Venetia studied the two women and realized, for the first time and with a slight start, that they really weren’t the friends she’d supposed, despite the veneer of apparent sisterhood.
“The count has expressed particular interest in meeting English residents,” Miss Bentley continued, her enthusiasm undimmed by Lady Townsend’s reservations. “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him to join us for tea this afternoon, if that arrangement meets with your approval.”
“This afternoon?” Lady Townsend repeated, clearly caught off guard by the immediacy of the invitation. “Thisafternoon?”
“I thought it best not to delay the introduction unnecessarily,” Miss Bentley explained with a slightly aggrieved and defensive air.
Translation: I didn’t want to give you time to object.
Venetia glanced between the two older women, more aware than ever of the subtle tension crackling between them like sparks before a storm.
“Very well,” Lady Townsend said at last, upon a note of resignation. “Though I do hope, Catherine, that you haven’t given this gentleman any reason to expect more than polite hospitality.”
It wasn’t long before the sound of the majordomo’s measured footsteps in the corridor suggested that their mysterious visitor had indeed arrived with remarkable promptness.
“Ah,” Miss Bentley said with satisfaction as the servant appeared in the doorway, “here is our guest now.”
The majordomo stepped aside with a formal bow, and Venetia looked up expectantly as a tall, elegantly dressed figure entered the water salon. His dark hair was fashionably styled, his clothing impeccably tailored in the Continental manner. A neatly trimmed beard adorned his lower face, while his overall bearing suggested he was quite accustomed to being warmly welcomed wherever he presented himself.
Possibly too accustomed.
“Ladies,” Miss Bentley said with obvious pleasure, practically preening, “may I present Count Theodore di Montefiore. Count, I have the honor of introducing Lady Eugenia Townsend and Miss Venetia Playford.”
The count executed a bow, his dark eyes settling on each lady in turn with flattering attention. When his gaze reached Venetia, she noticed a momentary intensification of interest that sent an inexplicable chill down her spine, though his expression remained one of polished courtesy.
Why did that feel… calculating?
“The pleasure is entirely mine, ladies,” he said in accented Englishthat somehow managed to make even commonplace phrases sound sophisticated. “Miss Bentley’s gracious invitation has transformed what might have been a solitary afternoon into an occasion of unexpected delight.”
Venetia smiled politely, though something about the count’s overly smooth manner made her instinctively wary.
Chapter Thirteen
At last camethe moment that Venetia had both feared and looked forward to in equal measure.
Mostly looked forward to, if she was being honest. The fear was more of a nod to what she reallyoughtto be feeling.
Having conquered her resistance to Mr. Rothbury’s request to help Signorina Sofia, she’d entered into the subterfuge with more than a thrill at her own daring, arriving with her maid Mollie at the agreed location—a dim antechamber in a palazzo near the departure point—for her transformation.
Sofia’s lady’s maid, a sharp-eyed woman named Caterina, had pinned Venetia’s golden hair into an elaborate arrangement that apparently mimicked her mistress’s preferred style, complete with jeweled combs. Now Venetia stood at the weathered stone steps of the San Tomà landing stage, plucking nervously at the unfamiliar folds of Sofia’s emerald silk gown.
The borrowed garment felt strange against her skin—the bodice cut in a more daring Continental style than her own modest English fashions.
But the transformation had been remarkable. When Venetia had glimpsed herself in the looking glass at the secluded dressing chamber Sofia had arranged, she’d been startled by her own reflection. She no longer looked English. Whether she looked sufficiently like aContinental signorina to trick a distant observer, time would tell.
Now that she was prepared, her impatience over Mr. Rothbury’s arrival was growing. The plan was that Venetia would leave in a gondola with Caterina—disguised as Signorina Sofia—while Mr. Rothbury would be waiting at another location with Mollie to meet Venetia for the duration of Sofia’s assignation.
The arrangement, decided quickly the previous evening, thrilled her, though the questionable morality nevertheless weighed upon her conscience. She was, after all, actively participating in a deliberate deception that could compromise not only her own reputation but also Count Morosini’s trust in his granddaughter.
However, she couldn’t deny that beneath this righteous discomfort ran a current of anticipation so strong it left her breathless.
Two hours alone with Mr. Rothbury. Well, not alone—Mollie would be there. But still.
By the time Caterina had stepped back with a nod of satisfaction at her handiwork, Venetia had banished her reservations. The prospect of spending time in Mr. Rothbury’s company was far more thrilling than it was morally concerning.
As further justification, she had to admit sympathy for a young woman being forced into marriage. If Sofia’s young man was worthy, why shouldn’t she have the opportunity to follow her heart? Venetia knew the horrors of being pushed into marriage against one’s will.
“Ah, Miss Playford, you came,” came a lilting accented voice from the shadows before the young Italian woman emerged.
