Nephews cheated oftheir inheritance.
Mr. Greene’s furious face rose in Venetia’s memory: the man who had believed Leonard Harrington’s fortune his by right; the man whose shock at its loss had been the talk of Derbyshire. The man who had tried to lure Caroline into a scandalous elopement when he’d still been in funds.
He has every reason to hate me.
If Greene had somehow encountered this so-called Count di Montefiore, if he had told his grievances to a man already skilled in deception…
“And the count?” Venetia had asked, striving for casual interest. “You say he visits La Serafina often?”
“Very often,” Madame said. “He has other names in other cities, I am told. A man of many masks. La Serafina entertains him because he pays well and is amusing, but my cousin’s husband”—she spread her hands—“he swears he heard him called by another name in Paris. A French name, not Italian at all. These gentlemen,” she concluded, making a neat little stitch, “they think changing their coat and title changes who they are.”
A man of many masks. A French name. A courtesan who collected secrets.
If anyone could discover whether Count di Montefiore had ever received letters from an embittered Englishman named Greene, perhaps it would be La Serafina.
And if what he knows could convictme, Venetia thought, then whatsheknows might save me.
Time, however, was not on her side. Captain Rizzi had not cleared her; he had merely let her out on a leash tied firmly to Count Morosini’s belt. The more time passed, the more opportunities her enemies had to arrange “new evidence,” to twist any bold step she took into proof of her depravity.
She could almost feel that three-year clause in Leonard Harrington’s will ticking in the background, like a bomb no one else could hear.
She could not wait for Edward. Not now. Not when he was muzzled and leashed by the very man who currently shielded her.
If this wereIvanhoe, the knight would defy his overlord and rescue her in a blaze of glory. But Edward had been ordered to stand down, and Edward obeyed orders.
So the maiden would have to find the courage and audacity to sneak her way into the enemy camp herself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Not so longago, Edward had actively thrilled at the thought that he was fulfilling his life’s dream, translating the works of a writer as celebrated as Sir Walter Scott.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that he spent his days rendering tales of noble knights and impossible love while living his own version of such torment.
But today he would have done anything to quit his position and return to England, had it not meant literally sacrificing Venetia to house arrest—or worse. The count had made his terms crystal clear: Edward’s continued service in exchange for his protection of Venetia.
Cross that agreement, and the young woman he loved would find herself facing the full weight of Venetian justice with no one to intercede on her behalf.
Inquiries were taking place, but Count Morosini had made it clear that his willingness to vouch for Miss Playford’s character—and guarantee she wouldn’t abscond—depended entirely upon Edward remaining in his employ.
The arrangement was as elegant as it was diabolical.
Head down, Edward set his steps toward the grand expanse of the Piazza San Marco, where ancient stones had witnessed centuries of intrigue and the basilica’s golden domes caught what little light filtered through the oppressive clouds. Tourists and locals moved about theirbusiness, the usual morning commerce of a city that had perfected the art of beautiful corruption.
He raised his head in time to catch a glimpse of golden hair and a Pomona green gown with which he was familiar. Sofia.
He knew it was her with the certainty of someone who’d spent too many hours translating in her vicinity, memorizing details he’d had no business noticing. Why? Because she reminded him of Venetia. Or rather, Miss Playford to him.
Beside her walked her maid Caterina, the woman who’d assisted in positioning Venetia for destruction.
Edward knew the penalties for engaging Sofia in conversation. Count Morosini’s warnings had been specific and unmistakable.
“Stay away from my granddaughter.” Very clear. Very emphatic.
But what other opportunity would he have for challenging her directly about the events of that cursed evening? Conversation between them was impossible in the count’s home, where every word was potentially observed and reported.
But surely a few moments in the anonymous crowd of the piazza would be unlikely to be witnessed by the count’s spies.
Hurrying forward, he pulled his cloak about him and waited for his opportunity. Sofia and her maid were examining silk scarves at a merchant’s stall, their attention focused on the vendor’s persuasive patter about the exceptional quality of his wares.
