Chapter Twenty-Six
So, Edward had withdrawn to protect her. Venetia was not a fool. She understood this.
Which meant, who else would fight to clear her name? Who else would undertake the risks needed to ascertain the role played by the man she now suspected of being at the root of her downfall.
Count di Montefiore.
And Greene.
By the time evening fell, Venetia had dressed for battle.
She stood at the top of the Casa Bonaldi’s grand staircase, fingers smoothing the silver lutestring over her hips, checking the fall of the daring neckline in the reflection of a polished silver vase.
Not bad.
If people were determined to stare at her, they might as well stare at something other than the specter of stolen jewels.
The gown—Madame Bertolini’s latest triumph—skimmed her figure more closely than any truly decorous lady would approve, and pearls threaded through her hair gleamed in the light of the beeswax candles.
She looked, she thought with grim satisfaction, exactly like the sort of woman Venetia Playford was now rumored to be.
Wicked. Bold. Untrustworthy.
“You look beautiful, miss,” Mollie muttered from behind her, torn between pride and horror. “And like you might get into a great deal of trouble.”
“Good.” Venetia adjusted her mask, the black satin obscuring enough of her face to give the illusion of anonymity. “Trouble is what I need if I’m going to find answers.”
“Are you sure about this?” Mollie whispered. “Just because Madame Bertolini says—”
“Madame Bertolini’s instincts for fashion cannot be faulted,” Venetia said lightly. “Perhaps she has equal talent in gossip.”
Low laughter and the clink of glasses drifted from the blue salon at the end of the corridor. Venetia drew a breath, braced herself, and walked in.
Conversation faltered. She felt the weight of glances skim over the silver gown, the pearls, the mask.
“Venetia, my dear, you are not staying in this evening?” Lady Townsend’s voice held a careful brightness that suggested she was alarmed.
“She looks very fetching,” Lord Thornton said, rising. “Come and make up a hand of whist, Miss Playford.”
“You are very kind,” Venetia replied. “But I have other plans.” She moved fully into the room, acutely aware of Miss Bentley’s speculative gaze. “I’ve been invited to La Serafina’s salon this evening.”
The silence that followed was almost comical.
Lady Townsend’s teacup rattled in its saucer. Lord Thornton’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline. Several lesser guests pretended to find the carpet pattern fascinating.
“Venetia,” Lady Townsend said carefully, as if addressing someone balancing on a balcony rail, “surely you cannot mean the opera singer’s establishment? My dear girl, such gatherings are hardly—”
“Respectable?” Venetia raised her eyebrows. “I care less about respectability with each passing day. Especially when it appears most of society considers I no longer have any more respectability to lose.”
“All the more reason to show ladylike restraint until they recover their senses,” Lady Townsend urged.
“And how did you receive such an invitation?” Miss Bentley demanded.
“It came through my dressmaker, if you must know,” Venetia went on. “Madame Bertolini also dresses La Serafina and apparently could not resist recounting my recent adventures. La Serafina expressed a desire to meet me.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Lord Thornton cleared his throat. “Miss Playford, La Serafina’s salons are known to attract a… mixed company. Artists, adventurers, men whose reputation is… not always savory.”
“Precisely why I wish to attend.” Venetia took a chair with deliberate composure. “Where better to observe those who move at the edges of respectability? Where better to learn who might have profited from doing what was done to me?”
Lady Townsend stared at her. “You cannot possibly believe that going to La Serafina’s will help clear your name, my dear? Why, it will make things much, much worse.”
“I believe the proper authorities are more interested in confirming their neat little story than in finding the truth,” Venetia said crisply.
“My name is already tarnished; my reputation, for all practical purposes, is gone. So tell me, Lady Townsend—what does your ladylike restraint propose I do? Sit quietly and hope my enemies grow bored?”
“Venetia, we are doing all we can,” she said softly. “Thornton and I—Edward—”
“Edward,” Venetia repeated, and the single word seemed to pull the air out of the room.
She drew the letter from her reticule, tapped it against her palm. “Mr. Rothbury has decided,” she said, managing a smile that felt like it might crack her face, “that it would be ‘wisest’ our acquaintance be conducted at a proper distance while things are… untangled.”
Lady Townsend’s eyes filled with quick understanding. “My dear, I am sure there are reasons—”
“Oh, I’m sure there are,” Venetia cut in. “He is an honorable man working under the patronage of a powerful one. I do not doubt that chains have been wrapped around him from every direction. But the result is the same, is it not? I stand accused. And he is not able to help me.”
There was silence.
Thornton set his glass down carefully. “What do you hope to find at La Serafina’s?” he asked. “This is not a rhetorical question.”
“Information,” Venetia said simply. “Madame Bertolini tells me that Count di Montefiore is often seen there. That he is not what he claims to be. That he likes to pay court to older women—”
She speared Miss Bentley with a look, causing the older woman’s cheeks to flame though she said nothing.
A flicker of interest crossed Thornton’s features. “Count di Montefiore?”
“Yes.” Venetia leaned forward, energy thrumming in her veins.
“A man who appears in our circle just as my inheritance becomes the talk of Venetian society. A man who pumps Miss Bentley for every detail of the will’s conditions.
A man who stares at my jewels as if assessing their value for someone else.
A man of ‘many names’ who visits a courtesan known for her knowledge of other people’s private business.
” She drew breath. “Does that not strike you as… convenient?”
Lady Townsend, who had been listening with tightening lips, said slowly, “Madame Bertolini told you this?”
“And more.” Venetia’s fingers twisted the letter unconsciously. “According to her cousin, he was called by another name in Paris. A French name. We know of at least one Englishman with reason to hate me who speaks French and considers himself cosmopolitan.”
“Mr. Greene,” Lady Thornton whispered.
“Mr. Greene,” Venetia agreed. “Disinherited in my favor, in debt, in need of funds and revenge. What if he met this so-called Count di Montefiore somewhere on the Continent? What if he spoke of a foolish old man’s will and a clause about scandal?
Would that not present a tempting opportunity to a man who specializes in other men’s misfortunes? ”
“And Sofia?” Thornton asked quietly.
Venetia’s jaw tightened. “Sofia is vain and easily swayed. If a charming, worldly count whispered to her that her romantic dreams could come true if only she helped him with a little scheme… Do you really think she would resist?”
Lady Townsend closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, child.”
“I am not a child any longer,” Venetia said, more steadily than she felt. “I may be foolish in many things, but I am starting to see the pattern resolving itself.”
“Even if your theory is correct,” Thornton said, “La Serafina’s drawing room is hardly a safe place for investigation. Deliberately placing yourself in disreputable company will hand your enemies more ammunition.”
“Or it may hand me the proof I need before they can finish ruining me.” Venetia rose, smoothing her skirts.
“If I do nothing, Captain Rizzi builds his case. If I wait politely, Greene—if it is Greene—and his pet count tighten their net. If I sit in this respectable salon playing whist, I will wake one morning to find I have lost not only my reputation but my fortune as well.”
She lifted her chin. “My inheritance can be taken with a stroke of a pen if Captain Rizzi were to write a scathing letter about my conduct to my trustees. My freedom can be taken with a word from the wrong man. My reputation, practically speaking, is already gone. What I have left is the ability to act.”
“Venetia,” Lady Townsend said desperately, “if you must do something, let us at least help you. We can make inquiries. There are more discreet means—”
“I know,” Venetia said more gently. “And I am grateful. But discreet means take time. I do not have time. Men like Count di Montefiore do not linger once their work is done. If he is planning to vanish, it will be soon.”
She drew in another breath. “I will go masked. Mollie will be with me. I will not drink anything I haven’t seen poured. I will sit at the edge of the room and listen. And if La Serafina is half as perceptive as people say, she will know my questions before I ask them.”
Mollie made a faint squeaking noise that suggested she had not entirely agreed to this plan, but Venetia pressed on.
“Please,” she said to Eugenia and Thornton, and her voice broke on the word.
“You have both been so kind to me. I know this seems reckless. It is reckless. But I cannot bear another night waiting while other people decide my fate. If I am to be ruined, let it at least be in the attempt to save myself.”
“She’s going to go whether we approve or not,” Thornton murmured.
“Yes,” Lady Townsend said. “I can see that.”
“Then the question,” he said, “is whether we leave her to it—or arrange to be close enough to catch her if she falls.”
Lady Townsend straightened. “Very well, Venetia. Go. But do not think for a moment I intend to let you flounce into a courtesan’s salon without some measure of protection. Thornton, we know at least three men who would be welcome in such a place and discreet enough to keep their mouths shut.”
“Four,” Thornton corrected. “I’m one of them.”
Venetia’s lips twitched. “Lady Townsend, Lord Thornton, you cannot possibly—”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” Lady Townsend said briskly. “You may insist on throwing yourself into danger, my dear, but you shall not go alone into the lion’s den. Neither Thornton nor I would ever agree to that.”