Chapter Forty-Five
The day of Sofia’s betrothal dawned bright and deceptively beautiful, Venice glittering as if nothing truly dreadful could ever happen beneath such a sky.
Feverishly, Venetia submitted to Mollie’s ministrations as her maid helped her into a gown of palest-blue silk.
How would today unfold?
Seeing the marchese the previous afternoon had imbued her with fresh hope after her earlier despair, but still the old man remained in ignorance of Edward’s true identity.
Would he even attend? He had been so adamant that he would not leave his island; yet he had clearly been moved by the service his mysterious translator had rendered him.
Edward, however, was not to be there. He had said as much several days earlier, the last time she and her elderly friends had managed to corner him with questions.
“Apparently Morosini is dissatisfied with my progress,” he’d said with a wry twist of his mouth.
“He wishes the next chapter finished by the end of the week, which means I must work like a galley slave. There is no opportunity to enjoy the frivolity of his granddaughter’s betrothal festivities. Besides, I am merely a servant.”
He had looked so downcast Venetia had almost thrown her arms about him on the spot. But a distance had crept up between them over the last few days. She had barely seen him, and when she had, he’d seemed far away, as if his mind lived entirely in the pages he translated.
A tap sounded at the door, and Lady Townsend swept in.
“Oh, my dear, you look quite ravishing,” she declared, taking in Venetia’s gown, and the soft curls Mollie was arranging about her face. The affectionate admiration in her eyes was so warm that Venetia felt, as she often did, like the most cherished creature in existence.
How could such a woman still be unwed? Venetia wondered not for the first time. Truly, if she were to pair two of the dearest people to her, it would be Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton. Why they had never thought of it themselves was one of life’s great mysteries.
But she had no leisure to matchmake for others. Today she must contrive her own salvation—and, if Heaven was kind, Edward’s.
“I wonder if my dress ought to have been a touch more modest,” she murmured, studying her reflection as Mollie set the last curl.
“In view of how Captain Rizzi may choose to render me in his report.” She clasped her hands together, briefly closing her eyes as she made a quick appeal to any celestial power within hearing.
“Oh, how I wish Edward were to be there. I cannot believe Count Morosini thinks so little of him that he would be left off the guest list.”
“It is because the count thinks so very highly of him that he has done so,” Lady Townsend replied, coming to stand behind her.
“But I heard a little rumor that may lift your spirits.” She dipped her head closer to Venetia’s, her eyes twinkling.
“Count Morosini intends that Edward shall read a passage of Ivanhoe—in Italian and in English—for the entertainment of his guests. Who knows? It may even tempt our marchese from his lair, given the great rivalry between the two men, for all that they are united by their love of literature.”
Venetia’s heart gave a hopeful little leap. “Edward might be there? And the marchese too?”
Lady Townsend nodded, satisfied by the effect of her news.
“I know you thought I did not go far enough yesterday in revealing our suspicions regarding Edward’s…
connections.” Her lips curved. “But, my dear, sometimes less is more. The marchese will be far more receptive to a connection he deduces for himself than to one thrust upon him by two English ladies armed with wild theories.”
“But when you asked him about today, he said he was not going to attend at all,” Venetia protested.
“That was why I was so disappointed, Lady Townsend. I do agree that subtlety is required, but I feared you had not told him sufficiently what he needed to hear to have his interest piqued about his translator enough to even attend Signorina Sofia’s betrothal. ”
“Ah, my love, you have much to learn about men.” Lady Townsend brushed her fingertips briefly over Venetia’s cheek, a touch that was half caress, half conspiratorial signal.
“They must believe themselves in charge. They like to imagine that any brilliant notion, any wondrous event, is all their own doing. I said as much to Lord Thornton last night, and he was in full agreement—after a little grumbling.” Her smile grew fond.
“On the strength of our conversation he sought out our host and, I understand, contrived matters so that what we learned on the island was couched as a challenge and an enticement to the marchese. Clearly, upon reflection, the old gentleman decided he could not resist hearing the voice of the translator upon whom his happiness now rests.”
Venetia gazed at her with frank admiration. “I hope one day I am as wise as you.”
“Patience is all that is required,” Lady Townsend said lightly.
“Just another thirty years and you will be brimming with such wisdom. Now, my dear girl, not another alteration to your appearance is needed. You look precisely as you ought: innocent enough to soften Captain Rizzi’s report, and desirable enough to make Edward cast every other consideration to the wind—the marchese and Morosini be hanged—in order to pledge you his troth.
That is, after all, your greatest desire, is it not? ”
Venetia’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”
“Well then,” Lady Townsend said briskly, squeezing her hand. “Let us go and meet our fate—with good posture and our chins held high.”