“Youareguilty,” he said, holding her gaze. “If not of theft, then of recklessness. Of vanity. Of playing with other people’s lives because you could not bear to be thwarted in love.”
She flinched again, but did not look away. “Yes,” she said at last, the word very small. “Of that, I am guilty.”
She straightened, drawing herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “But not of the crime for which Miss Playford stands accused. That is Griselda’s doing, at Paolo’s request. And now it is too late to change anything. I will marry Count Bembo, and you will molder here until you have translated Grandpapa’s entire library.”A bleak little smile touched her lips. “We are both his prisoners, Signor Rothbury. Miserable and helpless. And there is nothing to be done about it.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“So,” Eugenia saidacross the breakfast table, breaking her roll rather more fiercely than necessary, “we know now that Mr. Greene is pulling strings from England in collaboration with that odious Count di Montefiore, for the express purpose of blackening Miss Playford’s character so that he may inherit her fortune.”
Thornton set down his cup with a soft chink, his brows drawn together. “That does appear to be the case,” he conceded. “But the situation is not simple to remedy.” He leaned back. “We are in a foreign country. Di Montefiore may merely be acting on Greene’s instructions. And Captain Rizzi—” his mouth tightened “—may be in their employ, or at the very least deaf to any interpretation that does not end with Venetia in chains.”
He lifted his hands in a rare gesture of helplessness. “Truly, my dear Eugenia, I do not yet know how we begin to mitigate the dire situation in which our dear girl finds herself.”
He paused, his gaze meeting hers, and his voice gentled. “But of course we will.”
“Both our dear friends,” Eugenia corrected, her heart squeezing. “Do not forget Mr. Rothbury.”
“Indeed not,” Thornton said.
She pushed aside her plate, appetite gone. “You do realize that Count Morosini has made his continued protection of Miss Playfordentirely conditional upon Edward remaining his faithful drudge, translating Sir Walter Scott to the last full stop? Sir Walter Scott has three published books released this year. Why, poor Mr. Rothbury will be here another seven years at least before he can hope to be released—and that’s only if the great author slows down.”
Thornton gave a faint snort. “He could be gone long before then if he so chooses—”
“Could he?” Eugenia sent him a beetling look over the rim of her teacup. “Perhaps you underestimate the capacity of a young man in love. We know—without a shadow of doubt—that Mr. Rothbury is desperately in love with dear Venetia, and while she is under suspicion of an as-yet unsolved crime, for the emerald pendant is still missing, she cannot leave Venice. Nor will he. He will die in chains in that count’s service, if need be, rather than risk abandoning the woman he loves but cannot wed.”
The words hurt as she said them; they were too close to old wounds of her own. She softened her tone. “I hope, at least, you will concede that the hearts of Miss Playford and Mr. Rothbury beat as one.”
Thornton’s stern face eased. The morning light caught the silver in his hair, and for an instant she saw the younger man he had been—the one who’d once stolen a kiss in a corridor and set her poor eighteen-year-old heart aflame.
“I concede it,” he said quietly. “And I will confess that their plight troubles me greatly. You are not the only one invested in the happiness of our dear Miss Playford, my dear.”
Eugenia felt a warmth spread through her chest quite unrelated to the coffee.Ourdear Miss Playford.
“I would see them happily united as much as you,” he went on, fiddling with his spoon. “I merely wish I knew where to begin in unmasking the true perpetrators of the contessa’s emerald thefts. Until we can prove Venetia’s innocence and expose di Montefiore andGreene, Rizzi and Morosini hold all the cards.”
Outside, a gondola glided past the window, the splash of the oar a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to her racing thoughts. Eugenia put down her cup with a small rattle and rose.
“Then we must begin where information is thickest,” she declared. “I propose we pay a visit to La Serafina this very morning.”
Thornton looked up sharply. “La Serafina? Again?”
“Yes, again,” Eugenia said. “Miss Playford will come with us—in disguise—and we will speak to the most knowledgeable woman in all Venice. On a busy evening, whilst surrounded by admirers, La Serafina had too little time to impart what she knows. But in the quiet of the day—” She lifted her chin. “When it is made clear to her that the happiness of two young hearts rests on the quality of intelligence, I have no doubt she will be more forthcoming.”
Thornton’s mouth curved, the expression half rueful, half fond. “You are determined to play Fate, are you not, my dear? Matchmaker, strategist, and avenging angel all in one?”
“Someone must,” she said briskly, though his teasing warmed her. “Heaven knows Edward and Venetia are making a muddle of it by themselves. If left to their own devices they will sacrifice themselves into early graves, their virtue entirely intact and their happiness entirely absent.”
He chuckled. “You do them an injustice. Rothbury is not entirely without sense, and Miss Playford has developed a positively alarming streak of courage.”
“Courage without guidance is merely recklessness,” Eugenia retorted. “They need allies. They have us.”
Thornton’s eyes met hers and held. For a moment, the distant calls on the canal faded.
“Yes,” he said softly. “They have us.”
He rose, pushing back his chair. “Very well,” he said. “Let us go and corner La Serafina in her den. For Venetia.For Rothbury.” His smile deepened. “And perhaps, for the satisfaction of proving that two English relics may yet outwit a nest of Venetian intriguers.”
Eugenia laughed. “Relics indeed. Speak for yourself, my lord. I fully intend to prove that I am as formidable now as I was at eighteen.”
