Like your granddaughter, Sofia.
Heat rose in Edward’s cheeks. “Count, I assure you that my conduct has always been of the highest—”
“Has it?” The count’s tone carried silky menace. “Because according to Signor Benedetti’s account of your unfortunate encounter with street ruffians, you were accompanied by a young woman bearing aremarkable resemblance to my granddaughter. A young woman wearing Sofia’s jewelry and costume.”
“With the greatest respect, signor, Miss Playford was wearing a tiara loaned to her by your granddaughter,” Edward burst out.
“Oh, so now you insinuate that my Sofia is complicit in some outrageous plot to discredit this other young woman with whom you were found in a compromising situation. Signor Rothbury, I thought I was employing a man of almost stultifying dedication to his work. Not a lothario.”
Lothario. Edward had been called many things, butlothariowas new.
“Sir, that is not what I was insinuating. Allow me to explain—”
“Can you?” The count steepled his fingers. “Very well, enlighten me. Explain how you came to be alone with a young woman described as Sofia. Certainly, she wore Sofia’s clothes and jewelry, according to Signor Benedetti. Furthermore, she was put in grave peril and required rescue from footpads.” The count leaned back. “Explain how, two days later, you are with a blonde beauty—another blonde beauty, or the same?—at my masquerade ball, again wearing Sofia’s jewelry, again in your company, again in compromising circumstances.”
Well, when the count put it like that, it did look suspicious.
Edward’s mind raced through possible responses, but every explanation would either expose Sofia’s deception or confirm the count’s suspicions about his relationship with Venetia—in which case his desire to save her would be construed as the ravings of a man undone by passion.
The memory of the balcony flickered—Venetia’s fingers in his hair, the small, shaky breath she’d taken when he’d whispered that he loved her. That single, searing moment in which he had known—more certainly than he knew his own name—that he would stand between her and the world, sword in hand like any of Scott’sdoomed knights, if it came to that.
“I see your difficulty,” Count Morosini continued with false sympathy. “The truth would implicate you in behavior most unsuitable for a gentleman in my employ. A man who has been translating in my library while conducting secret assignations with my granddaughter.”
If only you knew how little I want to conduct assignations with your granddaughter, thought Edward.
“That is not what happened—”
“Is it not?” The count’s voice sharpened. “Then what did happen, Mr. Rothbury? And please, spare me any gallant attempts to protect the lady’s reputation. I am her grandfather. Her welfare is my primary concern.”
Edward stood trapped between impossible choices. To reveal Sofia’s true activities would expose her romantic schemes and potentially destroy her chance of happiness with her Paolo. To deny the count’s interpretation would require explanations that might endanger Venetia further. And to confess the truth about his feelings for Venetia would confirm suspicions of fortune hunting that could ruin them both.
Essentially, every option was terrible.
He thought, absurdly, ofIvanhoe—of knights hemmed in by oaths and loyalties, forced to choose which duty to betray. He had always admired Wilfred’s stubborn honor from a safe distance. It was quite another thing to feel the vise of conflicting loyalties closing around one’s own throat.
“I thought not,” the count said after Edward’s prolonged silence. “Your discretion does you credit, though it hardly absolves you of responsibility for last evening’s scandal.”
Discretion?So he was calling his paralyzed inability to speakdiscretion.
Edward straightened his shoulders. “Clearly the young woman with whom I was… conversing… on the balcony was—as you put it—a blonde beauty who bears a similarity to your granddaughter. She was, in fact, Miss Playford. And she was wearing a tiara loaned to her by your granddaughter. What else would you have me say, Count Morosini?”
“Nothing, at present. The question is what you will do.” The count rose and moved back to the window. “Miss Playford was released this morning on my personal recognizance. Captain Rizzi was most accommodating when I explained that the young lady was my guest, that her character was known to me, and that I would personally guarantee her appearance for any future proceedings.”
Edward’s heart leaped. “She’s been released?”
Thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
“She has. Though naturally, the charges remain pending. The investigation continues. And Captain Rizzi has made it clear that any new evidence of criminal behavior would result in immediate re-arrest.” The count spoke carefully. “Such evidence might include, for instance, testimony about previous suspicious activities. Or witness accounts of her association with unsavory characters.”
Oh, how easily such charges could be manufactured.
The threat hung in the air like poison.
“I see you understand my position,” the count continued. “Miss Playford’s freedom rests upon my continued goodwill and influence with the authorities. Should that goodwill be… compromised… I fear I would find myself unable to intercede on her behalf in future.”
“What do you want?” Edward asked quietly.
“I want my granddaughter protected from scandal. I want my household to remain free from gossip and speculation. And I want my translator to remain precisely where he is—not dashing off to accept some lucrative offer in Constantinople—dedicated to his scholarly work without distraction from romantic entanglements that could prove… problematic.”
