The Wicked House of Rohan by Anne Stuart

 
    1740, Venice
    Miss Kathleen Strong was so hungry she could have eaten three of the pigeons that normally fluttered through St. Mark’s Square, raw. The only problem being that they were wily little creatures, and every time she got close they flapped away, knowing that a scarecrow like her wouldn’t be providing bread crumbs.
    But today it was pouring rain. There were no tourists. The pigeons had deserted the place.
    Still, she could be glad of the rain. It kept her awake and alert enough to make her appointment with Sir Wesley Marblethorpe. She hadn’t had a bed in two days, and sleeping in an alleyway had its drawbacks, like rats and other nighttime predators. She had no weapon apart from a particularly nasty hairpin about six inches long, fairly suitable for jabbing a miscreant in the eye. She was long past being squeamish.
    She was reasonably clean, thanks to the presence of water everywhere. Her serviceable gray dress was stained, to be sure, but she’d gotten most of the darker spots out, and she’d even managed to plait her hair in severe braids, affixing them to the base of her neck with the hairpin cum Excalibur. She knew that Sir Wesley would see her just as she was, a proper British governess, down on her luck, admittedly, but starched and proper enough; presuming he didn’t look too closely, she would qualify for whatever form of employment Sir Wesley was offering.
    If she got the job she might even have enough nerve to request an advance on her salary and she could liberate her meager belongings from Signora Montalba, the beady-eyed landlady who’d kicked her out two days ago. The very idea of asking such a boon made her shrink with shame, but her last meal had been a withered apple, and that was a day and a half ago. If she didn’t get something to eat soon she was going to end up facedown in the Grand Canal.
    Palazzo del Zaglia was up ahead, on one of the less busy campos. There were none of Venice’s omnipresent cats around, and Kathleen wondered idly if she’d ever eat one. Probably not. She liked cats.
    In truth, there was no way to tell for sure if this large, crumbling building was indeed Palazzo del Zaglia. She should have approached it from the water side, but she hadn’t enough money for a gondola.
    She would just have to hope for the best. The steady beat of the rain had turned her bonnet into a sodden mass that hung limply around her face, and her hair was plastered to her head beneath it. She would look unprepossessing indeed, but the advertisement said Sir Wesley was quite desperate. As was she. Surely a match made in heaven.
    She climbed the cracked stone steps to the intimidating door and pulled the bell. Next she’d have to face a superior servant, who might just send her off with a flea in her ear. She had no idea what she’d do in that case.
    But the man who opened the door was a far cry from a servant. A bit on the short side, with a little too much paunch and a simple bag wig set askew on a balding pate, he wore a well-trimmed goatee and had the smallest, meanest eyes she’d ever seen.
    â€œMiss Strong?” He had a high-pitched, almost effeminate voice. “Miss Kathleen Strong?”
    She wondered if she was supposed to curtsy. If she tried she might very well pass out at his feet, which would hardly improve matters. She managed a slight dip. “Sir Wesley?” she said hopefully.
    â€œIndeed. But my poor Miss Strong, you’re soaked! Please come in out of the rain and dry off. My friends won’t mind waiting.”
    â€œYour friends?” she said doubtfully, relinquishing her bonnet and reticule into the hands of the supercilious servant she’d been expecting.
    â€œMarcello, please take Miss Strong into the dining room or whatever the hell Alistair is calling it. Miss Strong, I’ll be joining you in a moment.”
    Her brain hadn’t melted in the Venetian rain, even if it felt like it. She