Free Street of the Five Moons by Elizabeth Peters

statues…. “It is unbearable here when the weather is hot. Tomorrow I move to my house at Tivoli. You will join me there. You will appreciate my collections, since you are an expert, although I cannot believe a woman so beautiful, so voluptuous….”
    At that interesting moment the butler opened the door and announced lunch. Pietro’s fat pink face lengthened.
    “We must go, I suppose. Helena will be rude if I do not come at once.”
    “Helena?” I took the arm he offered me. He squeezed my hand against his side. “Is she your wife?”
    “No, no, my mistress. A very unpleasant woman. A beautiful face and body, you understand — though not so beautiful as yours—”
    “I guess you should know,” I said resignedly.
    “But very jealous,” said Pietro. “Very rude. Do not let her intimidate you, Vicky, I beg.”
    “I won’t. But if you find her so obnoxious, why don’t you get rid of her?”
    “It is not so easy, that,” said Pietro sadly. “Wait till you meet her.”
    Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten my motive for looking up Count Caravaggio. He was such a silly little man. It was almost impossible to picture him as a master criminal. We were crossing the huge hall, with its original Greek statues set in shell-shaped niches, when I was brought back to reality with a rude thump. A door opened, and a familiar form emerged.
    “You,” I gasped, like a good Gothic heroine.
    The Englishman raised one eyebrow. Not both, just one. I hate people who can do that.
    “I fear you have the advantage of me,” he said, in an offensive public-school drawl. “Your Excellency?”
    “Yes, yes. I introduce you,” said Pietro, without enthusiasm. “It is my secretary, Miss Bliss. Sir John Symthe.”
    “Sir?” I said. “Smith?”
    “With a y and an e on the end,” said John Smythe suavely. “An obscure title, but an old one, and not without honor.”
    “Oh, yeah?” I replied uncouthly. “What about those stories about your ancestor and Pocahantas?”
    “A cadet branch of the family,” said the Englishman, without cracking a smile.
    Pietro, who had not understood any of this, interrupted in a petulant voice.
    “We are late for lunch. It is well we meet you, John; you must make arrangements for tomorrow. Miss Bliss — she is Doctor Bliss, in fact, a learned lady — she will accompany us to Tivoli. You will have one of the cars pick her up at her hotel. The car I will travel in, you understand?”
    “I do understand, your Excellency,” said Mr. Symthe. “Believe me, I understand.”
    “Come, then, we are late for lunch,” said Pietro. Towing me with him, he trotted across the hall, with Mr. Smythe trailing behind.
    I didn’t believe in that title of Symthe’s for a minute. Actually, I didn’t believe in his name either. At least it gave him an identity, a name at which I could direct all the epithets I had been thinking up.
    My first lunch at the Palazzo Caravaggio was an experience I won’t soon forget. I don’t know which was more memorable, the food, the furnishings, or the people. Pietro did not stint himself. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand; the food was marvelous, from the pasta in a delicate cream sauce to the towering meringue laced with rum, and he ate most of it. The quality of the food told me something interesting about the man, something that was confirmed by the contents of the long, formal dining room. He had superb taste. Every piece of furniture was an antique, lovingly tended. The plates were eighteenth-century Chinese, the tablecloth was one of those heavy damask things that take three days to iron. I could go on, but that gives you a rough idea. Pietro was a much more interesting character than he appeared to be at first. He might be a fat, self-indulgent little lecher, but he was also a fat, self-indulgent, cultivated little lecher.
    I can’t say his taste in women was complimentary to me, however. In this area he seemed to prefer quantity to quality.
    Helena was