He shifted his weight. “There is talk.” He loweredhis voice. “The Count Morosini, he speaks with the capitano. Important men do not like trouble in their houses. Sometimes trouble… disappears.” He realized how that sounded and flapped a hand. “Not like that. I mean—they make a problem go away. Quiet.”
So Morosiniwasinvolved. Relief and unease tangled in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said again.
He nodded, and for a moment looked as if he might say more. Then someone shouted his name down the corridor, and he straightened. “I must go. Wrap your feet, signorina. The floor is worst.”
The hatch closed with a soft scrape. She spread the new blanket beneath her, tucked the other around her legs as best she could, and curled her toes into the rough wool. Her fingers had finally stopped shaking.
Count Morosini was negotiating. That could mean her release. It could also mean conditions and complications she could not yet imagine.
And Edward—would he have any say in whatever bargain was being struck? Or would decisions be made over his head, neatly severing the one bond that made any of this bearable?
Metal rasped again, closer this time. The turning of the key in her own lock.
Venetia drew in a breath and straightened her spine, forcing herself to stand as the door swung inward. Whatever waited beyond—freedom, further questioning, some new humiliation—she would meet it with what dignity she could muster.
She had survived Aunt Pike. She could survive Captain Rizzi. She would survive this night.
And when she saw Edward again—if she saw Edward again—she would do it on her own two feet, not as some object of pity, but as the woman who had kissed him on a balcony and refused, even in a prison cell, to let go of that single, blazing truth.
She loved him. And he loved her. Her fortune—or the lack of it—changed nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The joy thathad once infused his work was gone. Words that had previously flowed as easily as the water in the Grand Canal now lay flat and lifeless on the page. Edward could think of nothing other than clearing Venetia’s name.
Protecting her. Holding onto that one blazing, impossible moment on the balcony when everything had finally made sense.
Her mouth beneath his. Her hands on his face. The sound she’d made when he’d finally stopped fighting his feelings and kissed her as he’d dreamed of kissing her for years. For the first time since his mother’s death, he had felt truly connected to another human being—not out of duty, not out of obligation, but out of a wild, mutual, chosen love.
That kiss had been his proof. Proof that whatever else the world thought of him, whatever titles or fortunes separated them, this was real. And nothing on earth mattered more to him than protecting that precious woman.
If necessary, he’d die doing it. The thought did not even startle him; it settled with cold, steady certainty.
Which was why he now sought an audience with his patron—a man who held both Edward’s livelihood and Venetia’s safety in his elegant, ink-stained hands.
The request was granted the following morning. Edward wasushered into the stately room the count favored for its morning light.
And probably for its intimidation factor.
The elderly nobleman stood with his back to the door, gazing out at the canal where gondolas drifted past like black mourning boats.
“Ah, Mr. Rothbury,” the count said without turning. “Punctual as always. Though I confess, after last evening’s festivities, I wondered if you might be indisposed this morning.”
Festivities. Yes, let’s call the nightmare that was last nightfestivities.
Edward’s stomach tightened. “Count Morosini, of course it is about the… injustice at the masquerade that I wish to speak to you—”
“Injustice?” The count turned slowly, his dark eyes holding a glint that made Edward’s insides churn. “Is that what you’re calling it? Your compromising position with a thief wearing stolen jewels on my balcony?”
“Sir, I must protest. Miss Playford is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing, and my presence there was—”
“Was what, precisely?” Count Morosini moved to his desk and settled himself in his chair. “I have ears and eyes who report upon everything, Signor Rothbury.”
Of course you do.
“Was the fact that stolen emeralds were found on Signorina Playford’s person an accident? You are quick to defend her, despite the irrefutable evidence. I am prepared to exonerate you of the charge of offering a somewhat… scandalous… degree of… solace to a thief. After all, how were you to know of her crimes before Captain Rizzi unmasked her? But I will not be persuaded that your… dear friend… Signorina Playford is innocent. No, she is a grand manipulator.”
