“You will present yourself at the magistrate’s office twice a week,” he said, “to sign the register. You will not leave the city without permission. You will not attend establishments such as La Serafina’s—or any other gathering I deem dubious. You will not be alone with a man not your relation or established guardian.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
So: no freedom, no investigation of her own, no stolen minutes with Edward.
“And understand this,” he added, voice dropping. “The English will of your late great-uncle was explained to me. The provisions about ‘moral turpitude’ are particularly pertinent.”
The phrase sounded even uglier in his accented English. Moral turpitude. As if she’d been caught kicking orphans and stealing from the poor box.
“If I submit a report suggesting a pattern of dishonorable conduct,” Rizzi said calmly, “your trustees in England may be obliged to consider you in breach of those conditions. Perhaps even without the inconvenience of a formal conviction.”
The floor seemed to tilt under her feet.
Without conviction. They could strip her of everything because she had been seen in the wrong place with the wrong man. Not because she had done anything wicked, but because men like Montefiore had arranged the scene and men like Rizzi chose to see what they expected.
“You cannot mean—” she whispered.
“I mean,” he said, “that the difference between a misguided young lady and a criminal in the eyes of the law is often a matter of how much trouble she causes. If I conclude that you are wayward but…misled”—his gaze brushed Edward again—“I may be inclined to recommend leniency in my report.”
“And if you do not?” Lady Townsend asked.
“Then I will record what I saw,” he replied simply, still looking at Venetia. “An heiress under suspicion, frequenting a courtesan’s salon, in illicit company on the canal, involved—by choice or coercion—with a man who assaults my informant.”
Montefiore dabbed delicately at his nose again, eyes glittering over the linen.
Informant. So that’s what we’re calling “blackmailing snake” now.
“So,” Rizzi concluded, “I suggest you consider your future conduct very carefully, Signorina Playford. One more misstep, one more appearance that confirms rather than contradicts my suspicions, and the consequences may be… permanent.”
Permanent. Like losing her fortune. Like Edward forever believing he had ruined her.
She swallowed, the room swimming slightly. The blue silk walls, the polished furniture, Miss Bentley’s watchful eyes—all of it seemed suddenly distant, as though she were looking at the scene through water.
Mollie sniffed by the fire. Lady Townsend’s fan trembled in her hand. Lord Thornton looked as if he might strideacross the room and shake Rizzi until sense rattled into his skull.
But none of them could alter what had just been said.
“I understand,” Venetia said, forcing the words out past the tightness in her throat.
“Good.” Rizzi inclined his head, satisfied. “For now, I leave you in the care of your friends. I will contact Count Morosini in the morning.”
He turned sharply on his heel. Montefiore followed, pausing only to give Venetia a little bow and a look that said, quite clearly,Who do you think won that round?
She met his gaze and held it, refusing to flinch.
The door closed behind them.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Edward’s hand closed more firmly around hers.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, turning to him. “If you’re ruined, it’s because of me.”
“No,” he said, low but fierce. “If I’m ruined, it’s because I chose to hit a man who deserved it. I would do it again.”
Some part of her, buried under terror and shame, wanted to laugh.Of course, that would be his view.
But over his shoulder she saw the stricken worry in Lady Townsend’s eyes, the grim set of Thornton’s jaw, and the weight of what Rizzi had threatened pressed down again.
