She stood at the top of the Casa Bonaldi’s grand staircase, fingers smoothing the silver lutestring over her hips, checking the fall of the daring neckline in the reflection of a polished silver vase.
Not bad.
If people were determined to stare at her, they might as well stare at something other than the specter of stolen jewels.
The gown—Madame Bertolini’s latest triumph—skimmed her figure more closely than any truly decorous lady would approve, and pearls threaded through her hair gleamed in the light of the beeswax candles.
She looked, she thought with grim satisfaction, exactly like the sort of woman Venetia Playford was now rumored to be.
Wicked. Bold. Untrustworthy.
“You look beautiful, miss,” Mollie muttered from behind her, tornbetween pride and horror. “And like you might get into a great deal of trouble.”
“Good.” Venetia adjusted her mask, the black satin obscuring enough of her face to give the illusion of anonymity. “Trouble is what I need if I’m going to find answers.”
“Are you sure about this?” Mollie whispered. “Just because Madame Bertolini says—”
“Madame Bertolini’s instincts for fashion cannot be faulted,” Venetia said lightly. “Perhaps she has equal talent in gossip.”
Low laughter and the clink of glasses drifted from the blue salon at the end of the corridor. Venetia drew a breath, braced herself, and walked in.
Conversation faltered. She felt the weight of glances skim over the silver gown, the pearls, the mask.
“Venetia, my dear, you are not staying in this evening?” Lady Townsend’s voice held a careful brightness that suggested she was alarmed.
“She looks very fetching,” Lord Thornton said, rising. “Come and make up a hand of whist, Miss Playford.”
“You are very kind,” Venetia replied. “But I have other plans.” She moved fully into the room, acutely aware of Miss Bentley’s speculative gaze. “I’ve been invited to La Serafina’s salon this evening.”
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Lady Townsend’s teacup rattled in its saucer. Lord Thornton’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline. Several lesser guests pretended to find the carpet pattern fascinating.
“Venetia,” Lady Townsend said carefully, as if addressing someone balancing on a balcony rail, “surely you cannot mean the opera singer’s establishment? My dear girl, such gatherings are hardly—”
“Respectable?” Venetia raised her eyebrows. “I care less about respectability with each passing day. Especially when it appears most of society considers I no longer have any morerespectability to lose.”
“All the more reason to show ladylike restraint until they recover their senses,” Lady Townsend urged.
“And how did youreceivesuch an invitation?” Miss Bentley demanded.
“It came through my dressmaker, if you must know,” Venetia went on. “Madame Bertolini also dresses La Serafina and apparently could not resist recounting my recent adventures. La Serafina expressed a desire to meet me.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Lord Thornton cleared his throat. “Miss Playford, La Serafina’s salons are known to attract a… mixed company. Artists, adventurers, men whose reputation is… not always savory.”
“Precisely why I wish to attend.” Venetia took a chair with deliberate composure. “Where better to observe those who move at the edges of respectability? Where better to learn who might have profited from doing what was done to me?”
Lady Townsend stared at her. “You cannot possibly believe that going to La Serafina’s will help clear your name, my dear? Why, it will make things much, much worse.”
“I believe the proper authorities are more interested in confirming their neat little story than in finding the truth,” Venetia said crisply. “My name is already tarnished; my reputation, for all practical purposes, is gone. So tell me, Lady Townsend—what does your ladylike restraint propose I do? Sit quietly and hope my enemies grow bored?”
“Venetia, we are doing all we can,” she said softly. “Thornton and I—Edward—”
“Edward,” Venetia repeated, and the single word seemed to pull the air out of the room.
She drew the letter from her reticule, tapped it against her palm. “Mr. Rothbury has decided,” she said, managing a smile that felt like it might crack her face, “that it would be ‘wisest’ our acquaintance beconducted at a proper distance while things are… untangled.”
