Chapter Thirty-One
The smell of hot chocolate drifting from the casa’s breakfast room had never been more enticing.
Edward caught it as he passed by on his way to take his gondola to perform another day of translation.
He imagined Venetia at the table in her morning gown, cheeks still pale from last night, fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup.
What he would have given to have had the opportunity to sit opposite her, reading the newspaper, reveling in a scene of cozy domesticity.
Instead, he tightened his grip on his leather satchel and stepped into the waiting gondola.
Work. Duty. Distance. Instead of drinking hot chocolate with his darling, he would observe the three pillars of his current purgatory.
The sky over Venice was a washed-out pearl, the early light turning the water to bruised silver. Oars creaked, pigeons wheeled above the terracotta roofs, and the faint smell of fish and smoke rode the breeze as the gondola threaded through narrow canals toward Palazzo Morosini.
Edward’s days were long and started early, and he, Signor Rothbury, translator to a Venetian count, did not lie abed.
He only lay awake.
He wondered, not for the first time, if this would ever change. Or if he was destined to translate other men’s romances while his own slowly strangled itself in the coils of honor and obligation.
By the time he reached the palazzo, his stomach was a tight knot of hunger and dread.
His footsteps echoed as he crossed the checkered marble to the familiar door of the library.
He had just set his satchel on the big walnut desk when a soft cough sounded behind him.
“Signor Rothbury.”
It was the majordomo, grave and impassive. “His Excellency requests the pleasure of your company. At once.”
Of course he does.
Edward followed him through a succession of high, chilly rooms until they reached Morosini’s private study. The shutters here were half open, a blade of pale light cut across the carpet and picked out the gilt on the frames of somber ancestors glaring down from the walls.
Count Morosini stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching a barge drift past below. He did not turn immediately—never a good sign.
“At times, Mr. Rothbury,” he said at last, “I cannot decide whether you are a brave man or a very foolish one.”
When he did face Edward, his expression held curiosity rather than outright censure. Somehow, that was worse.
Edward bowed his head. At present he felt almost entirely the latter.
“Or,” the count went on, coming forward a few paces, “perhaps you are simply a man in love. Such dramatic violence suggests the actions of a gentleman who is consumed by passion.”
He sighed, as if the whole notion were faintly tedious. “Did I not explicitly tell you I wished you to have nothing to do with Miss Playford? And yet you spent the evening alone in a gondola with her… after coming to blows with yet another gentleman who apparently wished to do the same.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I intervened to preserve the lady’s honor when Count di Montefiore tried to force his attentions upon her.”
Morosini’s eyebrows rose. “Captain Rizzi neglected to mention the name of the gentleman whose nose you redecorated. di Montefiore, you say?” A faint curl of disdain touched his mouth. “Indeed, he is not a man I hold in particularly high regard.”
He gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “I could almost commend you for it.”
The words hung in the air, offering a sliver of hope.
Then, the shutters slammed shut.
“However,” Morosini continued, “the fact remains that I specifically instructed you to stay away from Miss Playford. You are in my employ to translate the works of Sir Walter Scott, not to act as a knight-errant on the Grand Canal. The signorina is under suspicion for a crime that has not yet been solved. She is also clearly a… distracting influence.”
Edward opened his mouth, then shut it again. Every reply that came to mind would make matters worse.
“Consider this a final warning,” Morosini said, voice softening not at all. “Miss Playford enjoys my protection only so long as you put my work above all other considerations.”
Edward knew he should bow and accept this. Knew that prudence insisted he murmur something about gratitude and redoubled efforts.
Instead, the words burst out of him before he could stop them.
“Then you accept that she was an unwitting pawn, sir? That she is not the jewel thief Captain Rizzi seeks?”
Idiot. Spectacular idiot.
The count studied him for a long moment, dark eyes narrowed.
At length he inclined his head, very slightly.
“I accept that matters are… less clear-cut than certain witnesses would have them,” he said.
“Captain Rizzi has testimony that she was seen placing the emeralds in the tiara. Yet the descriptions of this supposed act do not entirely agree. I grant you that.”
He shrugged one bony shoulder. “If it had suited my purposes better that she be detained, I would have had no compunction in accepting the version that achieved that end. But my paramount desire is for you to complete the translations of the entire body of Sir Walter Scott’s works.
There is, I think, no translator finer than you. ”
The faint compliment landed like a stone in Edward’s stomach.
“And I suspect,” Morosini went on, “that you are more… malleable… if Miss Playford is merely under suspicion and not incarcerated. For now.”
There it was. The chain around his neck, politely described.
“That, however,” the count finished, “depends entirely upon you.”
The room felt suddenly airless. From the canal below came the distant cry of a gondolier; somewhere in the house a clock chimed the half-hour.
Edward swallowed. “I understand, sir.”
“I am sure you do.” Morosini’s tone lightened with almost jarring swiftness. “Now. To more agreeable matters. You have heard, I assume, of my granddaughter Sofia’s betrothal?”
“I have heard whispers in the household,” Edward said cautiously. “A fête… and a balloon ascent?”
“Ah!” The count’s eyes gleamed. “Then my secretary has done his work. Yes. We shall have a spectacle that will make Venice talk of nothing else for weeks. A French aeronaut—Duval, an eccentric genius—will ascend in his balloon from a barge anchored in the Bacino. The whole city will gather along the Riva to watch.”
He moved to his desk and unfurled a large sheet of paper, beckoning Edward closer. It proved to be a sketch: the white dome of the balloon like a rising moon over a forest of masts, the Doge’s Palace a lacework backdrop.
“We will have musicians on additional barges,” Morosini said, tapping the drawing.
“Fireworks from the Lido when the balloon reaches its greatest height. Sofia and her intended seated beneath a canopy on the main platform—very visible, very respectable. No one will remember a few missing jewels when they have seen such wonders.”
“Indeed,” Edward murmured, still staring at the sketch. The balloon’s silk envelope bulged ominously, reminding him of the scene into which he’d ridden a year ago. Venetia about to be swept away, a prisoner of evil Lord Windermere.
“You, of course, will attend,” Morosini went on.
“Duval speaks little Italian. I require you to translate his scientific discourse on the principles of flight into something my guests can understand. We will also prepare a printed program in both Italian and English to distribute to the crowd. You will supervise that as well.”
“Of course, sir.”
Morosini’s mouth thinned. “Captain Rizzi and I agree that it will be… advantageous… for Miss Playford to be present, as well. As a sign that my household remains united and that I harbor no ill will toward my English guests.”
Edward’s heart lurched. “Miss Playford?”
“Under appropriate supervision,” the count added. “You are not that supervision. You will keep your distance, Mr. Rothbury. If Rizzi or anyone else sees you whispering together, I will be… displeased.”
That seemed an understatement of heroic proportions.
“As for who will ascend with Duval,” Morosini went on, returning to the sketch, “Sofia, naturally, is the obvious choice. A young, noble bride rising into the heavens—it is a pleasing image. But she is… nervous.” His lips pressed together briefly. “English courage might be a useful corrective.”
English… oh no.
“You are considering Miss Playford, sir?” Edward forced the question out calmly, though his blood had turned to ice.
“Perhaps.” Morosini’s gaze sharpened. “An English heiress placed in my care, displayed safely and triumphantly before the eyes of Venice? It would be a powerful statement. My guests would see that I am confident of her innocence. The gossips would choke on their own tongues.”
Edward did not know what to say.
“I would not place her in danger,” Morosini added, almost as an afterthought. “Duval assures me his contraption is perfectly safe.”
Edward thought of Venetia in that fragile basket, silk and rope between her and the cold green water, while a city’s worth of eyes watched. While her enemies watched.
“No contraption is perfectly safe, sir,” he said before he could stop himself.
Morosini regarded him for a moment, then smiled thinly. “Nor is love, Mr. Rothbury. Yet people continue to risk it.”
He rolled up the sketch. “You will begin work on the program this afternoon. And you will remember what I have said. The translation of Ivanhoe is your chief duty. At great speed. The marchese was enthralled by your last few chapters. Keep your distance from Miss Playford. Smile at the fête. If you behave, you may yet see your fair lady lifted above suspicion along with that balloon.”
And if I do not behave, Edward thought grimly, I shall watch her fall without being able to move a finger to save her.
“Yes, sir,” he said aloud, inclining his head.
Outside, the faint clang of ship’s bells drifted in through the shutters, mingling with the slap of water against stone. He turned back toward the library, feeling as if he were navigating his way through a suffocating fog.
Ivanhoe, he thought bitterly, had no idea how easy he’d had it.