“One would hope common sense would assert itself when he realizes he runs the risk not only of ensuring her social ostracism but his own financial ruin,” the count continued. “Sometimes true love requires the courage to step aside rather than the boldness to press forward.”
For a moment Edward was blinded by panic. If Benedetti had mistaken Miss Playford for Sofia—as he would have, given Sofia’s elaborate dress—and revealed to Count Morosini that the pair were alone together when the footpads attacked, would there be further consequences beyond this warning? This veiled threat?
I’m going to be dismissed. Or worse. What are the dungeons like in Venice?
Briefly he closed his eyes. What could he say without compromising either Sofia by disclosing her duplicity, or his owninvolvement in it?
“But of course common sense would prevail,” Edward said numbly, taking the gamble that a tacit acceptance of guilt was better than protests the count was unlikely to believe.
Brilliant. Confess to something you didn’t do to avoid confessing to something you actually did.
“I’m glad you think that,” the count said softly, rising but not moving toward Edward. He hesitated, clearly pondering his next words. “Now, I’ve interrupted you longer than I’d intended. I do not believe a more skilled translator exists for the exacting nature of my work. My impatience forIvanhoeto be completed has tempered other emotions now that I feel I’ve been reassured.”
Reassured that I’m not pursuing your granddaughter. Which I’m not. But I am helping her deceive you. Wonderful.
“My granddaughter finds power in breaking hearts, and there has been more than one young man who has suffered my ire. I had thought you different, Mr. Rothbury. I certainly would be loath to lose you. But if you’re a wise man intent on proving his loyalty to his patron, then I shall be glad to know that onceIvanhoeis translated, you will move on to the translation of further volumes by the unequaled Sir Walter Scott.”
Edward bowed. “I understand completely, Count Morosini.”
“Excellent,” the count said, moving toward the door. “I knew I could rely on your good sense.”
Chapter Sixteen
Eugenia settled herselfcomfortably in a silk-upholstered chair that commanded the best view of the Palazzo Contarini’s elegant drawing room while she waited for Thornton to join her.
The English residents who’d assembled for afternoon refreshments were all pleasant enough acquaintances, some of whom had made Venice their home on a semipermanent basis.
But none sparked the depth of feeling that Thornton did. After thirty years, he was more than a true friend.
Whether he felt the same was something that—she’d admit to no one but her personal diary—kept her awake at night.
Well, that and Catherine’s snoring from the adjacent room.
So, perhaps it was for this very reason that she’d taken such a personal interest in dear Miss Playford, whom she now observed picking distractedly at a macaron on her fine bone china plate while pretending to attend to Catherine.
Eugenia could tell the girl was barely listening. She prided herself on her social acuity. Being an heiress was a lonely business—to that she could attest.
As for being a heartbroken one, well, Eugenia could see the signs as clear as daylight even from across the room.
The girl looked like she was attending a funeral. For her own happiness.
Of Mr. Rothbury there was no sign, and while it would have been a relief to put Miss Playford’s dismal spirits down to his simple absence, Eugenia knew it was far more serious than that.
The previous day, she’d observed the stilted interactions between the pair as they’d passed one another in the corridor and, with sinking heart, had known that something of import had occurred between them. And that it did not augur well for a bright and happy future together.
They’d practically fled from each other. Like pigeons scattering from cannon fire.
She took a sustaining breath as she brought her teacup to her lips. Ever the pragmatist—she had to remind herself—there was always hope while both remained unattached.
And tomorrow evening’s masquerade ball promised a plethora of opportunities for Miss Playford and Mr. Rothbury to discover a side of each other that perhaps could only be revealed when in disguise, since both of them were clearly such hostages to convention.
And to their own spectacular inability to simply talk to each other like rational adults.
Where was Thornton? Impatient, Eugenia put down her teacup with a rattle and scanned the room more thoroughly, her eyes alighting on Catherine’s latest acquisition, Count di Montefiore.
There was something about the gentleman she couldn’t quite place. His appearance was certainly striking: tall and elegantly proportioned, with dark hair fashionably styled and a neatly trimmed beard that lent him an air of distinguished maturity.
Yet something in his manner troubled her.
