Chapter Twenty-Seven
The entrance to La Serafina’s palazzo was marked only by a discreet brass plaque and a doorman whose knowing smile suggested he’d admitted far more scandalous guests than one English heiress with questionable judgment.
Venetia stepped over the threshold with her heart in her throat and Mollie close at her side. Somewhere behind them, in the shadows of the calle, Lord Thornton had murmured a last reassurance.
“I’ll be inside,” he’d said quietly. “But I shan’t hover. You’ll have room to speak as you need. If anything feels wrong, you look for me.”
Now, as they crossed a marble-floored vestibule where classical statues posed in attitudes that would have made Aunt Pike reach for the vinegar bottle, Venetia was acutely conscious of Thornton’s silent promise at her back.
Not a knight in shining armor—not tonight—but a sober English peer in plain evening black, blending into the crowd, eyes everywhere.
The salon itself defied her expectations.
Rather than the tawdry, smoky den she’d half imagined, the room rivaled any noble drawing room in elegance.
Silk wallpaper in deep claret glowed in the candlelight, a rich foil for paintings: misty landscapes and mythological scenes rendered with disturbing frankness.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm light over clusters of guests.
Here, a countess in diamonds talked earnestly with a young man whose paint-stained fingers proclaimed his trade.
There, a gentleman in sober evening dress leaned in to listen to a woman whose rouge and laugh would have scandalized a London drawing room.
Italian, French, and English flowed together, rising and falling like the tide against the foundations.
“Signorina Playford.” The voice was low and melodious, carrying easily over the hum of conversation.
Venetia turned to find herself face to face with their hostess.
La Serafina was perhaps fifty, silver threads glinting through dark hair artfully arranged.
Her gown of midnight-blue silk was cut with Continental daring, yet worn with such confidence it seemed the height of sophistication rather than impropriety.
Diamonds sparkled at her throat, but it was her eyes that held Venetia—the eyes of a woman who had seen much more than Venetia certainly had, yet remained amused by the world.
“Madame,” Venetia said, dipping an instinctive curtsy that felt hopelessly provincial.
La Serafina caught her hands and drew her up.
“No, cara. We do not kneel to one another here. We meet as equals.” Her smile deepened.
“You are even more interesting than Madame Bertolini described. Such courage, to walk into the lion’s den with your head high when others would hide under their beds. ”
“Courage,” Venetia said lightly. “Or recklessness.”
“In Venice,” La Serafina replied, “they are often the same thing.” Her gaze flicked over Venetia’s gown, her mask, the set of her shoulders. “You have a protector with you.”
Venetia’s heart jerked. “A protector?”
“The English milord by the door.” A tiny tilt of La Serafina’s head directed Venetia’s eyes toward Thornton, half concealed behind a column, apparently engrossed in discussion with a Venetian gentleman.
“He watches you without watching you. Very correct. Very English. Now.” Instantly she changed tack. “What is it you hope to find here?”
Venetia gripped her glass. “You know the man who calls himself Count di Montefiore.”
A flicker crossed La Serafina’s face. “Many men call themselves many things in this room,” she said lightly. “But yes. I know the gentleman you mean.”
“I’ve heard rumors that he is not who he claims to be,” Venetia whispered, her heart hammering. “That… he is involved in… this scheme against me.”
La Serafina glanced briefly across the room; Venetia followed her gaze and saw Thornton, outwardly relaxed, in conversation with a Venetian merchant and a thin, fox-faced Frenchman.
“It is good to have friends who hold your interests close.” La Serafina stepped closer, her voice dropping.
“And you are wise to be wary of Montefiore, whatever name he wears. He has been a Polish count in Vienna, a Spanish marquis in Paris, and a French vicomte in Milan. His accents are very good. His papers are always in good order. But his soul, cara—that remains the same.”
A chill slid down Venetia’s spine. “And what is that?”
“A man who lives by trading in other people’s misfortunes.
Debts. Lawsuits. Lost inheritances.” La Serafina’s expression grew grave.
“He was at my salon months ago in company with an Englishman. They spoke in French, but anger sounds the same in any tongue. The Englishman complained of a legacy that should have been his, stolen by a girl in his country and by a meddling lawyer. He spoke of a clause in a will. Of scandal. Of how easily a reputation might be stained.”
Venetia could barely breathe. “An Englishman. Do you know his name?”
“He gave one,” La Serafina said, “but I doubt it was the right one. He called himself Monsieur Vert, amusingly. Green.” Her eyes narrowed. “It made me think he was not very subtle. Montefiore is more careful.”
Green. Greene.
Of course.
The room seemed to tilt for a moment. So, Mr. Greene had been colluding with di Montefiore.
Greene, who’d been disinherited in her favor; Greene, who had once tried to lure Caroline into ruin.
And now Greene, drunk and angry in a Venetian salon, pouring his grievances into the ear of a man who specialized in exploiting such things.
“And do you have any information,” Venetia managed, “that this count—whatever his real name—has made some arrangement with him?”
“I think a man like Montefiore does nothing without expecting profit.” La Serafina touched her arm briefly. “And I think you, signorina, are profit. Your disgrace, properly arranged, would be worth a great deal to an Englishman who believes you stole his future.”
“How can this be conveyed to Captain Rizzi to investigate?” Venetia asked, the words tumbling out. “Is it possible you could—”
La Serafina’s smile thinned. “The good captain has visited me before. He prefers gossip that confirms his prejudices. He has already decided what kind of woman you are. My word against a respectable ‘count’ and a disinherited English gentleman? No, cara. The law will not save you. Only proof will. And proof is difficult when dealing with ghosts.”
Venetia felt the excitement drain from her. “Then what do you advise?” she whispered.
“Patience,” La Serafina tapped Venetia on the wrist with her fan, before her gaze rose to the large portrait on the wall beside them.
The woman in the painting was caught in the full glory of youth—a dark-haired beauty with luminous eyes and a sensuous mouth curved in an enigmatic smile.
Her gown was simple white silk, leaving the drama to her expression.
There was something vulnerable about her, despite the proud tilt of her chin.
“Behold La vera Serafina,” her hostess said, encompassing the painting with a sweep of her arm. “If only she had had patience to wait the three years for her marchese to return—alive—from the shipwreck all Venice believed had taken his life.”
“La vera Sarafina?” Venetia repeated with a puzzled frown.
“That’s right. The true Seraphim they called her, because her voice, they said, came from heaven.”
Venetia felt a shiver run down her spine.
“Isabella Monteverdi was her real name though no one remembers that. They remember only the voice from heaven. La Serafina.”
“And you—” Venetia hesitated, not wanting to presume.
“I took my name in homage after she left Venice, brokenhearted after waiting two years in the hope that her protector would return,” her hostess continued.
“But I was a pale echo of a great light. When I was a girl, I queued in the alley behind La Fenice just to hear her rehearsing. Her Desdemona could reduce men to sobbing wrecks. Her Violetta made women question every sensible choice they had ever made.”
“She was an opera singer?” Venetia asked, though the answer was obvious.
“The opera singer.” Pride and regret threaded La Serafina’s tone. “She had the city at her feet. Contracts in Paris and Vienna. The marchese who worshipped her. And then—” She snapped her fingers. “Gone.”
“Gone?” Venetia echoed.
“An Englishman came to Venice. A staid, boring gentleman. But he must have offered her what she wanted, for she stole away one night with her son—not a word to anyone—never to be heard of again.” La Serafina’s lip curled faintly.
“La Serafina.” Thornton appeared then, bowing over their hostess’s hand. “I hope you will forgive an Englishman for intruding upon your guest. Miss Playford’s friends are perhaps overanxious.”
“On the contrary, milord,” La Serafina said smoothly. “Your anxiety does you credit. You English are so very good at pretending not to feel anything at all; it is refreshing to see one of you admit to concern.”
Thornton’s mouth quirked. “My concern is entirely selfish. I should be quite crushed if anything happened to Miss Playford while under my protection.”
“Then you have chosen an interesting city for your guardianship.” La Serafina’s gaze flickered past them. “And an interesting evening.”
Venetia turned—to find Count di Montefiore bearing down upon them.
Even masked, he was unmistakable: the height, the smooth carriage. His eyes gleamed behind his domino.
“Miss Playford,” he said warmly, as if greeting a cherished acquaintance in the park. “What a delight to find you here. La Serafina’s taste is as exquisite as ever.”
“Count,” Venetia said, every nerve on edge.
“And Lord Thornton.” The brief inclination of his head held just enough respect to avoid insult. “We are very honored by your presence as well. Venice is truly favored when English respectability graces her less… orthodox salons.”
“There is nothing inherently disreputable about art, music, or conversation, sir,” Thornton returned pleasantly.