Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was nearly midnight by the time Edward returned to the casa, climbing the marble steps with leaden feet, his leather satchel digging into his shoulder.
The day’s translation work had been pure torment.
Every line of Scott’s prose about impossible love and noble sacrifice had been like salt rubbed into an open wound.
Ivanhoe gets to be noble and get the girl. I just get to be noble and miserable.
Count Morosini had been particularly exacting, demanding faster translations and refinements that seemed designed more to keep Edward chained to the desk than to improve the text.
His stomach growled; he’d barely touched the simple meal sent up to the library.
Food had no taste when every bite reminded him of the price he was paying for Venetia’s safety—his silence, his distance, his apparent abandonment.
“Rothbury!” Lord Thornton’s voice rang across the main drawing room the moment Edward appeared in the doorway. Relief and something very like panic sharpened his tone. “Thank God you’re here.”
All the air seemed to leave Edward’s lungs. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Venetia,” Lady Townsend said, rising from her chair, her usually composed face drawn tight with anxiety. “We don’t know where she is.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. “What?”
Thornton dragged a hand through his thick gray hair. “I left her at La Serafina’s while I organized a gondola,” he said. “When I returned, she was gone.”
“La Serafina’s?” Edward repeated stupidly.
“The singer’s salon,” Thornton clarified grimly. “Artists, adventurers, half of Venice’s more interesting element attend.”
“Yes, I know the place.” He fought for control. “What was she doing there?”
“Her dressmaker hinted she would find answers there,” Lady Townsend said helplessly. “Venetia would not be dissuaded from going, though Thornton accompanied her—”
“I cannot believe Miss Playford was so bold as to attend La Serafina’s!” Edward scarcely recognized his own voice. Panic burst in his chest. “But now she’s somewhere in Venice, and no one knows exactly where?”
“I could only assume she’d come straight back here,” Thornton said. “La Serafina said Venetia had left minutes before I returned. I came back by the most direct route, praying she’d arrived safe and sound.” He spread his hands. “She has not.”
“I have to find her,” Edward said, already turning.
“Edward, wait.” Thornton caught his arm. “I understand that Count Morosini will take a dim view of it if you’re seen publicly associated with her again. I was just on my way back—”
“This is Venice,” Edward said, shaking free. “I will go. Half the city is masked after dark. They’ll hardly notice another Englishman on the water.”
And if they do, let Morosini rage.
Venetia’s safety was worth every promise he shattered.
*
The night wrapped Venice in velvet and shadow. Lanterns bobbed on iron brackets, their reflections shivering in the black water. Laughter and distant music drifted from palazzi; the splash of oars and the occasional shout bounced off stone.
Edward strode down to the casa’s landing. “A gondola,” he barked, his fears for Venetia nearly crippling.
Within moments he was settled in the prow of a narrow black boat, the gondolier balanced at the stern, a dark silhouette against the stars.
“La Serafina’s palazzo,” Edward ordered.
As they cut through the water, Edward’s mind flayed him with images: Venetia’s pale face behind prison bars; Venetia’s mouth beneath his on the balcony.
He had promised Morosini to stay away. Promised to bury himself in Ivanhoe as the price for Venetia’s protection.
But Venetia needed protection now like never before.
They reached La Serafina’s palazzo in minutes. Light and laughter spilled from the tall windows and the water-gate lanterns cast pools of gold on the stone steps. Edward bounded up, and was halfway into the vestibule before La Serafina herself appeared, fan in hand.
“Signor Rothbury,” she said. “You English are like weeds here in my establishment—”
Edward interrupted. “I need to know—Miss Playford. Is she here?”
“She left ten, perhaps twelve minutes ago,” La Serafina replied.
Her look sharpened. “The man who calls himself Count di Montefiore left shortly after. He did not take the same route.” A pause.
“But Venice has only so many paths home by water, caro. If he wishes to intercept a boat, he knows where it must pass.”
Cold slid into Edward’s bones. “He’s following her?”
“I did not say that,” La Serafina replied. “But knowing what I know, I gave you that information for good reason.”
“Thank you,” Edward said tightly. He turned and hurtled back down to the water-gate.
“Signor Rothbury,” she called after him.
He glanced back.
Her gaze softened, unexpectedly. “Be careful of this Count di Montefiore. Both of you.”
He nodded once and flung himself into the waiting gondola. “We’re going back toward the Rialto,” he told the gondolier. “Fast. Watch for a boat with two women—an English signorina in silver and her maid. And another gondola shadowing them. I need to find them.”
The gondolier grunted, set his shoulders, and drove the oar hard. The boat leapt forward.
They shot down a side canal, under a low bridge that scraped Edward’s hair. Shadows loomed and fell away and Edward craned his head. Every curve of stone, every flicker of light might conceal Venetia’s beautiful silhouette—or Montefiore’s.
“Too many boats,” the gondolier muttered. “Everyone going home.”
“Keeping looking!” Edward said urgently. “A young woman—”
As if the city heard him, a tight sound reached his ears—half-laugh, half-protest—carried strangely on the damp night air. He strained to listen.
“…reputation already in shreds… what difference another tear makes…”
Montefiore.
“Over there,” Edward snapped, pointing toward a narrower branch of canal. “Quickly.”
They swung sharply, the gondola tilting alarmingly. Ahead, two dark shapes moved close together in the water—two gondolas, prow to prow, rocked sideways as if bumping.
As they drew nearer, the scene resolved: one boat bearing a single man, his cloak thrown back, one hand gripping the rail of the other gondola. In the second, two women: Mollie huddled small and pale at the stern, Venetia rigid in the middle, her arm caught in the man’s hand.
Count di Montefiore.
“…be sensible, mia cara,” he was saying, his voice silken with cruelty.
“Your reputation is in ruins. You have just been released from prison, you have just attended a notorious courtesan’s salon, and you were just discovered in a compromising position with Count Morosini’s pet Englishman.
The world already thinks the worst. You might as well profit from it. ”
“I would rather drown than go with you,” Venetia said through her teeth, trying to wrench free.
Her gondola rocked; Mollie squeaked, clinging to the seat.
Edward could hear it. He could see it. But he was too far away to stop it.
Nor did he want to cry out and alert Montefiore, though it took all his willpower not to when Montefiore tightened his grip on Venetia’s arm and leaned closer.
“Dramatic, but unnecessary. You give me what I want, and I can help you. I know which strings to pull, which testimonies to silence. I can persuade certain English gentlemen to be… generous. Your inheritance could be safe. Or I can let events take their course and watch as you lose everything—to a man who has waited very patiently to see you fall.”
“Mr. Greene,” Venetia whispered, horror in her eyes.
“Ah, so you are not as naive as you pretend.” His mouth curved. “Do you really think your troubles fell from a clear blue sky? Who told Rizzi where to look? Who described to him an heiress with a penchant for the wrong sort of company?”
“Let her go!” Mollie burst out, lunging forward.
Montefiore backhanded her away, not hard but contemptuous. Mollie cried out and sprawled on the seat.
That was as far as he got.
“Pull alongside,” Edward said, and the two boats came together with a hollow thud.
Edward leapt.
He landed awkwardly in Venetia’s gondola, grabbing the rail to steady himself. Venetia’s eyes flew to his; a raw, incredulous joy flashed there, swiftly followed by terror.
“Edward—”
“Release her,” Edward said to Montefiore, his voice calm.
The count’s brows rose behind his mask. “Signor Rothbury. How very predictable of you.”
He did not let go.
“I said,” Edward repeated, “release her.”
“Or what?” Montefiore asked softly. “You will challenge me? Here? In this pretty little gutter?” He smirked. “You English are always so romantic about heroics. It rarely ends well.”
Edward didn’t answer. He drove his fist straight into the man’s jaw.
Montefiore staggered, grip loosening. Venetia wrenched free, stumbling back into the seat. Mollie scrambled to her side.
The count recovered quickly, eyes alight. “Ah. Enfin.”
He lunged.
They crashed against the rail, boots slipping on wet planks. The gondola swayed dangerously; the gondolier swore in rapid Italian, fighting to keep them from tipping.
Montefiore was taller, heavier, and had undoubtedly been in more tavern brawls than Edward ever had. But Edward had rage and desperation on his side. Months of restrained feeling exploded in one blazing purpose.
Montefiore swung; Edward ducked, felt the fist graze his ear, and drove his shoulder into the other man’s chest. They slammed into the side of the gondola, the impact ringing up through Edward’s bones.
Another blow; a grunt of pain; spots flared at the edge of his vision. He clung on, tasting blood.
Somewhere, Venetia cried his name.
It spurred him on.
He feinted, then hammered his fist up into Montefiore’s exposed ribs. The count wheezed. Edward followed with a sharp punch to the stomach, then an elbow to the chin when Montefiore bent forward with a curse.
The man’s boot slipped on water; for an instant he tottered, arms windmilling. Edward shoved.