Sofia smiled. “Oh, but you see, this particular piece would merely complement what Miss Bentley says she is wearing. She said Miss Playford was missing only a tiara of sapphires to look the part. And what I would like to offer her on loan was worn by the doge’s daughter at her wedding to a Byzantine prince in the fourteenth century. What could be more appropriate for a lady appearing as a Byzantine empress?”
Her enthusiasm seemed forced now, and Edward’s unease crystallized into active suspicion—and then, with horrifying clarity, into certainty.
Sofia is the thief. Or working with the thief. And she’s setting up Venetia.
“I will convey your generous offer to Miss Playford,” said Edward, making no move to accept the jeweler’s box and keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Though of course the decision must be entirely hers.”
The decision being “absolutely not under any circumstances.”
“Naturally,” Sofia agreed. “Though I do hope she’ll consider it favorably. After all, such opportunities to wear truly historic pieces are quite rare, and the masquerade would provide the perfect setting for displaying such magnificence.”
She rose from her chair and picked up the jeweler’s box—then, to Edward’s horror, slipped it into his leather satchel before he could object.
No. No, take it back. I don’t want it anywhere near me.
“Tell her I shall be so disappointed if she declines,” she said with a smile that no longer looked charming at all. “I shall have Caterina speak to her maid to persuade her.”
Over my dead body.
Edward stared at his satchel as if it contained a viper while Sofia glidedout of the room.
He realized he’d been very wrong in his assessment about Sofia.
She wasn’t a desperate romantic. She was a calculating criminal who’d used him—usedVenetia—as pawns in the scheme she was orchestrating.
And now he had approximately twenty-four hours to work out how to protect Venetia from whatever trap Sofia was setting at tomorrow’s masquerade.
Constantinople was starting to look rather appealing.
Chapter Eighteen
Venetia gazed withawe at the grand salon that had been transformed into Byzantium. Silk banners in purple and gold fell from the vaults; a thousand candles flickered across inlaid marble. Masked guests—saints, sinners, emperors—glided to a melody played by troubadours in blue and gold silk.
“My dear Venetia, the gold and sapphire tiara is the crowning glory.” Smiling, Lady Townsend stood at her side, her excitement palpable.
“You look magnificent, too,” responded Venetia. And she did. In cloth-of-gold set off by an emerald diadem, Lady Townsend looked every inch the equal of the grandest empress.
“But it is your jewelry that will have heads turning,” Lady Townsend went on. “I’m sure that Thornton was quite right to insist you wear Signorina Sofia’s family tiara when she wished so much to show her friendship.”
Venetia’s heart clutched.
Friendship? From someone who’d barely thanked her for risking her reputation.
Oh, why had Mr. Rothbury brought the dreadful thing back to the palazzo, and why had Lord Thornton—upon seeing it on the table when Mr. Rothbury had briefly pulled it out of his briefcase—said it would be a snub to the great family if she refused to wear it?
It was supposedly a mark of gratitude for her deception of a few days ago. But Venetia did not want the young woman’s gratitude.
Nor did she want her jewels to be the focus of tonight. Yet Miss Bentley had insisted she “wear them all.”
The clear admiration on so many faces should have buoyed her. Instead, it rankled. Gallant speeches itemized her jewels. Fans fluttered, and the words “the English heiress” drifted from lip to lip like gossip served on a tray.
Not “the lovely young lady” or “that charming Miss Playford.” Just “the English heiress.”
Surrounded, she felt oddly, thoroughly alone.
Yes, she had Lady Townsend’s friendship. And Lord Thornton was an ally. She had mixed feelings about Miss Bentley.
Mixed being generous. Miss Bentley was exhausting.
