Her friend joined her, then gave a low exclamation.
Dominating one wall, flanked by candle sconces positioned to cast a flattering glow, hung an enormous portrait of Isabella Monteverdi. This likeness was finer even than the one at La Serafina’s: the colors richer, the brushwork more delicate. Isabella’s dark hair was swept up to display the graceful line of her neck; her eyes, luminous and alive, seemed to follow them. Her hands were folded at her waist, fingertips just touching.
“It is magnificent,” Lady Townsend murmured, stepping back to take in the full effect. “An even better likeness than La Serafina’s.”
The sconces threw a halo of light about the singer’s face and picked out the gleam of a ring upon her middle finger. Venetia’s breath caught.
“She is so very beautiful,” she said. “And—look at her eyes. Edward has her eyes, Lady Townsend. He does.” Giddiness swept over her. She darted closer, pointing. “And her ring—it is painted in such detail. The same signet, except for that tiny extra star. Oh, Lady Townsend, I am right, am I not—?”
A movement to their right made both women turn sharply.
An old man stood there, half emerging from the shadows between two towering bookcases. He wore an old-fashioned velvet coat, the color dulled with age, and his gray hair hung to his shoulders; his beard, equally gray, was worn long. The light from the sconces fell across a face lined by time and grief. His eyes, dark and wary, regarded them with such suspicion that Venetia instinctively took a step back.
These were not Edward’s eyes. There was no physical resemblance that she could see between the proud-featured young man she loved and this gaunt, haunted nobleman. In a single, dispiriting rush, she felt her carefully built edifice of hopes topple like the leaning tower outside.
Of course. She had been inventing fairy tales, trying to fashion ahappy ending out of scraps.
On the heels of that disappointment came another chill thought: Tomorrow’s grand spectacle would likely bring more disillusionment. The men of power in Venice were not motivated by truth. Captain Rizzi knew enough of it to clear her name, yet he had far more reason to write a damning report to her English trustees and claim whatever reward Mr. Greene, through Count di Montefiore, had promised him.
And now here stood this old man, seeming as distant from their troubles as the moon over the lagoon.
“You speak as if you knew Isabella,” he said abruptly, his voice harsh with feeling. He addressed Lady Townsend, for Venetia was plainly too young to have known a woman who had died around the time of her birth. “You are English. Did you know her in your country?”
Lady Townsend cast Venetia a quick glance before she replied. “I did not have the honor, my lord. It is only in Venice that I have learned from so many of her talent, her beauty…and how beloved she was.”
“Indeed, she was beloved,” the marchese murmured, his gaze shifting to the portrait. “All Venice worshipped at her altar.”
“Including you, my lord?” Lady Townsend said gently, looking between him and the painting. “Is that why she has pride of place in your library?”
He had not yet introduced himself, but it hardly seemed necessary. His assumption that they must know who he was suggested he had at least been told of “two English ladies” who would visit his books.
“She was the light of my life,” he said quietly. “My reason for drawing breath.” As he spoke, he turned slightly. The firelight winked on the signet at his hand.
The tiny flash of gold seemed to strike Venetia like a spark. Her hopes, so recently doused, flared again. If that ring connected him to Isabella,then perhaps—
“She wears your ring,” she heard herself say, barely recognizing her own voice. She looked from his hand to the painted one in the portrait. “There. It is almost the same.”
His gaze came back to her, sharper now. “Your observation does you credit, signorina, though you have missed the detail that matters. Her ring bears two stars.” He extended his hand, palm down, for them to see. “Mine has only one.”
Venetia’s pulse thundered. She forced herself to sound merely curious. “Why does she wear your ring, my lord? Were you related?”
“She was my wife,” he said, without flourish. His eyes had already strayed back to the canvas. “The worthiest woman who ever lived, though my family would not sanction the match. We were forced to marry in secret.”
“Yet if your family would not sanction it, all Venice revered her,” Lady Townsend ventured, her tone gently probing. Venetia sensed that her friend was trying to coax from him what he might not otherwise divulge.
“She was magnificent,” he said simply. “Her voice—” His own cracked. “She sang to me every day. She sang to our child—”
“You had a child?” Venetia could not stop herself. She prayed he would not notice the urgency in her voice. The story she’d heard said Isabella had a young child when his ship was lost.
The Marchese nodded slowly. “A fine boy. Lusty lungs—his mother’s—and her eyes.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Eduardo, we named him.”
Venetia’s knees felt weak.
“Where are they now?” she asked, scarcely above a whisper.
The marchese turned fully toward them at last. “Both are gone,” he said. “Long gone. Lost to me.” A single tear gathered at the corner of his eye but did not fall. “That portrait is all I have of my Isabella. She died in a far country.”
“In my country,” Lady Townsend said softly. “In England.”
