“That will do,” Thornton said, his voice mild butedged with steel. He stepped a fraction closer to Venetia, his presence suddenly very solid.
For the first time, something like genuine interest sparked in Montefiore’s gaze. “Yourparticularfriend,” he repeated. “How very gallant of you, milord. But gallantry can be dangerous in Venice. A man may find himself swept along by currents he did not intend to enter.”
“Fortunately,” Thornton said, “I swim well.”
Montefiore’s smile sharpened. “Even the strongest swimmers tire.” His gaze slid once more to Venetia. “Do not be too sure, Miss Playford, that everyone will be as willing to hazard themselves for your sake.”
There. A threat. Veiled, polite, but unmistakable.
La Serafina shifted, subtly interposing herself between Venetia and the count. “I must borrow my guest,” she said lightly. “There is a poet who wishes to recite something dreadful and needs an appreciative audience. Lord Thornton, you will remain? I should hate to think our English contingent fled so early.”
“For a little while longer,” Thornton said. His eyes met Venetia’s, steady and reassuring. “Miss Playford, perhaps it is time we thought of returning. It grows late.”
“Yes,” Venetia said quickly. “I believe it does.”
Montefiore inclined his head. “Of course. One should never keep a lady out too late, milord. People talk. And you in particular would not wish more talk.”
Thornton’s jaw tightened by the smallest degree. “Good evening, count.”
They moved away. Venetia could feel Montefiore’s gaze on her back like cold fingers.
“Do you see?” she whispered once they had crossed to the far side of the room. “He as much as admitted—”
“I saw enough,” Thornton said grimly. “And heard enough to be more certain than ever that he is dangerous. I think we should leave,”he continued. “Let me arrange a gondola. Stay where the footmen can see you. And do not,” he added, meeting her eyes, “speak to the count again.”
“I promise,” Venetia said.
He gave her hand a brief, hard squeeze and then he was gone into the little crush near the cloakroom, swallowed by silk and black coats.
Mollie materialized at her side as if conjured, cheeks pink, eyes wide. “Miss?”
“We’re leaving,” Venetia said. “Lord Thornton’s arranging a gondola. We’ll wait by the door.”
They did. For a minute. Two.
The vestibule grew more crowded as guests arrived and left, the doorman’s discreet cough and the rustle of cloaks filling the space. Venetia craned her neck, searching for Thornton’s fair head above the shorter Venetians.
Nothing.
Behind her, laughter flared in the salon—Montefiore’s, unmistakable. A glance over her shoulder revealed him watching her, one elbow propped on the mantel, conversing with a thin, fox-faced man Venetia did not recognize.
The fox-faced man followed Montefiore’s gaze. His eyes narrowed when they found her. Something in that look—assessing, cold, interested—made every hair at the back of her neck stand up.
“Miss,” Mollie whispered, “I don’t like this. I can’t see his lordship. And that man—”
“I know,” Venetia said. Her voice came out thin. The vestibule suddenly seemed too small, the walls too close, the doorman too far away.
“Perhaps Lord Thornton went out of the side door?” Mollie suggested. “To speak to the gondolier?”
Or perhaps he’s been delayed, or cornered, or deliberately distracted. By whom?
Montefiore lifted his glass in an almost-toastinggesture, the smile on his lips friendly, the message in his eyes anything but.
“Come on,” Venetia said abruptly. “Perhaps something has delayed him and he can’t make his way back. Perhaps we should go after him.”
She turned to the doorman. “The water-gate?” she asked in Italian. “Is it that way?”
“Si, signorina.” He gestured down a side corridor. “The gondolas wait directly outside. Should I have yours called?”
