Catherine’s expression shifted, revealing something raw beneath her polish. “Sweet deference? When someone flaunts undeserved fortune while others who’ve earned their positions through sacrifice watch from the sidelines?”
“Others?” Eugenia’s instincts sharpened. “What others?”
Here it comes.
“Do you think it escaped notice how Count di Montefiore attended to her every word tonight? How he sought her company exclusively while dismissing the rest of us as provincial?” Catherine’s voice grew bitter. “A distinguished Continental gentleman, wealthy, titled, sophisticated—and he had eyes only for the golden heiress who stumbled into fortune.”
There it is. The count.
Eugenia saw it now—Catherine’s particular attention to the count since his arrival, her eagerness to impress him, her satisfaction when introducing him to their circle. Her increasingly detailed discussions of Venetia’s wealth and circumstances.
And lately, Catherine had begun repeating, almost word for word, the count’s little maxims about money and character—how “sudden wealth bred temptation,” how “men of honor had a duty to protect families from unsuitable heirs.” Eugenia had dismissed them at the time as mere Continental philosophy. Now they sounded morelike instructions.
Oh, Catherine. What has that man done to you?
She recalled now the way the count had bent his dark head toward Catherine two nights ago, his voice low and earnest as he praised her “rare discernment” and “English integrity,” while his gaze never quite reached his smile. Catherine had glowed for hours afterwards.
“You had hopes there?” Eugenia surmised, watching Catherine’s face carefully.
“Hopes?” Catherine laughed bitterly. “A mature woman of breeding and accomplishment should naturally interest a cultured gentleman more than some provincial child whose only recommendation is inherited wealth. But no—one smile from our golden girl, and he was utterly captivated.”
Captivated. Or pretending to be. To feed your jealousy.
“Catherine,” Thornton said gently, though Eugenia caught the sharp intelligence in his eyes—he’d seen it too. “Surely you can’t blame Miss Playford for the count’s attentions—”
“Can’t I? She arrives with her fortune and her youth and her wide-eyed innocence, and suddenly every gentleman in Venice is competing for her attention. What chance does any other woman have against such overwhelming advantages?”
The naked envy in Catherine’s voice revealed everything. Not ancient grievances, but present humiliation—the pain of being overlooked for someone younger, richer, more beautiful. Pain that someone had clearly cultivated and weaponized.
“You speak of Miss Playford’s worthiness,” Eugenia said carefully, “yet the count seems to have taken remarkable interest in the details of Miss Playford’s circumstances. Almost as if he had particular reasons beyond mere attraction.”
Catherine flushed. “He’s a gentleman of culture! Naturally he’s curious about how English law differs from Continental customs. I was simply providing information—” Catherine hesitated, something flickering in her expression. A realization that she’d said too much?
Thornton raised an eyebrow. “You provided very clear details ofher inheritance. The unusual conditions of the will. The nephew who was disinherited. How vulnerable Miss Playford—and keeping her inheritance—was to scandal—”
“I said nothing that wasn’t true!”
“A gentleman of noble birth would not pursue such a discussion,” said Thornton. “He would find it rather vulgar…unless he had specific interest in exploiting such information.”
Catherine’s face went white, then red. “The count is a true gentleman—”
“With no hand in tonight’s devilry?” asked Eugenia. “For I would stake my life on the fact that Miss Playford had nothing to do with the theft of the Contessa’s emeralds.”
“Yet you all but handed her over to Captain Rizzi.”
At last, Thornton. You needed to be the one to say it so plainly.
Catherine drew herself up. “Captain Rizzi specifically asked me to keep an eye on Miss Playford,” Catherine said sharply. “He spoke of…certain rumors regarding English visitors and missing trinkets. She was already under suspicion. I only reported what I observed. He said there had been…small discrepancies…with other guests,” she added defensively. “He suggested that, as someone of unimpeachable discretion, I might notice what others overlooked.”
Eugenia glanced at Thornton, who said, “And did your Count di Montefiore plumb you for more information than that which you were so eager to impart to him in our hearing not so long ago? Did you not wonder that a younger, handsome man paying marked attention to a mature woman of ‘breeding and accomplishment’ might have ulterior motives beyond admiration. Particularly if that man then encouraged loose talk of a wealthy young heiress.”
“That’s absurd!” But Catherine’s voice wavered. “The count is genuinely interested in—”
“In what, precisely?” Thornton asked. “Your company? Or your knowledge of Miss Playford’s vulnerabilities?”
Themoment of truth.
Catherine’s expression grew calculating. “The count has been nothing but attentive and respectful—”
