Chapter Fourteen
“Gentlemen.”
Mr. Rothbury’s tone was smooth and unruffled as he addressed them in polite, respectful Italian.
Venetia could scarcely believe his composure. Instinctively, she pressed closer against his side, and it was then she became more conscious of the effort it took him to appear unfazed—she could feel the strong beat of his heart.
At least one of us is maintaining dignity. I’m fairly certain I’ve stopped breathing.
“Please let us pass. This young lady is under the protection of Count Morosini, whose palazzo you see there”—he gestured toward a distant building whose upper windows were just visible above the canal walls—“and she is his honored guest, expected for music lessons within the hour while I bear her escort. Your interference with our passage will not be kindly regarded by the count, whose guards are observing your every move and will arrive at a signal from me.”
That’s… actually quite impressive bluffing.
The leader of the three men hesitated. Venetia could see him reassessing the situation, weighing the potential value of their purses against the risk of offending Venetian nobility. For a moment, she dared to hope that brave Mr. Rothbury’s bold gambit had succeeded.
But then the ruffian’s expression hardened, and she realized with a sinking heart that desperation had made him reckless.
“Count or no count,” he snarled, “we see no servants, no guards. Just rich English with full purses and nowhere to run.”
Venetia’s first instinct was to flee, but it was Mr. Rothbury who moved first, pushing her behind him as the three men advanced.
“Run, Venetia!” he commanded, but there was nowhere to flee when two of the men moved to block her.
The narrow walkway stretched behind them, while ahead lay only the canal and the stone wall of an abandoned palazzo.
What followed happened with the terrible swiftness of a nightmare.
Mr. Rothbury, with the reflexes of a man who’d once served His Majesty’s Navy, managed to land a solid blow on the first attacker before the second man’s cudgel caught him across the shoulder with sickening force.
Venetia watched in horror as he staggered, his feet slipping on the moss-covered stones, before a third blow sent him sprawling onto the ancient cobblestones with a sound that made her stomach lurch.
No. No, no, no—
“Mr. Rothbury!” The cry tore from her throat as she dropped to her knees beside his motionless form, her skirts pooling around them. The men loomed over them, reaching for Edward’s fallen purse, when the sound of approaching voices echoed from the direction of the main canal.
“Someone comes!” one of the attackers hissed, and with muttered curses they snatched what coins had scattered from Mr. Rothbury’s purse before disappearing into the maze of narrow passages that honeycombed this section of Venice.
Alone with Mr. Rothbury’s motionless form, Venetia’s hands trembled as she touched his face. A thin line of blood trickled from a cut above his left temple, and his coat was ripped at the shoulder beneath the cudgel’s impact.
But his chest rose and fell with reassuring regularity, and when she whispered his name, his eyelids fluttered in response.
Thank God.
“Edward,” she breathed, cradling his head in her lap with complete disregard for the damage to Sofia’s borrowed finery. “Oh, my dearest Edward, please open your eyes. Please be well.”
His dark lashes lifted slowly, revealing eyes that were unfocused but blessedly conscious. “Venetia?” he murmured, his voice hoarse with pain. “Are you… did they harm you?”
“No,” she assured him, smoothing his hair away from the bleeding cut. “No, they took nothing but a few coins. You saved me… You could have been killed!”
“Venetia,” he said again, seeming to forget he was using her Christian name as he raised his hand to cover hers where it rested against his cheek. “I could not bear it if anything had happened to you. When I saw those men threatening you, I thought… I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
He’s saying all the right things. Oh yes, just keep saying them…
“Nor I,” she whispered, abandoning all pretense of reserve as the words poured from her heart.
“When you fell, when I thought you might be seriously injured, I realized that nothing else in this world matters to me as much as your safety, your happiness. Oh, Edward, I would rather be poor again with a man I love than rich and miserable with someone chosen for his bloodline or bank account.”
“You must not say such things,” he interrupted, though his thumb traced gentle circles across her knuckles in contradiction of his words.
“You’re wealthy, titled, sought after by gentlemen of fortune and standing.
While I… I’m nothing more than a poor translator with modest prospects and no family name to recommend me. ”
“Do you truly believe I care about that?” Venetia demanded. “Have you learned nothing of my character in all these months? The fortune I inherited is nothing compared to finding a companion whose mind and heart call to my own.”
Edward’s eyes closed briefly. “Venetia, you speak from emotion, from the shock of what just occurred. But think of what you would be sacrificing—”
“The only thing I would sacrifice,” she said with quiet intensity, “is the chance for true happiness, if I allow false pride and social conventions to stand between us.”
He smiled suddenly, and for a moment Venetia glimpsed the depth of longing he’d been struggling to conceal. His hand tightened on hers, and she was certain he was about to speak the words that would change everything between them.
Finally. FINALLY.
“Madonna mia! What has happened here?”
Oh, for the love of—
The exclamation, delivered in rapid Italian, shattered their moment of intimacy like a stone thrown against glass. Venetia looked up to see a well-dressed Venetian gentleman hurrying toward them, his face creased with concern.
Of course. Because we’re in apparently the most populated deserted corner of Venice.
“Signor,” Edward said, struggling to sit upright despite Venetia’s attempts to keep him still. “We encountered some… difficulties… with local brigands.”
“I saw the scoundrels fleeing as I approached,” the gentleman replied, introducing himself as Signor Benedetti as he produced a clean handkerchief from his coat.
“You are fortunate, my friend. The blow to your head appears superficial, though you’ll have a considerable bruise on that shoulder. Can you stand?”
With Signor Benedetti’s assistance, Edward rose to his feet, and amidst a volley of questions, was escorted toward his gondola moored nearby.
“You’re a translator for Count Morosini? Yet an English gentleman?” Signor Benedetti’s curiosity was clearly growing as he helped steady Edward. “The accent in your Italian—it’s flawless. You are, in truth, a local?”
“My mother was Italian.” Edward winced as Signor Benedetti touched his wounded shoulder. “From these parts.”
“Your mother? What was her name? I am from these parts, too. Perhaps I knew her?”
Edward frowned with the effort of movement, muttering, “Isabella—” before pressing his lips together, though he added, his breath labored, “She was a singer.”
A singer? This was the first Venetia had heard about Edward’s mother. She resolved to question him later.
“Madonna santissima!” Benedetti stopped so abruptly as he stared fiercely into Edward’s eyes that they both stumbled.
“Not La Monteverdi? The nightingale of La Fenice? But she was… she was magnificent! I heard her sing Desdemona when I was but a youth—never has such beauty graced our stages since!” His eyes shone with reverence.
“Why, now you mention it, I can see your resemblance to the incomparable La Monteverdi. And you are her son?”
“I never said that,” Edward ground out.
“Ah, but what a scandal it was!” Benedetti continued, as if Edward hadn’t spoken.
“The whole city spoke of nothing else for months! She was at the very pinnacle of her art—contracts from Milan, from Naples, even whispers of Vienna calling for her services. And Marchese Alessandro Valenti, from one of our most distinguished families, had declared his great love!” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow managed to carry even more clearly.
“But then tragedy!” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“And afterwards came this English signore, and puff!—” he snapped his fingers dramatically, “—she abandoned everything! The stage, the count, her career, all of Venice mourning the loss of such a voice, as she sailed away to become a mere wife in some English countryside we had never heard of!”
Oh. Oh dear.
Venetia’s limited Italian caught enough of the rapid words—scandalo, abbandonato.
All about a story that Edward was denying.
But if it was true that his mother gave up everything for love, did he think Venetia wouldn’t do the same?
“Of course,” Benedetti added hastily, perhaps sensing the sudden chill in his audience, “nothing can stand in the way of true love, eh? I’m certain she found great happiness and rewards in her new life in England.
A woman of such spirit—she would have made any home a palace with her presence!
Now, let me assist your companion and her maid into the gondola, monsieur.
What a pleasure it has been to know you.
” He bowed deeply, his pleasure unabated as the gondolier pushed off from the bank.
They were several minutes into their journey before Venetia was able to break through the awkwardness.
“Edward. Mr. Rothbury—” she amended quickly, for it seemed their earlier intimacy had been eroded by Signor Benedetti’s enthusiastic admiration.
“You must see to your cut for it’s deep.
We should return to our palazzo rather than Count Morosini’s. ”
He shook his head. “We’ll go to Count Morosini’s because Caterina will be waiting for you.” His voice was dull. “It’s more important that Sofia’s soiled gown be attended to than my cuts and bruises.”
Sofia’s gown. SOFIA’S GOWN? I just confessed my feelings and he’s worried about SOFIA’S GOWN.
“Of course,” Venetia said quietly, gathering the soiled folds of Sofia’s skirts around her with as much dignity as she could muster.
When they reached the landing stage where Caterina stood with her hands on her hips, clearly irritated by their tardiness and having obviously dispatched Sofia, the maid took in the state of her mistress’s borrowed clothing with sharp eyes but no visible surprise.
Perhaps Sofia’s adventures not infrequently resulted in such disasters.
But her eyes widened at the cut above Mr. Rothbury’s eye.
“Footpads,” he explained shortly. “No harm done other than to Signorina Sofia’s lovely gown. I shall, of course, pay the dressmaker’s bill.”
He barely looked at Venetia as he helped her out of the gondola, followed by Mollie, before bowing and saying, “I must return to my translation duties for the count. Pray excuse me, and please, Miss Playford, forgive me for the dark turn this afternoon has taken.”
Miss Playford. We’re back to Miss Playford. Wonderful.
Venetia felt something squeeze her heart as if it really were putty in the hands of some unknown force.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “You were so brave.”
But he merely nodded, not making eye contact as he said to Mollie, “Look after your mistress. She had something of a fright this afternoon, and the shock may be delayed. Perhaps a soothing posset would be in order.”
A posset. He’s prescribing a soothing posset?
And then he was gone, and Venetia was back in the gondola, heading toward the palazzo where she knew she’d be received with eager excitement by Lady Townsend, who’d quiz her on every word spoken and meaningful glance shared.
But what could she tell her?
That her heart belonged more than ever to brave, handsome, gallant Mr. Rothbury.
But that he was further away than ever?