So Count Morosini knows about Constantinople,thought Edward. And it was not he who orchestrated the offer to be rid of him.
“I wantIvanhoefinished by the end of the month so that you can begin on Sir Walter Scott’s next.”
The end of the month? He wants eight weeks of work done in two weeks?
Edward stared at him. “You actually want me to stay.”
“Yes, did I not speak plainly enough? I want you to decline that Constantinople posting. And I want you to maintain appropriate distance from both my granddaughter and Miss Playford. For clearly you are much too invested in this Miss Playford to attend properly to your work.”
Too invested. That was one way of puttingdesperately in love.
“And if I refuse?” Edward asked boldly.
Count Morosini’s smile held no warmth. “Then I fear Miss Playford’s situation may become considerably more precarious.”
Edward felt something constrict around his heart. The count was offering him a devil’s bargain—his obedience in exchange for Venetia’s safety. His silence and distance in return for her freedom.
InIvanhoe, knights boasted of their willingness to die for their ladies. Dying suddenly seemed the easier part. Living at arm’s length from Venetia while she believed he had abandoned her—that was the real martyrdom.
“I see you appreciate the delicacy of the situation,” the count said. “Naturally, Miss Playford need not know of our arrangement. Such knowledge would only distress her unnecessarily. Better that she believe your withdrawal stems from natural discretion rather than… external pressures.”
“You want me to let her think I’m abandoning her?” Edward’s voice came out hoarse.
“I want you to protect her from further scandal by maintaining proper distance. What she thinks of your motives is between you and your conscience.”
My conscience. Which is already screaming in protest.
He thought of Venetia in some cold little cell, her gown crumpled,her hair disordered, her brave chin lifted. He thought of the way she had saidI love youon the balcony.
She had given him truth; he was now being asked to meet it with a lie.
To agree would mean watching her suffer the pain of his apparent rejection, doubting his love, perhaps even despising him. To refuse would mean exposing her to dangers he could neither foresee nor prevent.
This, then, was his own trial by ordeal. Not fire, not steel, but the slow torture of enforced distance—of being close enough to breathe the same air, yet forbidden to reach out a hand.
“Do I have your word that she will remain safe?” he asked at last.
“You have my word that my influence will continue to protect her, provided you honor our agreement. Cross me, Signor Rothbury, and I fear my ability to shield her from Venice’s harsher realities may prove… limited.”
Limited.Another polite Italian way of sayingI’ll destroy her.
Edward opened his eyes to find the count watching him with a small, satisfied smile. The old man knew exactly what he was asking—and exactly why Edward would have no choice but to accept.
He thought of walking away. Of resigning, of going to Venetia, of telling her everything and facing the consequences together as equals. But what then? Rizzi’s renewed zeal; Morosini’s retracted protection; Greene waiting in the shadows for the slightest chance to seize the Harrington fortune through a convenient conviction.
If he defied Morosini, Venetia paid the price. If he obeyed, he paid it. There was no version of this story in which both of them came away unscathed.
In Scott’s tale, Ivanhoe had sacrificed land and honor and comfort, trusting that the woman he loved would understand his devotion even when appearances were against him. Edward could not even claim that comfort. Venetia would never know. From herperspective, he would simply vanish when the scandal broke, leaving her to bear it alone.
And yet, what choice did he have, if her safety truly depended on his compliance?
“Very well,” Edward said, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. “I agree to your terms.”
“Excellent.” Count Morosini returned to his desk, already reaching for the manuscript pages ofIvanhoe. “Now then, there is still some way to go and my dear friend, Marchese Valenti, is even more impatient than I that it should be finished. Go now to the library and return to Sir Walter’s tale of impossible love. I believe we left our hero facing insurmountable obstacles to his heart’s desire.”
The irony was not subtle. At all.
Edward left, taking the seat at his desk in the library, staring at the pages before him. The ink blurred slightly. He blinked hard.
