Sofia waited. For sympathy from Venetia? Or something else?
Again, the silence lengthened. Venetia held her breath. What to say? She had to pick her words carefully. But suddenly her body was thrumming with excitement.
Were not both of them helplessly at the mercy of powerful men?
Were not both of them hopelessly in love with a man for whom their love could not be sanctioned?
Well! Sofia had the power to exonerate Venetia and thus ensure she was not branded a thief and therefore lose herfortune. Granted, Sofia’s confession would not removeallthe obstacles between marriage between her and Edward.
But if Sofia used her knowledge of Venetian society and some artful means of helping Venetia see—even secretly—the marchese, might that not be enough to help Venetia orchestrate a reunion between Edward and—
His father?
She felt herself shaking. Of course, she might be wrong about all of it, but the more she thought about the signet ring adorning Isabella Monteverdi’s left hand, and the signet ring she’d seen Edward wear, plus countless other clues, the more she felt the pieces of the puzzle begin to make up the glorious whole.
“Signorina Sofia,” she said softly, glancing about to ensure they were not being overheard. She had to be careful. The wrong approach could throw Sofia offside even more. “There is more than just your happiness riding on this grand event in five days’ time. That is also the day that Captain Rizzi must give his report to his superior regarding his belief in my testimony that I am innocent and his opinion regarding my character.”
Sofia’s expression was inscrutable.
Venetia waited for her to speak while Rizzi’s grim voice returned to her:One more impropriety, signorina, and my report to your English trustees will be very unfavorable indeed.
One misstep, one ill-judged meeting, and she could lose everything. Except ironically, her heart—Edward already held that beyond recall.
Slowly, Sofia said, “You have already made that clear, Miss Playford. I wondered—” she hesitated “—if you are choosing your words carefully to make a case for some kind of… bargain between us?”
Oh, how sharp the girl was. But perhaps it was simply that when one had nothing to lose, and no bargaining power, one learned to be creative.
Venetia inclined her head slowly.
“I think we can both help each other,” she said. The church suddenly felt intensely cold before sudden warmth flowed through her body, and excitement fizzed in her blood as she added softly, “And I think you will consider the bargain more than adequate.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Strangely, it wasIvanhoe’s grand internal struggles that steadied Edward’s mind.
All morning the words had seemed to blaze on the page: honor, sacrifice, impossible love. The quill flew in his hand, scratching steadily across the paper while beyond the library windows, Venice shimmered in pale sunlight, but Edward scarcely noticed. For the first time in days, hope had edged out despair.
Sofia’s confession—however self-pitying—had given him something solid: a name, a method, a chain of events that could, with care, be used to vindicate Venetia. Griselda. A stolen pair of emerald earrings. A desperate bargain made in a mending room.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than the blind panic he’d been floundering in.
If Ivanhoe could endure chains and wounds and still ride to his lady’s rescue, surely a mere translator could outwit a handful of conspirators.
I am not riding anywhere. I am sitting at a desk translating adjectives. But still.
He dipped his pen again, fighting the urge to race to Venetia with the news. Timing, he knew, was everything. Sofia’s story was a double-edged weapon. Wielded clumsily, it could cut Venetia as much as it sliced at Captain Rizzi’s assumptions. He would have to find theprecise moment—after the right allies had been prepared, after Griselda was put somewhere safe—to let the truth seep into the open.
And all the while, the clock ticked.
Morosini had not yet said as much, but Edward felt it in every tight line of the old man’s face: The scandal must be neatly contained before the end of the great balloon extravaganza that would celebrate Sofia’s betrothal to Count Bembo. Venice would be watching that day. So, no doubt, would Rizzi. And Greene. And di Montefiore.
Three days. Perhaps four. A handful of dawns and dusks in which to untangle a web that had taken weeks—no, months—to spin.
His pen slowed as that thought settled. Then, deliberately, he bent again to the work. Ivanhoe on the page, Venetia in his mind, a plan unfurling somewhere between.
He was so deep in it—half in England, half in Palestine—that the first murmur of voices above barely registered. The upper gallery was where Sofia hid when she was painting. Servants did not linger there. A deeper tone answered, roughened by age.
The voices grew clearer as the speakers descended the iron spiral stair. Edward hunched instinctively over his pages, letting the tall ranks of books shield him. It was not eavesdropping, he told himself piously, if the conversation insisted on walking directly into his hearing.
