Chapter Thirteen
At last came the moment that Venetia had both feared and looked forward to in equal measure.
Mostly looked forward to, if she was being honest. The fear was more of a nod to what she really ought to be feeling.
Having conquered her resistance to Mr. Rothbury’s request to help Signorina Sofia, she’d entered into the subterfuge with more than a thrill at her own daring, arriving with her maid Mollie at the agreed location—a dim antechamber in a palazzo near the departure point—for her transformation.
Sofia’s lady’s maid, a sharp-eyed woman named Caterina, had pinned Venetia’s golden hair into an elaborate arrangement that apparently mimicked her mistress’s preferred style, complete with jeweled combs.
Now Venetia stood at the weathered stone steps of the San Tomà landing stage, plucking nervously at the unfamiliar folds of Sofia’s emerald silk gown.
The borrowed garment felt strange against her skin—the bodice cut in a more daring Continental style than her own modest English fashions.
But the transformation had been remarkable.
When Venetia had glimpsed herself in the looking glass at the secluded dressing chamber Sofia had arranged, she’d been startled by her own reflection.
She no longer looked English. Whether she looked sufficiently like a Continental signorina to trick a distant observer, time would tell.
Now that she was prepared, her impatience over Mr. Rothbury’s arrival was growing.
The plan was that Venetia would leave in a gondola with Caterina—disguised as Signorina Sofia—while Mr. Rothbury would be waiting at another location with Mollie to meet Venetia for the duration of Sofia’s assignation.
The arrangement, decided quickly the previous evening, thrilled her, though the questionable morality nevertheless weighed upon her conscience.
She was, after all, actively participating in a deliberate deception that could compromise not only her own reputation but also Count Morosini’s trust in his granddaughter.
However, she couldn’t deny that beneath this righteous discomfort ran a current of anticipation so strong it left her breathless.
Two hours alone with Mr. Rothbury. Well, not alone—Mollie would be there. But still.
By the time Caterina had stepped back with a nod of satisfaction at her handiwork, Venetia had banished her reservations. The prospect of spending time in Mr. Rothbury’s company was far more thrilling than it was morally concerning.
As further justification, she had to admit sympathy for a young woman being forced into marriage. If Sofia’s young man was worthy, why shouldn’t she have the opportunity to follow her heart? Venetia knew the horrors of being pushed into marriage against one’s will.
“Ah, Miss Playford, you came,” came a lilting accented voice from the shadows before the young Italian woman emerged.
Venetia raised her eyebrows at the imperious tone and was taken aback by the girl’s breathtaking beauty.
And her vanity, it would appear, for the beetling look she received was more impatient than either grateful or admiring.
“I daresay you’ll pass as myself as far as my father’s minions are concerned, watching from the tower as the gondola leaves the landing stage.
But do carry yourself with a little more grace, or the game will be up, as I believe you English are wont to phrase it. ”
You’re welcome for risking my reputation, by the way, Venetia thought with a surge of irritation.
“Now, the gondola is here. You must go with Caterina while I wait for a separate conveyance.”
The plan, as Sofia had outlined it, called for the gondola containing Venetia to follow a circuitous route through Venice’s quieter canals before depositing her at a predetermined location where Mr. Rothbury would be waiting.
This elaborate choreography was designed to ensure that any observers—particularly Count Morosini—would witness what appeared to be Sofia’s routine journey to her music lesson.
Naturally, there was nothing to do but obey. With a nod, Venetia allowed herself to be assisted into the graceful watercraft, settling herself against the velvet-tasseled cushions while keeping her head bowed to minimize the risk of exposure.
The gondola’s route took them through some of Venice’s most enchanting backwaters, where narrow canals wound between palazzos whose foundations had been laid centuries before England’s Norman conquest. Laundry hung like colorful banners from wrought iron balconies, while the calls of street vendors echoed off ancient stone walls.
If Venetia’s heart hadn’t been beating so erratically, she might have enjoyed it more.
After some minutes navigating through this aquatic maze, the gondola approached the small, secluded landing stage Mr. Rothbury had designated, nestled between two crumbling palazzos that appeared to have been abandoned for decades.
Tall weeds sprouted from cracks in the marble steps, while iron mooring posts bore the green patina of age and neglect.
It was precisely the sort of location her favorite author, Mrs. Radcliffe, might choose for clandestine meetings—sufficiently isolated to ensure privacy, yet accessible enough to serve as a rendezvous point.
Or the sort of place where one might be murdered and never found.
Venetia’s heart beat even harder as she waited in the gondola. Was Mr. Rothbury more of a romantic than she’d believed?
Might he have something to say to her that went beyond mere pleasantries?
Mollie and Mr. Rothbury soon appeared, the latter stepping forward to help Venetia onto the landing stage. “Miss Playford,” he said, his eyes wide with shock as his hand gripped hers, “your transformation is extraordinary.”
Venetia blushed. “I hope the resemblance was sufficient to serve Signorina Sofia’s purpose.”
“I’m sure it was.” The intensity of his gaze made her skin warm beneath the borrowed silk. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—an expression she couldn’t quite decipher but which sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
Please say something romantic. Please.
“Though the resemblance is remarkable,” he said, “you remain entirely yourself, naturally, but the effect is quite…” He trailed off, clearly struggling with some internal conflict before saying more decisively, “Caterina will wait here with the gondola while we ensure sufficient time passes for Sofia’s purposes. ”
With barely a glance in their direction, Caterina settled herself comfortably in the gondola’s shade, producing needlework from her reticule with the air of one who’d performed this duty many times before.
“Would you care to walk?” asked Mr. Rothbury, and at her nod, he led Venetia along a narrow walkway that skirted the edge of a particularly quiet canal, Mollie a few yards behind.
“I confess that I’ve been wrestling with considerable guilt regarding this entire enterprise,” Mr. Rothbury said, his words halting as they walked.
“The more I consider the potential consequences—to you, to Sofia, to my own professional standing—the more concerned I become that I’ve exercised—” He stopped and turned to look at her. “Unconscionably poor judgment.”
Venetia stopped, too. “Yet you proceeded nonetheless.”
Because you wanted to spend time with me. Please say it’s because you wanted to spend time with me.
Even if they were exposed, she thought, she could think of far worse fates than being required by propriety to marry Mr. Rothbury.
For surely that’s what he was hinting at? Again, her heart performed another little lurch. Was this the moment?
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that I’m not as immune to selfish desires as I’d believed myself to be. The prospect of spending these hours in your company proved more compelling than my better judgment could withstand.”
Venetia held her breath.
Oh. Oh, that was nearly a declaration.
The honesty in his admission hung between them like a bridge neither quite dared to cross. What could she say in response that would encourage him yet not appear overly eager?
“I feel exactly the same” seemed too forward. “How interesting” seemed too cold. Why was conversation so difficult?
Before Venetia could formulate a response, their moment of intimate conversation was interrupted by an unexpected commotion from the direction they’d come. Raised voices, speaking rapid Italian, echoed off the canal walls, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps on stone.
Of course. Because nothing can ever be simple.
“What is this—” Mr. Rothbury began, but his words were cut short as a figure burst around the corner of the walkway, running at full speed directly toward them.
The man—a gondolier judging by his costume—appeared to be fleeing from some pursuit, his face flushed with panic. Behind him, additional voices suggested he was indeed being chased.
“Scusi, scusi!” the man gasped as he approached, his eyes wide with terror. Without ceremony, he grasped Edward’s arm. “You help, signor? Per favore? Bad men come, want money, I have nothing!”
Well, that’s what Venetia’s rudimentary Italian translated.
Smoothly, Mr. Rothbury positioned himself between Venetia and the agitated stranger, asking in Italian, “What’s happened?”
Before the gondolier could respond, the sound of pursuing footsteps grew louder, and three rough-looking men rounded the corner. Their clothing marked them as laborers from the Venetian docks. The cudgels they carried suggested their intentions were far from peaceful.
“There he is!” one of them shouted. “The thief who took our week’s wages!”
Venetia was sufficiently well versed in the Italian language to catch the gist. She saw Mr. Rothbury’s hand move instinctively to where a gentleman might carry a sword, though of course he bore no weapon on what was supposed to be a simple afternoon’s outing.
The narrow walkway offered little room for maneuvering, while the canal on one side and the palazzo’s sheer wall on the other provided no avenue for escape.
“Venetia,” he said quietly, using her given name without conscious thought, “stay behind me. Whatever happens, do not—”
He called me Venetia. In the middle of what might be our imminent demise, that’s oddly thrilling.
But his words were interrupted as the fleeing gondolier, apparently realizing the narrow walkway offered no further escape route, made a desperate decision.
With a muttered prayer to what sounded like several different saints, he leaped directly into the canal, disappearing beneath the murky water with a splash that sent ripples racing toward both banks.
The pursuing men reached their position seconds later, their faces dark with anger and frustration as the man they pursued began to swim away. The leader, a burly man whose arms were scarred and knotted with muscle, fixed Edward with a suspicious glare.
“Inglese?” he demanded, apparently recognizing Mr. Rothbury’s nationality from his clothing.
Mr. Rothbury nodded carefully. “Is there some assistance we might provide?”
The man’s expression remained hostile as his gaze shifted to take in Venetia’s elaborate costume. Something in his eyes suggested he was reassessing the situation, perhaps wondering whether these well-dressed foreigners might represent a more profitable target than the vanished gondolier.
Oh no. Oh, this is bad.
“Pretty lady,” he said in broken English, taking a step toward Venetia which Mr. Rothbury blocked. “Nice jewels. Maybe she share with poor working men?”
Sofia’s jewels.
“We’re merely tourists,” said Mr. Rothbury, consolidating his position in front of Venetia, “with no involvement in whatever dispute you had with that fellow.”
The leader’s smile held no warmth whatsoever. “Tourists with money, yes? Rich English, always have money. You give some, we let you walk away. Is good bargain, no?”
Venetia saw Mr. Rothbury stiffen. He was outnumbered and at a disadvantage, with the canal on one side and no means of escape except past the three ruffians.
Her throat closed up, and she could utter no sound.
This is not how I imagined this afternoon going. Not at all.
Would she feel the grasping of calloused hands about her neck as they tried to prize Sofia’s necklace from her person? And how would she explain its loss?
That’s if they got out of this situation at all.