“Ring? What ring?” he demanded. “We are talking about the stolen emeralds and how to provide proof of Miss Playford’s innocence.”
“Yes, of course—that is why we came,” Lady Townsend agreed. “And learning the truth about the contessa’s maid is a marvelous discovery.” She touched Venetia’s arm in quick, shared excitement. “But the portrait of Italy’s most famous opera singer shows her quite plainly wearing the same signet that our young Edward wears on his right little finger.”
Venetia drew in a breath, the memory of the painting flashing vividly before her: Isabella’s graceful hands folded, the oval of dark gold, the phoenix and the two tiny stars. She could see just as clearly Edward’s hand closing around her own on the gondola rail, that same ring and seal glinting in the lantern light.
It cannot be a coincidence. Itcannot.
Thornton looked from one eager face to the other, then shook his head slowly, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “My dear ladies, one cannot place so much significance upon a detail in a painting. You are both steeped in the sort of romantic notions Mr. Rothbury spends his days translating from Sir Walter Scott.”
He turned the full weight of his gentle regard onto Venetia. “And you, my child, are in more danger than most of seeing destiny in every shadow. It is no secret—indeed, I will confess it plainly—that Mr. Rothbury’s heart belongs to you, and that your affection is entirely equal. But the disparity in your circumstances is what prevents a union. I perfectly understand why you would seize upon anything that hints at a change in that balance.”
Venetia bit the inside of her cheek. His words were reasonable, sensible. And utterly lacking in magic or inspiration.
“But,” Thornton continued, “we must not allow ourselves to be carried away by wishful thinking when we have other known matters to attend to. It isexcellentnews to have confirmationthat Greene and di Montefiore are, in all likelihood, acting in concert against your interests, Venetia. And that we have this maid—Griselda—who has, I suspect, been more victim than villain. We must find her. That is the first thing we must do.”
“Yes, of course, Lord Thornton,” Venetia said obediently. Then the words burst out of their own accord. “But do you notseehow the ring changes everything?”
Lady Townsend made an encouraging little sound. “It does seem rather more than chance, Thornton.”
“The ring, the English bailiff, the lost Italian husband—surely it is all connected!” Venetia pressed on, heart hammering. She had put the pieces together in an instant. “If Edward is Isabella Monteverdi’s son by her first marriage to this marchese, then he is not merely some obscure translator. He is—” Her throat closed around the enormity of it. “He is of a great Venetian house. He would not be beneath me at all.”
He would be my equal, she thought.
“Of course you are excited, my dear,” Thornton said kindly, though his expression remained skeptical. “But a tiny painter’s flourish is hardly proof of a grand, life-altering inheritance—much as I know you would wish it so. We must verify calmly and cautiously before we build castles out of air.”
Venetia pressed her gloved hands together until the seams bit into her fingers. Calmly and cautiously. While Edward toiled like a prisoner and Greene and di Montefiore plotted her ruin.
She lifted her chin. “Then we shall verify it. What is there to lose? If I am wrong, there will only be my…disappointment.” She swallowed, feeling the wild leap of hope that refused to be quelled. “But if I am right…”
If I am right, everything changes. For Edward. For me. For us.
The bells of a nearby church began to toll the hour, the sound rolling out over the rooftops like a summons. Venetia glanced back theway they had come, toward La Serafina’s palazzo, and then ahead, to where the narrow alley opened onto a sun-washed bridge.
Somewhere in this glittering, treacherous city, a reclusive marchese wore a certain signet ring while he refused to disclose the secrets of his past.
Venetia walked silently beside Lord Thornton and Lady Townsend. Perhaps they were planning how they might discover the whereabouts of Griselda.
And of course, that was important.
But more important to Venetia was that this Marchese Valenti not carry his secrets to the grave.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
She had tohave time alone, she told the others. Time to think, reflect, and pray—or at least to pretend she was doing something so sensible.
The church was cool as a cellar after the heat of thefondamenta.
Venetia slipped inside and let the heavy door thud shut behind her, cutting off the shimmer of the canal and the cries of gondoliers. The scent of beeswax and old incense wrapped around her while colored light slanted through narrow stained glass windows.
Exactly the place for her wild hopes either to settle… or to be exposed as fantasies.
Quietly, she made her way along the side aisle. In her mind, the portrait at La Serafina’s rose again with unnerving clarity: Isabella Monteverdi’s graceful hands folded at her waist. The gleam of the signet ring on her middle finger.
The same design Edward wore. The same.
It could be wishful thinking, of course. Any number of noblemen might share a crest that included a phoenix.
But…
