Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Thornton!”
Eugenia beckoned him to the window, her fingers tapping sharply against the glass. “Do you see?” She pointed to the dark water below. “It’s Captain Rizzi. And Count di Montefiore.”
“Together?” Thornton came to stand beside her, so close she felt the warmth of him through the fine wool of his coat. His sleeve brushed the inside of her bare wrist and the contact sent a ridiculous little shiver up her arm. “But no sign of Venetia?”
“Oh—there she is. And, good Lord, alone with Mr. Rothbury.” Catherine’s voice cut across the room, bright with barely veiled censure.
“How unfortunate to be found in such a compromising situation by the captain of all people. It seems Miss Playford does not understand how fragile her position already is.”
“Something has happened. A trap has been laid,” Thornton muttered.
“I accompanied Miss Playford this evening, Catherine, and then sent Rothbury after her when we were separated. There is nothing compromising in their being together.” His mouth tightened.
“Unless Captain Rizzi chooses to interpret it so. Please find a servant and have the blue salon prepared for possible guests.”
Dismissed, Catherine flounced away.
When the door closed behind her, Thornton’s hand came to rest, warm and steady, on Eugenia’s shoulder.
“I did the very best I could for her tonight, my dear,” he said quietly. “You must be disappointed in me.”
“Oh, Thornton, I could never be disappointed in you.”
The words came from somewhere deep in her chest, where her heart seemed to unfold like a flower pressed flat for too many years. “You behaved with honor and kindness. You always do. It is why Elizabeth loved you. You were the husband of her dreams.”
His mouth curved, the old, familiar smile lighting his features.
“I once thought you held similar feelings, a very long time ago, my dear Eugenia,” he said gently. “After that fleeting kiss we shared at Lady Scarborough’s ball—when I encountered you in the corridor on your return from the ladies’ mending room.”
Eugenia’s mouth went dry.
That kiss. A brief, breathless brush of lips in a candlelit passageway; the smell of beeswax and spilled champagne; the roughness of his jaw against her cheek.
She had been eighteen, absurdly hopeful, and the world had tilted on its axis.
For one precarious heartbeat she had believed every foolish, romantic notion she had ever read in a novel.
And then she had seen him later—laughing with Elizabeth, dancing with her pretty friend, his dark head bent so tenderly—and shame had rushed in like cold water.
How could she have imagined herself the heroine of the story when her friend was so much prettier, so much more charming, and almost as well-dowered? Of course that brief, stolen kiss had meant nothing to a man like Thornton. Handsome, well-born, admired by every debutante in the room.
He could have had anyone. Why on earth would he have chosen me?
So she had done what sensible girls did when they realized they had badly misread their own importance: She had pretended indifference.
She had laughed too loudly with Lord Flexley at Lady Ridgeway’s soirée; had turned her head just as Thornton’s gaze sought hers; had built a careful shell of composure over the raw, humiliated ache.
The memories pricked now like pins beneath the skin.
“I see you blush, my dear friend.” His smile was fond, not mocking.
“So you do remember it. I always wondered if it meant anything to you, for you barely looked at me the following day when we met at Almack’s.
And then, at Lady Ridgeway’s soirée, you cut me dead and danced the evening away with Lord Flexley.
I had thought you must have some understanding with the gentleman.
” He gave a rueful huff. “I was cut to the quick, I assure you. But Elizabeth clearly had feelings for me…and I developed a great tenderness for her.”
His look softened. “I am very happy for your friendship after all these years.”
Eugenia’s heart gave a curious, painful twist.
All these years, and she had never once considered that he might have been wounded by her behavior.
She had been so certain she was the one making a noble sacrifice—stepping aside for beautiful Elizabeth, burying an unrequited girlish infatuation, reinventing herself as the sensible friend, the amused observer.
She had told herself she had imagined that brief flare of interest in his eyes; that a single stolen kiss could not possibly have unsettled him.
And now, to hear that he had gone home from those glittering evenings nursing his own bruised pride because of her…
What a waste. What a foolish tangle of youth and fear and misread glances.
She swallowed. Painfully. What good were regrets?
She could not change any of it. Elizabeth had loved him, and he had loved her in return, and their marriage had been happy in its way.
Eugenia would never begrudge her friend that.
Indeed, in lonely hours she had taken comfort in knowing that someone she loved had been so cherished.
But to know, now, that she had not been entirely ridiculous at eighteen—that he had seen her, had wanted her, if only for a moment—sent a quiet warmth spreading through all the cold, locked rooms of her heart.
His hand was still on her shoulder, solid and reassuring. For thirty years that hand—offered in friendship, in support, in partnership over charitable ventures and matchmaking schemes—had anchored her. Whatever storms had shaken her life, Thornton had been the steady point by which she steered.
Perhaps, she thought, with the clear-eyed wisdom age sometimes granted, it does not matter that we missed our moment. What has grown in its place has been no small thing.
She covered his hand with her own, the gesture small but deliberate. “Then we have both been very foolish, haven’t we?” she said softly. “Once, when we were young… and ever since, in not speaking of it.”
His eyes searched hers, some new awareness flickering there.
Before either of them could say more, Catherine appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with importance.
“Thornton! Eugenia! Everyone is waiting for you in the blue salon,” she announced, beckoning with imperious urgency.
Eugenia stepped back, allowing her hand to fall from his. The moment folded itself away. But the acknowledgment was still there, still newly precious, even as duty called them back into the brightly lit world.
“Then we must not keep them waiting,” she said, though her pulse was still thudding from an entirely different urgency.
Thornton offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She took it, feeling once more that quiet, astonishing bloom of warmth in her chest.
*
The blue salon had never felt so small.
Venetia stepped over the threshold with Captain Rizzi at her back and Edward at her side, and the room seemed to shrink around her. Candlelight gilded the pale-blue silk on the walls; the air smelled of beeswax, wilting roses, and the lagoon.
Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton rose so quickly their chairs scraped over the carpet. Catherine hovered near the mantelpiece, her expression a careful mix of concern and I told you so that made Venetia want to throw something heavy.
“Mollie,” Lord Thornton said gently, “go and sit by the fire, my dear. You look as if you might turn to ice.”
Mollie bobbed and crept to the hearth, white faced, twisting her hands. Venetia longed to go with her, to hide in the shadow of the great marble chimneypiece like a scolded child and pretend none of this was happening.
Instead, she stood in the middle of the room with Edward’s arm a firm, steadying line against hers.
She clung to that as Captain Rizzi marched past to plant himself on the far side of the central table, boots squeaking on polished boards.
Behind him, Count di Montefiore sauntered in with slightly less than his usual grace, one hand dabbing theatrically at the bloodied handkerchief held to his nose.
Well. That was at least one pleasing sight.
“Signori,” Rizzi said, bowing with perfunctory politeness to the assembled company. “We are here on account of a disturbance on the canal. A formal complaint has been made.”
His gaze slid to Montefiore, who let the handkerchief fall for a moment to display his swollen, reddened nose like a trophy.
“Signor Rothbury assaulted me without provocation,” the count announced, every syllable dripping injured dignity. “In an attempt, I suspect, to conceal his own misconduct with the signorina.”
“Misconduct?” Venetia burst out. “He—”
“Miss Playford,” Edward murmured, a quiet warning.
Venetia bit the inside of her cheek.
Rizzi lifted a hand for silence. “Please. I will hear all sides in due course. For now, understand that I have a complaint from a respected member of Venetian society alleging a violent attack.”
Respected. She almost snorted.
“I shall naturally be speaking to Count Morosini,” Rizzi went on. “Signor Rothbury is in his employ. The count may wish to recommend a course of action.”
At that, she felt Edward go very still beside her, like a man bracing for a blow he saw coming.
Shame rose in her throat like bile.
Lady Townsend stepped forward, color high. “Captain Rizzi, you must understand—”
“Lady Townsend,” he said, and though his tone remained courteous, there was steel underneath, “my duty is to the law. Not to English sensibilities.” He shifted his gaze back to Venetia, and she felt as if someone had turned a lantern directly on her.
“As for you, Signorina Playford,” he said, “I remind you that you remain under active investigation for the matter of the missing emeralds.”
The words landed like cold drops down her spine. Under active investigation. Of course she was. Freedom had never been more than a thin shell.