“I would not place her in danger,” Morosini added, almost as an afterthought. “Duval assures me his contraption is perfectly safe.”
Edward thought of Venetia in that fragile basket, silk and rope between her and the cold green water, while a city’s worth of eyes watched. While her enemies watched.
“No contraption is perfectly safe, sir,” he said before he could stop himself.
Morosini regarded him for a moment, then smiled thinly. “Nor is love, Mr. Rothbury. Yet people continue to risk it.”
He rolled up the sketch. “You will begin work on the program this afternoon. And you will remember what I have said. The translation ofIvanhoeis your chief duty. At great speed. The marchese was enthralled by your last few chapters. Keep your distance from Miss Playford. Smile at the fête. If you behave, you may yet see your fair lady lifted above suspicion along with that balloon.”
And if I do not behave, Edward thought grimly, I shall watch her fall without being able to move a finger to save her.
“Yes, sir,” he said aloud, inclining his head.
Outside, the faint clang of ship’s bells drifted in through the shutters, mingling with the slap of water against stone. He turned back toward the library, feeling as if he were navigating his way through a suffocating fog.
Ivanhoe, he thought bitterly, had no idea how easy he’d had it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Back in thelibrary, where he was expected to devote his full attention to Sir Walter Scott, Edward settled at the great walnut desk and stared unseeingly at the pages.
Did Count Morosini truly not perceive the irony?
Of course he did. The old man understood very well that the Ivanhoe whose trials Edward translated on the page had more freedom than the man bending over the manuscript. For a man who wielded such power, consideration for other people’s inner lives was of very little account. Morosini craved the entertainment Edward’s translations provided, and the obedience of others was as natural to him as breathing.
He might experience the emotional highs and lows of chivalric romance from his armchair; the emotional highs and lows of the people who served him mattered only insofar as they could be usefully arranged upon his chessboard.
The library was cool despite the late–morning sun. Dust motes drifted in shafts of light that broke through the high windows. Outside, somewhere far below, water slapped rhythmically against stone, the pulse of the city that was slowly becoming his prison.
He dipped his pen.“Ivanhoe, though oppressed by fetters, felt his spiritas free as ever…”
Lucky Ivanhoe.
A soft sound from the upper gallery—a muffled sniff, followed by a strangled gulp—jerked his head up.
For a heartbeat he hesitated. The Morosini library possessed a thousand small noises: settling wood, turning pages, the distant clatter of servants. But this sound carried unmistakable human misery.
“Signorina Sofia!” he burst out, rising quickly. “How many times have I told you that you should not be here?”
Her small figure was half hidden at the top of the ladder. At the sound of his voice she stilled, then peered over the carved railing, eyes red rimmed and enormous in her pale face.
“My position is tenuous enough as it is,” he went on, the anger that had been simmering since the gondola incident finding a convenient target. “Your grandfather already harbors… misconceptions… regarding my feelings toward you. Your deceptions have caused both Miss Playford and myself a great deal of grief.”
Yes, this young woman had used them both—played upon his scruples and Venetia’s compassion—and he saw no reason to waste sympathy on crocodile tears.
“Oh, Signor Rothbury!” she wailed, pressing a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth as she began to descend. She missed the last rung and half stumbled onto the floor.
When she lifted her face to him, tear-stained cheeks and tragic eyes, she looked less like the glittering, spoiled conspirator he’d known and more like a frightened girl.
“You have heard about my betrothal?” she demanded. “And yet there is no feeling in your heart for what I am suffering? I am to marry Count Bembo. Count Bembo, with the breath of a fishmonger!”
The last word broke on a half sob that sounded painfully genuine. Against his will, a corner of Edward’s heart softened.
“Yes,” he said, more quietly. “Lady Townsend received the announcement. I am… sorry, signorina.”
“You aresorry.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “You, who knowwhat it is to love?” Her gaze searched his face. “I thought you, at least, would understand. Instead, you scold me as if I were a naughty child.”
He drew a breath, counting to three before replying. “You surely knew that you could not marry your Paolo,” he said, trying for kindness and not entirely sure he achieved it. “I do feel for you. Like you, I must accept that the one person in the world I love above all others is… out of reach.”
