Chapter Fifteen
Edward endured a fitful sleep that night.
His precious time yesterday with Venetia had been on the cusp of promising something deeper than the genial friendship they’d hitherto enjoyed. She’d tried to speak to him of what was in her heart and, indeed, he was about to let her.
For why should his misplaced honor stand in the way of their happiness? If she believed he was worthy of her, he’d be a fool to persuade her otherwise.
A fool. Which, frankly, he’d been acting like for months now.
The violent encounter with the footpads had truncated talk of love and affection—a conversation just resurrected before the well-meaning Signor Benedetti had ruined everything with his recognition of Edward’s true identity.
Yet, on reflection, he realized this had been his unexpected salvation.
For, as Miss Playford had uttered those heartfelt words indicating the depth of her feeling, his susceptible heart had answered.
Dangerous!
What would he have answered had his response not been cut short by the arrival of the ruffians but, more importantly, by Signor Benedetti? The gentleman’s recollections of Edward’s mother had been a salient reminder that memories were long, and his mother was far from forgotten in these parts.
Which only bore up how long some memories would prove to be if he were to announce to English society—much less Italian—that he, Signor Edward Rothbury, was to wed one of England’s most substantial heiresses.
Not only would this set tongues wagging, it would not be long before the truth was laid bare for all to judge. Was Mr. Edward Rothbury, with such a stain upon his reputation—the illegitimate son of an Italian opera singer—worthy to be the husband of one so untainted and elevated as Miss Playford?
With a groan, he pressed his fingertips against his temples, willing away the persistent ache that had plagued him since yesterday’s encounter with Venice’s less savory elements.
The bruising along his shoulder had deepened overnight to an impressive palette of purple and yellow, though that was nothing compared with the vulnerability and dangerous territory his heart had led him into.
Returning to Scott’s prose, he tried to rid his mind of Venetia’s lovely image, but the passage describing Ivanhoe’s internal conflict between duty and desire only led Edward back to those precious moments when Venetia had cradled his head in her lap, her voice breaking as she spoke words that had shattered every careful barrier he’d constructed around his heart.
“I would rather be poor again with a man I love than rich and miserable with someone chosen for his bloodline or bank account.”
She’d spoken with such passionate sincerity, such complete disregard for the conventions that governed their world, that for a brief, shining moment he’d almost believed their love might indeed conquer all obstacles.
Almost. Before reality and common sense reasserted themselves with its usual impeccable timing.
Edward stared down at the manuscript before him, seeing not Scott’s carefully crafted sentences but the image of Venetia’s face transformed by borrowed finery. Even disguised as Sofia, the essence of her goodness had shone through.
Her goodness and her naivete.
How could he have been so foolish as to imagine, even for a moment, that such a woman could find lasting happiness with a man whose greatest achievement was his facility with foreign languages?
Venetia might speak of preferring love over luxury, but she’d never truly experienced poverty’s grinding humiliations.
Unlike his mother, who’d chosen love and—according to Benedetti’s rapturous account—abandoned everything. Which had worked out… he paused… actually, it had worked out reasonably well until the fever that had taken her life when he’d been a boy. But that wasn’t the point.
At the sound of approaching footsteps in the marble corridor outside the library, Edward straightened in his chair, hastily arranging his features into an expression of scholarly concentration.
Count Morosini rarely visited the library during Edward’s working hours, preferring to review completed translations in the comfort of his private study.
The elderly nobleman’s unexpected appearance this morning was therefore both surprising and somewhat concerning.
“Ah, my dear Rothbury,” the count said as he entered the magnificent room. “I hope I’m not disturbing your scholarly endeavors?”
“Not at all, Count Morosini,” Edward replied, rising and bowing. “I’m always honored by your presence.”
Also terrified.
The count advanced through the library, his fingers trailing along the leather spines with apparent affection. Despite his age, he was an imposing figure—tall and elegantly garbed, with silver hair that gleamed in the afternoon light, and keen dark eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
“I trust you’re recovering from yesterday’s… unpleasantness?” the count inquired, his gaze settling on the faint bruising visible at Edward’s temple. “Signor Benedetti was greatly concerned when he related the circumstances of your unfortunate encounter.”
Edward felt a chill of apprehension at the realization that news of the attack had reached the count’s ears.
Oh dear Lord, might Benedetti also have mentioned the presence of a young woman with golden hair?
What Benedetti knew about Edward was damaging enough—though Edward hadn’t actually endorsed his suppositions—but what might he have revealed about the golden-haired beauty in his company?
“I’m quite recovered, thank you,” Edward replied carefully. “I should have known that such incidents are not uncommon in Venice’s more isolated quarters.”
“Indeed,” the count agreed, settling himself in one of the leather chairs positioned near the tall windows.
“Venice is a hotbed of individuals of questionable moral character, and one must exercise considerable caution when venturing beyond the more civilized districts.” He paused, his dark eyes fixed on Edward with uncomfortable intensity.
“Particularly when one travels in the company of… valued companions.”
There it is.
The subtle emphasis on his final words confirmed Edward’s worst fears.
“I was indeed fortunate that Signor Benedetti arrived when he did,” Edward said, barely able to look his patron in the eye. “His assistance was most timely.”
Count Morosini smiled—an expression that managed to convey both warmth and warning in equal measure. “Benedetti is a man of considerable discretion as well as generosity. He understands that certain… arrangements… require careful handling to avoid unfortunate complications.”
The count rose from his chair and moved to examine one of the completed manuscript pages spread across Edward’s desk, his expression thoughtful as he read the elegant Italian prose that had emerged from Scott’s English original.
“Your work continues to exceed even my high expectations,” he said.
“It has heightened the eagerness of my dear friend and fellow Scott enthusiast, the marchese, to have Ivanhoe translated before the month is out. The manner in which you capture not merely the literal meaning but the essential spirit of these romantic tales is truly remarkable. Scott’s Ivanhoe, in particular, seems to have inspired your most eloquent translations. ”
“The story possesses considerable emotional resonance,” Edward admitted, unable to keep a note of personal feeling from coloring his voice.
“Indeed, it does,” the count agreed, settling back into his chair with the air of one preparing for a longer conversation.
“The tale of a disinherited knight who loves a lady far above his station—such themes have appealed to romantics throughout the ages. Though one must acknowledge that Scott was wise to provide his hero with restored lands and noble title before permitting him to claim his lady’s hand. ”
And then, with these words, Edward… knew.
Oh no.
Benedetti had indeed told Count Morosini that Edward had been with a young blonde beauty, clearly an aristocrat given her dress.
Yet while the older man’s words carried no obvious criticism, their implication was devastatingly clear: Even in fiction, love required the support of compatible social positions to achieve lasting happiness.
“Sir Walter understood the practical considerations that govern such matters,” the count continued with deceptive casualness.
“A gentleman of modest means who attempts to court a lady of great fortune courts not romance but tragedy. The world is harsh in its judgment of such presumption, and the lady herself, however sincere her initial feelings, must eventually confront the reality of what such a union would cost her in terms of social standing and material comfort.”
Edward frowned as fear skittered up his spine. Could Benedetti have overheard Venetia’s declaration of… love? A declaration which the merchant might have misconstrued as having been uttered by Sofia?
Please, God, no.
The count paused, his gaze drifting to the canal visible through the library’s tall windows, and in the drawn-out silence, Edward heard the beating of his heart and knew some response was expected.
“Ivanhoe’s tale is as relevant today as it ever was,” Edward murmured. “It would be wise to remember that.”
The count turned his keen gaze on Edward.
“Indeed, it would. Temptation comes in many guises, and while Ivanhoe won his heart’s desire, the return of his title and estates made him worthy.
But a penniless youth, however talented, who pursues the precious granddaughter of his patron, risks tragedy for both himself and the object of his affections. ”
So, he truly refers to his granddaughter?
Edward sucked in a shocked breath.
He thinks I was with Sofia? He thinks I’m pursuing Sofia?
“One would hope common sense would assert itself when he realizes he runs the risk not only of ensuring her social ostracism but his own financial ruin,” the count continued. “Sometimes true love requires the courage to step aside rather than the boldness to press forward.”
For a moment Edward was blinded by panic.
If Benedetti had mistaken Miss Playford for Sofia—as he would have, given Sofia’s elaborate dress—and revealed to Count Morosini that the pair were alone together when the footpads attacked, would there be further consequences beyond this warning? This veiled threat?
I’m going to be dismissed. Or worse. What are the dungeons like in Venice?
Briefly he closed his eyes. What could he say without compromising either Sofia by disclosing her duplicity, or his own involvement in it?
“But of course common sense would prevail,” Edward said numbly, taking the gamble that a tacit acceptance of guilt was better than protests the count was unlikely to believe.
Brilliant. Confess to something you didn’t do to avoid confessing to something you actually did.
“I’m glad you think that,” the count said softly, rising but not moving toward Edward.
He hesitated, clearly pondering his next words.
“Now, I’ve interrupted you longer than I’d intended.
I do not believe a more skilled translator exists for the exacting nature of my work.
My impatience for Ivanhoe to be completed has tempered other emotions now that I feel I’ve been reassured. ”
Reassured that I’m not pursuing your granddaughter. Which I’m not. But I am helping her deceive you. Wonderful.
“My granddaughter finds power in breaking hearts, and there has been more than one young man who has suffered my ire. I had thought you different, Mr. Rothbury. I certainly would be loath to lose you. But if you’re a wise man intent on proving his loyalty to his patron, then I shall be glad to know that once Ivanhoe is translated, you will move on to the translation of further volumes by the unequaled Sir Walter Scott. ”
Edward bowed. “I understand completely, Count Morosini.”
“Excellent,” the count said, moving toward the door. “I knew I could rely on your good sense.”