was not so much a seductress as an eternal Narcissus reflected in a thousand watery mirrors, an aloof divinity made all the more vulnerable by vanity. The enchantment faded and he felt in possession of himself again, poised to pluck his prize. Becoming viceroy of Venice would be his greatest victory in a lifetime of victories. Neither Ossuna nor even Lerma could touch him then.
    At his desk, the ambassador opened a slender drawer and withdrew quills, ink, and paper. In another drawer he found a brass key, which he used to open a small, lacquered damaschina -style chest, painted with intricate red, blue, and green arabesques. The chest contained only one item: an untitled book, which he also placed on the desk.
    The morocco-bound book was rare, only one of two copies. The other was in the possession of Philip III’s secretary, who used it in the same manner as Bedmar did: to code and decode letters between the ambassador and the king. The method was a simple one: the words of the message were substituted with a numeric code consisting of the page number, line, and position of the corresponding word in the book. Simple, but effective; even the code breakers who worked round the clock at the Doge’s Palace could not decipher his letters without the book. First he would write the letter, then with the book create the encrypted copy.
    Bedmar sat down and sharpened a quill. He considered an opening line, but quickly discarded it. No pleading, no begging, he reminded himself. If he could raise the king’s ire against the Venetians, however, the king might offer help of his own accord and Lerma would not be able to argue against it. The ambassador dipped the quill into the ink and began to write.
    Your Majesty,
    The crimes of the Republic against your Crown and against the Holy Church become more insidious with each passing day. Venice has always sought to slander the name of Spain, but at present they respect no bounds of decency…
    Bedmar stopped suddenly, surprised by the appearance of a servant who’d come in to pick up the dinner tray. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he grumbled angrily.
    “Pardon me, Your Excellency. I knocked, but there was no answer. I thought you’d gone.” He was an ungainly sort, with a pockmarked face, a scrawny neck, and a large Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down when he spoke. His eyes ranged over Bedmar’s desk.
    “As you can see perfectly well, I haven’t. Announce yourself next time.” Bedmar looked at him more carefully. “Who are you? Where’s Pasquale?”
    “He’s taken ill, Your Excellency. Tomás Esquivel, at your service, sir.”
    “To whom do you report?”
    “Don Rodrigo, same as Pasquale, Your Excellency.”
    “Tell Don Rodrigo never to send up a new man without telling me first, you understand?” Bedmar didn’t wait for an answer. “Now get out.”
     
    Bedmar’s gondolier rowed into the Rio di San Martino, heading toward the Grand Canal. The marquis leaned back against the gondola cushions and slowly ran his hand over his beard, as if his thoughts were far away.
    “I’m looking forward to tonight’s performance,” Alessandra said, less because it was true than to break the silence.
    “The baronessa’s entertainments are always diverting.” Bedmar looked at her as he spoke, but he seemed preoccupied. More so than her other lovers—of whom there were now five—the marquis was an enigma. Alessandra wondered what he thought of her and realized that she might never know. Bedmar was an intensely private man who seldom shared his thoughts. She suspected that he regarded her as a kind of pretty trinket, a possession, a china doll without a soul. Perhaps that was how he thought of all women—the ones who caught his notice, at any rate. With another man she might have felt resentful, but with Bedmar it felt safer to play the role he wanted her to play. Though he’d never threatened her