“She is a charming young lady. I’m sure you will like her very much, Catherine,” Thornton finally said, catching Eugenia’s meaning. “And her presence here will no doubt augment our enjoyment. She has likely heard that this is where the best of her English countrymen stay when in Venice.”
This elicited no more than a raised eyebrow from Catherine. Eugenia wondered if she knew the full story of Lord Windermere’s disgraceful attempts at manipulation in trying to force Miss Playford tobecome his wife before, burned by the scandal—which had been exposed by their own dear Mr. Rothbury—he had quit England, no doubt to try to find himself another heiress given his own parlous finances.
Mr. Rothbury! With a start, Eugenia wondered if the young man knew that Miss Playford was in Venice.
Oblivious to the discussion of which she was front and center, Miss Playford now paused on the marble steps leading up to the palazzo entrance, closing her parasol with a delicate snap that carried across the water.
“She deserves every penny and more after what that scoundrel put her through,” Eugenia said firmly. “Miss Playford is a woman of impeccable character and considerable intelligence,” she went on, more forcefully for Catherine’s benefit. “I’ve seldom met a young lady with such quiet dignity in the face of adversity.”
A servant appeared at the balcony doorway, bowing, as he said, “My lord and ladies, a Miss Venetia Playford has arrived and inquires whether Lady Eugenia Townsend is at home.”
“Please tell her I’d be delighted to receive her!” Eugenia exclaimed. “And have refreshments brought to the water salon.”
Catherine’s expression tightened as the servant withdrew. “What a remarkable coincidence that she should appear at the very palazzo where we are staying.” She hesitated, adding, “I wonder if she wants something.”
“Nonsense,” Eugenia replied, sweeping past her toward the door with a rustle of silk skirts. “The girl couldn’t possibly have known we were here. I wrote to precious few people about our specific accommodations.”
The water salon—so named for its proximity to the canal and the way light reflected off the water to create shimmering patterns on its ceiling—was the palazzo’s most extraordinary room. Tall windows offered uninterrupted views of the canal, while ornatemirrors on the opposite wall doubled the impression of light and space.
Within minutes, Venetia Playford stood by one of the windows, and Eugenia was struck once again by how much more beautiful she was than she remembered. Where many ladies might have appeared travel worn after navigating Venice’s waterways, Venetia looked as fresh and composed as if she were attending an afternoon tea in Mayfair.
“Lady Townsend!” their young visitor exclaimed, her face lighting up with pleasure. “I can scarcely believe my good fortune in finding you still here.”
“My dear Miss Playford,” Eugenia replied warmly, crossing the room to take the younger woman’s hands in hers. “What an unexpected delight! I had no forewarning that you were traveling to Venice.”
“It was rather a sudden decision,” Venetia admitted, her smile dimming slightly. “After everything that happened in London, there came a point where I suddenly found myself in desperate need of new surroundings. And I succumbed to impulsiveness.”
Eugenia nodded. “Allow me to introduce Miss Catherine Bentley, Lord Thornton’s sister-in-law, who has kindly agreed to act as our companion for this journey. And, of course, you remember Lord Thornton.”
Once pleasantries were exchanged, Venetia’s lady’s maid, Mollie, dispatched, and they were seated with tea and delicate Venetian biscuits, Eugenia turned to their unexpected guest.
“You must tell us everything, my dear. How long have you been in Venice? Where are you staying? And are you traveling alone?” This last question carried a note of concern, for even a woman of independent means would find solo travel challenging, particularly in a foreign city where Italian customs differed so markedly from English.
“I arrived yesterday,” Venetia replied, setting her teacup down. “I’m staying not far from the Piazza San Marco. And yes, I am alone,save for my lady’s maid.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping momentarily to her teacup. “I thought the events of last season would be forgotten more quickly than they have.”
“Yet I am surprised you chose Venice,” Thornton remarked. “Given its reputation as a playground for characters as disreputable as any in London.”
Venetia’s smile was tinged with irony. “Precisely why I chose it, my lord. In London, I am ‘that poor Miss Playford’ or, worse, ‘the heiress who was entangled with Lord Windermere.’ Here, I am simply another English traveler, anonymous among the crowds that fill the Piazza San Marco each day.”
“Well, you’re among friends now,” Eugenia said brightly. “And you must join us for dinner this evening.”
“That is very kind of you. I would be delighted.” Venetia leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes briefly.
“Excuse me, ladies. Lord Thornton.” Edward Rothbury appeared in the doorway, tall and ink smudged, but handsome in that earnest, appealing way, thought Eugenia as she watched the greeting between the pair.
It promised to be very illuminating.
“Miss Playford,” he managed, with a bow that was a touch too low.
“Mr. Rothbury,” she returned, with a smile a touch too bright.
They were, Eugenia decided happily, perfectly matched.
A biscuit chose that moment to shed a shower of sugar over Venetia’s lap. She laughed—a small, delightful sound—as she brushed it away, and the air lightened.
Smiling, Eugenia surveyed the pair.
There was no doubt that Mr. Rothbury was a handsome man. His features were strong rather than classically handsome, with intelligent eyes that surveyed the room briefly before returning, with that same look of shockedwonder, to Venetia.
