Mr. Rothbury, demonstrating either remarkable courage or remarkable obtuseness, sailed directly past this conversational lifeboat.
“Young ladies in this country aren’t permitted the independence accorded to their English counterparts—or so Signorina Morosini informs me.” His gaze met Venetia’s with warmth that would have been delightful had he not just spent the last two minutes rhapsodizing about another woman’s hair. “You, Miss Playford, being familiar with restrictive guardianship, might appreciate the comparison. Though your circumstances have happily altered.”
Yes, thank you for that reminder, Venetia thought, her smile now requiring considerable muscular effort to maintain.
“I mention the signorina only because she bearssuch a striking resemblance to you in both appearance and spirit.”
Venetia wondered if it would be terribly improper to dump her tea over his head. “Really?” She managed to turn the gritting of her teeth into a smile.
“As we are among trusted friends, I would request your discretion in this matter.” Mr. Rothbury leaned forward even more, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur that necessitated Venetia inclining closer to hear him. “But past experience has demonstrated your sympathy toward young ladies subjected to oppressive authority, and I have, in fact, found myself in a position where I might be able to render assistance—if delicately managed.”
Venetia only realized she’d been holding her breath when her lungs began to protest, compelling her to exhale discreetly. The attentiveness in Mr. Rothbury’s manner, directed toward herself after days of apparent indifference, was as intoxicating as it was perplexing.
But was his interest centered on Venetia—or this Italian signorina who supposedly resembled her?
Nevertheless, unwilling to appear unsympathetic to the plight of another young woman, particularly one in circumstances reminiscent of her own former situation, Venetia adopted an expression of concerned interest. “Pray tell me, Mr. Rothbury, what assistance might be rendered to this Signorina Morosini since you seem so concerned about her?”
Mr. Rothbury reached into the capacious leather satchel he carried for his translation materials and withdrew a sheet of heavy vellum, which he carefully positioned in the center of the table, prompting exclamations of interest from the assembled company.
“Good heavens, I recognize the Campanile and Doge’s Palace!” exclaimed Miss Bentley. “What an exquisitely rendered scene! Surely this is the work of a master. Did the count himself execute this piece?”
“His granddaughter, Signorina Sofia Morosini, is the artist,” Mr. Rothbury declared, leaning back in his chair and regarding the paintingwith an expression of such proprietary pride that Venetia experienced another unwelcome pang of envy. “She seeks a patron or purchaser for her work.”
Venetia could not deny the exceptional quality of the painting. The artist had captured not merely the architectural splendor of the Venetian landmarks but also the particular quality of light that suffused the city at sunset, lending the scene an almost ethereal beauty. The technical skill displayed was remarkable, particularly if the artist was, as Venetia surmised, not much beyond her own age.
“This demonstrates extraordinary talent,” Lady Townsend observed, echoing Venetia’s private assessment. “The command of perspective and the handling of light are quite remarkable. I should be delighted to purchase this piece if the young lady wishes to part with it. It would make a splendid addition to my collection.” She smiled at Lord Thornton before adding, “Perhaps beside my belovedPersephone.”
“It may be obliged to replace yourPersephone, in fact,” Lord Thornton rejoined with a cryptic half smile before returning his attention to Mr. Rothbury. “Have you assumed the role of art dealer for the young lady, or might there be a more… personal interest in her circumstances?”
Venetia tensed as she awaited Mr. Rothbury’s response, noting the heightened color that suffused his features as he opened his mouth to reply.
Before Mr. Rothbury could respond, one of the palazzo’s liveried servants appeared at the doorway. “Signoras and signors,” the man announced with a bow, “Captain Teodoro Rizzi of the Venetian Guardia requests an audience on a matter of some urgency.”
The small gathering exchanged puzzled glances as the servant stepped aside and Captain Rizzi swept into the room. His midnight-blue uniform gleamed with enough silver buttons and epaulettes to stock asmall jewelry shop.
“I must beg your indulgence for this intrusion,” he began in heavily accented English, executing a bow so low, Venetia feared he might not be able to straighten again. “I am investigating a matter wherein certain details, perhaps deemed inconsequential by those who observed them, might prove invaluable to the satisfactory furtherance and, potentially, resolution of my inquiry.”
Venetia tried not to giggle at his pomposity before remembering that she was hardly one to judge another on his linguistic abilities.
“You have attended several social gatherings over the past three weeks,” Captain Rizzi continued, his gaze moving from one face to another with unsettling intensity. “During these events, a series of unconscionable thefts have occurred.”
“A thief!” Miss Bentley gasped, her hand flying to the modest pearl choker around her throat as if the criminal might materialize and snatch it that very moment. “How dreadful!”
“Indeed, signora. The situation is particularly distressing for the Contessa di Barbarigo.” Captain Rizzi paused. “Two nights past, during her musicale, she was relieved of a pair of emerald earrings and matching emerald pendant. A wedding gift from her late husband.”
With a flourish, he produced a small silver case from his uniform coat, extracting several calling cards embossed with the insignia of the guardia. “I would be most grateful if you would report any observations that might assist our investigation,” he added, placing the cards on the center of the table.
Murmurs of concern filled the room.
“The perpetrator will face the full severity of Venetian justice when apprehended.” His expression became one of grim determination. “I intend to see this individual consigned to our most inhospitable prison cell before the month concludes.”
With a final bow, Captain Rizzi withdrew.
A moment of silence followed, broken by Miss Bentley launching into the sort of enthusiastic speculation usually reserved for the most scandalous gossip.
“The Marchese di Falconi’s footman had a most furtive manner,” Lady Townsend declared, warming to her new role as amateur investigator. “I observed him lingering near the ladies’ withdrawing room.”
“The Austrian diplomat’s wife—the Baroness von something—mentioned her own concerns,” Miss Bentley countered, clearly unwilling to let Lady Townsend claim all the sleuthing glory.
