“You are right, Rothbury,” he said at last. “I have kept you chained to this desk without proper regard to the fact thatcreativity must be fed as well as driven. Gather your things. I shall send a note ahead to my dear friend La Serafina to ensure you are properly entertained this evening. Every man needs comfort in a woman’s arms from time to time.”
“That is not the kind of comfort I crave, with all due respect—”
“But it is what I insist upon.” The count sliced a hand through the air. “You will not argue, Signor Rothbury. You will go to La Serafina’s tonight as my honored guest. In the meantime, I shall do what I can to see that Miss Playford is reported on favorably, so that she may leave Venice unblemished and I may count on your continued service.”
Edward’s breath lodged in his chest. “So… you do know the truth, then, of who stole the emeralds?” he asked. “You know it was—”
“I do not need to know who it was,” Morosini snapped. The answer came too quickly; Edward heard the lie in it, or at least the evasion. Whether the count either suspected—or knew—his chief concern was keeping his translator working, pliable, and indebted.
“So you areorderingme to visit La Serafina?” Edward said bluntly. “Now?”
“You will go home, change, and for once not bury yourself in manuscripts. You will not speak to that young woman. You will find yourself a pair of accommodating arms at the salon of Venice’s premier woman of letters and… pleasure.” Morosini’s mouth twitched. “And tomorrow your pen will fly.”
Edward was in no position to refuse, and truthfully, too exhausted to mount a serious resistance. His hand ached, his head was stuffed with gloom, and a perverse part of him wondered if a few hours away from the inkpot might let him think more clearly.
Perhaps he might even find some thread of hope to tug at La Serafina’s.
Chapter Forty-Two
Two and ahalf hours later he was stepping once more through the doors of her elegant palazzo, the sounds of laughter and music rolling out to meet him.
“Lo mio caro!” La Serafina herself swept forward, every inch the queen of this peculiar kingdom. Tonight she wore deep violet, her silver-threaded hair piled artfully beneath a spray of jeweled pins. “Count Morosini wishes me to convey his admiration for your tireless work, Signor Rothbury. He has charged me to ensure your evening is as pleasant as possible. Alessia—!”
She lifted a hand to summon one of her girls.
Edward hastily shook his head. “I am not in need of… that kind of companionship,” he said, coloring. “But an evening of good wine and conversation would be a welcome change from the silent company of Sir Walter Scott.”
“Then conversation you shall have.” Her eyes twinkled. “Alessia is well versed in the Greek tales and philosophy. If you wish to discourse on heroes and fate, you could not ask for a better partner. She appears to have disappeared for the moment, but I shall bring her to you.”
He had hardly time to murmur his thanks before a familiar, unwelcome presence descended.
“I did not think you would dare show your face anywhere you might encounter me, Rothbury,” snarled Count di Montefiore.
Edward turned. The man’s once-handsome nose was decidedly crooked, the bruising livid beneath powder. Edward supposed he ought to feel some remorse. He did not.
“You have a nerve,” the count continued. “In fact, if you do not get out now, I shall make a spectacle of you.”
“And what appears to be the problem, Count di Montefiore?” La Serafina’s voice floated between them. She had reappeared, her smile serene, her gaze sharp.
di Montefiore touched his swelling nose with an injured air. “This Englishman assaulted me without provocation.”
“I merely objected to the count manhandling a lady who is dear to me—Miss Playford,” Edward said evenly. “I stepped in to uphold her honor.”
“Honor? Pah.” The count sneered. “Miss Playford is a thief. When Captain Rizzi’s report is delivered, I shall see to it that her trustees in England are informed of her true character. She will lose the fortune she does not deserve.” His lip curled. “In three days’ time, Rothbury, she will have only you. Nothing else.”
Rage clawed at Edward’s throat, but before he could respond, La Serafina slid a hand onto the count’s arm.
“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “my salon is devoted to the finer arts, not the airing of personal grievances. Conte, Alessia has been speaking of your admiration for French verse. Perhaps you would favor her with your opinions?”
She signaled to a dark-haired young woman behind her. At once the girl glided forward, murmured something charming, and gently but firmly steered the count away.
La Serafina watched him go, then gave Edward a wry look. “Bad blood, Signor Rothbury?”
“I think you understand why,” Edward growled.
La Serafina nodded. “He is not a man I would trust.”
Edward raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “If Icould only reveal the depth of his villainy.”
