Venetia stepped closer, the hush of the salon falling away for a moment. She heard only her own heartbeat and the faint crackle of the fire.
La Serafina’s voice floated over her shoulder. “It was rumored she married a great Italian nobleman in secret, though never confirmed,” she said. “Marchese Alessandro Valenti. Their time together was brief. His ship was lost, or so everyone believed. It was rumored she had a small child; that she was alone, desperate. I was telling Miss Playford the sad story of my inspiration…though she never inspired me to make a poor bargain when it came to love.”
“And she did?” Lady Townsend asked.
La Serafina nodded. “When an Englishman offered marriage and safety, she took it. Ah, but if she had only been patient. Some months later, the marchese returned to find his wife gone, his son across the sea.” She sighed. “A grand opera, no? Only without the music.”
Venetia swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She could almost feel the tragedy pressing from the paint—the sense of something unfinished, of words unsung.
“Forgive me, I repeat myself, Miss Playford,” she said. “It is an old story, and I am an old woman who loves to tell it.”
“I do not mind at all,” Venetia said, eyes still on the portrait. “It is a pleasure to gaze more closely at such amagnificent painting.”
Her gaze dropped to Isabella’s clasped hands.
A signet ring gleamed there. The painting was large, and the ring’s intricate detail was rendered with care. Heavy gold, the surface worn smooth in places, engraved with a crest: a phoenix, wings spread, and two tiny stars.
A jolt went through Venetia so sharp she had to lock her knees.
I know that ring.
Not merely the design, but the way it sat on the finger. The way the worn edge caught the light.
She had seen it a hundred times as Edward turned pages, as he rubbed his temple in thought, as his hand tightened around hers.
“I believe I have seen that ring before,” she said slowly, her brow furrowing as if she could think the connection away.
La Serafina nodded. “It is the crest of the Marchese Valenti. Only the head of the line wears it.” Her tone held reverence. “It denotes the lawful bearer of an ancient name. It was Alessandro’s ring—which he placed upon Isabella’s finger the day they married in secret. For I believe the marriage took place, even if it was never confirmed by the marchese who, heartbroken, disappeared onto his lonely island and was barely seen again.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Conversation rustled faintly behind her—Lady Townsend murmuring something about Italian customs, Thornton asking a cautious question about the marchese’s present whereabouts—but their words came to Venetia as though through water.
She worried at her lower lip, staring at the painted ring until it blurred. The chatter washed around her like the lapping of the canal.
“Have you not seen that ring yourselves?” she asked at last, turning to Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton.
They both looked at the portrait, then at her, and in that taut, suspended heartbeat she saw the moment recognition dawned in their eyes too.
Because there was only one other hand they had all watched wearing that very ring.
Edward’s.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Venetia could scarcelyfeel the stones beneath her slippers as they stepped out from La Serafina’s cool vestibule into the dazzle of the street. Sunlight ricocheted off the green water of the side canal. Linen flapped from upper windows, a gondolier’s song drifted round the corner, and somewhere close by someone was roasting chestnuts—the smoky sweetness making her eyes water.
She could not hold it in a moment longer.
“This is truly wondrous—”
“It is indeed excellent news to have the name of the woman directly responsible for the theft of the contessa’s emerald earrings,” Thornton said, misreading her, though he smiled at the brightness in her eyes. “A visit to this Griselda—for I’m sure we can discover her whereabouts—securing a confession, may—”
“No, no, I mean the ring Isabella Monteverdi was wearing!” Venetia burst out, barely preventing herself from hopping from foot to foot like a schoolgirl. Her hands were trembling so much she had to hide them in the folds of her skirt.
“I noticed it at the same moment you did, my dear.” Lady Townsend was equally excited, her own eyes alight. “I could swear it’s the very same signet Mr. Rothbury wears.”
Thornton’s brows drew together. He shifted automatically to the outer edge of the alley to shield them as three young apprenticesbarreled past with a basket of fish.
