The exclamation, delivered in rapid Italian, shattered their moment of intimacy like a stone thrown against glass. Venetia looked up to see a well-dressed Venetian gentleman hurrying toward them, his face creased with concern.
Of course. Because we’re in apparently the most populated deserted corner of Venice.
“Signor,” Edward said, struggling to sit upright despite Venetia’s attempts to keep him still. “We encountered some… difficulties… with local brigands.”
“I saw the scoundrels fleeing as I approached,” the gentleman replied, introducing himself as Signor Benedetti as he produced a clean handkerchief from his coat. “You are fortunate, my friend. The blow to your head appears superficial, though you’ll have a considerable bruise on that shoulder. Can you stand?”
With Signor Benedetti’s assistance, Edward rose to his feet, and amidst a volley of questions, was escorted toward his gondola moored nearby.
“You’re a translator for Count Morosini? Yet an English gentleman?” Signor Benedetti’s curiosity was clearly growing as he helped steady Edward. “The accent in your Italian—it’s flawless. You are, in truth, a local?”
“My mother was Italian.” Edward winced as Signor Benedetti touched his wounded shoulder. “From these parts.”
“Your mother? What was her name? I am from these parts, too. Perhaps I knew her?”
Edward frowned with the effort of movement, muttering, “Isabella—” before pressing his lips together, though he added, his breath labored, “She was a singer.”
A singer?This was the first Venetia had heard about Edward’s mother. She resolved to question him later.
“Madonna santissima!” Benedetti stopped so abruptly as he stared fiercely into Edward’s eyes that they both stumbled. “Not La Monteverdi? The nightingale of La Fenice? But she was… she was magnificent! I heard her sing Desdemona when I was but a youth—never has such beauty graced our stages since!” His eyes shone with reverence. “Why, now you mention it, I can see your resemblance to the incomparable La Monteverdi. And you are her son?”
“I never said that,” Edward ground out.
“Ah, but what a scandal it was!” Benedetti continued, as if Edward hadn’t spoken. “The whole city spoke of nothing else for months! She was at the very pinnacle of her art—contracts from Milan, from Naples, even whispers of Vienna calling for her services. And Marchese Alessandro Valenti, from one of our most distinguished families, had declared his great love!” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow managed to carry even more clearly. “But then tragedy!” He shook his head sorrowfully. “And afterwards came this English signore, and puff!—” he snapped his fingers dramatically, “—she abandoned everything! The stage, the count, her career, all of Venice mourning the loss of such a voice, as she sailed away to become a mere wife in some English countryside we had never heard of!”
Oh. Oh dear.
Venetia’s limited Italian caught enough of the rapid words—scandalo,abbandonato.
All about a story that Edward was denying.
But if itwastrue that his mother gave up everything for love, did he think Venetia wouldn’t do the same?
“Of course,” Benedetti added hastily, perhaps sensing the sudden chill in his audience, “nothing can stand in the way of true love, eh? I’m certain she found great happiness and rewards in her new life in England. A woman of such spirit—she would have made any home a palace with her presence! Now, let me assist your companion and her maid into the gondola, monsieur. What a pleasure it has been to know you.” He bowed deeply, his pleasure unabated as the gondolier pushed off from the bank.
They were several minutes into their journey before Venetia was able to break through the awkwardness. “Edward. Mr. Rothbury—” she amended quickly, for it seemed their earlier intimacy had been eroded by Signor Benedetti’s enthusiastic admiration. “You must see to your cut for it’s deep. We should return to our palazzo rather than Count Morosini’s.”
He shook his head. “We’ll go to Count Morosini’s because Caterina will be waiting for you.” His voice was dull. “It’s more important that Sofia’s soiled gown be attended to than my cuts and bruises.”
Sofia’s gown. SOFIA’S GOWN? I just confessed my feelings and he’s worried about SOFIA’S GOWN.
“Of course,” Venetia said quietly, gathering the soiled folds of Sofia’s skirts around her with as much dignity as she could muster.
When they reached the landing stage where Caterina stood with her hands on her hips, clearly irritated by their tardiness and having obviously dispatched Sofia, the maid took in the state of her mistress’s borrowed clothing with sharp eyes but no visible surprise.
Perhaps Sofia’s adventures not infrequently resulted in such disasters.
But her eyes widened at the cut above Mr. Rothbury’s eye.
“Footpads,” he explained shortly. “No harm done other than toSignorina Sofia’s lovely gown. I shall, of course, pay the dressmaker’s bill.”
He barely looked at Venetia as he helped her out of the gondola, followed by Mollie, before bowing and saying, “I must return to my translation duties for the count. Pray excuse me, and please, Miss Playford, forgive me for the dark turn this afternoon has taken.”
Miss Playford. We’re back to Miss Playford. Wonderful.
Venetia felt something squeeze her heart as if it really were putty in the hands of some unknown force.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “You were so brave.”
