Chapter Five
A fortnight had elapsed since Venetia’s arrival in Venice, and during that interval, her encounters with Mr. Rothbury had been little more than fleeting exchanges in the palazzo’s grand entrance hall.
He was too engaged with translating the works of Sir Walter Scott into Italian to spare a thought for Venetia, it would appear.
But she would make him attend to her—given the chance.
“Ivanhoe is my particular favorite among Sir Walter’s works,” Venetia told her elderly English friends, during a rare occasion that Mr. Rothbury was in attendance.
But although she saw his eyes flash with interest, he remained silent.
A fact which might have accounted for the change of direction taken by Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton in their apparent matchmaking efforts.
Had they given Mr. Rothbury up as a lost cause? Did they no longer believe his regard for her was either sincere or lasting?
Indeed, their sudden enthusiasm for introducing her to the most eligible gentlemen of Venice came to border on the excessive, she decided a week later.
“The Conte di Valmarana possesses extensive vineyards in the Veneto region, with an ancestral palazzo that boasts no fewer than twenty-seven reception rooms,” Miss Bentley had informed her only the previous evening, steering Venetia toward a tall, elegantly attired gentleman who seemed far more interested in her altered status as an English heiress than with anything above her neckline.
Venetia had dutifully admired his cravat while he catalogued his property holdings with the enthusiasm most men reserved for discussing their favorite horses. Property holdings no doubt greatly in need of an injection of English funds.
Lady Townsend, not to be outdone, had then maneuvered her into the path of the charming but positively Methuselah-like Marchese di San Pietro.
This gentleman owned half a small island in the lagoon, Lady Townsend had whispered breathlessly, as if this might compensate for the fact that he appeared to have been present at the island’s original formation.
Even Lord Thornton had joined the campaign, though his contributions—a parade of earnest English gentlemen who blushed at her slightest smile—suggested he’d mistaken “eligible” for “terrified of women.”
By week’s end, Venetia had seriously considered compiling a ledger: Suitors Met, Reception Rooms Owned, and Apparent Interest in My Actual Personality (this column remained depressingly blank).
The social whirl continued.
Several days later, she’d been momentarily charmed by the enthusiastic discourse of Signor Baretti (whose family, she had been informed, owned extensive shipping interests throughout the Mediterranean) and intrigued by the smoldering glances of the handsome Conte Grimani, Venetia still found Mr. Rothbury’s measured responses and thoughtful observations vastly more to her taste.
Now, unexpectedly, Mr. Rothbury had joined their English friends for tea in the water salon, and was saying, “Ivanhoe is indeed a remarkable work. I’ve developed an even greater appreciation for its nuances while translating it for Count Morosini.”
His voice sent an involuntary shiver down Venetia’s spine. She wished he’d look at her.
“Curiously enough, it’s also the count’s granddaughter’s favorite among all Sir Walter’s novels.”
How ungratifying.
“Which constitutes yet another point of similarity between you and that young lady,” Mr. Rothbury continued, apparently oblivious to the sudden chill in the room that only Venetia seemed to feel. “For, like you, she has golden hair and a daintiness about her that quite brings you to mind.”
Venetia’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. Was he truly comparing her to another woman? At tea? Had the man learned nothing about self-preservation during his naval career?
“I wonder if you’ve had occasion to make her acquaintance since her recent introduction to society?” He leaned forward earnestly. “Though I understand her movements are rather strictly circumscribed by her grandfather’s antiquated notions of propriety.”
“How terribly unfortunate for her,” Venetia replied through gritted teeth. “And what glorious weather we’ve been having, have we not?”
Mr. Rothbury, demonstrating either remarkable courage or remarkable obtuseness, sailed directly past this conversational lifeboat.
“Young ladies in this country aren’t permitted the independence accorded to their English counterparts—or so Signorina Morosini informs me.
” His gaze met Venetia’s with warmth that would have been delightful had he not just spent the last two minutes rhapsodizing about another woman’s hair.
“You, Miss Playford, being familiar with restrictive guardianship, might appreciate the comparison. Though your circumstances have happily altered.”
Yes, thank you for that reminder, Venetia thought, her smile now requiring considerable muscular effort to maintain.
“I mention the signorina only because she bears such a striking resemblance to you in both appearance and spirit.”
Venetia wondered if it would be terribly improper to dump her tea over his head. “Really?” She managed to turn the gritting of her teeth into a smile.
“As we are among trusted friends, I would request your discretion in this matter.” Mr. Rothbury leaned forward even more, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur that necessitated Venetia inclining closer to hear him.
“But past experience has demonstrated your sympathy toward young ladies subjected to oppressive authority, and I have, in fact, found myself in a position where I might be able to render assistance—if delicately managed.”
Venetia only realized she’d been holding her breath when her lungs began to protest, compelling her to exhale discreetly. The attentiveness in Mr. Rothbury’s manner, directed toward herself after days of apparent indifference, was as intoxicating as it was perplexing.
But was his interest centered on Venetia—or this Italian signorina who supposedly resembled her?
Nevertheless, unwilling to appear unsympathetic to the plight of another young woman, particularly one in circumstances reminiscent of her own former situation, Venetia adopted an expression of concerned interest. “Pray tell me, Mr. Rothbury, what assistance might be rendered to this Signorina Morosini since you seem so concerned about her?”
Mr. Rothbury reached into the capacious leather satchel he carried for his translation materials and withdrew a sheet of heavy vellum, which he carefully positioned in the center of the table, prompting exclamations of interest from the assembled company.
“Good heavens, I recognize the Campanile and Doge’s Palace!” exclaimed Miss Bentley. “What an exquisitely rendered scene! Surely this is the work of a master. Did the count himself execute this piece?”
“His granddaughter, Signorina Sofia Morosini, is the artist,” Mr. Rothbury declared, leaning back in his chair and regarding the painting with an expression of such proprietary pride that Venetia experienced another unwelcome pang of envy. “She seeks a patron or purchaser for her work.”
Venetia could not deny the exceptional quality of the painting.
The artist had captured not merely the architectural splendor of the Venetian landmarks but also the particular quality of light that suffused the city at sunset, lending the scene an almost ethereal beauty.
The technical skill displayed was remarkable, particularly if the artist was, as Venetia surmised, not much beyond her own age.
“This demonstrates extraordinary talent,” Lady Townsend observed, echoing Venetia’s private assessment.
“The command of perspective and the handling of light are quite remarkable. I should be delighted to purchase this piece if the young lady wishes to part with it. It would make a splendid addition to my collection.” She smiled at Lord Thornton before adding, “Perhaps beside my beloved Persephone.”
“It may be obliged to replace your Persephone, in fact,” Lord Thornton rejoined with a cryptic half smile before returning his attention to Mr. Rothbury. “Have you assumed the role of art dealer for the young lady, or might there be a more… personal interest in her circumstances?”
Venetia tensed as she awaited Mr. Rothbury’s response, noting the heightened color that suffused his features as he opened his mouth to reply.
Before Mr. Rothbury could respond, one of the palazzo’s liveried servants appeared at the doorway. “Signoras and signors,” the man announced with a bow, “Captain Teodoro Rizzi of the Venetian Guardia requests an audience on a matter of some urgency.”
The small gathering exchanged puzzled glances as the servant stepped aside and Captain Rizzi swept into the room. His midnight-blue uniform gleamed with enough silver buttons and epaulettes to stock a small jewelry shop.
“I must beg your indulgence for this intrusion,” he began in heavily accented English, executing a bow so low, Venetia feared he might not be able to straighten again.
“I am investigating a matter wherein certain details, perhaps deemed inconsequential by those who observed them, might prove invaluable to the satisfactory furtherance and, potentially, resolution of my inquiry.”
Venetia tried not to giggle at his pomposity before remembering that she was hardly one to judge another on his linguistic abilities.
“You have attended several social gatherings over the past three weeks,” Captain Rizzi continued, his gaze moving from one face to another with unsettling intensity. “During these events, a series of unconscionable thefts have occurred.”
“A thief!” Miss Bentley gasped, her hand flying to the modest pearl choker around her throat as if the criminal might materialize and snatch it that very moment. “How dreadful!”
“Indeed, signora. The situation is particularly distressing for the Contessa di Barbarigo.” Captain Rizzi paused. “Two nights past, during her musicale, she was relieved of a pair of emerald earrings and matching emerald pendant. A wedding gift from her late husband.”
With a flourish, he produced a small silver case from his uniform coat, extracting several calling cards embossed with the insignia of the guardia.
“I would be most grateful if you would report any observations that might assist our investigation,” he added, placing the cards on the center of the table.
Murmurs of concern filled the room.
“The perpetrator will face the full severity of Venetian justice when apprehended.” His expression became one of grim determination. “I intend to see this individual consigned to our most inhospitable prison cell before the month concludes.”
With a final bow, Captain Rizzi withdrew.
A moment of silence followed, broken by Miss Bentley launching into the sort of enthusiastic speculation usually reserved for the most scandalous gossip.
“The Marchese di Falconi’s footman had a most furtive manner,” Lady Townsend declared, warming to her new role as amateur investigator. “I observed him lingering near the ladies’ withdrawing room.”
“The Austrian diplomat’s wife—the Baroness von something—mentioned her own concerns,” Miss Bentley countered, clearly unwilling to let Lady Townsend claim all the sleuthing glory.
While the two ladies competed to identify the most suspicious characters they’d encountered—a contest that was growing more creative by the minute—Mr. Rothbury turned to Venetia, his expression softening as his gaze settled on the sapphire pendant at her throat.
“You should exercise particular caution, Miss Playford,” he said quietly.
“That pendant would tempt someone with larcenous intent.” Then his voice warmed.
“Though it pleases me greatly to see you in circumstances that permit such indulgences. I recall how, even as a child, you had discerning taste—adorning your dolls in miniature finery.”
Venetia’s irritation about the golden-haired signorina evaporated in an instant. “You truly remember such details? I was only eight years old.”
“I remember more than that.” His smile was gentle. “Your parents’ fondness for each other. Their pride in you. My father, who served as your father’s land steward, remarked upon it frequently.”
The warmth of this unexpected gift—these preserved memories of her beloved parents—wrapped around Venetia’s heart. She might have continued the conversation indefinitely if Miss Bentley hadn’t interrupted with all the subtlety of Captain Rizzi making an entrance.
“Venetia, you should wear paste replicas instead of genuine gemstones,” she announced. “Far safer, given what we’ve just learned.”
“But considerably less satisfying.” Venetia touched her pendant. “My aunt prohibited any adornment, deeming it ‘unsuitable for a girl of my station’—by which she meant my dependence on her grudging charity. I won’t apologize for enjoying my changed circumstances. I’ll simply be vigilant.”
“As indeed we all must,” Lady Townsend said with a delicate shudder. “One cannot determine with certainty whom to trust.”
“I have found that complete trust is a luxury one can ill afford,” Miss Bentley pronounced.
“You maintain exceptionally exacting standards, Miss Bentley,” Venetia replied sweetly—a phrase that could be taken as either compliment or gentle mockery.
The conversation drifted to safer topics, but Venetia remained acutely aware of Mr. Rothbury across the table. Occasionally their eyes met, and in those brief moments, something unspoken passed between them—she was sure of it.
When the gathering finally dispersed, Mr. Rothbury paused beside her chair. He seemed to have been working up courage, which Venetia couldn’t decide if she found endearing or exhilarating.
“Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon, Miss Playford? There’s a matter I should like to discuss.” He glanced at her ever-present companions. “Perhaps a walk along the canal? Perhaps a gondola ride? With your lady’s maid, naturally.”
Venetia’s heart performed contortions that would have scandalized her former aunt. “I should be delighted, Mr. Rothbury.”
His smile—warm and properly unguarded for the first time since their reunion—accompanied his bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow. How could she possibly wait until tomorrow? What did he wish to discuss? Her pulse quickened. Would he confess that the dramatic events of last year—events that had transformed her life so completely—had awakened feelings he could no longer deny?
Now wouldn’t that be delicious?
Nearly a year had passed since then. A year of fears dissipating, of growing into her new identity, of finally feeling in control of her own destiny.
Now she was ready for the next stage: finding love with a man who’d love her for herself, not her fortune.
Mr. Rothbury, she felt increasingly certain, was that man.