“And his connection with the Englishman, Greene?”
Edward blinked. “You know?”
She nodded. “I have learned something of the plot to discredit the young lady, Miss Playford.”
Edward exhaled. “She was wrongly accused of theft, yes! And it has been confessed to me that the contessa’s maid, Griselda, was prevailed upon to steal the pendant. She is terrified, and with reason. But if I could only find her, offer her some hope of safety, perhaps she might agree to testify and clear Miss Playford’s name. But in this city…” He spread his hands. “I do not know that any promise I make would be worth the breath.”
“Miss Playford,” La Serafina repeated thoughtfully, “has been here several times.”
Edward frowned. “She returned here after… she was followed by Count di Montefiore?”
La Serafina studied him, head tilted, then changed the subject. “You are a recent visitor to Venice, Signor Rothbury, yet already much cherished by Count Morosini, as evidenced by his letter this afternoon and his concern that you be ‘kept happy.’” Her smile thinned. “Your Italian is exquisite. Yet you are English. Perhaps you grew up in Italy?”
He shook his head. “I grew up in a small town in England. My father—” He stopped, then forced himself on. “My father was an English bailiff. In fact, steward to Miss Playford’s late parents. That is how we knew one another. Meeting her here was… coincidence.”
“And what brought you to Venice?” she asked softly.
“My mother was from here,” he said after a moment. “From Venice.” The words tasted strange on his tongue in this room where so much of her youth had echoed. “She died when I was twelve.”
“And who was your mother?” asked La Serafina.
“It was a long time ago,” he evaded gently. “And I am very tired. I think I shall take my wine and a seat by thewindow, if I may. The count drives me hard; he wishes Sir Walter Scott rendered into Italian almost before the ink is dry on the English editions. It is… difficult to concentrate when my entire mind is fixed on finding this Griselda and sparing Miss Playford any further pain.”
La Serafina’s expression softened. “It sounds as though the young lady holds your heart—as Rowena held Ivanhoe’s.” She gave him a teasing smile. “I am sure there will be the same happy ending for you both, considering your chivalry to date.”
He attempted a smile of his own, but it felt thin. “There can be no happy ending for us,” he said quietly. “As the count has reminded me many times, Ivanhoe only won his Rowena after his lands and title were restored.”
La Serafina made a small moue and, impulsively, touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “What can I do to help you,caro? There is nothing so moving—as profitable, in my line—as a man in love.”
He sighed, accepting a glass of wine from another young woman who had drifted to his side at Serafina’s gesture. “Alas, I have no lands or title to restore.”
“No,” La Serafina said slowly, “but perhaps I can offer you something better than consolation.”
She turned to the girl at Edward’s elbow. The young woman was perhaps a year or two older than Venetia’s maid, her dark hair smoothed neatly beneath a modest cap, her gown simple but of good cloth. Her face was pale and serene.
“This is Griselda,” La Serafina said. “Formerly maid to the contessa you mentioned. I make it my business to give protection, when I can, to those in need.”
Edward’s brain spun. “Good Lord.” He looked the girl over with fresh attention. Dressed in clean homespun, her dark hair partly covered by a pristine linen cap, she looked neat and wholesome.
“But surely your salon is frequented by the very men who mightwish her harm,” Edward protested.
“Count di Montefiore?” La Serafina shrugged. “He has never met her. And the Contessa Barbarigo would never cross my threshold. Griselda reads aloud beautifully and keeps accounts better than most bankers. I believe,” said La Serafina, “that the safest place for those who most want to find her, apart from yourself and Miss Playford—”
“You mean, Count di Montefiore?”
“Exactly,” agreed La Serafina. “As I was saying, the safest place for Griselda is right under their noses.”
“Good heavens!” Edward’s heart was thudding. “How did she come to be here?”
“I think Griselda is best placed to answer that question.” La Serafina nodded to the girl to speak.
Twisting her hands together, Griselda raised her eyes to Edward’s face. “It was the young gentleman Paolo, signore,” she said. “That is the name he gave me, and he said it was best I knew no other. He told me his beloved Sofia insisted I must be brought somewhere safe—somewhere Captain Rizzi would never think to look.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Eugenia fiddled withthe tassel of the cushion as she waited for Venetia to come downstairs.
Normally she found the sound of water slapping gently against the stone soothing; today it set her nerves jangling.
