“Not at all, Count Morosini,” Edward replied, rising and bowing. “I’m always honored by your presence.”
Also terrified.
The count advanced through the library, his fingers trailing along the leather spines with apparent affection. Despite his age, he was an imposing figure—tall and elegantly garbed, with silver hair that gleamed in the afternoon light, and keen dark eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
“I trust you’re recovering from yesterday’s… unpleasantness?” the count inquired, his gaze settling on the faint bruising visible at Edward’s temple. “Signor Benedetti was greatly concerned when he related the circumstances of your unfortunate encounter.”
Edward felt a chill of apprehension at the realization that news of the attack had reached the count’s ears.
Oh dear Lord, might Benedetti also have mentioned the presence of a young woman with golden hair?
What Benedetti knew about Edward was damaging enough—though Edward hadn’t actually endorsed his suppositions—but what might he have revealed about the golden-haired beauty in his company?
“I’m quite recovered, thank you,” Edward replied carefully. “I should have known that such incidents are not uncommon in Venice’s more isolated quarters.”
“Indeed,” the count agreed, settling himself in one of the leather chairs positioned near the tall windows. “Venice is a hotbed of individuals of questionable moral character, and one must exercise considerable caution when venturing beyond the more civilized districts.” He paused, his dark eyes fixed on Edward with uncomfortable intensity. “Particularly when one travels in the company of… valued companions.”
There it is.
The subtle emphasis on his final words confirmed Edward’s worst fears.
“I was indeed fortunate that Signor Benedetti arrived when he did,” Edward said, barely able to look his patron in the eye. “His assistance was most timely.”
Count Morosini smiled—an expression that managed to convey both warmth and warning in equal measure. “Benedetti is a man of considerable discretion as well as generosity. He understands that certain… arrangements… require careful handling to avoid unfortunate complications.”
The count rose from his chair and moved to examine one of the completed manuscript pages spread across Edward’s desk, his expression thoughtful as he read the elegant Italian prose that had emerged from Scott’sEnglish original.
“Your work continues to exceed even my high expectations,” he said. “It has heightened the eagerness of my dear friend and fellow Scott enthusiast, the marchese, to haveIvanhoetranslated before the month is out. The manner in which you capture not merely the literal meaning but the essential spirit of these romantic tales is truly remarkable. Scott’sIvanhoe, in particular, seems to have inspired your most eloquent translations.”
“The story possesses considerable emotional resonance,” Edward admitted, unable to keep a note of personal feeling from coloring his voice.
“Indeed, it does,” the count agreed, settling back into his chair with the air of one preparing for a longer conversation. “The tale of a disinherited knight who loves a lady far above his station—such themes have appealed to romantics throughout the ages. Though one must acknowledge that Scott was wise to provide his hero with restored lands and noble title before permitting him to claim his lady’s hand.”
And then, with these words, Edward… knew.
Oh no.
Benedetti had indeed told Count Morosini that Edward had been with a young blonde beauty, clearly an aristocrat given her dress.
Yet while the older man’s words carried no obvious criticism, their implication was devastatingly clear: Even in fiction, love required the support of compatible social positions to achieve lasting happiness.
“Sir Walter understood the practical considerations that govern such matters,” the count continued with deceptive casualness. “A gentleman of modest means who attempts to court a lady of great fortune courts not romance but tragedy. The world is harsh in its judgment of such presumption, and the lady herself, however sincere her initial feelings, must eventually confront the reality of what such a union would cost her in terms of social standing and material comfort.”
Edward frowned as fear skittered up his spine. Could Benedetti have overheard Venetia’s declaration of… love? A declaration which the merchant might have misconstrued as having been uttered by Sofia?
Please, God, no.
The count paused, his gaze drifting to the canal visible through the library’s tall windows, and in the drawn-out silence, Edward heard the beating of his heart and knew some response was expected.
“Ivanhoe’s tale is as relevant today as it ever was,” Edward murmured. “It would be wise to remember that.”
The count turned his keen gaze on Edward. “Indeed, it would. Temptation comes in many guises, and while Ivanhoe won his heart’s desire, the return of his title and estates made him worthy. But a penniless youth, however talented, who pursues the precious granddaughter of his patron, risks tragedy for both himself and the object of his affections.”
So, he truly refers to his granddaughter?
Edward sucked in a shocked breath.
He thinks I was with Sofia? He thinks I’m pursuing Sofia?
