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the rear, stopped rowing, preparing to oust the intruder, a muffled voice cried, “Have pity, I beg you, for mercy of God.”
    The form rose to its knees. It proved to be a man in a cape and a wide-brimmed hat. In the uncertain light of the gondola’s lamp, Francesca could not make out much of his features beyond noting a long, thin, curling mustache and a pointy bit of a beard. He put her in mind of a seventeenth-century portrait of a nobleman she’d seen somewhere.
    London? Florence? The Palazzo Manfrini? These days one rarely saw facial hair on European men, and certainly not in that curious style.
    â€œI beg you most humbly, men of the paddles, do not betray me,” he said in thickly accented Italian. “Please, I am of no harm.” He pushed back his cape and put up his hands. “No artillery. No stiletto. No pistol.”
    It was then he seemed to notice the two women staring at him.
    â€œThis is a novel way of getting our attention,” Francesca said calmly, though her heart pounded. Venice was one of the safest cities in the world. Butno place was completely safe for women, she knew. She recalled her encounter with Lord Quentin in Mira, and what had happened afterward, and her uneasiness grew.
    â€œOh, speaking English, thank the saints,” the stranger said, switching to that language. His version of it was as heavily accented as his barbarous Italian. “My Italian, not so good. My English less bad. A thousand pardons, senoritas . Signorine . Ladies, is my meaning. I have a little trouble, this is all.”
    Looking to Uliva, he said, “Perhaps you will make the paddle move more rapid, boat person?” He moved his hands in a rowing motion. “To make the boat go far away—yes?—before any trouble happens.”
    The large Uliva regarded him stonily. Behind the cabin, Dumini would be awaiting his partner’s signal. Uliva could easily throw the intruder into the canal or knock him senseless with the oar. But while no one could determine the fellow’s social position from his ridiculous accent, he had the unmistakable manner of the upper orders.
    This didn’t mean he was trustworthy. It simply made the gondoliers hesitate.
    The stranger appealed to Francesca. “I know it is strange, my sudden appearing. But here is the cause: I visit the lady who has breasts of great beauty.” He pointed. “There in that house she lives. But alas, the esposo of the lady—how is the word for him?”
    â€œThe husband,” Giulietta supplied.
    â€œThat one,” said the stranger. “He comes homeearly because he has a discord—what is it when they scream at each other?—he has a disputing with his mistress.”
    â€œYou mean a quarrel?” said Giulietta. She glanced at Francesca, her mouth twitching.
    â€œThe quarrel, yes,” the man said. “Then with me ”—he thumped his chest—“with me he makes the quarrel. What have I done? Almost no time he gives me to assume my pantaloni . How do you call them? My breeches, which they are down on my feet, so.” He pointed to his ankles. “The esposo he shouts at me,” he said indignantly. “He chases me with a knife very big.”
    Giulietta giggled.
    Francesca couldn’t help but smile. She and Giulietta had encountered his type before. Some of Lord Byron’s romantic escapades were equally comical. She signaled the gondolier to proceed.
    Uliva shrugged. This was Venice, after all. The vessel proceeded smoothly along the canal.
    The stranger lightly tipped his hat, then kissed his hand to her. “You are so much kindness to come to my succor. So genteel. It is too shocking, what happens. My lady she is married, not a virgin. All the married ladies here, they have lovers, no?”
    â€œA virtuous wife has only one lover,” said Giulietta. “But sometimes the husband acts crazy, as though she had twenty. This one, it seems,