“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not yet. If you tellme you love me in a gondola on a Venetian canal, I might actually expire from romance on the spot.”
“InIvanhoe,” he said helplessly, “the hero—”
“Gets the girl,” she finished for him. “You will not bribe me with Scott, Edward Rothbury. No matter how much I’ve always wanted to be Rowena.”
“You’re more Rebecca,” he said quietly. “Braver. Clearer eyed.”
She drew back enough to really look at him then, her expression softening, deepening. “And you? Which are you?”
He thought of Morosini and his library. Of Montefiore’s threats, Greene’s hatred, Rizzi’s suspicions. Of his life, built from duty and caution and compromise.
For the first time, he didn’t care.
“I’m the man who will fight for you,” he said simply. “Even if it ruins me.”
Something in her eyes went molten. “Edward…”
The gondola slid on, rocking gently, the night folding around them.
She told him, in gasps and snatches, of La Serafina and a famed opera singer named Isabella Monteverdi, of an angry French “Monsieur Vert” with a suspiciously familiar name. He stilled in momentary horror at her mention the famous Monteverdi before he returned his attention toward piecing together Montefiore’s agenda: Greene’s grievance, the will’s clause, the elaborate staging of Venetia’s disgrace.
He told her—finally—about Morosini’s bargain. About the library, the veiled threats, the conditions tied to her freedom. Her hand clenched in his when she realized just how tight the net around them had been.
“And you came anyway,” she whispered.
“How could I not?”
For half an hour—or perhaps a lifetime—they existed only on that strip of water between stone and sky as they opened up their hearts toone another.
He knew he would pay for it. He knew this night would have consequences that would ripple outward like circles on the canal. But he did not care.
If this was his ruin, he would go to it with his eyes open and her hand in his.
“Almost there, signore,” the gondolier called softly at last.
The casa’s landing materialized ahead, lanterns flaring golden against the night. Edward straightened, reluctantly loosening his hold as the gondola glided toward the steps.
“Whatever happens next,” Venetia said, fingers tightening on his sleeve, “you know I feel the same as I ever did. Do you understand?”
What could he say? He nodded, and they shared one last, swift kiss and then the prow bumped gently against stone.
The gondolier steadied the boat. Edward rose, intending to step out first and then lift Venetia to the safety of the casa’s private jetty.
He looked up.
And the world crashed down.
Captain Rizzi stood at the top of the steps, boots planted wide, hands clasped behind his back. The lantern light threw the angles of his face into harsh relief, his expression a blend of victory and long-awaited satisfaction.
Beside him, immaculate in dry evening clothes despite their recent encounter, stood Count di Montefiore.
Of course he’d recovered quickly. Of course he’d gone straight to Rizzi. Of course.
“Signor Rothbury,” Rizzi said, his voice carrying coolly over the water. “And Signorina Playford. How fortunate. We were just discussing you.”
Venetia’s hand jerked in Edward’s. He stepped instinctively in front of her, useless gesture though it was.
“Captain,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “Itis late. Miss Playford has had a trying evening. Whatever business you have can surely wait until—”
