Chapter Seventeen
Edward stared at the Foreign Office seal attached to the official correspondence spread across his writing desk.
The letter from Lord Pemberton had arrived that morning, offering him a prestigious posting to Constantinople with a salary that had the potential to transform his circumstances from genteel poverty to genuine prosperity.
“His Majesty’s Government recognizes your exceptional linguistic abilities and diplomatic acumen,” the letter stated.
“The position of Senior Translator at the Embassy in Constantinople carries considerable responsibility and commensurate reward. Your acceptance of this appointment would represent a significant advancement in your career prospects, with opportunities for further promotion within the diplomatic hierarchy.”
His throat felt dry. With Count Morosini’s recent warning about how easily he could be dismissed—despite his desire for Scott translations—he wondered if his benefactor had a hand in this.
Perhaps Count Morosini had decided that Edward’s valuable contribution to his library was outweighed by the supposed danger he posed to his beautiful granddaughter.
A granddaughter Edward wasn’t even pursuing.
He reread the letter.
The practical advantages were undeniable.
The salary alone would elevate him from his current status as a modestly compensated translator to that of a gentleman of independent means.
Within three years, he could return to England with sufficient resources to establish himself in society, perhaps even to purchase a small estate befitting his enhanced position.
It was everything he could dream of—recognition, financial security, and the prospect of genuine advancement.
Yet the thought of accepting the posting filled him with a desolation so profound he could barely contemplate it.
Three years in the Ottoman capital. Three years of not seeing Venetia. Three years during which she would certainly find someone else.
By the time he returned to England, she’d likely be married to some worthy gentleman of appropriate fortune and standing, perhaps already the mother of children who would never know how desperately their mother had once been loved by a man too proud to pursue his heart’s desire.
He stilled. Wasn’t this going to happen regardless?
He’d already accepted Miss Playford was beyond his reach, and the reasons were quite simply insurmountable.
Even if Miss Playford declared she could never love another, he could never subject her to the consequences of what marriage between them would entail once the sordid truth regarding his parentage came out.
He had to stifle something close to a sob. The irony. Had he never been so assiduous in going through his father’s correspondence with Venetia’s father, and all those other documents, he might never have learned that he was not, in truth, a Rothbury.
What that did in fact make him, he had no idea…
Perhaps Signore Benedetti might hazard a guess if asked about Isabella Monteverdi’s famous lovers.
But, he supposed, he had Signor Benedetti to thank for making him realize that pledging his troth to Venetia would open a Pandora’s box promising eternal misery.
Edward rubbed his temples, where the persistent ache from his recent injuries seemed to throb in rhythm with his troubled thoughts, before approaching footsteps in the palazzo’s marble corridor interrupted his brooding, followed by the soft knock he’d come to recognize as Sofia’s distinctive demand for attention.
Edward sighed, hastily folding the Foreign Office letter and securing it in his desk drawer.
“Entrate,” he called, and Sofia swept into his chamber with her usual graceful confidence, wearing an afternoon dress of rose silk, her golden curls arranged in an elaborate coiffure.
“Signor Edward!” she exclaimed with warmth. “I hope I’m not disturbing your scholarly pursuits, but I simply had to express my gratitude for your assistance yesterday. Everything proceeded exactly as planned, thanks to your dear Miss Playford’s extraordinary kindness.”
Edward’s jaw tightened at her casual reference to Venetia, particularly given the emotional upheaval that had resulted from their supposedly simple masquerade. “I’m pleased the deception served your purposes, signorina, but I must tell you—”
“Oh, it was more than satisfactory!” Sofia replied with a tinkling laugh that struck Edward as distinctly artificial.
“Paolo and I had the most wonderful afternoon together. We walked through the Giardini della Biennale and spoke of our future plans. He’s so impatient for us to begin our new life together, far from Grandfather’s interference. ”
Wonderful. So glad your romantic afternoon went well while mine ended in violence and heartbreak.
She settled herself gracefully in the chair opposite his desk, carefully arranging her skirts while her chocolate-brown eyes studied his face with uncomfortable intensity.
“Tell me, I’m just dying to learn more of tomorrow evening’s entertainment,” she continued. “I understand from the servants’ gossip that your Miss Playford will be attending Grandfather’s masquerade ball. How delightful!”
Edward stiffened at her assumption regarding his relationship with Venetia. “Miss Playford is not ‘my’ anything, signorina. She’s simply a fellow English resident who was kind enough to assist in your romantic schemes.”
At considerable personal cost, I might add.
Sofia’s smile held a knowing quality that made Edward distinctly uncomfortable. “Of course, signor. Though I confess I find it curious that a gentleman would take such a personal interest in arranging assistance for a lady who was nothing more to him than a casual acquaintance.”
Before Edward could formulate a response to this uncomfortably perceptive observation, Sofia leaned forward conspiratorially. “I happened to encounter Miss Bentley this morning at the Mercato di Rialto,” she said. “Such a charming woman, though rather… talkative.”
Edward nodded.
“She was most enthusiastic about tomorrow evening’s entertainment and particularly about Miss Playford’s costume—”
“I cannot imagine why Miss Playford’s costume would be of interest to you.” Edward felt a prickle of unease at Sofia’s interest in Venetia’s plans.
“Oh, but it is of the greatest interest!” Sofia exclaimed.
“You see, Miss Bentley mentioned that your dear friend plans to appear as a Byzantine empress, complete with a magnificent headdress and cloth-of-gold gown. She described some of the jewelry Miss Playford intends to wear—apparently Lady Townsend has been advising her on creating the most spectacular effect possible.”
There was a calculating gleam in Sofia’s eyes that suggested an interest beyond mere feminine curiosity about fashion.
Why do I feel like I’m watching someone plan a military campaign?
“Apparently, Miss Playford plans to wear her sapphire parure—the necklace, earrings, and bracelet that belonged to her uncle’s wife. The pieces are quite magnificent, with stones of exceptional quality and historical significance, according to Miss Bentley.”
And Miss Bentley apparently provides inventory lists to anyone who asks?
“You seem remarkably well-informed about Miss Playford’s jewelry collection,” Edward observed with growing suspicion.
Sofia laughed lightly. “Oh, you know how ladies are about such matters! Miss Bentley said the sapphire ensemble was valued at several thousand pounds…so of course Miss Playford must be very careful in view of this…scoundrel thief who is terrorizing all of Venice.”
Edward felt increasingly uncomfortable. Sofia’s interest in the specific value of Venetia’s jewelry struck him as strange and mercenary. “I have seen you adorned with jewels to equal hers, signorina,” he said mildly.
“Yes, but they are not mine. Otherwise Paolo and I would have eloped long before now,” she said with a shrug.
“Grandpapa has charged Caterina with keeping a careful inventory. However,” she went on with renewed animation, “here is where I hoped to contribute to the evening’s success!
I happen to possess a particularly exquisite gold and sapphire tiara that would complement Miss Playford’s planned ensemble perfectly.
It was my grandmother’s—a piece of considerable antiquity and beauty that has been in our family for generations. ”
Edward blinked.
This is a trap. This is definitely a trap.
She reached into her reticule and withdrew a small velvet jeweler’s box, which she placed on Edward’s desk. “I would be honored if Miss Playford would consent to wear it tomorrow evening as a token of my gratitude for her assistance yesterday.”
Edward stared at the box, his mind racing through the implications of Sofia’s unexpected generosity.
The offer seemed both extravagant and suspicious.
Why would a young woman lend an heirloom of significant value to someone she’d met only once?
And why the intense interest in ensuring that Venetia wore specific pieces of jewelry to a crowded social event?
“That is… very generous of you, signorina,” he said carefully, his pulse quickening. “Though I wonder if Miss Playford might feel such a loan places her under too great an obligation. Surely her own jewelry collection is sufficient for the occasion?”
Sofia smiled. “Oh, but you see, this particular piece would merely complement what Miss Bentley says she is wearing. She said Miss Playford was missing only a tiara of sapphires to look the part. And what I would like to offer her on loan was worn by the doge’s daughter at her wedding to a Byzantine prince in the fourteenth century.
What could be more appropriate for a lady appearing as a Byzantine empress? ”
Her enthusiasm seemed forced now, and Edward’s unease crystallized into active suspicion—and then, with horrifying clarity, into certainty.
Sofia is the thief. Or working with the thief. And she’s setting up Venetia.
“I will convey your generous offer to Miss Playford,” said Edward, making no move to accept the jeweler’s box and keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Though of course the decision must be entirely hers.”
The decision being “absolutely not under any circumstances.”
“Naturally,” Sofia agreed. “Though I do hope she’ll consider it favorably. After all, such opportunities to wear truly historic pieces are quite rare, and the masquerade would provide the perfect setting for displaying such magnificence.”
She rose from her chair and picked up the jeweler’s box—then, to Edward’s horror, slipped it into his leather satchel before he could object.
No. No, take it back. I don’t want it anywhere near me.
“Tell her I shall be so disappointed if she declines,” she said with a smile that no longer looked charming at all. “I shall have Caterina speak to her maid to persuade her.”
Over my dead body.
Edward stared at his satchel as if it contained a viper while Sofia glided out of the room.
He realized he’d been very wrong in his assessment about Sofia.
She wasn’t a desperate romantic. She was a calculating criminal who’d used him—used Venetia—as pawns in the scheme she was orchestrating.
And now he had approximately twenty-four hours to work out how to protect Venetia from whatever trap Sofia was setting at tomorrow’s masquerade.
Constantinople was starting to look rather appealing.