“You heard her sing there?” he asked quickly, hope flaring for an instant—but Lady Townsend shook her head.
“She never sang in England,” she said, taking a delicate risk. “She was too broken-hearted. She had lost her true love. She and her son left Venice when her protector’s ship was lost.” She hesitated, then went on, “Two years passed without word. An Englishman—a good man—offered his protection to her and her child, and brought them to a land that was…”
“Gray and cold…Ah, so you know the story,” the marchese finished hoarsely, staring at some point far beyond them. “A prison compared with her beautiful Venice.” His hands clenched at his sides. “I tried to come back to her. When theSanta Luciawent down, I alone survived. For two years I wandered half mad, fighting to return to what I loved. When at last I reached home, three years had gone. Isabella Monteverdi had left Venice. England, they said. Taken by a man bewitched—as I was—by her beauty and her voice.”
He gave a broken laugh. “I thought that with a voice like hers she would be easy to find. A nightingale like that? I asked about her everywhere. I begged for news of the great Monteverdi. I gave every name, every description that might stir a memory.” He shook his head. “Nothing. She had vanished. She no longer sang. By the time I learned she was dead, so was the Englishman who had stolen her. A bailiff, they told me. A clerk of estates. Of my son, there was no word. Perhaps he died of the same fever that took his mother.”
His shoulders sagged. “I was defeated. By grief, by time. I returned here, to the house of my fathers. My own father was gone. I had nothing.”
Venetia met Lady Townsend’s gaze. Her friend’s eyes were bright, her expression intent.Now, Venetia thought wildly.Now, you must tell him. Tell him his son lives. Tell him his son is—
But Lady Townsend only lowered her voice and said gently, “Not quite nothing, my lord. You had your stories.Your novels. Perhaps…because they were a pleasure you once shared with your Isabella, they became your refuge?”
The marchese drew in a sharply audible breath and stepped toward her. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.” His hand lifted as if to touch a nearby shelf. “She was enamored of your Mrs. Ann Radcliffe. I have all her books, even if I read English badly. And then, when Sir Walter Scott burst upon the scene with his tales of knightly valor, it was as if my blood stirred again. My old friend Morosini hadLa Sposa di Lammermoortranslated into Italian. I felt life return to me.”
He gave a strained smile. “Now Scott’sIvanhoemirrors everything I have lost. Each week new chapters are delivered, and I grow feverish for the next. It is a sickness, almost. Rowena is my Isabella; Ivanhoe the man who is finally reunited with her. They tell me this is the ending in the English. I will read it in the Italian.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden, almost boyish mischief. “And if the ending displeases me, I shall have my translator change it—for me alone.”
Venetia’s heart hammered against her stays. “Your translator, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling despite her efforts. “Who is he?”
The marchese looked at her as though only now recalling her presence. For a long moment he studied her face, then spoke slowly, the words seeming to surprise even himself.
“He is,” he said, “the man who makes my dreams come true.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The day ofSofia’s betrothal dawned bright and deceptively beautiful, Venice glittering as if nothing truly dreadful could ever happen beneath such a sky.
Feverishly, Venetia submitted to Mollie’s ministrations as her maid helped her into a gown of palest-blue silk.
How would today unfold?
Seeing the marchese the previous afternoon had imbued her with fresh hope after her earlier despair, but still the old man remained in ignorance of Edward’s true identity. Would he even attend? He had been so adamant that he would not leave his island; yet he had clearly been moved by the service his mysterious translator had rendered him.
Edward, however, was not to be there. He had said as much several days earlier, the last time she and her elderly friends had managed to corner him with questions.
“Apparently Morosini is dissatisfied with my progress,” he’d said with a wry twist of his mouth. “He wishes the next chapter finished by the end of the week, which means I must work like a galley slave. There is no opportunity to enjoy the frivolity of his granddaughter’s betrothal festivities. Besides, I am merely a servant.”
He had looked so downcast Venetia had almost thrown her arms about him on the spot. But a distance had crept up between them overthe last few days. She had barely seen him, and when she had, he’d seemed far away, as if his mind lived entirely in the pages he translated.
A tap sounded at the door, and Lady Townsend swept in.
“Oh, my dear, you look quite ravishing,” she declared, taking in Venetia’s gown, and the soft curls Mollie was arranging about her face. The affectionate admiration in her eyes was so warm that Venetia felt, as she often did, like the most cherished creature in existence.
How could such a woman still be unwed? Venetia wondered not for the first time. Truly, if she were to pair two of the dearest people to her, it would be Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton. Why they had never thought of it themselves was one of life’s great mysteries.
But she had no leisure to matchmake for others. Today she must contrive her own salvation—and, if Heaven was kind, Edward’s.
“I wonder if my dress ought to have been a touch more modest,” she murmured, studying her reflection as Mollie set the last curl. “In view of how Captain Rizzi may choose to render me in his report.” She clasped her hands together, briefly closing her eyes as she made a quick appeal to any celestial power within hearing. “Oh, how I wish Edward were to be there. I cannot believe Count Morosini thinks so little of him that he would be left off the guest list.”
“It is because the count thinks so very highly of him that he has done so,” Lady Townsend replied, coming to stand behind her. “But I heard a little rumor that may lift your spirits.” She dipped her head closer to Venetia’s, her eyes twinkling. “Count Morosini intends that Edward shall read a passage ofIvanhoe—in Italian and in English—for the entertainment of his guests. Who knows? It may even tempt our marchese from his lair, given the great rivalry between the two men, for all that they are united by their love of literature.”
Venetia’s heart gave a hopeful little leap. “Edward might be there? And the marchese too?”
Lady Townsend nodded, satisfied by the effect of her news. “Iknow you thought I did not go far enough yesterday in revealing our suspicions regarding Edward’s… connections.” Her lips curved. “But, my dear, sometimes less is more. The marchese will be far more receptive to a connection he deduces for himself than to one thrust upon him by two English ladies armed with wild theories.”
“But when you asked him about today, he said he was not going to attend at all,” Venetia protested. “That was why I was so disappointed, Lady Townsend. I do agree that subtlety is required, but I feared you had not told him sufficiently what he needed to hear to have his interest piqued about his translator enough to even attend Signorina Sofia’s betrothal.”
“Ah, my love, you have much to learn about men.” Lady Townsend brushed her fingertips briefly over Venetia’s cheek, a touch that was half caress, half conspiratorial signal. “They must believe themselves in charge. They like to imagine that any brilliant notion, any wondrous event, is all their own doing. I said as much to Lord Thornton last night, and he was in full agreement—after a little grumbling.” Her smile grew fond. “On the strength of our conversation he sought out our host and, I understand, contrived matters so that what we learned on the island was couched as a challenge and an enticement to the marchese. Clearly, upon reflection, the old gentleman decided he could not resist hearing the voice of the translator upon whom his happiness now rests.”
