Chapter Twenty-Three
The joy that had once infused his work was gone. Words that had previously flowed as easily as the water in the Grand Canal now lay flat and lifeless on the page. Edward could think of nothing other than clearing Venetia’s name.
Protecting her. Holding onto that one blazing, impossible moment on the balcony when everything had finally made sense.
Her mouth beneath his. Her hands on his face.
The sound she’d made when he’d finally stopped fighting his feelings and kissed her as he’d dreamed of kissing her for years.
For the first time since his mother’s death, he had felt truly connected to another human being—not out of duty, not out of obligation, but out of a wild, mutual, chosen love.
That kiss had been his proof. Proof that whatever else the world thought of him, whatever titles or fortunes separated them, this was real. And nothing on earth mattered more to him than protecting that precious woman.
If necessary, he’d die doing it. The thought did not even startle him; it settled with cold, steady certainty.
Which was why he now sought an audience with his patron—a man who held both Edward’s livelihood and Venetia’s safety in his elegant, ink-stained hands.
The request was granted the following morning. Edward was ushered into the stately room the count favored for its morning light.
And probably for its intimidation factor.
The elderly nobleman stood with his back to the door, gazing out at the canal where gondolas drifted past like black mourning boats.
“Ah, Mr. Rothbury,” the count said without turning. “Punctual as always. Though I confess, after last evening’s festivities, I wondered if you might be indisposed this morning.”
Festivities. Yes, let’s call the nightmare that was last night festivities.
Edward’s stomach tightened. “Count Morosini, of course it is about the… injustice at the masquerade that I wish to speak to you—”
“Injustice?” The count turned slowly, his dark eyes holding a glint that made Edward’s insides churn. “Is that what you’re calling it? Your compromising position with a thief wearing stolen jewels on my balcony?”
“Sir, I must protest. Miss Playford is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing, and my presence there was—”
“Was what, precisely?” Count Morosini moved to his desk and settled himself in his chair. “I have ears and eyes who report upon everything, Signor Rothbury.”
Of course you do.
“Was the fact that stolen emeralds were found on Signorina Playford’s person an accident?
You are quick to defend her, despite the irrefutable evidence.
I am prepared to exonerate you of the charge of offering a somewhat…
scandalous… degree of… solace to a thief.
After all, how were you to know of her crimes before Captain Rizzi unmasked her?
But I will not be persuaded that your… dear friend…
Signorina Playford is innocent. No, she is a grand manipulator. ”
Like your granddaughter, Sofia.
Heat rose in Edward’s cheeks. “Count, I assure you that my conduct has always been of the highest—”
“Has it?” The count’s tone carried silky menace. “Because according to Signor Benedetti’s account of your unfortunate encounter with street ruffians, you were accompanied by a young woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to my granddaughter. A young woman wearing Sofia’s jewelry and costume.”
“With the greatest respect, signor, Miss Playford was wearing a tiara loaned to her by your granddaughter,” Edward burst out.
“Oh, so now you insinuate that my Sofia is complicit in some outrageous plot to discredit this other young woman with whom you were found in a compromising situation. Signor Rothbury, I thought I was employing a man of almost stultifying dedication to his work. Not a lothario.”
Lothario. Edward had been called many things, but lothario was new.
“Sir, that is not what I was insinuating. Allow me to explain—”
“Can you?” The count steepled his fingers.
“Very well, enlighten me. Explain how you came to be alone with a young woman described as Sofia. Certainly, she wore Sofia’s clothes and jewelry, according to Signor Benedetti.
Furthermore, she was put in grave peril and required rescue from footpads.
” The count leaned back. “Explain how, two days later, you are with a blonde beauty—another blonde beauty, or the same?—at my masquerade ball, again wearing Sofia’s jewelry, again in your company, again in compromising circumstances. ”
Well, when the count put it like that, it did look suspicious.
Edward’s mind raced through possible responses, but every explanation would either expose Sofia’s deception or confirm the count’s suspicions about his relationship with Venetia—in which case his desire to save her would be construed as the ravings of a man undone by passion.
The memory of the balcony flickered—Venetia’s fingers in his hair, the small, shaky breath she’d taken when he’d whispered that he loved her.
That single, searing moment in which he had known—more certainly than he knew his own name—that he would stand between her and the world, sword in hand like any of Scott’s doomed knights, if it came to that.
“I see your difficulty,” Count Morosini continued with false sympathy. “The truth would implicate you in behavior most unsuitable for a gentleman in my employ. A man who has been translating in my library while conducting secret assignations with my granddaughter.”
If only you knew how little I want to conduct assignations with your granddaughter, thought Edward.
“That is not what happened—”
“Is it not?” The count’s voice sharpened. “Then what did happen, Mr. Rothbury? And please, spare me any gallant attempts to protect the lady’s reputation. I am her grandfather. Her welfare is my primary concern.”
Edward stood trapped between impossible choices.
To reveal Sofia’s true activities would expose her romantic schemes and potentially destroy her chance of happiness with her Paolo.
To deny the count’s interpretation would require explanations that might endanger Venetia further.
And to confess the truth about his feelings for Venetia would confirm suspicions of fortune hunting that could ruin them both.
Essentially, every option was terrible.
He thought, absurdly, of Ivanhoe—of knights hemmed in by oaths and loyalties, forced to choose which duty to betray. He had always admired Wilfred’s stubborn honor from a safe distance. It was quite another thing to feel the vise of conflicting loyalties closing around one’s own throat.
“I thought not,” the count said after Edward’s prolonged silence. “Your discretion does you credit, though it hardly absolves you of responsibility for last evening’s scandal.”
Discretion? So he was calling his paralyzed inability to speak discretion.
Edward straightened his shoulders. “Clearly the young woman with whom I was… conversing… on the balcony was—as you put it—a blonde beauty who bears a similarity to your granddaughter. She was, in fact, Miss Playford. And she was wearing a tiara loaned to her by your granddaughter. What else would you have me say, Count Morosini?”
“Nothing, at present. The question is what you will do.” The count rose and moved back to the window.
“Miss Playford was released this morning on my personal recognizance. Captain Rizzi was most accommodating when I explained that the young lady was my guest, that her character was known to me, and that I would personally guarantee her appearance for any future proceedings.”
Edward’s heart leaped. “She’s been released?”
Thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
“She has. Though naturally, the charges remain pending. The investigation continues. And Captain Rizzi has made it clear that any new evidence of criminal behavior would result in immediate re-arrest.” The count spoke carefully.
“Such evidence might include, for instance, testimony about previous suspicious activities. Or witness accounts of her association with unsavory characters.”
Oh, how easily such charges could be manufactured.
The threat hung in the air like poison.
“I see you understand my position,” the count continued. “Miss Playford’s freedom rests upon my continued goodwill and influence with the authorities. Should that goodwill be… compromised… I fear I would find myself unable to intercede on her behalf in future.”
“What do you want?” Edward asked quietly.
“I want my granddaughter protected from scandal. I want my household to remain free from gossip and speculation. And I want my translator to remain precisely where he is—not dashing off to accept some lucrative offer in Constantinople—dedicated to his scholarly work without distraction from romantic entanglements that could prove… problematic.”
So Count Morosini knows about Constantinople, thought Edward. And it was not he who orchestrated the offer to be rid of him.
“I want Ivanhoe finished by the end of the month so that you can begin on Sir Walter Scott’s next.”
The end of the month? He wants eight weeks of work done in two weeks?
Edward stared at him. “You actually want me to stay.”
“Yes, did I not speak plainly enough? I want you to decline that Constantinople posting. And I want you to maintain appropriate distance from both my granddaughter and Miss Playford. For clearly you are much too invested in this Miss Playford to attend properly to your work.”
Too invested. That was one way of putting desperately in love.
“And if I refuse?” Edward asked boldly.
Count Morosini’s smile held no warmth. “Then I fear Miss Playford’s situation may become considerably more precarious.”
Edward felt something constrict around his heart. The count was offering him a devil’s bargain—his obedience in exchange for Venetia’s safety. His silence and distance in return for her freedom.
In Ivanhoe, knights boasted of their willingness to die for their ladies. Dying suddenly seemed the easier part. Living at arm’s length from Venetia while she believed he had abandoned her—that was the real martyrdom.
“I see you appreciate the delicacy of the situation,” the count said. “Naturally, Miss Playford need not know of our arrangement. Such knowledge would only distress her unnecessarily. Better that she believe your withdrawal stems from natural discretion rather than… external pressures.”
“You want me to let her think I’m abandoning her?” Edward’s voice came out hoarse.
“I want you to protect her from further scandal by maintaining proper distance. What she thinks of your motives is between you and your conscience.”
My conscience. Which is already screaming in protest.
He thought of Venetia in some cold little cell, her gown crumpled, her hair disordered, her brave chin lifted. He thought of the way she had said I love you on the balcony.
She had given him truth; he was now being asked to meet it with a lie.
To agree would mean watching her suffer the pain of his apparent rejection, doubting his love, perhaps even despising him. To refuse would mean exposing her to dangers he could neither foresee nor prevent.
This, then, was his own trial by ordeal. Not fire, not steel, but the slow torture of enforced distance—of being close enough to breathe the same air, yet forbidden to reach out a hand.
“Do I have your word that she will remain safe?” he asked at last.
“You have my word that my influence will continue to protect her, provided you honor our agreement. Cross me, Signor Rothbury, and I fear my ability to shield her from Venice’s harsher realities may prove… limited.”
Limited. Another polite Italian way of saying I’ll destroy her.
Edward opened his eyes to find the count watching him with a small, satisfied smile. The old man knew exactly what he was asking—and exactly why Edward would have no choice but to accept.
He thought of walking away. Of resigning, of going to Venetia, of telling her everything and facing the consequences together as equals.
But what then? Rizzi’s renewed zeal; Morosini’s retracted protection; Greene waiting in the shadows for the slightest chance to seize the Harrington fortune through a convenient conviction.
If he defied Morosini, Venetia paid the price. If he obeyed, he paid it. There was no version of this story in which both of them came away unscathed.
In Scott’s tale, Ivanhoe had sacrificed land and honor and comfort, trusting that the woman he loved would understand his devotion even when appearances were against him.
Edward could not even claim that comfort.
Venetia would never know. From her perspective, he would simply vanish when the scandal broke, leaving her to bear it alone.
And yet, what choice did he have, if her safety truly depended on his compliance?
“Very well,” Edward said, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. “I agree to your terms.”
“Excellent.” Count Morosini returned to his desk, already reaching for the manuscript pages of Ivanhoe.
“Now then, there is still some way to go and my dear friend, Marchese Valenti, is even more impatient than I that it should be finished. Go now to the library and return to Sir Walter’s tale of impossible love.
I believe we left our hero facing insurmountable obstacles to his heart’s desire. ”
The irony was not subtle. At all.
Edward left, taking the seat at his desk in the library, staring at the pages before him. The ink blurred slightly. He blinked hard.
“Sir Wilfred,” he muttered under his breath, “you have no monopoly on insurmountable obstacles.”
Like Scott’s knight, he was now bound by honor to sacrifice his own happiness for the woman he loved. But unlike the fictional hero, he saw no prospect of a neatly tied conclusion in which virtue triumphed and love was rewarded.
Also, Ivanhoe got his lands and title back. Edward had had neither lands nor title to be returned.
He set his pen to the paper. The words he rendered into Italian were full of chivalry and noble suffering—men risking death in the lists to prove a maiden’s innocence. He, meanwhile, sat in a sunlit Venetian study, condemning himself to a quieter kind of death: the slow extinguishing of hope.
He had traded his freedom for Venetia’s safety, his happiness for her protection. And the terrible part was that she would never know the price he had paid—or the love that had driven him to pay it.
She’ll think I abandoned her. She’ll think I didn’t care. She’ll think last night’s kiss meant nothing.
And I can’t tell her otherwise without putting her in danger.
Outside the window, Venice glittered in the morning sun, beautiful and treacherous as ever. Gondolas slid along the canal, black and elegant as funeral barges. Voices drifted up from the water, bright and careless.
For Edward, the city had become a prison whose bars were forged from love itself.