“We are… great admirers of Mr. Scott,” Lady Townsend said smoothly. “And naturally curious about any gentleman who shares such taste. But you have already been more than generous with your information, La Serafina.”
Venetia sipped her cooling tea, trying to quiet the tremor in her hands.
On a lonely island in the lagoon, this widowed marchese pored over the same stories that filled Edward’s days. He wore the same crest on his finger that Isabella had worn in herportrait—and that Edward wore now.
If she and Lady Townsend were wrong, this was nothing but a series of coincidences.
But if they were right…
Then the translator Count Morosini kept on a scholar’s chain was the son of the Marchese Alessandro Valenti. And every step Venetia took from this moment on would bring them closer to a truth that could either set them all free—or burst their careful plans apart like an overfilled balloon exploding above the piazza.
Chapter Forty-One
In two daysall Venice would be held in thrall to Count Morosini’s extravaganza—Sofia’s betrothal celebration, crowned by the much-anticipated balloon ascent over the lagoon.
In two days, Captain Rizzi’s superior would return to the city and Rizzi’s report on the jewel thefts would be due. He needed to put a neat line under the unsolved scandals that had cast a shadow overLa Serenissima—the Most Serene Republic as it had been until Napoleon had conquered the city a little more than twenty years before. So much civic pride rested upon it.
If Venetia was not completely cleared by then, Edward feared for her future.
But, oh, how difficult it was to attend to tales of love and valor when one’s own heart felt like a battlefield. The words ofIvanhoeblurred before his eyes; noble vows and shining deeds mocked him from the page.
He tried to accept that he and Venetia could not be together. No, hehadaccepted it. But he agonized daily over how much to tell her the whole truth—that his true barrier was notjustpoverty nor lack of position, but the shame of his birth.
Her kind heart would leap to reassure him; she would insist it did not matter.
But it did. For any children they might have, it would. MissPlayford, the great English heiress, inveigled into marriage with the illegitimate son of an Italian opera singer and her mysterious lover. It was bad enough that he would already be regarded as a fortune hunter. Let gossipers sniff out the full extent of his unworthiness and they would feast on it for years.
That was if—if—Venetia’s own reputation survived. If she fulfilled the three-year moral provision in her uncle’s will. If she retained her fortune at all.
The very least he could do for her, as a man who loved her and could not wed her, was ensure she emerged untarnished.
But how?
For much of the afternoon, that question teased him far more cruelly than any dilemma Sir Walter had set for his noble knight. His quill scratched, stalled, scratched again; blots gathered accusingly on the page.
When the count breezed into the library late in the day, the air shifted. Morosini brought with him a heady whiff of expensive cologne and impatience.
“You are not on track to finishIvanhoeby the agreed date,” he said sharply, surveying the scattered pages. “Your pace has declined greatly. What is it you need? How shall we increase your speed? It is that young lady, is it not? I told you to have nothing more to do with her.”
Edward’s temper, frayed thin by worry and sleepless nights, snapped. “I have not sought her out,” he said, more roughly than was wise. “I am here at my desk from dawn until dusk and often beyond. But I am plagued by fears that Captain Rizzi’s report will damn her—that the trustees in England will hear only that she has failed to maintain the spotless conduct required before the three-year deadline falls.”
His hand throbbed from hours of cramped writing. His shoulders ached. His heart felt heavy as lead. How much longer could he pourother men’s passion into Italian while an outlet for his own passion was so utterly stifled?
“I have promised her my protection,” the count replied with a frown, “so long as you do what I contracted you to do. What does it matter? She will leave Venice soon enough to make a brilliant marriage with a man her equal.”
Anger flared hot and sudden. Edward curled his fists beneath the table so the count would not see them shake. “All Venice knows those emeralds were found in your granddaughter’s tiara,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
Morosini’s eyes flared. “Are you accusing Sofia?” The words were soft; the tone was not.
“What good would such a dangerous allegation do me?” Edward shot back, then forced himself to lower his voice. “Unless I wished to be rid of this perpetual grinding work entirely.” He gestured helplessly at the piles of paper. “All I do is translate the adventures and emotions of imagined lovers. I am choking on them.”
Suddenly he felt utterly drained. He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead, resisting the urge to slump over his desk like a schoolboy.
For a heartbeat he thought he had gone too far, that dismissal was imminent. Count Morosini did not tolerate intransigence. And what then? The post in Constantinople was still open. Another letter had arrived only last week, politely inquiring whether he had reconsidered. He could be gone within a fortnight.
He would not be marrying Venetia in any case. There seemed little he could truly do for her from here. Perhaps he was merely a millstone about everyone’s neck. Perhaps he ought simply to leave and be done.
Morosini opened his mouth, his expression thunderous—and then, unexpectedly, paused. He drew in a breath, narrowed his eyes, and something like calculation replaced anger.
