“Keeping looking!” Edward said urgently. “A young woman—”
As if the city heard him, a tight sound reached his ears—half-laugh, half-protest—carried strangely on the damp night air. He strained to listen.
“…reputation already in shreds… what difference another tear makes…”
Montefiore.
“Over there,” Edward snapped, pointing toward a narrower branch of canal. “Quickly.”
They swung sharply, the gondola tilting alarmingly. Ahead, two dark shapes moved close together in the water—two gondolas, prow to prow, rocked sideways as if bumping.
As they drew nearer, the scene resolved: one boat bearing a single man, his cloak thrown back, one hand gripping the rail of the other gondola. In the second, two women: Mollie huddledsmall and pale at the stern, Venetia rigid in the middle, her arm caught in the man’s hand.
Count di Montefiore.
“…be sensible,mia cara,” he was saying, his voice silken with cruelty. “Your reputation is in ruins. You have just been released from prison, you have just attended a notorious courtesan’s salon, and you were just discovered in a compromising position with Count Morosini’s pet Englishman. The world already thinks the worst. You might as well profit from it.”
“I would rather drown than go with you,” Venetia said through her teeth, trying to wrench free.
Her gondola rocked; Mollie squeaked, clinging to the seat.
Edward could hear it. He could see it. But he was too far away to stop it.
Nor did he want to cry out and alert Montefiore, though it took all his willpower not to when Montefiore tightened his grip on Venetia’s arm and leaned closer. “Dramatic, but unnecessary. You give me what I want, and I can help you. I know which strings to pull, which testimonies to silence. I can persuade certain English gentlemen to be… generous. Your inheritance could be safe. Or I can let events take their course and watch as you lose everything—to a man who has waited very patiently to see you fall.”
“Mr. Greene,” Venetia whispered, horror in her eyes.
“Ah, so you are not as naive as you pretend.” His mouth curved. “Do you really think your troubles fell from a clear blue sky? Who told Rizzi where to look? Who described to him an heiress with a penchant for the wrong sort of company?”
“Let her go!” Mollie burst out, lunging forward.
Montefiore backhanded her away, not hard but contemptuous. Mollie cried out and sprawled on the seat.
That was as far as he got.
“Pull alongside,” Edward said, and the two boats came togetherwith a hollow thud.
Edward leapt.
He landed awkwardly in Venetia’s gondola, grabbing the rail to steady himself. Venetia’s eyes flew to his; a raw, incredulous joy flashed there, swiftly followed by terror.
“Edward—”
“Release her,” Edward said to Montefiore, his voice calm.
The count’s brows rose behind his mask. “Signor Rothbury. How very predictable of you.”
He did not let go.
“I said,” Edward repeated, “release her.”
“Or what?” Montefiore asked softly. “You will challenge me? Here? In this pretty little gutter?” He smirked. “You English are always so romantic about heroics. It rarely ends well.”
Edward didn’t answer. He drove his fist straight into the man’s jaw.
Montefiore staggered, grip loosening. Venetia wrenched free, stumbling back into the seat. Mollie scrambled to her side.
The count recovered quickly, eyes alight. “Ah.Enfin.”
