He began to pace.
“Captain Rizzi will bring his superior—arrived a day early—to myfesta,” he grumbled. He ventured a glance at Edward, as if uncertain whether to voice the threat that lay between them.Sofia is not to be drawn into any of this.“He says it will show Venice that the law is diligent. Bah. The law is always diligent when there is an English fortune involved. And, the Marchese Valenti has condescended to leave his moldering island with demands of his own.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“He has been enticed—” Morosini stopped pacing and speared Edward with a look. “By the promise of hearing withhis own ears the man who translates his beloved Scott. He demands that you read fromIvanhoe. In English—so he may remember the cadence—and in your Italian prose, so that he may judge whether you have captured the soul of the thing—though he is more than happy when he sees it on the page.”
“I am honored,” Edward managed.
“You ought to be.” Morosini’s tone softened slightly “Between you and me, Rothbury, the old fool is half in love with you. Or with your pen, which in his case is the same thing. I have spent a year of my life enduring his complaints that your progress is too slow, his paeans of ecstasy when a new chapter arrives. Now he wishes to see the magician.”
He clapped his hands together as if the matter were settled. “So. You will attend the betrothal. You will read one passage in English, then the same in Italian. Briefly, you understand. We must not bore them. We are promised a display of fireworks over the lagoon, and Sofia is to shriek in terror when the balloon lifts. This will amuse Bembo, who has all the sensibilities of a codfish. After that, you may slink back to your desk and drown yourself in ink to make up for the lost hours.”
Edward inclined his head. “Very well, sir. I shall do my best to excite the crowds—or rather, the marchese—and return quietly to my desk, as you say.”
Morosini gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. Wear something respectable. And if I catch you making calf’s eyes at the English heiress when you ought to be thinking of knights and tournaments, I shall have you locked in the library with nothing but your work for company.”
A faint smile tugged at Edward’s mouth despite the knot in his chest. “Then I shall be very careful where I direct my gaze.”
“See that you do.” The count dismissed him with a wave of his hand and turned back to his papers, already barking orders about torches and musicians.
*
Venetia arrived atthe piazza in company with her two English friends.
The day had blossomed into one of those crystalline Venetian mornings when every dome and campanile stood etched against an impossible blue. Ahead, the great square and the adjoining piazzetta were thronged. Silks and satins and bright parasols appeared like a glitter of jewels, and the hum of excited voices rose and fell like the lap of the lagoon.
And in the near distance, tethered above a wooden dais like some captive moon, floated the balloon.
Its vast silk envelope—striped in cream and faded blue—heaved and shivered with each breath of wind. Ropes creaked. The wicker car swayed a little, making Venetia’s own stomach pitch as she imagined what it would feel like to be lifted high above the glittering water with all of Venice watching.
She’d been spared the sensation of lifting off, suspended in a basket, by Edward’s timely intervention at Lady Townsend’s Comet Viewing Gala.
The last preparations were in full swing. Liveried servants wove through the crowd with silver trays, the delicate chime of glass punctuating the babble of Italian and French. Musicians tuned their instruments near the steps while children craned on tiptoe to see the progress.
“There is Signorina Sofia with her grandfather,” Lady Townsend murmured, squeezing Venetia’s arm. “My, but she is a very beautiful girl—though she has not your presence, my dear.”
Sophia, in palest pink, stood flanked by maids and footmen, her face composed, her mouth just tight enough to betray the strain. Beside her, Count Morosini swelled with satisfaction, and bearing down upon them with the air of a man approachinga newly purchased prize was Count Bembo.
“What with that long face?” Lord Thornton said, leaning closer so his words would be swallowed by the noise around them. “Enjoy today’s festivities, my dear. Tomorrow will be soon enough to worry about Captain Rizzi and his report when you meet his superior and plead your case. For now, take comfort in the fact that you are not the one destined to marry Bembo.”
Venetia managed a smile for his sake. She had not confided in him about the wild scheme she and Sofia had spun in the dim quiet of the church. In the clear light of day it seemed outlandish—reckless to the point of madness. Two helpless young women plotting escape while surrounded by men who commanded the law, the courts, and the sky itself.
From this distance, with Morosini’s discreet guard of servants and retainers forming an almost invisible ring around his granddaughter, the idea of spiriting Sofia away in a balloon with a different bridegroom felt like something out of one of Scott’s more improbable romances.
Sophia was as much a victim of her circumstances as Venetia. Grandly conceived plans, born of fear and desperation, seldom survived when confronted with reality.
“Come now, Venetia, it is not all so very bad,” Lady Townsend said, giving her arm another reassuring pat, only to break off with a little gasp. “Oh my. I think I see the marchese. Yes—there, by the fountain. No one else would dare appear in such an unmodish suit of velvet. He is very easy to pick out.”
A tiny flame of hope flared in Venetia’s breast. It faltered almost at once. What use was the marchese’s presence if Edward was not to be here? The old man might listen; he might even begin to suspect the truth. But without Edward…
For a while they mingled dutifully, responding in halting Italian and better French when approached by Morosini’s guests. Venetia feltas if she were moving through a dream—nodding, smiling, exchanging pleasantries—while all the while her gaze slid back, again and again, to the dais, the balloon, and the cluster of important men near the front.
There was Rizzi, in full uniform, his expression bland as he conversed with a grave-faced gentleman. She felt herself blanche. Not far from them stood Count di Montefiore, his once-fine nose still a little crooked.
Both of them desiring to strip her of her liberty, fortune, and good name—with a few strokes of a pen.
Then, with a great flapping and fluttering, the balloon gave a majestic lurch, rising fully above the platform. A cheer went up from the crowd. The silk canopy glowed like a strange new sun against the sky.
