“And we,” Lady Townsend said, “have the honor of being invited as his English guests. The entire party.” Her gaze came to rest on Venetia with something like apology as she handed her the letter. “He is most particular, it seems, that you attend, my dear. To show that peace reigns in his circle.”
“I do think it unwise to slight your host,” Thornton said kindly. “The man who used his influence to secure your release. And whose goodwill you continue to rely upon.”
Miss Playford set the letter down with a sigh. “I confess the thought of another balloon makes me feel quite faint. Especially as last year’s comet fête very nearly ended in tragedy. I swore I’d never go within twenty yards of one of those contraptions again.”
“I’ll confess something,” Thornton said dryly. “I rather enjoyed watching Windermere look like a plucked hen when his grand dramatic exit was foiled.”
A small, unwilling smile tugged at Venetia’s mouth.
“Still,” he continued, “the contraption is dangerous.And not merely because hot air and silk should never be within hailing distance of one another. In the wrong hands, it’s an excellent opportunity for mischief. Or worse.”
“Does the invitation say who will ascend?” Venetia asked.
Lady Townsend picked up the letter again. “It mentions Signor Duval, the aeronaut, and speaks of ‘a privileged passenger of noble blood who will cast favors to the crowd.’ One assumes it must be Sofia.”
“Not necessarily,” Miss Bentley sniffed. “Count Morosini might wish to flatter his English guests. He showed particular regard to me at the masquerade.”
“Or perhaps he will choose to shower Venetia with similar regard. To show Venice that he is above ill will,” suggested Lady Townsend.
Venetia’s stomach flipped. “Surely not. I could hardly be a more inappropriate choice.” The thought of being suspended above the lagoon, every eye on her, while Count di Montefiore watched from the crowd made her palms damp. One tug at the wrong rope, one conveniently cut tether, and she could vanish into the water as quickly as any inconvenient piece of evidence.
Count di Montefiore was collaborating with Greene. She knew that now. And, clearly, Greene would stop at nothing to regain the fortune to which he was next in line.
“I won’t go up in the balloon,” she said, more fiercely than she’d intended. “I don’t care if he asks me or not. I won’t do it.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Lady Townsend said quickly.
Miss Bentley opened her mouth to add something but Thornton forestalled her.
“Whatever else happens,” he said, “we shall not allow you to be used as a performing monkey in a Frenchman’s air bubble, Miss Playford. You’ll attend the betrothal fête because to refuse would be folly, but we shall keep you planted firmly on solid ground.”
His words calmed her—slightly. Solid ground.
And Sofia. Betrothed to Count Bembo with the fish breath. She deserved him. The girl had been reckless and cruel, and her actions had put Venetia in this position.
“When is Signorina Sofia’s betrothal?” Venetia asked, a sudden thought occurring to her.
“In exactly two weeks,” Lady Townsend replied.
Venetia nodded. Two weeks?
Two weeks to possibly make a bargain. Two weeks in which to persuade Sofia to tell the truth about the emeralds—if Venetia could perhaps arrange some way to help Sofia avoid a lifetime of sharing a breakfast table with a man she despised.
She wrapped her hands around her chocolate cup, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
Rizzi’s warning still rang in her ears. One more misstep. One more appearance in the wrong company, the wrong place, and her fortune would vanish.
But somewhere between now and Count Morosini’s “Festival of Air and Nuptials,” she might find a way to turn the spectacle to her advantage. To make the stage he’d built become a trap for therealvillains instead of a noose for her.
She lifted her chin.
“One thing is certain,” she said. “If Count Morosini means this fête to prove that scandal is over and order restored, someone had better tell the truth before the balloon leaves the ground.”
And if Sofia Morosini knew that truth, then Venetia intended—very calmly, very carefully, with all the discretion Captain Rizzi could possibly desire—to pry it out of her.
Chapter Thirty-One
The smell ofhot chocolate drifting from the casa’s breakfast room had never been more enticing.
