“How kind of you to receive us at such an unfashionable hour,” Lady Townsend said as their hostess swept toward them.
La Serafina looked as if she had just risen from a couch in a Tiepolo painting. Her dark hair, threaded with silver, was coiled high and fastened with pearl-tipped pins. Her gown was of deep-green silk that clung rather more closely than any English modiste would permit, its lace sleeves falling back from elegant wrists heavy with bracelets. Her perfume—amber and orange blossom—greeted them as she stepped forward.
“It is always an honor to receive English friends,” she said, with a graceful inclination of her head.
“And it is an honor to receive Venetian hospitality,” Lady Townsend returned. “Have you ever experienced our English ways?”
“Venice is everything to me. I have never been tempted.” La Serafina’s smile deepened. “I do not think I would thrive beneath your gray skies.”
“As a renowned opera singer, I had thought you might have performed on our shores,” Lord Thornton said, bowing over her hand.
She gave a little theatrical shiver. “I should shrivel up entirely. It is what I fear happened to my eminent mentor, the great Isabella Monteverdi.” Her gaze drifted toward the large portrait that dominated one wall. “She allowed herself to be lured there by a good man, yes… but she never sang again.”
“Your art was more important?” Lady Townsend asked. “I recall hearing of Isabella Monteverdi, but I do not believe she ever graced our stages.”
“La povera Isabella.” La Serafina’s mouth tightened with something that was not quite disdain and not quite grief. “She became alittle housewife. Her husband was kind but not a man of great culture. He rescued her and her child, perhaps—when she believed her first husband lost at sea. But this…” She flicked dismissive fingers, as if brushing away memories. “We are not here to talk of old tragedies. You come, I understand, to ask about a certain Count di Montefiore.”
Venetia’s heart picked up its pace.
“And I am very happy to tell you everything that I know of this gentleman,” La Serafina added, a glint in her eye, “whom I do not hold in the greatest regard. Several of my girls have furnished me with unsavory reports about his conduct.”
“What have they said?” Venetia asked before she could stop herself—and blushed when all three turned looks upon her.
La Serafina gave a mirthless laugh. “He is a relative newcomer to this city but the reports are beginning to gather. We are asked to believe him French-Italian, with a title that smells as false as his cologne.”
“So the Italian title and accent are fabricated?” Thornton asked.
“The title is fabricated. The…breeding…is fabricated, I am convinced of it. He first came to my salons last winter with a gentleman I know to be English—a Mr. G—” She paused delicately. “Greene, he called himself that evening. They spoke in low voices near the musicians’ screen. They forgot I, too, have English friends.”
“What did they say?” Lord Thornton leaned forward.
La Serafina tilted her head, remembering. “I quizzed my friends when I heard of your…difficulties.” She speared Venetia with a look. “They told me he spoke of ‘trustees’ and ‘conditions in the will.’ Of a young lady who had inherited ‘what ought never to have left the line.’ They said Mr. Greene was angry; he drank too much and called your English lawyers ‘pious fools.’ Your Count di Montefiore”—her voice dripped scorn on the title—“laughed and told him that reputations were fragile things. That with the right… arrangements, a fortune could beredirectedwithout any needto go near a court.”
Venetia’s hands tightened around the reticule in her lap until the beaded silk cut into her palms.
“There was talk of debts. A maid who would be easy to sway; willing to do anything, for she had a brother who needed money. I did not then know of any emeralds, but when the theft was whispered occurred, and later when Miss Playford was arrested, I began to join the pieces.”
“There were more pieces to join?” asked Venetia breathlessly.
La Serafina glanced about to ensure they were quite alone. “The maid,” she whispered. “I heard her name was Griselda and that she was paid to take the emerald ensemble. I presume the contessa was her mistress. It makes sense. But now Griselda is in hiding, afraid for her life because of what this man Paolo required of her.”
“Paolo? Do you know more.”
La Serafina shook her head. “But I will tell you if I do.”
For several minutes Thornton quizzed La Serafina, and she answered candidly, her gaze occasionally resting on Venetia with sympathy. Finally, after exchanging a grim look with Lady Townsend, he said, “Just as we suspected. It appears there is ample evidence to prove our di Montefiore is as much a nobleman as my valet, and that he is in the pay of Greene, the man who would profit should a poor report of Venetia sway her trustees.”
“We are deeply appreciative of your time,” Lady Townsend said after a few more questions, rising with a rustle of mauve silk. “We must not keep you from your rest.”
“If you learn anything more that might confirm our suspicions,” Thornton added, “we would be grateful if you would send word.”
“But of course,” La Serafina replied, spreading her hands with a gracious little flourish. She led them back across the salon, past a pair of velvet settees and a marble-topped table where a fan of tarot cards lay abandoned, their painted eyes staring up at the ceiling.
She paused, as Venetia had half hoped she would, before theenormous oil painting in the center of the wall.
“Behold the woman of whom I spoke,” she said softly. “The great Isabella Monteverdi.”
The portrait seized the light. Isabella stood slightly turned, as if about to move off the canvas. Her simple white gown was a contrast to her proud magnificence, her dark hair arranged in glossy coils, her eyes bold and knowing, her mouth ripe and sensuous. The painter had captured the proud line of her throat, the vulnerable slant of her shoulders, the strength in her mouth and eyes. Her hands were clasped loosely at her waist—elegant hands, long-fingered, capable.
