Chapter Twenty-One
Edward, who had just left Venetia in the company of Captain Rizzi—who’d been adamant she needed no chaperone other than Mollie while he interviewed the supposed jewel thief—found Lord Thornton and Lady Townsend in the marble corridor, their faces reflecting the same shock and outrage churning in his chest.
He’d passed Miss Bentley’s retreating figure moments earlier, disappearing around a corner ramrod straight with self-righteous indignation.
The ghastly woman had all but delivered his beloved Venetia into the hands of the authorities.
“Lord Thornton,” Edward said, “surely you understand this is nothing but a plot to discredit Miss Playford.” He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his fingers to his still-bruised temple. “A very elaborate, very calculated plot—for reasons as yet unknown.”
“Of course it is,” Thornton acknowledged. “Though the evidence appears damaging, I naturally share Lady Townsend’s conviction that Miss Playford is entirely innocent—”
“Miss Playford is the most virtuous person I’ve ever known!” Edward burst out.
Lady Townsend made a sympathetic sound. “Indeed, she is. She wore a tiara loaned to her by Signorina Sofia. That is, of course, where Captain Rizzi should begin his investigations.”
“And I’ve no doubt Miss Playford will be released within the hour when this is made clear,” Thornton added. “I tried to intervene on her behalf, but Captain Rizzi was adamant that any interference was unnecessary.”
Lady Townsend shook her head. “The captain is a very decided gentleman, but I am sure it will soon be made clear to him that she is but a hapless victim.”
“Of whom?” Edward demanded. “And for what reason? Why would Signorina Sofia wish to harm Miss Playford? There can be no other explanation for this… travesty of justice.”
“Justice is the outcome of Captain Rizzi’s investigations,” Thornton said, in that maddeningly reasonable tone of his. “And I’ve no doubt that justice will be delivered appropriately. We can do nothing but wait patiently for Italian justice to take its course.”
Lady Townsend looked enquiringly at Edward. “Do you have any suspicions? Miss Bentley appears a dupe, but claims not to know—or will not say—who planted the emeralds.”
Edward steadied himself on the back of a velvet sofa. “Signorina Sofia isn’t the romantic innocent she appears. It was she who wished Miss Playford to wear the family tiara—though I counseled against it.”
Thornton’s expression tightened. “It was I who insisted Venetia accept Signorina Sofia’s loan.”
“Which she eventually agreed to because the signorina’s plight so echoed her own situation until a year ago,” Edward muttered. “Do you truly think the signorina did not know the gold tiara contained stolen gems?”
Of course she knew, thought Edward. She probably loaded the compartment herself while humming a cheerful tune.
“You really think Sofia Morosini is the only one involved in orchestrating this?” Thornton shook his head. “She did not even attend tonight’s masquerade. Besides, the jewels were stolen weeks ago. Surely a young woman who enjoys the trappings of wealth would not need—”
“It’s not about need,” Edward cut in, the words spilling out with bitter self-recrimination.
“And I’ve been a spectacular fool. I should have been more alert to inconsistencies in her story, seen through the calculated nature of her appeals to my sympathy.
Instead, I allowed myself to be manipulated because…
” He stopped, the admission sticking in his throat.
Because I’m an idiot. A lovesick idiot.
“Because?” Lady Townsend prompted gently.
“Because she offered me exactly what I most desired,” Edward said, the truth scraping out of him.
“An excuse to spend time with Miss Playford. A reason to be alone with her, to speak with her, to…” His voice broke.
“God help me, I love her. And that love has made me a fool—and a danger to the very person I most wish to protect.”
“My dear boy,” Lady Townsend said softly, “love is hardly a crime, nor does it make you responsible for others’ machinations.”
“Doesn’t it?” Edward turned to them. “Every step of this conspiracy depended on my willingness to involve Miss Playford in Sofia’s schemes.
Without my participation, Venetia would never have been positioned to take blame for tonight’s theft.
I’m as responsible for her destruction as if I’d placed that cursed tiara on her head myself. ”
“You’re being too harsh,” Thornton replied. “Miss Playford is clearly innocent and she will be vindicated. If Signorina Morosini orchestrated this, then you were as much her victim as Miss Playford. Self-recrimination will not undo what’s been done.”
Edward laughed, a short, rough sound. “Won’t it? Then what will, Lord Thornton? What action can possibly restore Miss Playford’s reputation, clear her name, prove her innocence when evidence has been so carefully arranged to suggest guilt?”
He began pacing, unable to contain the agitation coiling in his limbs. “And there’s more. Something that makes this situation even more impossible.”
Might as well confess everything, he thought. It can’t get much worse.
“More?” Lady Townsend asked, anxiety sharpening her tone.
“Count Morosini believes I’m pursuing Sofia,” Edward said flatly.
“After the attack by the footpads—you remember, Lady Townsend, the incident I mentioned?—a well-meaning merchant named Benedetti saw me with a young, well-bred, golden-haired woman in elegant dress. He naturally assumed it was Sofia, given the clothing. He told Count Morosini.”
Oh, what a fool I’ve been. A lovesick, credulous fool.
“The count summoned me to his library,” Edward continued, his voice tight.
“He gave me the most exquisitely civil warning I’ve ever received.
All couched in discussions of Ivanhoe and how even in fiction, love requires compatible social positions.
The message was clear: step away from my granddaughter or lose your position. ”
Thornton’s expression sharpened. “But you weren’t with Sofia. You were with—”
“With Venetia,” Edward finished. “Wearing Sofia’s dress. As part of Sofia’s scheme. But I can’t tell Count Morosini that without revealing his granddaughter’s deception and making everything infinitely worse.”
Also, he’d probably have me thrown into whatever dungeons Venice still maintains.
“So you see,” Edward said, desperation rising, “I can’t appeal to Count Morosini for help. He already thinks I’m a fortune hunter pursuing his granddaughter. If I now suggest Sofia framed Venetia—a wealthy English heiress—to protect herself—what will he think?”
“That you’re deflecting blame,” Lady Townsend said slowly, understanding dawning.
“Exactly.” Edward stopped pacing, his hands clenched. “To him, it would look as though I seduced both young women, conspired with one to rob the other, and am now trying to save my own skin by implicating his beloved granddaughter.”
Who is actually guilty. But try explaining that to her grandfather.
“Moreover,” Edward went on, “I’m the one who delivered the tiara to Venetia. I’m the one who encouraged her to help Sofia. I’m the one found alone with her on that balcony. Every piece of circumstantial evidence points to me as either conspirator or mastermind.”
“Which is precisely what Sofia intended,” Thornton said grimly.
“Yes, but knowing that doesn’t help Venetia!” Edward’s voice cracked. The more he teased at the difficulties, the tighter the knot became. “She is sitting in some room now, being interrogated, her reputation in tatters, while I stand here explaining why I can’t do anything to help her.”
He faced them again. “I am the root of all this. Sofia used my feelings for Venetia to manipulate me. Count Morosini suspects me of pursuing his granddaughter. Captain Rizzi caught me compromising Venetia on a balcony. Every thread of this conspiracy leads back to me.”
“I hope you’re not about to propose what I—?” Lady Townsend began warily.
“I propose that I confess,” Edward said, cutting across her. “To everything. I’ll tell Captain Rizzi I manipulated Miss Playford into wearing the tiara, that I used her innocence and trust as cover for my own criminal activities. The evidence supports it.”
“Absolutely not,” Thornton said at once.
“Why not?” Edward demanded. “It would free Venetia. It would explain everything without implicating Sofia—which means Count Morosini might show mercy. He values my translations. He might petition for clemency if he believes I acted alone.”
“You’re proposing to confess to a crime you didn’t commit,” Lady Townsend said slowly, “to save a woman you love, while relying on the mercy of a man who has already warned you away from his granddaughter?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds terrible,” Edward admitted.
It IS terrible. But what choice do I have?
“It sounds like madness because it is madness,” Thornton said bluntly. “Rothbury, you’re not thinking clearly. Desperation has overwhelmed your judgment.”
“Perhaps,” Edward conceded. “But what’s the alternative? Wait while Venetia suffers? Try to investigate Sofia while her grandfather shields her? Hope that somehow evidence emerges that clears Venetia without implicating me or Sofia?”
“Yes,” Thornton said firmly. “Precisely that.”
“Lord Thornton, you don’t understand the position we’re in—”
“I understand perfectly,” Thornton interrupted. “You love Miss Playford. You feel responsible for her predicament. You’re desperate to help her, regardless of the cost to yourself. These are admirable sentiments, Rothbury. They are also a wretched basis for strategy.”
“But time is working against us,” Edward protested. “Every moment Venetia spends under suspicion, her reputation deteriorates further, which further imperils her fortune. It only takes a letter from Captain Rizzi—” He broke off. “And I can’t approach Count Morosini for help without—”
“Without revealing truths that would make everything worse,” Lady Townsend finished. “Yes, we understand.”
“Then you see why confession might be the only option?” Edward pressed.
“We see why you think it is the only option,” Thornton corrected. “We do not agree.”
Edward sank into a chair, his energy draining away. “Then what would you have me do? Stand by helplessly while the woman I love is destroyed by enemies who used my own feelings as weapons against her?”
Because that’s worked so well thus far.
“I would have you use the rational, analytical mind that has served you so well,” Thornton replied with patient firmness.
“Channel your passion into investigation. Discover the true extent of this conspiracy, identify all participants, and gather evidence that will not merely clear Miss Playford but expose the real criminals.”
“Investigation takes time,” Edward said dully.
“Yes,” Lady Townsend agreed. “But confession takes only moments and, once made, cannot be undone. If you confess falsely now, you eliminate any chance of uncovering the truth later.”
Edward stared at his feet. “So you’re advising me to wait. While Venetia suffers.”
“We’re advising you to think,” Thornton said. “To use your intellect rather than your guilt, your strategic abilities rather than your despair.”
“There is more to this than Sofia’s individual malice,” Edward said slowly, his mind, despite himself, beginning to work again. “Tonight’s scheme required planning and resources beyond what a young woman might accomplish alone.”
“Precisely,” Thornton said. “Someone with knowledge of English society, access to valuable information about Miss Playford’s circumstances, and the ability to position multiple elements exactly where they needed to be.”
“Someone like Count di Montefiore,” Lady Townsend added quietly. “A man who appeared at precisely the right moment, with exactly the right credentials, showing exactly the right interest in Venetia’s affairs. And who seems to have manipulated Miss Bentley into providing damaging testimony.”
Count di Montefiore. Another piece of this nightmare puzzle.
“Then we have multiple conspirators,” Edward said, rubbing at his temples. “Sofia, possibly the count, perhaps others. A web of deception rather than a single villain.”
“Which makes your confession even more foolish,” Thornton pointed out. “If you take the blame for a crime committed by multiple conspirators, you do not save Venetia. You simply give the real criminals freedom to continue their schemes while eliminating the one person who might expose them.”
“So, what do we do?” Edward asked, hearing the defeat in his own voice.
“We investigate,” Lady Townsend said firmly. “We gather evidence. We expose the truth. And we do it together, using our combined resources and intelligence rather than relying on grand romantic gestures that accomplish nothing.”
“Even if that means Venetia suffers in the interim?” Edward asked quietly.
“Even then,” Thornton said gently. “Because the alternative—your false confession—would make her suffer even more, for even longer, with no hope of eventual vindication.”
Edward nodded slowly. “Very well. Investigation. Evidence. Truth. Though every instinct I possess is screaming to act immediately.”
“Those instincts do you credit as a lover,” Lady Townsend said with a sad smile. “But they would disqualify you as Venetia’s savior. She needs your mind, Edward. Not your martyrdom.”
Back in his chambers later, Edward stared at the Foreign Office letter still tucked in his desk drawer. Constantinople beckoned—a prestigious posting, financial security, an escape from this nightmare.
Run away to Constantinople? Let someone else save Venetia?
Dear Lord, regardless of how tempting Constantinople once seemed, it was now out of reach. While Venetia remained in danger, he would remain in Venice.
He could almost hear Thornton’s voice: Use your rational mind.
The trouble was, his rational mind kept circling back to the same conclusion: Venetia was in danger, he’d helped put her there, and confession might be the fastest way to extract her.
Even if it destroys me in the process.
Even if Thornton is right that it won’t actually work.
Even if it’s the stupidest plan imaginable.
Truth and investigation would take time—time during which Venetia would endure daily humiliation as an accused criminal.