Edward caught it as he passed by on his way to take his gondola to perform another day of translation.
He imagined Venetia at the table in her morning gown, cheeks still pale from last night, fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup.
What he would have given to have had the opportunity to sit opposite her, reading the newspaper, reveling in a scene of cozy domesticity.
Instead, he tightened his grip on his leather satchel and stepped into the waiting gondola.
Work. Duty. Distance. Instead of drinking hot chocolate with his darling, he would observe the three pillars of his current purgatory.
The sky over Venice was a washed-out pearl, the early light turning the water to bruised silver. Oars creaked, pigeons wheeled above the terracotta roofs, and the faint smell of fish and smoke rode the breeze as the gondola threaded through narrow canals toward Palazzo Morosini.
Edward’s days were long and started early, and he, Signor Rothbury, translator to a Venetian count, did not lie abed.
He only lay awake.
He wondered, not for the first time, if this would ever change. Orif he was destined to translate other men’s romances while his own slowly strangled itself in the coils of honor and obligation.
By the time he reached the palazzo, his stomach was a tight knot of hunger and dread.
His footsteps echoed as he crossed the checkered marble to the familiar door of the library.
He had just set his satchel on the big walnut desk when a soft cough sounded behind him.
“Signor Rothbury.”
It was the majordomo, grave and impassive. “His Excellency requests the pleasure of your company. At once.”
Of course he does.
Edward followed him through a succession of high, chilly rooms until they reached Morosini’s private study. The shutters here were half open, a blade of pale light cut across the carpet and picked out the gilt on the frames of somber ancestors glaring down from the walls.
Count Morosini stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching a barge drift past below. He did not turn immediately—never a good sign.
“At times, Mr. Rothbury,” he said at last, “I cannot decide whether you are a brave man or a very foolish one.”
When he did face Edward, his expression held curiosity rather than outright censure. Somehow, that was worse.
Edward bowed his head. At present he felt almost entirely the latter.
“Or,” the count went on, coming forward a few paces, “perhaps you are simply a man in love. Such dramatic violence suggests the actions of a gentleman who is consumed by passion.”
He sighed, as if the whole notion were faintly tedious. “Did I not explicitly tell you I wished you to have nothing to do with Miss Playford? And yet you spent the evening alone in a gondola with her… after coming to blows with yet another gentleman who apparently wished to do the same.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I intervened to preserve the lady’s honor when Count di Montefiore tried to force his attentions upon her.”
Morosini’s eyebrows rose. “Captain Rizzi neglected to mention the name of the gentleman whose nose you redecorated. di Montefiore, you say?” A faint curl of disdain touched his mouth. “Indeed, he is not a man I hold in particularly high regard.”
He gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “I could almost commend you for it.”
The words hung in the air, offering a sliver of hope.
Then, the shutters slammed shut.
“However,” Morosini continued, “the fact remains that I specifically instructed you to stay away from Miss Playford. You are in my employ to translate the works of Sir Walter Scott, not to act as a knight-errant on the Grand Canal. The signorina is under suspicion for a crime that has not yet been solved. She is also clearly a… distracting influence.”
Edward opened his mouth, then shut it again. Every reply that came to mind would make matters worse.
“Consider this a final warning,” Morosini said, voice softening not at all. “Miss Playford enjoys my protection only so long as you put my work above all other considerations.”
