Chapter Thirty
The invitation arrived with the chocolate.
Venetia had not slept. She’d dozed and jolted awake and stared at the ceiling while the words pattern of dishonorable conduct chased themselves round and round her brain. When Mollie brought her down to the breakfast room, she felt as if someone had stuffed her skull with wet wool.
Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton were already at the table. Miss Bentley sat straight-backed, attacking a bread roll, not looking up as Venetia took a seat opposite. The silver chocolate pot steamed gently; the scent, usually so comforting, made Venetia’s stomach turn.
She had just managed a cautious sip when the footman appeared in the doorway with a silver salver and a heavy, cream-laid envelope sealed with a great blob of red wax.
“From Palazzo Morosini, my lady,” he announced.
Palazzo Morosini? The public announcement of Edward’s ultimate humiliation…to be laid at my door.
“You open it,” Venetia whispered as she pushed aside the plate of fish that had been laid in front of her. How could she ever eat again?
Poor Edward. What would become of him?
Lady Townsend took the envelope, her fingers lingering on the imprint of the Morosini crest. Her eyes flicked to Venetia with a look that said brace yourself, dear child better than words could.
She slit the seal with the fruit knife, unfolded the thick paper, and as her gaze skimmed down the page, her eyebrows climbed until they nearly vanished into her curls.
“Well,” she said at last, “this was not what I expected.”
Thornton lowered his newspaper. “What is the old spider saying about Mr. Rothbury?” he muttered.
“Nothing. He’s planning a fête,” Eugenia replied.
Venetia gave a mirthless laugh. “If that is another invitation for his English friends to attend, I can assure you that Count Morosini’s Grand Masquerade Ball was all the entertainment I need in Venice.”
Lady Townsend shook her head. “Count Morosini is to host a celebration in honor of his granddaughter Sofia’s betrothal to—oh dear—Count Bembo.”
“The one who smells of fish?” Venetia heard herself say faintly, for she’d heard the girl mutter the words to her maid, Caterina, during the brief time they’d been together.
Miss Bentley’s fork clattered onto her plate. “Miss Playford!”
“Well, I’m just telling you what Signorina Sofia said,” Venetia muttered into her chocolate. “She says that even his handkerchief smells of fish.”
Thornton coughed into his napkin, suspiciously like a man disguising a laugh.
Lady Townsend cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, he is evidently considered a suitable match for Count Morosini’s granddaughter.
And apparently, he has chosen to combine the betrothal celebration with a display of modern science.
He has engaged a French aeronaut to perform a balloon ascent over the lagoon.
A ‘Festival of Air and Nuptials’”—she consulted the letter again, gave a small laugh, then added, “Oh my! I did not think he was so intrigued by my descriptions of my own comet-viewing gala last year that he would want to do something similar.”
“A balloon ride?” Venetia’s indignation turned to horror as she recalled Lady Townsend’s similar extravaganza.
For a moment the breakfast room blurred: candlelit lawns in England, the shadow of a silk canopy against the stars, Lord Windermere’s eager hand on her arm as he urged her toward the basket, Edward thundering across the grass like a hero in a gothic novel—
And now, here she was again. A balloon, a scandal, and a city eager for a show.
“I have a healthy aversion to balloons, with all due respect, Lady Townsend,” Venetia said under her breath. “Your Comet Viewing Gala was well conceived but if there is a balloon within a mile of Signorina Sofia’s betrothal, then I will decline the invitation.”
Miss Bentley sniffed. “It would be a great snub to Count Morosini who has been so kind as to show he harbors no ill toward those who would touch his household with disgrace.”
Touched by disgrace?
“And we,” Lady Townsend said, “have the honor of being invited as his English guests. The entire party.” Her gaze came to rest on Venetia with something like apology as she handed her the letter. “He is most particular, it seems, that you attend, my dear. To show that peace reigns in his circle.”
“I do think it unwise to slight your host,” Thornton said kindly. “The man who used his influence to secure your release. And whose goodwill you continue to rely upon.”
Miss Playford set the letter down with a sigh. “I confess the thought of another balloon makes me feel quite faint. Especially as last year’s comet fête very nearly ended in tragedy. I swore I’d never go within twenty yards of one of those contraptions again.”
“I’ll confess something,” Thornton said dryly. “I rather enjoyed watching Windermere look like a plucked hen when his grand dramatic exit was foiled.”
A small, unwilling smile tugged at Venetia’s mouth.
“Still,” he continued, “the contraption is dangerous. And not merely because hot air and silk should never be within hailing distance of one another. In the wrong hands, it’s an excellent opportunity for mischief. Or worse.”
“Does the invitation say who will ascend?” Venetia asked.
Lady Townsend picked up the letter again. “It mentions Signor Duval, the aeronaut, and speaks of ‘a privileged passenger of noble blood who will cast favors to the crowd.’ One assumes it must be Sofia.”
“Not necessarily,” Miss Bentley sniffed. “Count Morosini might wish to flatter his English guests. He showed particular regard to me at the masquerade.”
“Or perhaps he will choose to shower Venetia with similar regard. To show Venice that he is above ill will,” suggested Lady Townsend.
Venetia’s stomach flipped. “Surely not. I could hardly be a more inappropriate choice.” The thought of being suspended above the lagoon, every eye on her, while Count di Montefiore watched from the crowd made her palms damp.
One tug at the wrong rope, one conveniently cut tether, and she could vanish into the water as quickly as any inconvenient piece of evidence.
Count di Montefiore was collaborating with Greene. She knew that now. And, clearly, Greene would stop at nothing to regain the fortune to which he was next in line.
“I won’t go up in the balloon,” she said, more fiercely than she’d intended. “I don’t care if he asks me or not. I won’t do it.”
“Quite right, my dear,” Lady Townsend said quickly.
Miss Bentley opened her mouth to add something but Thornton forestalled her.
“Whatever else happens,” he said, “we shall not allow you to be used as a performing monkey in a Frenchman’s air bubble, Miss Playford. You’ll attend the betrothal fête because to refuse would be folly, but we shall keep you planted firmly on solid ground.”
His words calmed her—slightly. Solid ground.
And Sofia. Betrothed to Count Bembo with the fish breath. She deserved him. The girl had been reckless and cruel, and her actions had put Venetia in this position.
“When is Signorina Sofia’s betrothal?” Venetia asked, a sudden thought occurring to her.
“In exactly two weeks,” Lady Townsend replied.
Venetia nodded. Two weeks?
Two weeks to possibly make a bargain. Two weeks in which to persuade Sofia to tell the truth about the emeralds—if Venetia could perhaps arrange some way to help Sofia avoid a lifetime of sharing a breakfast table with a man she despised.
She wrapped her hands around her chocolate cup, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
Rizzi’s warning still rang in her ears. One more misstep. One more appearance in the wrong company, the wrong place, and her fortune would vanish.
But somewhere between now and Count Morosini’s “Festival of Air and Nuptials,” she might find a way to turn the spectacle to her advantage. To make the stage he’d built become a trap for the real villains instead of a noose for her.
She lifted her chin.
“One thing is certain,” she said. “If Count Morosini means this fête to prove that scandal is over and order restored, someone had better tell the truth before the balloon leaves the ground.”
And if Sofia Morosini knew that truth, then Venetia intended—very calmly, very carefully, with all the discretion Captain Rizzi could possibly desire—to pry it out of her.