“Until you have finished compromising her yet further?” Montefiore drawled. “But, my dear Rothbury, surely the damage is done. Look at you. Returning together from some nocturnal adventure, disheveled, alone. Imagine how that will sound in the proper ears.”
Rizzi’s gaze swept over them: Venetia’s loosened hair, her flushed cheeks; Edward’s bruised knuckles and cravat askew.
“If you thought yourself ruined before, signorina,” Montefiore went on pleasantly, “you have outdone yourself tonight.”
Venetia’s chin lifted.
“I know,” he said softly, “that I offered you a way out. A chance to ally yourself with someone who could protect you from what is coming. You spurned it.” His eyes glinted. “Now you have placed yourself, and your very noble English translator, entirely in my hands.”
Rizzi nodded once, as if confirming a report. “The count came to me as soon as he left La Serafina’s. He told me of his concern for you, Signorina Playford. How he feared an English gentleman had enticed you into dangerous circles. How he worried you might be further compromised.” His mouth thinned. “Then I hear that you leave La Serafina without your agreed escort, returning at midnight, alone…with a man.” He hesitated. “Something I do not think your trustees will take kindly to learning.”
Edward felt Venetia flinch.
“Let me be absolutely clear,” Montefiore said, every word a poisoned drop. “My Englishman will hear of this.”
He smiled at Edward. “You should have left her to me, Rothbury. I might have been kind. Now, when the story is told, it will be of the heiress and her lover, the theft and the tryst, the jewels and the kiss by night.”
“And whose story will that be?” Edward demanded. “Yours? Nochance for Miss Playford to put her side?”
“Mine,” Montefiore agreed. “Captain Rizzi’s. Mr. Greene’s. The notaries’.” He spread his hands. “The only people who will dispute it are the ones already under suspicion. You, and the signorina.”
Rizzi stepped forward. “Miss Playford, you are still at liberty only through the Count Morosini’s intercession. Tonight’s excursion will be noted in my report. I suggest you consider carefully how you spend the remainder of your grace.”
“And you, Signor Rothbury,” Montefiore added softly, “might wish to consider how easily certain tales about a foreign clerk seducing his patron’s guest could find their way to the right ears. In Venice. In London. At the Foreign Office.
“If you had accepted my hand when it was offered,” Montefiore went on to Venetia, almost regretful, “I might have chosen to pull you out instead of push you under. But you are a proud little thing. Proud—and, it seems, not very clever. You have destroyed yourself, and you are dragging your English hero down with you.”
Venetia’s fingers dug into Edward’s coat. He reached back, covering her hand with his.
“This is not over,” he said to Montefiore, low and fierce.
“Oh, I sincerely hope not,” the count replied. “I am enjoying it far too much.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Thornton!”
Eugenia beckoned him to the window, her fingers tapping sharply against the glass. “Do you see?” She pointed to the dark water below. “It’s Captain Rizzi. And Count di Montefiore.”
“Together?” Thornton came to stand beside her, so close she felt the warmth of him through the fine wool of his coat. His sleeve brushed the inside of her bare wrist and the contact sent a ridiculous little shiver up her arm. “But no sign of Venetia?”
“Oh—there she is. And, good Lord, alone with Mr. Rothbury.” Catherine’s voice cut across the room, bright with barely veiled censure. “How unfortunate to be found in such a compromising situation by the captain of all people. It seems Miss Playford does not understand how fragile her position already is.”
“Something has happened. A trap has been laid,” Thornton muttered. “I accompanied Miss Playford this evening, Catherine, and then sent Rothbury after her when we were separated. There is nothing compromising in their being together.” His mouth tightened. “Unless Captain Rizzi chooses to interpret it so. Please find a servant and have the blue salon prepared for possible guests.”
Dismissed, Catherine flounced away.
When the door closed behind her, Thornton’s hand came to rest, warm and steady, on Eugenia’s shoulder.
“I did the very best I could for her tonight, my dear,” he said quietly. “You must be disappointed in me.”
“Oh, Thornton, I could never be disappointed in you.”
The words came from somewhere deep in her chest, where her heart seemed to unfold like a flower pressed flat for too many years. “You behaved with honor and kindness. You always do. It is why Elizabeth loved you. You were the husband of her dreams.”
His mouth curved, the old, familiar smile lighting his features.
“I once thought you held similar feelings, a very long time ago, my dear Eugenia,” he said gently. “After that fleeting kiss we shared at Lady Scarborough’s ball—when I encountered you in the corridor on your return from the ladies’ mending room.”
