“I think a man like Montefiore does nothing without expecting profit.” La Serafina touched her arm briefly. “And I think you, signorina, are profit. Your disgrace, properly arranged, would be worth a great deal to an Englishman who believes you stole his future.”
“How can this be conveyed to Captain Rizzi to investigate?” Venetia asked, the words tumbling out. “Is it possible you could—”
La Serafina’s smile thinned. “The good captain has visited me before. He prefers gossip that confirms his prejudices. He has already decided what kind of woman you are. My word against a respectable ‘count’ and a disinherited English gentleman? No,cara. The law will not save you. Only proof will. And proof is difficult when dealing with ghosts.”
Venetia felt the excitement drain from her. “Then what do you advise?” she whispered.
“Patience,” La Serafina tapped Venetia on the wrist with her fan, before her gaze rose to the large portrait on the wall beside them.
The woman in the painting was caught in the full glory of youth—a dark-haired beauty with luminous eyes and a sensuous mouth curved in an enigmatic smile. Her gown was simple white silk, leaving the drama to her expression. There was something vulnerable about her, despite the proudtilt of her chin.
“BeholdLa vera Serafina,” her hostess said, encompassing the painting with a sweep of her arm. “If onlyshehad had patience to wait the three years for her marchese to return—alive—from the shipwreck all Venice believed had taken his life.”
“La vera Sarafina?” Venetia repeated with a puzzled frown.
“That’s right. The true Seraphim they called her, because her voice, they said, came from heaven.”
Venetia felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Isabella Monteverdi was her real name though no one remembers that. They remember only the voice from heaven.La Serafina.”
“And you—” Venetia hesitated, not wanting to presume.
“I took my name in homage after she left Venice, brokenhearted after waiting two years in the hope that her protector would return,” her hostess continued. “But I was a pale echo of a great light. When I was a girl, I queued in the alley behind La Fenice just to hear her rehearsing. Her Desdemona could reduce men to sobbing wrecks. Her Violetta made women question every sensible choice they had ever made.”
“She was an opera singer?” Venetia asked, though the answer was obvious.
“The opera singer.” Pride and regret threaded La Serafina’s tone. “She had the city at her feet. Contracts in Paris and Vienna. The marchese who worshipped her. And then—” She snapped her fingers. “Gone.”
“Gone?” Venetia echoed.
“An Englishman came to Venice. A staid, boring gentleman. But he must have offered her what she wanted, for she stole away one night with her son—not a word to anyone—never to be heard of again.” La Serafina’s lip curled faintly.
“La Serafina.” Thornton appeared then, bowing over their hostess’s hand. “I hope you will forgive an Englishman for intruding upon your guest. Miss Playford’s friends are perhaps overanxious.”
“On the contrary, milord,” La Serafina said smoothly. “Your anxiety does you credit. You English are so very good at pretending not to feel anything at all; it is refreshing to see one of you admit to concern.”
Thornton’s mouth quirked. “My concern is entirely selfish. I should be quite crushed if anything happened to Miss Playford while under my protection.”
“Then you have chosen an interesting city for your guardianship.” La Serafina’s gaze flickered past them. “And an interesting evening.”
Venetia turned—to find Count di Montefiore bearing down upon them.
Even masked, he was unmistakable: the height, the smooth carriage. His eyes gleamed behind his domino.
“Miss Playford,” he said warmly, as if greeting a cherished acquaintance in the park. “What a delight to find you here. La Serafina’s taste is as exquisite as ever.”
“Count,” Venetia said, every nerve on edge.
“And Lord Thornton.” The brief inclination of his head held just enough respect to avoid insult. “We are very honored by your presence as well. Venice is truly favored when English respectability graces her less… orthodox salons.”
“There is nothing inherently disreputable about art, music, or conversation, sir,” Thornton returned pleasantly.
“Ah, but context is everything, is it not?” Montefiore smiled. He turned back to Venetia. “Signorina, you have been much talked of. I had hoped we might share a dance. La Serafina’s musicians are tuning up now.”
“La Serafina’s musicians are indeed excellent,” Venetia said. “But I am not dancing this evening.”
“Come, come.” His tone turned coaxing. “Surely you would not refuse when your reputation is already—how do you English say?—‘beyond saving’?”
