Edward knew he should bow and accept this. Knew that prudence insisted he murmur something about gratitude and redoubled efforts.
Instead, the words burst out of him before he could stop them.
“Then you accept that she was an unwitting pawn, sir? That she is not the jewel thief Captain Rizzi seeks?”
Idiot. Spectacular idiot.
The count studied him for a long moment, dark eyes narrowed.
At length he inclined his head, very slightly. “I accept that matters are… less clear-cut than certain witnesses would have them,” he said. “Captain Rizzi has testimony that she was seen placing the emeralds in the tiara. Yet the descriptions of this supposed act do not entirely agree. I grant you that.”
He shrugged one bony shoulder. “If it had suited my purposes better that she be detained, I would have had no compunction in accepting the version that achieved that end. But my paramount desire is for you to complete the translations of the entire body of Sir Walter Scott’s works. There is, I think, no translator finer than you.”
The faint compliment landed like a stone in Edward’s stomach.
“And I suspect,” Morosini went on, “that you are more… malleable… if Miss Playford is merely under suspicion and not incarcerated. For now.”
There it was. The chain around his neck, politely described.
“That, however,” the count finished, “depends entirely upon you.”
The room felt suddenly airless. From the canal below came the distant cry of a gondolier; somewhere in the house a clock chimed the half-hour.
Edward swallowed. “I understand, sir.”
“I am sure you do.” Morosini’s tone lightened with almost jarring swiftness. “Now. To more agreeable matters. You have heard, I assume, of my granddaughter Sofia’s betrothal?”
“I have heard whispers in the household,” Edward said cautiously. “A fête… and a balloon ascent?”
“Ah!” The count’s eyes gleamed. “Then my secretary has done his work. Yes. We shall have a spectacle that will make Venice talk of nothing else for weeks. A French aeronaut—Duval, an eccentric genius—will ascend in his balloon from a barge anchored in the Bacino. The whole city will gather along the Riva to watch.”
He moved to his desk and unfurled a large sheet of paper, beckoning Edward closer. It proved to be a sketch: the white dome of the balloon like a rising moon over a forest of masts, the Doge’s Palace a lacework backdrop.
“We will have musicians on additional barges,”Morosini said, tapping the drawing. “Fireworks from the Lido when the balloon reaches its greatest height. Sofia and her intended seated beneath a canopy on the main platform—very visible, very respectable. No one will remember a few missing jewels when they have seen such wonders.”
“Indeed,” Edward murmured, still staring at the sketch. The balloon’s silk envelope bulged ominously, reminding him of the scene into which he’d ridden a year ago. Venetia about to be swept away, a prisoner of evil Lord Windermere.
“You, of course, will attend,” Morosini went on. “Duval speaks little Italian. I require you to translate his scientific discourse on the principles of flight into something my guests can understand. We will also prepare a printed program in both Italian and English to distribute to the crowd. You will supervise that as well.”
“Of course, sir.”
Morosini’s mouth thinned. “Captain Rizzi and I agree that it will be… advantageous… for Miss Playford to be present, as well. As a sign that my household remains united and that I harbor no ill will toward my English guests.”
Edward’s heart lurched. “Miss Playford?”
“Under appropriate supervision,” the count added. “You are not that supervision. You will keep your distance, Mr. Rothbury. If Rizzi or anyone else sees you whispering together, I will be… displeased.”
That seemed an understatement of heroic proportions.
“As for who will ascend with Duval,” Morosini went on, returning to the sketch, “Sofia, naturally, is the obvious choice. A young, noble bride rising into the heavens—it is a pleasing image. But she is… nervous.” His lips pressed together briefly. “English courage might be a useful corrective.”
English… oh no.
“You are considering Miss Playford, sir?” Edward forced the question out calmly, though his blood had turned to ice.
“Perhaps.” Morosini’s gaze sharpened. “An English heiress placed in my care, displayed safely and triumphantly before the eyes of Venice? It would be a powerful statement. My guests would see that I am confident of her innocence. The gossips would choke on their own tongues.”
Edward did not know what to say.
