Even if it destroys me in the process.
Even if Thornton is right that it won’t actually work.
Even if it’s the stupidest plan imaginable.
Truth and investigation would take time—time during which Venetia would endure daily humiliation as an accused criminal.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The cell smelledof damp stone and old river water.
Venetia sat on the narrow bench, arms wrapped around herself, and tried not to shiver. Her gown—embroidered silk that had seemed so splendid a few hours ago—was utterly inadequate against the creeping chill. The cold seemed to seep up from the flagstones, through the thin soles of her slippers, into her bones.
She could still taste Edward.
That was the absurd thing. Her lips tingled faintly, as if his mouth had only just left hers, as if she were still pressed against him on the balcony with the night air on her neck and his fingers trembling at her waist. The echo of that kiss warmed her far more than the coarse blanket someone had tossed in her direction when they’d shut the door.
She swallowed a hysterical laugh. It caught in her throat and turned into something rougher. She pressed her knuckles to her teeth until the impulse passed.
Outside, somewhere above, bells tolled the hour. She’d lost count. Time down here was a gray, unmeasured thing: the drip of water in a distant corridor, the occasional clank of keys, the muffled voices of guards. No music, no light but the faintest smear seeping under the door and through a high, barred opening that gave onto blackness.
She stared up at that narrow window. A slice of sky, dull andstarless. The lagoon lay beyond the walls, she supposed. Gondolas gliding like shadows. People laughing, drinking, dancing. Life.
Meanwhile, the English heiress sat in a cell, trying not to think about emeralds she had never seen and a will clause she had tried very hard, until now, not to dwell on.
The solicitor’s voice came back to her with painful clarity, as if he were reading in the next room:
“Within three years of my decease, should my chosen heir be convicted in any court of law of theft, fraud, or any crime of public dishonor, her interest shall cease and the whole of my estate shall pass to my nephew, Mr. Greene.”
Her stomach cramped. She curled forward slightly, hands gripping the coarse wool of the blanket.
Three years. It had seemed a remote threat at the time, a gloomy old man’s attempt to keep his fortune unsullied. She’d signed documents while her aunt sniffed and the solicitor droned on.
And now, a year later, here she was. Accused of theft. In another country, yes—but surely that wouldn’t matter. The condition didn’t specifyEnglishcourts, did it? Just “any court of law.”
Any court, anywhere. Any verdict, however unjust, and it would all vanish.
Leonard Harrington’s careful provisions, the old house in Derbyshire, the London townhouse, the investments—gone. Back to Greene. Back to the man whose own behavior included attempted seduction and elopement with an heiress.
And if you lost it all, a traitorous voice whispered, then Edward would no longer have to fear being branded a fortune hunter.
The thought slid through her like a knife. Cold. Precise. She squeezed her eyes shut, furious at herself.
Yes, of course. That would be one way to solve his ethical quandary. Strip her of everything but a stained reputation, and he might finally feel virtuous enough to love her openly.
She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or sob.
“I don’t want to be an object of pity,” she murmured into thedarkness. Her voice sounded small in the stone space. “I don’t want him to marry me because I’ve fallen.”
She wanted him to marry her because he loved her. Because tonight, when she’d put her hands to his face and said the words at last—I love you—she’d seen the answering agony in his eyes, heard his own confession tremble on his lips.
God help me, I love you beyond reason. You are my heart.
Her heart twisted. She could almost feel his hands again, warm against her cheeks, his hair rough beneath her fingers, the solid strength of his body anchoring hers. The way he’d kissed her—first wary, then with a hunger that had made the world fall away.
She pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if she might recapture some trace of that warmth. Her lips were dry and chapped from the cold.
Of all the settings for that long-dreamed-of kiss, she had not imagined a balcony that would, minutes later, become a crime scene.
