“He wishes me to dress as the signorina—as we apparently resemble one another—and float away in a gondola to satisfy her father or jailers, or whomever keeps this young woman so dreadfully imprisoned.” Venetia’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Meanwhile, Signorina Sofia can waltz off to be with her sweetheart.”
“And you think that might be Mr. Rothbury?” Eugenia asked, though privately she thought it unlikely. The man was clearly besotted with Venetia, not Sofia.
Miss Playford gave a little gasp, reddened, then said evasively, “I had thought Mr. Rothbury a man of such nobility, but now I don’t know what to think.”
“Perhaps he considers it noble to assist a young woman who has no other recourse,” Eugenia suggested gently, placing a hand on her forearm. “Just as he assisted you when you had none. Have you considered you’re attributing to him motives that may not be his real motives? Perhaps this has given him an opportunity to speak to you. To be involved in a plan with you that will bring happiness to someone else.”
And possibly spend more time in your company, which is clearly his primary objective in life.
“Why would he need an excuse to talk to me?” Miss Playford asked, as if she genuinely couldn’t imagineany good reason.
Oh, sweet girl. So clever about everything except this.
Eugenia shrugged, deciding not to answer. Some lessons were better learned through observation. “And have you decided whether you’ll accede to Mr. Rothbury’s request?”
Venetia nodded miserably. “I’ve already agreed. It would have been churlish to refuse.”
“Churlish to refuse to help a young lady who was as powerless as you once were?” Eugenia kept her tone gentle.
Venetia reddened, pressing her lips together. Then she sighed. “I admit that it was more Mr. Rothbury’sinterestthat I found difficult to reconcile.”
“Perhaps it would serve you best to find out what kind of young lady Signorina Sofia really is,” Eugenia suggested. “And how matters lie between her and Mr. Rothbury. You might discover the situation is quite different from what you imagine.”
Miss Playford gave a rueful smile. “I shall take your wise counsel, Lady Townsend. And I shall bury my jealousy and concentrate on my supposedly charitable nature, which I confess has been in limited supply since Mr. Rothbury invited me to accompany him in a gondola for what I had imagined was quite a different reason.”
“No need to give up hope.” Eugenia squeezed her hand briefly. The girl had all but confessed deep feelings for Mr. Rothbury. And since Mr. Rothbury wore his heart on his sleeve—practically embroidered there in large letters reading “I LOVE MISS VENETIA PLAYFORD”—Eugenia believed she could happily predict that within an even shorter time than she’d imagined, the pair would be united.
Assuming, of course, that this ridiculous substitution scheme didn’t blow up spectacularly in everyone’s faces.
But what were the odds of that?
Everything would work out perfectly at the masquerade ball.
It always did in novels, anyway.
Chapter Eleven
After a morningof tortured self-recrimination, Edward had to admit that pleasure rather than guilt was at the forefront of his feelings as he made his way to the casa’s water entrance.
Which probably said terrible things about his character. But he’d worry about that later.
To his surprise, he observed Miss Playford seated on the stone steps leading down to the canal, a leather-bound volume open in her lap, her maid a short distance away. She appeared absorbed in her reading, one gloved hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare while the other held her place on the page. The scene struck him as so naturally graceful, so perfectly in harmony with Venice’s timeless beauty, that he hesitated to intrude upon her solitude.
“Mr. Rothbury!” she called, having noticed his approach despite her apparent concentration on her book. “How fortuitous. I was just thinking I should seek you out to discuss… the matter we spoke of yesterday.”
Edward’s chest tightened. “Miss Playford,” he said, executing a formal bow as he approached the landing stage. “Are you on your way somewhere?”
“Just enjoying the sunshine and needing a little respite from the possibility of being waylaid by my lovely—but somewhat overbearing, at times—English friends,” she replied, with a nod toward the casa.
Edward chose not to comment, though he understood her feelings perfectly. Lady Townsend’s enthusiasm for orchestrating social encounters bordered on military campaign planning.
“I’ve spoken with Signorina Sofia,” he began carefully, settling himself on the stone step a respectful distance from where she sat. “She was… most grateful for your generous offer of assistance.”
“Most grateful” was perhaps stretching it. “Minimally appreciative” was more accurate.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Venetia replied, though Edward detected a note of constraint in her voice. “And the arrangements? When does she require this… service?”
Edward noted her careful choice of words—servicerather thandeception—and admired her attempt to frame their conspiracy in terms that preserved her moral equilibrium. “Tomorrow at noon. She wishes to meet you at the San Tomà landing stage at half past eleven, after her maid, Caterina, provides you with an appropriate costume to ensure the… substitution is convincing.”
