The girl was taking longer than expected to get ready for the gondola ride to the marchese’s island, and Eugenia was growing restless.
No—anxious.
At any moment Catherine might sweep in and begin asking all manner of incisive—no, simply sharp and intrusive—questions, and Eugenia doubted she’d do a very good job of offering the vague, harmless replies required. The last thing she and Venetia needed was Catherine’s well-intentioned interference now, when finally, after three days of waiting, a note had arrived from the marchese. As a “special indulgence to two English ladies,” he had granted them permission to visit his library—though he added that it was unlikely he would be there to receive them.
Eugenia suspected the man would sooner receive a troop of invading Turks than two curious foreigners. Still, the permission was something.
She must have looked as restless as she felt, for at the sound of Thornton’s voice she jerked her head up with a little gasp.
“My dear Eugenia, such agitation is unlike you.” He came into theroom, tall and broad shouldered in his dark coat, eyes twinkling. “I am almost tempted to believe you are up to something.”
For one breathless moment she thought he was about to take her hands—ridiculous, at her age—but instead he sank into the chair opposite and stretched out his long legs.
“Out with it,” he said. “You are scheming.”
“Good heavens, Thornton—what on earth would make you think such a thing? Of course I am not.”
“You have been scheming for three days.” His smile was gentle, but his gaze keen. “Do not imagine I have not noticed your distraction. And not all of it, I think, is on account of your concern for what will happen tomorrow regarding Miss Playford’s future. Oh no, Eugenia—I miss nothing. So, out with it.”
With a sigh of capitulation, she began, “It was as a result of a visit to La Serafina’s that we—”
“Dear Lord, Eugenia, do not tell me you have been to that woman’s den of iniquity!” cried Catherine, choosing that unfortunate moment to sweep into the room in a rustle of black silk and disapproval. “Surely you are as horrified as I am, Thornton. Whatever can Eugenia have been thinking?”
Her eyes gleamed with curiosity. “And what was it La Serafina told you that has you confessing all to our dear friend Thornton? What could you possibly have been asking such a woman?”
Eugenia, quite unable to frame a reply that would not worsen matters, sent a helpless look toward Thornton.
“Perhaps,” he said calmly, “Eugenia does not feel comfortable sharing every detail of her conversation with La Serafina.”
“Well, she was comfortable enough to tellyou,” Catherine grumbled, planting a hand on the back of the sofa, clearly not prepared to let the matter go.
“I doubt you would be willing to reveal all matters of the heart to a public audience either, Catherine,” Thorntonreturned mildly.
“Matters of the heart?” Catherine’s head snapped round, eyes wide. “You speak of Count di Montefiore? Or perhaps Captain Rizzi? Why, they are both regulars at La Serafina’s.”
Eugenia and Thornton exchanged a look of sharp comprehension before Thornton said, still in that deceptively mild tone, “I wonder that you should know this, Catherine, unless you yourself have ventured over the threshold of La Serafina’s salon.”
“Indeed I have not!” Catherine colored. “I have merely visited the captain to apprise him of further particulars in Venetia’s pending case, knowing how important it is that the right impression is given when he presents his report tomorrow.”
“You did not, perhaps, consider that Eugenia—or even I—might wish to present a united front with you?” Thornton asked. “Though I suppose it may not be entirely united.”
“How can you possibly accuse me of disloyalty, Thornton?” Catherine cried. “If you have nothing useful to say to Eugenia that might temper her propensity to take bolder steps than are wise, then I have nothing more to say to you. Good evening!”
She spun toward the door and almost collided with Venetia, who was entering, dressed for the outdoors in a peach pelisse and matching bonnet, cheeks faintly flushed with excitement.
Venetia stepped aside to let Catherine pass, then looked between the older pair in bewilderment. “Why is Miss Bentley so upset?”
“I suspect,” Thornton said dryly, “that our Miss Bentley has formed an attachment that is perhaps somewhat inappropriate—and she is embarrassed to find herself questioned.”
Eugenia pressed a hand to her chest. “That is very blunt of you, Thornton,” she said, unable to keep the admiration from her tone. “And very perceptive.”
“Ah, but I am becoming more perceptive by the day,” he replied, smiling at her. “Living with two—no, three—ladies who have secrets of their own, a man must keep his wits about him. Out with it,Eugenia. Where are you and Venetia going now? If it is to La Serafina’s again, I question the wisdom of venturing without a male escort.”
Eugenia hesitated, then decided on the truth. In quick, low sentences she told him of their suspicions regarding Mr. Rothbury’s paternity and how this had led them to petition the marchese for access to his island library.
“You mean the marchese’s library,” Thornton said, brows rising. “For it still sounds unlikely that he will see you. Just as I think it highly unlikely your suspicions are correct.” His smile was sympathetic rather than mocking. “However, I shall not stand in your way—or pour cold water on your hopes. I understand very well how dearly you wish Mr. Rothbury to be Venetia’s equal—”
“He is every bit my equal!” Venetia burst out, eyes bright. “More than my equal, in fact! It is he who refuses to see it, for he only anticipates the opprobrium that will be heaped upon him as a supposed fortune hunter—even if that accusation exists only in his own mind.”
