Edward regarded her with consternation. The thought of having shared this space—unchaperoned—with a young lady of quality, mere feet away yet entirely undetected, was profoundly inappropriate. If discovered, Edward’s lucrative commission might be forfeit, along with his professional reputation.
“You cannot possibly have been present in this room during my previous visits?” he said, unable to keep the note of alarm from his voice.
“Frequently,” she said, pleased. “I’m very quiet. Philosophers keep my secrets,” she added, pointing to the gallery above. “They bore Grandpapa and they’re out of your line of sight. Giulia—my good maid—hides my sketchbook behind them. We have an understanding.”
“Good heavens!” Edward exclaimed. “I have never once detected your presence. I cannot conceive that my powers of observation have grown so lamentably dull.”
The young woman laughed. “Do not reproach yourself, signor. I have become exceedingly adept at moving silently through this palazzo. One develops such skills when living under my grandfather’s restrictive regime.”
“You are an artist, then?” Edward inquired, striving to maintain a tone of friendly interest rather than betraying his concern.
“I aspire to be,” Sofia responded. “Would you care to examine my work? I should value the opinion of an educated Englishman.”
Before Edward could respond, Sofia began to ascend the delicate spiral staircase that led to the gallery. “Allow me to retrieve my current project,” she called over her shoulder.
Edward cast a nervous glance toward the library door, half expecting the count to materialize despite his granddaughter’s assurances.
His concern was interrupted by Sofia’s musical laugh. “Truly, signor, you need not concern yourself with surprise visitors. The servants have strict instructions not to disturbyou when you are engaged in your scholarly pursuits.”
She returned with a canvas. The Grand Canal at sunset painted with tender light, lengthening shadows—employing a technique beyond her years, and a feeling beyond most people’s.
“You look delighted.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Another thing. I had hoped you might assist me in a strictly mercantile matter,” she said. “Do you know anyone who buys pictures? Or perhaps you…”
Edward blinked. “I—”
“I should very much like to keep it,” she confessed, “but I am determined uponescapeeven more.”
“Escape?”
“Grandpapa intends me for a gentleman of ‘mature years,’ which is another way of sayingold. This particular gentleman admires my portrait.” She shuddered delicately. “I prefer my freedom.”
Edward opened his mouth to offer a sensible objection.
“Before you say anything,” she rushed on, “I should warn you that if you refuse me, I shall be forced to—” she pressed the back of her hand to her brow “—announce to Grandpapa that you have been alone with me in his library every Tuesday and Thursday since Epiphany.”
Edward stared.
Sofia dropped the hand and laughed. “I am teasing you, Signor Rothbury. If I told him, he would make you offer for me at once, and that would ruinbothour plans.”
Despite his alarm, Edward felt a surge of sympathy for the young woman’s plight. Arranged marriages were still commonplace among the Venetian aristocracy, with considerations of wealth and social connection frequently outweighing the personal inclinations of the parties involved. “Surely your grandfather would not force you into a union against your wishes?” he ventured. “Such practices are consideredarchaic in England.”
“Perhaps in your country,” Sofia replied, “but they remain depressingly common in mine. My grandfather has already accepted a substantial gift from this gentleman as a token of his intentions.”
Edward shook his head. “I am sorry, signorina. But I fail to see how the sale of your paintings—”
“I require sufficient funds to escape Venice with the man I truly love,” she interrupted, her eyes suddenly alight with fervor. “I have already sold two canvases through the discreet assistance of my maid’s brother, who deals in art among the foreign visitors. With the proceeds from perhaps five more sales, Paolo and I shall have enough to travel to Florence, where his uncle has promised to help us.”
Edward felt as though he had inadvertently stepped into a scene from one of the very romances he was engaged in translating—complete with a spirited heroine, a controlling patriarch, and a secret love affair.
Dangerous! The rational part of his mind recognized the impropriety of becoming entangled in such a domestic drama.
“I understand your predicament,” he said carefully, “but I fear I cannot—”
She extended the canvas toward him with an entreating gesture. “Would you not prefer to assist two young people in securing their happiness through an honest exchange of value? My art for your assistance?”
