“My dear sweet girl, if only that were entirely untrue,” Thornton said gently. “Society would judge him harshly; there are no two ways about it. And his pride will not bear it. But go to the island, by all means. You need to feel that you have done everything in your power.” He gave her arm a paternal pat. “I have no doubt Mr. Rothbury is, at this very moment, doing all he can to secure a favorable outcome tomorrow. I understand he has spoken to Count Morosini.”
“Even if the emerald pendant is not recovered,” Eugenia added softly, “there is still hope.”
“Indeed.” Thornton inclined his head. “Now—off with you. I believe I hear your gondolier calling. I shall not stand in the way of two ladies in arms venturing forth with hopes I fear are hopeless, but whose nobility I fully applaud.”
Venetia gave him a tremulous smile and hurriedfrom the room.
Eugenia followed at a more measured pace, heart thumping. As she drew level with him, Thornton rose. For once, he did not content himself with a teasing remark from a safe distance. Instead, he lifted a hand and very lightly cupped her cheek, his palm warm against her skin.
“Take care, my dearest general,” he murmured, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “Do not stay away too long. I find I have grown quite used to plotting mischief at your side.”
Her breath caught. For a foolish, glorious moment she allowed herself to lean ever so slightly into his touch. Then she gathered her composure, smiled up at him, and swept after Venetia, the imprint of his hand lingering against her cheek.
Chapter Forty-Four
The gondola bumpedlightly against the weed-slick landing steps and the gondolier steadied the craft with his pole. Venetia rose, placing her gloved hand in his as she stepped out onto the slimy stone. Lady Townsend followed, gathering her cloak away from the puddles as the gondola rocked and fell back into the water with a soft slap.
Before them, the marchese’s palazzo reared out of the lagoon like something half drowned and reluctant to return to life. One tower leaned at a perilous angle, and a jagged crack zigzagged down its side.
Venetia’s heart, which had been beating high with hope all the way across the lagoon, gave an uncomfortable lurch.
If this was Edward’s father’s domain, then perhaps the rumors were right and the Marchese Alessandro Valenti was nothing more than a ruined recluse, an eccentric relic of an old nobility. Poverty she could have borne—Edward’s worth had never rested on his pocketbook—but what if the old man’s wits were gone? What use would it be to discover he was Edward’s father if he had no memory left, no capacity to recognize the significance of the signet ring Isabella had left to her son?
The great door creaked open before she could lose her nerve. An elderly servant, stooped and stiff jointed, regarded them from beneath heavy brows.
“Il Marchese is not receiving visitors,” he said in heavily accentedEnglish, giving only the barest inclination of his head. “But he welcomes the signora to look at his library.”
Venetia’s fragile optimism dipped further. So they might admire the marchese’s dusty volumes, but not the man himself—the very reason for their pilgrimage—when time was running out and tomorrow would see her fate decided.
If Captain Rizzi’s report went against her, if she lost her fortune, what future could there be for herself and Edward? He was chained to his employer for an unknown span of years. She would have to find some means of supporting herself alone. Edward had not spoken of any alternative to her exoneration. Did he know something she did not? Or was he simply trying to spare her despair?
No. For now she must focus on what she could do: search for any clue that strengthened the connection she believed existed between Edward and the owner of this decrepit stronghold. A noble father—with or without money—would change everything.
In silence she and Lady Townsend followed the stooped retainer through a warren of narrow, chill corridors, their footsteps echoing.
At last the servant halted before a heavy door, produced a large iron key and turned it with an effort. The hinges groaned.
“See.” He pushed the door wide and stepped aside. “I wait here.” Folding his hands over his livery, he took up a post by the door, clearly intending to keep watch.
The sight that met them stole Venetia’s breath.
The library was vast: a high, vaulted chamber where the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books, their leather spines in rich shades of brown and red and gold. A narrow gallery ran around the upper level, reached by two elegant spiral staircases. Light filtered in through tall, arched windows and mingled with the glow of wall sconces, picking out the gleam of gilt lettering and the drifting dust motes.
“Oh my goodness,” Venetia whispered, stepping forward as ifdrawn. She made straight for a section where familiar names leaped out at her. “Lady Townsend, look—Sir Walter Scott!Waverley,Guy Mannering,The Bride of Lammermoor…here in English—and here in Italian.” She touched the bindings reverently. “Do you suppose Edward translated all these? You have been in Italy longer than I; was he already translating for Count Morosini when you arrived in Venice?”
“I believe he came almost immediately after my comet-viewing gala,” Lady Townsend replied, moving beside her. “It is possible.”
“Really?” Venetia’s heart gave a small, foolish leap. How had she never known the exact moment he had gone from her life? But everything had been so full of commotion then, with the surprise of her inheritance, the excitement, the flurry of congratulations. She had wanted Edward to be part of it. Instead, he had vanished to Italy without a word.
Well, she had found him now, she thought fiercely. She did not intend to lose him again.
She drew out the English copy ofThe Bride of Lammermoorand opened it with care. Dense type marched down the page. “Look, Lady Townsend.” She reached for the corresponding Italian volume and opened the first page. “Here it is—La Sposa di Lammermoor.” In slow, halting Italian she began the opening lines, her voice echoing faintly beneath the vaulted ceiling, until emotion constricted her throat and she broke off on a shaky breath. “To think of Edward spending all his days rendering such beauty into another tongue. Does the world even understand how adored Scott is here?”
She hugged the book to her chest. “It is so beautiful—and so tragic. It seems cruel that we will not meet the marchese to speak with him of his treasures. Edward would wish to know what manner of library belongs to the man who so devours his work.”
She rounded a towering bookshelf—and stopped dead.
“Oh,” she breathed, all thought of booksforgotten. “Lady Townsend…look.”
