Chapter Four
Edward had come to Venice the previous year determined to throw himself into Italian translating in order to rid his mind of impossible thoughts.
Thoughts like the way Miss Playford had looked at him when he’d ridden his black stallion into the crowd at Lady Townsend’s Comet Viewing. The news he had brought had not only saved her from a life sentence as the wife of odious Lord Windermere, it had given her unimaginable freedom.
Freedom to find a husband worthy of her elevated status.
Not a man like himself.
Yet again, he told himself—firmly—that he was here in Conte Morosini’s library to translate, not to be distracted by its beautiful surroundings or—more aptly—to twist his mind in knots over Miss Playford.
Then his stomach, perfectly unhelpful, reminded him that admiration and twisting his mind in knots stimulated appetite.
He gave himself a mental shake. Heart matters would have to wait; Count Morosini’s commas could not. Edward was proud of his work—his Italian mother had gifted him the music of the language; the count supplied everything else.
As he immersed himself in Ivanhoe in a library designed to uplift the soul with a window view of a fountain performing for his own entertainment, he’d finally stilled his restless mind when a small, delicate cough interrupted his battle with a tricky sentence.
Not the count—too airy for that. Possibly a maid? Another cough followed, a touch theatrical, as if someone were practicing being discovered.
“Oh dear, you look positively fearsome when you frown so,” a feminine voice floated down from the shadowed gallery—in perfect English with a lilting Italian music to it.
He drew back, shocked, as he searched for the speaker. A child?
“Please don’t inform my grandfather I said so,” the voice added cheerfully. “He would confine me to my chambers, and I’ve been exceptionally well-behaved for nearly eleven minutes.”
“Your grandfather is Count Morosini?” Edward rose.
“My only relative,” came the reply—and a girl of eighteen or nineteen stepped into a shaft of sun, golden curls artfully arranged, and a pair of sparkling brown eyes that regarded him above a smile full of mischief.
For one disorienting heartbeat, she was the echo of another golden head.
Edward tried to banish his imagination before it performed any more tricks.
“Your grandfather is Count Morosini?” Edward repeated, concern rising to the fore. “He has made no mention of a granddaughter, though I have been visiting this palazzo for the better part of eight months.”
“My grandfather prefers not to acknowledge my existence to those beyond our immediate household,” said the young woman with a hint of a smile. “He harbors the antiquated notion that young ladies should remain invisible until they are formally presented to society.”
Edward offered a respectful bow, belatedly recalling his manners. “Edward Rothbury, at your service, signorina. I have the honor of serving as translator to your esteemed grandfather.”
“And I am Signorina Sofia Morosini,” she replied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Signor Rothbury. You are a hard worker. I have observed you over many days.”
Edward regarded her with consternation. The thought of having shared this space—unchaperoned—with a young lady of quality, mere feet away yet entirely undetected, was profoundly inappropriate. If discovered, Edward’s lucrative commission might be forfeit, along with his professional reputation.
“You cannot possibly have been present in this room during my previous visits?” he said, unable to keep the note of alarm from his voice.
“Frequently,” she said, pleased. “I’m very quiet. Philosophers keep my secrets,” she added, pointing to the gallery above. “They bore Grandpapa and they’re out of your line of sight. Giulia—my good maid—hides my sketchbook behind them. We have an understanding.”
“Good heavens!” Edward exclaimed. “I have never once detected your presence. I cannot conceive that my powers of observation have grown so lamentably dull.”
The young woman laughed. “Do not reproach yourself, signor. I have become exceedingly adept at moving silently through this palazzo. One develops such skills when living under my grandfather’s restrictive regime.”
“You are an artist, then?” Edward inquired, striving to maintain a tone of friendly interest rather than betraying his concern.
“I aspire to be,” Sofia responded. “Would you care to examine my work? I should value the opinion of an educated Englishman.”
Before Edward could respond, Sofia began to ascend the delicate spiral staircase that led to the gallery. “Allow me to retrieve my current project,” she called over her shoulder.
Edward cast a nervous glance toward the library door, half expecting the count to materialize despite his granddaughter’s assurances.
His concern was interrupted by Sofia’s musical laugh. “Truly, signor, you need not concern yourself with surprise visitors. The servants have strict instructions not to disturb you when you are engaged in your scholarly pursuits.”
She returned with a canvas. The Grand Canal at sunset painted with tender light, lengthening shadows—employing a technique beyond her years, and a feeling beyond most people’s.
“You look delighted.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Another thing. I had hoped you might assist me in a strictly mercantile matter,” she said. “Do you know anyone who buys pictures? Or perhaps you…”
Edward blinked. “I—”
“I should very much like to keep it,” she confessed, “but I am determined upon escape even more.”
“Escape?”
“Grandpapa intends me for a gentleman of ‘mature years,’ which is another way of saying old. This particular gentleman admires my portrait.” She shuddered delicately. “I prefer my freedom.”
Edward opened his mouth to offer a sensible objection.
“Before you say anything,” she rushed on, “I should warn you that if you refuse me, I shall be forced to—” she pressed the back of her hand to her brow “—announce to Grandpapa that you have been alone with me in his library every Tuesday and Thursday since Epiphany.”
Edward stared.
Sofia dropped the hand and laughed. “I am teasing you, Signor Rothbury. If I told him, he would make you offer for me at once, and that would ruin both our plans.”
Despite his alarm, Edward felt a surge of sympathy for the young woman’s plight.
Arranged marriages were still commonplace among the Venetian aristocracy, with considerations of wealth and social connection frequently outweighing the personal inclinations of the parties involved.
“Surely your grandfather would not force you into a union against your wishes?” he ventured.
“Such practices are considered archaic in England.”
“Perhaps in your country,” Sofia replied, “but they remain depressingly common in mine. My grandfather has already accepted a substantial gift from this gentleman as a token of his intentions.”
Edward shook his head. “I am sorry, signorina. But I fail to see how the sale of your paintings—”
“I require sufficient funds to escape Venice with the man I truly love,” she interrupted, her eyes suddenly alight with fervor.
“I have already sold two canvases through the discreet assistance of my maid’s brother, who deals in art among the foreign visitors.
With the proceeds from perhaps five more sales, Paolo and I shall have enough to travel to Florence, where his uncle has promised to help us. ”
Edward felt as though he had inadvertently stepped into a scene from one of the very romances he was engaged in translating—complete with a spirited heroine, a controlling patriarch, and a secret love affair.
Dangerous! The rational part of his mind recognized the impropriety of becoming entangled in such a domestic drama.
“I understand your predicament,” he said carefully, “but I fear I cannot—”
She extended the canvas toward him with an entreating gesture. “Would you not prefer to assist two young people in securing their happiness through an honest exchange of value? My art for your assistance?”
The logic of her argument, combined with the genuine talent evident in the painting and her obvious passion for this unseen Paolo, began to erode Edward’s resistance.
What harm could there be in helping this spirited young woman escape a loveless marriage to a man likely old enough to be her father?
Watching him, Sofia added with remarkable insight, “Perhaps you yourself have experienced the frustration of loving someone whom circumstances have placed beyond your reach? Or the pain of maintaining silence when every fiber of your being cries out to declare itself?”
The words struck uncomfortably close to Edward’s own situation with regard to Venetia Playford. Had his feelings been so transparent that even this young stranger could divine them? Or was it merely a fortunate conjecture based on his age and unmarried state?
Sofia pressed her advantage. “All I ask is that you take this painting and attempt to sell it on my behalf. I have several more completed works that might interest potential buyers. If you could secure prices similar to what my previous paintings fetched, Paolo and I would soon have sufficient resources to begin our life together.”
Edward was torn. The painting was genuinely excellent—worth considerably more than whatever modest sum she had previously received.
And the thought of facilitating a union based on genuine affection rather than financial calculation appealed to the romantic sensibility he typically kept carefully concealed beneath his natural reserve.
However, his position would be tenuous if the count discovered his collusion.
Nevertheless, he heard himself say, “Very well,” though a voice of caution continued to sound faintly in the back of his mind.