The look of savage satisfaction was gone so quickly Eugenia might have imagined it. But every instinct she possessed was now screaming warnings about this allegedly charming nobleman.
Right. Intervention time.
Eugenia swept over to interject herself into the conversation. “Count di Montefiore,” she said sweetly, “I’ve no doubt Italian families employ similar protective measures? Tell me more about yours.”
The count’s attention shifted to her with the fluid grace of a serpent focusing on potential prey. “Mediterranean families have always understood the importance of protecting their interests from unsuitable influences. One cannot be too careful when substantial fortunes are at stake.”
“Quite so,” Eugenia agreed, holding his gaze steadily. “And I realize how little I know of yours.” She hesitated. “Your family, I mean.”
Catherine remained oblivious to the menace crackling through the afternoon air as Count di Montefiore regarded Eugenia.
Then, making a sound like a sigh of regret, the count rose. “It is late and I risk overstaying my welcome,” he said. “I am sure you ladies have much to prepare for tomorrow’s masquerade ball.”
Eugenia inclined her head.
Well, tomorrow’s masquerade would provide the perfect stage for matters to unfold in just the direction she wanted them to go.
Venetia would be in no danger from Count di Montefiore because whatever villainy he might be concocting would be rendered null and void by the real hero of Miss Playford’s worthy heart—Mr. Rothbury—finally presenting himself as her knight in shining armor.
In fact, she thought, straightening as a sudden inspiration sharpened her resolve, perhaps Count di Montefiore was precisely the catalyst needed to galvanize Mr. Rothbury into action.
Nothing motivated a hesitant hero quite like a genuine villain.
Perhaps if that noble young man were made aware of the danger the count posed to the woman he seemed only prepared to love from afar, he would be prompted to declare himself.
Chapter Seventeen
Edward stared atthe Foreign Office seal attached to the official correspondence spread across his writing desk.
The letter from Lord Pemberton had arrived that morning, offering him a prestigious posting to Constantinople with a salary that had the potential to transform his circumstances from genteel poverty to genuine prosperity.
“His Majesty’s Government recognizes your exceptional linguistic abilities and diplomatic acumen,” the letter stated. “The position of Senior Translator at the Embassy in Constantinople carries considerable responsibility and commensurate reward. Your acceptance of this appointment would represent a significant advancement in your career prospects, with opportunities for further promotion within the diplomatic hierarchy.”
His throat felt dry. With Count Morosini’s recent warning about how easily he could be dismissed—despite his desire for Scott translations—he wondered if his benefactor had a hand in this.
Perhaps Count Morosini had decided that Edward’s valuable contribution to his library was outweighed by the supposed danger he posed to his beautiful granddaughter.
A granddaughter Edward wasn’t even pursuing.
He reread the letter.
The practical advantages were undeniable. The salary alone wouldelevate him from his current status as a modestly compensated translator to that of a gentleman of independent means. Within three years, he could return to England with sufficient resources to establish himself in society, perhaps even to purchase a small estate befitting his enhanced position. It was everything he could dream of—recognition, financial security, and the prospect of genuine advancement.
Yet the thought of accepting the posting filled him with a desolation so profound he could barely contemplate it.
Three years in the Ottoman capital. Three years of not seeing Venetia. Three years during which she would certainly find someone else.
By the time he returned to England, she’d likely be married to some worthy gentleman of appropriate fortune and standing, perhaps already the mother of children who would never know how desperately their mother had once been loved by a man too proud to pursue his heart’s desire.
He stilled. Wasn’t this going to happen regardless? He’d already accepted Miss Playford was beyond his reach, and the reasons were quite simply insurmountable. Even if Miss Playford declared she could never love another, he could never subject her to the consequences of what marriage between them would entail once the sordid truth regarding his parentage came out.
He had to stifle something close to a sob. The irony. Had he never been so assiduous in going through his father’s correspondence with Venetia’s father, and all those other documents, he might never have learned that he was not, in truth, a Rothbury.
What that did in fact make him, he had no idea…
Perhaps Signore Benedetti might hazard a guess if asked about Isabella Monteverdi’s famous lovers.
But, he supposed, he had Signor Benedetti to thank for making him realize that pledging his troth to Venetia would open a Pandora’s box promising eternal misery.
