“Oh, we absolutely can,” Lady Townsend said briskly. “You may insist on throwing yourself into danger, my dear, but you shall not go alone into the lion’s den. Neither Thornton nor I would ever agree to that.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The entrance toLa Serafina’s palazzo was marked only by a discreet brass plaque and a doorman whose knowing smile suggested he’d admitted far more scandalous guests than one English heiress with questionable judgment.
Venetia stepped over the threshold with her heart in her throat and Mollie close at her side. Somewhere behind them, in the shadows of thecalle, Lord Thornton had murmured a last reassurance.
“I’ll be inside,” he’d said quietly. “But I shan’t hover. You’ll have room to speak as you need. If anything feels wrong, you look for me.”
Now, as they crossed a marble-floored vestibule where classical statues posed in attitudes that would have made Aunt Pike reach for the vinegar bottle, Venetia was acutely conscious of Thornton’s silent promise at her back. Not a knight in shining armor—not tonight—but a sober English peer in plain evening black, blending into the crowd, eyes everywhere.
The salon itself defied her expectations. Rather than the tawdry, smoky den she’d half imagined, the room rivaled any noble drawing room in elegance. Silk wallpaper in deep claret glowed in the candlelight, a rich foil for paintings: misty landscapes and mythological scenes rendered with disturbing frankness.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm light over clusters of guests. Here, a countess in diamonds talked earnestly with a young man whosepaint-stained fingers proclaimed his trade. There, a gentleman in sober evening dress leaned in to listen to a woman whose rouge and laugh would have scandalized a London drawing room. Italian, French, and English flowed together, rising and falling like the tide against the foundations.
“Signorina Playford.” The voice was low and melodious, carrying easily over the hum of conversation.
Venetia turned to find herself face to face with their hostess.
La Serafina was perhaps fifty, silver threads glinting through dark hair artfully arranged. Her gown of midnight-blue silk was cut with Continental daring, yet worn with such confidence it seemed the height of sophistication rather than impropriety. Diamonds sparkled at her throat, but it was her eyes that held Venetia—the eyes of a woman who had seen much more than Venetia certainly had, yet remained amused by the world.
“Madame,” Venetia said, dipping an instinctive curtsy that felt hopelessly provincial.
La Serafina caught her hands and drew her up. “No,cara. We do not kneel to one another here. We meet as equals.” Her smile deepened. “You are even more interesting than Madame Bertolini described. Such courage, to walk into the lion’s den with your head high when others would hide under their beds.”
“Courage,” Venetia said lightly. “Or recklessness.”
“In Venice,” La Serafina replied, “they are often the same thing.” Her gaze flicked over Venetia’s gown, her mask, the set of her shoulders. “You have a protector with you.”
Venetia’s heart jerked. “A protector?”
“The English milord by the door.” A tiny tilt of La Serafina’s head directed Venetia’s eyes toward Thornton, half concealed behind a column, apparently engrossed in discussion with a Venetian gentleman. “He watches you without watching you. Very correct. Very English. Now.” Instantly she changed tack. “Whatis it you hope to find here?”
Venetia gripped her glass. “You know the man who calls himself Count di Montefiore.”
A flicker crossed La Serafina’s face. “Many men call themselves many things in this room,” she said lightly. “But yes. I know the gentleman you mean.”
“I’ve heard rumors that he is not who he claims to be,” Venetia whispered, her heart hammering. “That… he is involved in… this scheme against me.”
La Serafina glanced briefly across the room; Venetia followed her gaze and saw Thornton, outwardly relaxed, in conversation with a Venetian merchant and a thin, fox-faced Frenchman.
“It is good to have friends who hold your interests close.” La Serafina stepped closer, her voice dropping. “And you are wise to be wary of Montefiore, whatever name he wears. He has been a Polish count in Vienna, a Spanish marquis in Paris, and a French vicomte in Milan. His accents are very good. His papers are always in good order. But his soul,cara—that remains the same.”
A chill slid down Venetia’s spine. “And what is that?”
“A man who lives by trading in other people’s misfortunes. Debts. Lawsuits. Lost inheritances.” La Serafina’s expression grew grave. “He was at my salon months ago in company with an Englishman. They spoke in French, but anger sounds the same in any tongue. The Englishman complained of a legacy that should have been his, stolen by a girl in his country and by a meddling lawyer. He spoke of a clause in a will. Of scandal. Of how easily a reputation might be stained.”
Venetia could barely breathe. “An Englishman. Do you know his name?”
“He gave one,” La Serafina said, “but I doubt it was the right one. He called himself Monsieur Vert, amusingly. Green.” Her eyes narrowed. “It made me think he was not very subtle. Montefiore is more careful.”
Green.Greene.
Of course.
The room seemed to tilt for a moment. So, Mr. Greene had been colluding with di Montefiore. Greene, who’d been disinherited in her favor; Greene, who had once tried to lure Caroline into ruin. And now Greene, drunk and angry in a Venetian salon, pouring his grievances into the ear of a man who specialized in exploiting such things.
“And do you have any information,” Venetia managed, “that this count—whatever his real name—has made some arrangement with him?”
