Chapter Thirty-Nine
Venetia hurried back to the casa, her mind racing faster than her feet. The bells were chiming the hour over the glittering canal, but all she could hear was Sofia’s urgent whisper in the cool dimness of the church and her own wild answer.
Lady Townsend. She must find Lady Townsend at once.
If anyone would listen to a plan so daring, outrageous, and perilous that even Venetia could scarcely believe she’d agreed to it, it would be Lady Townsend.
In that shadowed chapel, Venetia and Sofia had suddenly seen one another clearly—as two young women with their futures being bartered away by men who talked of honor while disregarding human hearts.
Lady Townsend would understand that. She would not dismiss their idea out of hand.
Unfortunately, Lady Townsend was not alone.
Venetia found her in the water salon, framed against the long windows where late afternoon light bounced off the canal and dappled the painted ceiling. Catherine Bentley sat opposite her, her beady eyes darting toward Venetia over the rim of her teacup.
“Tsk, tsk, my dear girl,” said the older woman the moment Venetia crossed the threshold.
“The clock is ticking.” She set down her cup.
“Captain Rizzi visited us earlier to remind us that his report is due in three days. Three!” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking heavenly corroboration, then added piously, “Moral turpitude is the term he wished not to use—but he will use worse if that emerald pendant is not found. Of course I told him you were a creature fully redeemed—”
“I have nothing from which to be redeemed,” Venetia cut in, heat burning her cheeks. “We all know these charges are completely false.”
“Oh, yes, yes, I have done my utmost to ensure that dear Count di Montefiore and Captain Rizzi understand as much,” Miss Bentley said hurriedly.
“I was chosen to report on what I witnessed at the masquerade because I am well known for my discernment, and I have discerned you to be a highly virtuous young lady. I told Captain Rizzi so.”
“I am sure that was most helpful,” Venetia murmured, “after what you told him before.” She reached for a biscuit, her excitement almost at fever pitch, fizzing beneath her skin, but she could not afford to let Miss Bentley scent it.
Carefully, she said, “I rather fancy a very energetic walk along the canal. Would either of you ladies care to accompany me?”
Miss Bentley, who considered a promenade only tolerable if it were conducted at a dignified crawl and preferably in a sedan chair, visibly recoiled at the word energetic. Venetia’s heart lifted when only Lady Townsend answered.
“I should be delighted to take the air,” she said at once, putting down her cup. “Give me a few minutes to change.”
As Venetia was already attired in a neat walking gown and half boots, the intervening time had to be spent listening to Miss Bentley.
Sadly.
The older woman launched into a ponderous recitation of every dire possibility that might befall Venetia should there be no complete vindication—preferably via a full confession from Sofia or “that wicked Griselda,” who in Catherine’s opinion “ought to be languishing in a prison rather than skulking about Venice like a sewer rat.”
“But what chance of that when the lovely Signorina Sofia is clearly wild with jealousy and bent only upon her own gratification?” Miss Bentley continued, shaking her head until her cap ribbons fluttered.
“Why can the sisterhood not be as supportive as, for example, you, Lady Townsend, and myself have been? There is nothing—nothing—I would not do on your behalf, Miss Playford, to ensure you the successful future you deserve. Oh, how often I have said this to Captain Rizzi and Count di Montefiore.”
Apart from the sentiment being blatantly untrue, Venetia was struck by something else.
Just how often did Miss Bentley find herself alone in the company of Captain Rizzi and Count di Montefiore?
More often than any of them suspected, perhaps.
She was saved from dwelling on that uncomfortable thought by Lady Townsend’s returning in a very fetching soft dove-gray pelisse trimmed with black braid, her bonnet set at a jaunty angle that made her eyes sparkle. There was an eager glint in those eyes now that made Venetia’s heart leap.
“Tell me everything you were not prepared to tell Miss Bentley,” Lady Townsend said as soon as they were outside, hooking her arm through Venetia’s.
The two of them set off along the fondamenta, the air smelling of brine and sun-warmed stone, gondolas rocking gently against their moorings.
“Something has happened, I can tell. Good news? Signorina Sofia is going to confess? Or you have discovered the whereabouts of the marchese…?”
Venetia could barely keep her feet from skipping. “Both!”
For once, Lady Townsend was struck quite dumb. She blinked, then let out a little laugh that held the edge of disbelief. “This all happened in the church after we left you for some moments of solitude? My dear girl… then by tomorrow you and Edward will have your happy ending.”
“Not quite,” Venetia said, sobering. “I had to strike something of a bargain with the young lady. One that involves, perhaps, enabling her to find her own happy ending with Paolo. She will not confess anything unless that is promised.”
Concern—and confusion—clouded Lady Townsend’s features. “How are you to unite a pair of star-crossed lovers like Count Morosini’s granddaughter and her… unsuitable paramour?”
“To begin with, he is not entirely unsuitable,” Venetia replied.
They stood aside for a fishmonger’s barrow to rattle past, the sharp scent momentarily overwhelming.
“Paolo is the second son of a noble family. At present, that is enough for Count Morosini to refuse him. But Paolo’s elder brother is much older and has been childless for the duration of his ten-year marriage.
It will not be too long before Paolo is considered the heir apparent. It is a fair assumption to make.”
She glanced up at her friend, urgency making her heart race. “So in uniting them, I do not think we are scandalizing Venetian society beyond repair. And as for how I mean to accomplish it—well, it all hinges upon the balloon ascension.”
“Dear Lord, no.” Lady Townsend stopped dead, clasping her gloved hands together and lifting her eyes to the bright strip of sky between the houses.
“Not another balloon ascension requiring luck and timing and a guardian angel. Are you truly prepared to risk such danger again, Venetia, when we know it was only by a hair’s breadth of good fortune that Mr. Rothbury galloped in to save the day?
Who will gallop in on a black stallion so that Signorina Sofia and her worthy groom enjoy similar providence?
For I take it that is the condition upon which she will confess.
Though I cannot begin to understand why she would so readily reveal her own moral deficiencies. ”
“She believes that doing so publicly will shame Count Bembo who will want to wash his hands of her,” Venetia explained.
The thought of Bembo’s wounded dignity gave her a wicked twinge of satisfaction.
“If she admits everything before all Venice, she becomes undesirable to him—while at the same time clearing my name.”
She squeezed Lady Townsend’s arm. “So, will you help me unite these two worthy lovers? You have made something of a career of such things, after all. And I am sure Lord Thornton will help you once you have persuaded him—as you always manage to do.”
They resumed walking, their reflections wavering together in the canal.
Venetia dropped her voice. “As for running the marchese to ground, Signorina Sofia has given me all the information we require for a beginning. Our only difficulty is that he is notoriously hermit-like and does not receive visitors.”
“A reluctant gentleman with a love of books and little inclination for society who has perhaps never received visitors?” Lady Townsend’s mouth curved into a delighted smile. “My dear, I am quite certain we shan’t let such small difficulties stand in our way.”