Chapter Forty-Two
Two and a half hours later he was stepping once more through the doors of her elegant palazzo, the sounds of laughter and music rolling out to meet him.
“Lo mio caro!” La Serafina herself swept forward, every inch the queen of this peculiar kingdom.
Tonight she wore deep violet, her silver-threaded hair piled artfully beneath a spray of jeweled pins.
“Count Morosini wishes me to convey his admiration for your tireless work, Signor Rothbury. He has charged me to ensure your evening is as pleasant as possible. Alessia—!”
She lifted a hand to summon one of her girls.
Edward hastily shook his head. “I am not in need of… that kind of companionship,” he said, coloring. “But an evening of good wine and conversation would be a welcome change from the silent company of Sir Walter Scott.”
“Then conversation you shall have.” Her eyes twinkled. “Alessia is well versed in the Greek tales and philosophy. If you wish to discourse on heroes and fate, you could not ask for a better partner. She appears to have disappeared for the moment, but I shall bring her to you.”
He had hardly time to murmur his thanks before a familiar, unwelcome presence descended.
“I did not think you would dare show your face anywhere you might encounter me, Rothbury,” snarled Count di Montefiore.
Edward turned. The man’s once-handsome nose was decidedly crooked, the bruising livid beneath powder. Edward supposed he ought to feel some remorse. He did not.
“You have a nerve,” the count continued. “In fact, if you do not get out now, I shall make a spectacle of you.”
“And what appears to be the problem, Count di Montefiore?” La Serafina’s voice floated between them. She had reappeared, her smile serene, her gaze sharp.
di Montefiore touched his swelling nose with an injured air. “This Englishman assaulted me without provocation.”
“I merely objected to the count manhandling a lady who is dear to me—Miss Playford,” Edward said evenly. “I stepped in to uphold her honor.”
“Honor? Pah.” The count sneered. “Miss Playford is a thief. When Captain Rizzi’s report is delivered, I shall see to it that her trustees in England are informed of her true character.
She will lose the fortune she does not deserve.
” His lip curled. “In three days’ time, Rothbury, she will have only you. Nothing else.”
Rage clawed at Edward’s throat, but before he could respond, La Serafina slid a hand onto the count’s arm.
“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “my salon is devoted to the finer arts, not the airing of personal grievances. Conte, Alessia has been speaking of your admiration for French verse. Perhaps you would favor her with your opinions?”
She signaled to a dark-haired young woman behind her. At once the girl glided forward, murmured something charming, and gently but firmly steered the count away.
La Serafina watched him go, then gave Edward a wry look. “Bad blood, Signor Rothbury?”
“I think you understand why,” Edward growled.
La Serafina nodded. “He is not a man I would trust.”
Edward raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “If I could only reveal the depth of his villainy.”
“And his connection with the Englishman, Greene?”
Edward blinked. “You know?”
She nodded. “I have learned something of the plot to discredit the young lady, Miss Playford.”
Edward exhaled. “She was wrongly accused of theft, yes! And it has been confessed to me that the contessa’s maid, Griselda, was prevailed upon to steal the pendant.
She is terrified, and with reason. But if I could only find her, offer her some hope of safety, perhaps she might agree to testify and clear Miss Playford’s name.
But in this city…” He spread his hands. “I do not know that any promise I make would be worth the breath.”
“Miss Playford,” La Serafina repeated thoughtfully, “has been here several times.”
Edward frowned. “She returned here after… she was followed by Count di Montefiore?”
La Serafina studied him, head tilted, then changed the subject.
“You are a recent visitor to Venice, Signor Rothbury, yet already much cherished by Count Morosini, as evidenced by his letter this afternoon and his concern that you be ‘kept happy.’” Her smile thinned.
“Your Italian is exquisite. Yet you are English. Perhaps you grew up in Italy?”
He shook his head. “I grew up in a small town in England. My father—” He stopped, then forced himself on. “My father was an English bailiff. In fact, steward to Miss Playford’s late parents. That is how we knew one another. Meeting her here was… coincidence.”
“And what brought you to Venice?” she asked softly.
“My mother was from here,” he said after a moment. “From Venice.” The words tasted strange on his tongue in this room where so much of her youth had echoed. “She died when I was twelve.”
“And who was your mother?” asked La Serafina.
“It was a long time ago,” he evaded gently.
“And I am very tired. I think I shall take my wine and a seat by the window, if I may. The count drives me hard; he wishes Sir Walter Scott rendered into Italian almost before the ink is dry on the English editions. It is… difficult to concentrate when my entire mind is fixed on finding this Griselda and sparing Miss Playford any further pain.”
La Serafina’s expression softened. “It sounds as though the young lady holds your heart—as Rowena held Ivanhoe’s.” She gave him a teasing smile. “I am sure there will be the same happy ending for you both, considering your chivalry to date.”
He attempted a smile of his own, but it felt thin. “There can be no happy ending for us,” he said quietly. “As the count has reminded me many times, Ivanhoe only won his Rowena after his lands and title were restored.”
La Serafina made a small moue and, impulsively, touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “What can I do to help you, caro? There is nothing so moving—as profitable, in my line—as a man in love.”
He sighed, accepting a glass of wine from another young woman who had drifted to his side at Serafina’s gesture. “Alas, I have no lands or title to restore.”
“No,” La Serafina said slowly, “but perhaps I can offer you something better than consolation.”
She turned to the girl at Edward’s elbow. The young woman was perhaps a year or two older than Venetia’s maid, her dark hair smoothed neatly beneath a modest cap, her gown simple but of good cloth. Her face was pale and serene.
“This is Griselda,” La Serafina said. “Formerly maid to the contessa you mentioned. I make it my business to give protection, when I can, to those in need.”
Edward’s brain spun. “Good Lord.” He looked the girl over with fresh attention. Dressed in clean homespun, her dark hair partly covered by a pristine linen cap, she looked neat and wholesome.
“But surely your salon is frequented by the very men who might wish her harm,” Edward protested.
“Count di Montefiore?” La Serafina shrugged.
“He has never met her. And the Contessa Barbarigo would never cross my threshold. Griselda reads aloud beautifully and keeps accounts better than most bankers. I believe,” said La Serafina, “that the safest place for those who most want to find her, apart from yourself and Miss Playford—”
“You mean, Count di Montefiore?”
“Exactly,” agreed La Serafina. “As I was saying, the safest place for Griselda is right under their noses.”
“Good heavens!” Edward’s heart was thudding. “How did she come to be here?”
“I think Griselda is best placed to answer that question.” La Serafina nodded to the girl to speak.
Twisting her hands together, Griselda raised her eyes to Edward’s face.
“It was the young gentleman Paolo, signore,” she said.
“That is the name he gave me, and he said it was best I knew no other. He told me his beloved Sofia insisted I must be brought somewhere safe—somewhere Captain Rizzi would never think to look.”