Chapter Twenty-Five
Not so long ago, Edward had actively thrilled at the thought that he was fulfilling his life’s dream, translating the works of a writer as celebrated as Sir Walter Scott.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that he spent his days rendering tales of noble knights and impossible love while living his own version of such torment.
But today he would have done anything to quit his position and return to England, had it not meant literally sacrificing Venetia to house arrest—or worse. The count had made his terms crystal clear: Edward’s continued service in exchange for his protection of Venetia.
Cross that agreement, and the young woman he loved would find herself facing the full weight of Venetian justice with no one to intercede on her behalf.
Inquiries were taking place, but Count Morosini had made it clear that his willingness to vouch for Miss Playford’s character—and guarantee she wouldn’t abscond—depended entirely upon Edward remaining in his employ.
The arrangement was as elegant as it was diabolical.
Head down, Edward set his steps toward the grand expanse of the Piazza San Marco, where ancient stones had witnessed centuries of intrigue and the basilica’s golden domes caught what little light filtered through the oppressive clouds.
Tourists and locals moved about their business, the usual morning commerce of a city that had perfected the art of beautiful corruption.
He raised his head in time to catch a glimpse of golden hair and a Pomona green gown with which he was familiar. Sofia.
He knew it was her with the certainty of someone who’d spent too many hours translating in her vicinity, memorizing details he’d had no business noticing. Why? Because she reminded him of Venetia. Or rather, Miss Playford to him.
Beside her walked her maid Caterina, the woman who’d assisted in positioning Venetia for destruction.
Edward knew the penalties for engaging Sofia in conversation. Count Morosini’s warnings had been specific and unmistakable.
“Stay away from my granddaughter.” Very clear. Very emphatic.
But what other opportunity would he have for challenging her directly about the events of that cursed evening? Conversation between them was impossible in the count’s home, where every word was potentially observed and reported.
But surely a few moments in the anonymous crowd of the piazza would be unlikely to be witnessed by the count’s spies.
Hurrying forward, he pulled his cloak about him and waited for his opportunity. Sofia and her maid were examining silk scarves at a merchant’s stall, their attention focused on the vendor’s persuasive patter about the exceptional quality of his wares.
The crowd provided excellent camouflage—pilgrims and merchants, nobles and commoners, all mixing in the democratic chaos of commerce.
Edward approached with the casual air of someone happening upon an acquaintance by chance. “Signorina Sofia,” he said quietly, positioning himself so that Caterina could not easily hear. “How pleasant to encounter you here.”
Sofia turned, and for just an instant, he saw something flicker across her features—guilt, perhaps, or calculation. Then her practiced smile slipped into place, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Signor Edward!” Her voice carried its usual musical quality, but underneath he detected a note of nervous energy. “What a surprise. I thought you were always at your scholarly work at this hour.”
“Even scholars require occasional air,” he replied, studying her face for telltale signs of deception. “I hoped I might encounter you. There are matters we should discuss.”
Matters like framing innocent women for theft.
Her smile faltered. “Matters? I cannot imagine what—”
“Can you not?” Edward’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The events of the masquerade ball, perhaps? The curious circumstance of Miss Playford wearing jewelry provided by you that contained stolen gems? Strange that this doesn’t appear to feature in the current investigation.”
Sofia’s color heightened, but her gaze remained steady. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I lent her my tiara for her costume—such a generous gesture on my part—but certainly not with the emerald earrings. If I’d known they were there, I’d have absconded with Paolo by now.”
Wait. What?
“Your generous gesture was an effort to compromise an innocent woman—though I’m still trying to understand why.”
Sofia’s laugh held a brittle quality that made Edward’s skin crawl. “Signor Edward, surely you cannot be so naive as to believe I would simply lend her a tiara already containing stolen gems—”
I… actually yes. That’s exactly what I believed.
“I believe Miss Playford is guilty of nothing more than trusting someone who betrayed that trust for personal gain.” Edward stepped closer, noting how Caterina had moved to provide a subtle shield from prying eyes.
“The question is why. What could you possibly gain from destroying someone who showed you nothing but kindness?”
For a moment, Sofia’s mask slipped, and Edward glimpsed something raw and desperate beneath the calculated charm.
When she spoke again, her voice carried a note of genuine anguish that surprised him.
“You think I planned for things to unfold as they did?”
“Didn’t you?”
Sofia glanced around nervously, then moved closer to the merchant’s stall, using the hanging silks to create a pocket of privacy.
“You don’t understand the pressures I face, the impossible choices.
My grandfather forges ahead with his ideas of marrying me to Conte Bembo, which could happen any day—”
“And that justifies destroying Miss Playford?”
“It justifies doing whatever is necessary to secure my freedom!” Sophie burst out, glancing around to ensure they hadn’t been overheard.
“Paolo and I have so little time before my grandfather’s plans become irreversible.
We need money to disappear, to start a new life where his influence cannot reach us. ”
“So you decided to steal.”
Sofia’s eyes blazed. “I did what I had to in order to survive. I wasn’t permitted to attend the masquerade but the emeralds had been…secured. I’m watched every second so I made an arrangement with my—”
“Accomplice?” Edward frowned, trying to make sense of her hurried explanation.
Wait. She’s saying she didn’t put the emeralds in the tiara?
“If you like. Someone who, during an unguarded moment, would assist Signorina Venetia with her dress, hold her tiara while she attended to her hair, and, when she wasn’t looking, place the emeralds inside.
” Sofia’s words tumbled out faster now. “Miss Playford was supposed to return the tiara to me with the emeralds. I don’t know whose diabolical machinations were behind the exposure and quite frankly, I don’t care.
All I know is that I’ve been cheated of the emeralds that were supposed to provide a future for Paolo. ”
Edward stared. This was more complicated than he’d expected.
“Do you know what my life will be like married to Conte Bembo? An old man whose previous wives died young, worn out by his demands and his temper? I would rather die than submit to such a fate—”
Several wives?
But no sympathetic entreaties could excuse the magnitude of her betrayal—if she spoke the truth?
“There were other ways—”
“Were there? Easy for you to say, when you have the freedom to choose your own path.” Sofia’s voice turned bitter.
“You could leave Venice tomorrow if you wished, pursue your career wherever opportunities present themselves. I’m trapped by birth, by gender, by family obligation.
The only escape I have is the one I create for myself. ”
“By destroying others?”
“By doing what I must.” Sofia straightened, and Edward saw the moment when vulnerability gave way to cold calculation.
“Miss Playford will survive this scandal. She has wealth, connections, the protection of powerful friends. She’ll find some gentleman willing to overlook her tarnished reputation in exchange for her fortune. ”
“You truly believe that?”
“I believe she has options I will never possess.” Sofia’s tone had grown arctic. “She can buy her way out of disgrace. I have no such luxury.”
Edward stared. Sofia spoke of necessity and survival, but underneath her justifications lay a ruthlessness that chilled him.
She merely had to tell the authorities—tell her grandfather—what she’d told him, and Venetia would be entirely exonerated.
But she’d weighed Venetia’s destruction against her own freedom and found the calculation acceptable.
Before Edward could respond, Caterina stepped closer with urgent whispers in rapid Italian. They’d been observed. Someone was taking too much interest in their conversation.
“I must go,” Sofia said quickly, her mask of composure slipping back into place. “Perhaps you should remember, Signor Edward, that everyone has secrets. Even you. But mine is that I’m in love with a man of whom my grandfather disapproves. Not that I’m a jewel thief.”
Technically you ARE a jewel thief. Just not the jewel thief who framed Venetia.
Sofia and her maid melted back into the crowd, leaving Edward frozen by the merchant’s stall.
Sofia’s desperation was genuine—of that he was certain. Her love for Paolo, her fear of forced marriage, her willingness to do whatever necessary to escape—all of it rang true.
She declared she’d not been responsible for planting the jewels in the tiara Venetia was wearing.
Which meant someone else did. Someone who knew about Sofia’s theft scheme and used it to frame Venetia.
If so, who had helped her? And then betrayed her?
Someone with resources and knowledge beyond what a desperate young woman could command alone.
Someone with an agenda against Venetia specifically.
Count di Montefiore? It had to be.
Edward started walking toward the count’s palazzo, his mind racing.
Sofia had stolen the emeralds. Someone else—probably the count—used her theft to frame Venetia. Sofia was too self-interested to confess. And Edward couldn’t tell anyone what he’d learned without admitting he’d approached Sofia.
Which means Venetia is still in danger, I’m still trapped, and now I know the conspiracy is even more complicated than I thought.
He clutched his satchel tighter. It was time to translate Ivanhoe… where, in fiction, the hero always won.