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She set the manuscript down and found herself pacing around the library. It felt like tempting fate to let herself believe that the book that she’d come so close to abandoning might be... successful. Of course, she wouldn’t find out if it was successful or not until it was published—which would be months and months from now. Perhaps no one but her would like it. Perhaps her readers really would feel cheated out of dungeons and catacombs and terrifying cliffs.

She pushed open the shutters and watched a flock of doves wheel over the terracotta tiles of the roofs on the other side of the canal. Gondolas glided past. A fish monger cried his wares from his boat. She took a deep breath. I did it, she told herself, experimentally. I did it.

It ought to have been a moment of triumph. But when she thought of West, her heart ached. From the moment that she’d seen Townley at the ball, she’d known that everything was about to go wrong all over again. But Townley hadn’t caused the rift between her and West. He’d merely revealed that it was still there.

And she shouldn’t have felt so hurt when West had dismissed her warning that Townley was dangerous. After all, he hadn’t listened when she’d told him that they shouldn’t believe her mother’s message—and that they shouldn’t go back to London. And look what had happened then.

It was easy for West to pay her extravagant compliments. But what did it mean for him to call her "brilliant," when time and again he’d shown that he didn’t respect her judgment? He insisted that Townley was a fool and that no one took him seriously. But that wasn’t true—and she should know. Townley had been hanging over her life like a curse for over two years. In that time Townley had learned how to pretend to be charming, and how to be persuasive. He’d become more cunning and more vicious. And he’d gained more power. All she wanted was to stay far, far away from him.

Last night she’d really believed that her life had transformed, and that all she had to do was lock away the pain of the past in order to be happy. Now she saw that that was only a fantasy. The past had happened. It was part of her. She couldn’t simply pretend that it wasn’t, any more than she could escape Townley by coming to Venice.

And West was the same man who’d left her and gone to Paris. And he still didn’t respect her enough to heed her warning about Townley.

She didn’t know what to do to fix any of it. But she did know how to work. She sat down again at the writing table and began to stack and straighten the pages of the manuscript. She would have to make a fair copy of it for Mr. Wynde. This one was full of blotches and words and sentences that she’d crossed out.

A knock on the library door made her jump. It was a pair of elderly housemaids with the pastries and pot of chocolate that she’d requested for breakfast. “Duca!” They looked from the open window to her and back again in horror, and then launched into a rapid stream of anxious reminders about the destructive powers of the sun, and how if the shutters were left open when it was at this angle, it would fade the carpets, rot the upholstery and curtains, crack the bindings of books and render the room (and the house) unbearably hot.

She stood back as they refastened the shutters. And yes, she knew that she could order every shutter in the house opened if she wanted to, because she was a duchess. But why should she make their jobs more difficult? And frankly, she was simply tired of arguing with anyone, or giving orders.

“I believe that I will take my breakfast in my dressing room after all,” she said finally.

Perhaps a long soak would get rid of the sticky, sweaty feeling and nagging headache caused by a bad night’s sleep… and even the tight ache of unshed tears in her throat when she thought of West.

She put the pages back into her writing desk, shut the lid, and went upstairs to order a bath.

West hurried down the corridor. All the things that he wanted to say to Pomona were pressing on him. They must learn to be more frank with each other, for one thing. And it was up to him to start. But she ought to tell him what she was working on, too.

And he owed her an apology about Townley. Or at least, a partial apology. Townley wasn’t as powerful as she imagined. But perhaps he might be somewhat unhinged. In fact, after this morning’s conversation, he didn’t believe that Townley had come to Venice merely to sightsee. However, the fact that he likely had some other motive didn't mean that Pomona was right when she leapt to the conclusion that he meant them harm.

Of course, Townley had made vague threats. And it was plain that he was constantly scheming and plotting. And that he might even be even spying on him somehow. Although it was more likely that someone in Sir Anthony’s group had mentioned to someone else that the Duke of March would be attending a meeting. After all, the simplest explanation was usually the correct one.

“Pomona?” He stopped short. For the first time in weeks, the library door was open. The room was empty.

He crossed the room. Her writing materials were organized on the table before the stubbornly shuttered windows—a paperweight holding down a neat stack of blank paper, a stoppered cut glass bottle of India ink, and several quills carefully aligned with the edge of the leather-bound desk blotter. The little arrangement was somehow touching. He wouldn’t have expected such tidiness and discipline from a lady who was always misplacing her parasol and her gloves. He found himself smiling affectionately at her quills simply because they spent so much time in her hand.

And then he seemed to hear Townley’s sneering voice: You have not the slightest idea what the duchess is doing under your very nose. He tried to push the poisonous words away. No doubt Townley’s insinuations were nothing more than a continuation of the same whisper campaign that he’d conducted against Pomona for two years.

If they were to have a fresh start it must start with trust, and a frank discussion. Which they would have in only a few minutes, as soon as he found Pomona. So why was he lingering here?

On the other hand, if what Pomona was doing was harmless… why hadn’t she simply told him what it was?

The clock ticked on the mantel of the dim, airless room. Surely she must have some very strong motivation to tolerate shutting herself in here, hour after hour and day after day. After all, nobody would choose to spend a vacation in Venice sitting at a desk in a stuffy library without a very good reason.

And then there had been the way that she’d gone from being obsessed with tunnels to losing all interest in them. In fact, she hadn’t mentioned tunnels or caves or cliffs in—well, he wasn’t certain how long. He'd seen the commander of the Austrian garrison at the ball last night, and that had brought to mind the awkward questions that Pomona had asked. Was that what Townley was hinting at now? Some sort of political controversy in the making?

No. He knew Pomona. She was the very last person who would do anything underhanded.

He would do the right thing. He wouldn’t try open her writing desk and look at her papers.

In fact, when he later replayed this scene in his mind, he often imagined it that way. What would have happened if he’d turned away? What if he'd honored his promise to her to respect her privacy? Why hadn't he understood that this one moment would decide his entire future?

But Townley had seemed so certain. The smug way that he’d said that West didn’t know what Pomona was doing under his nose was maddening.

And West was Pomona’s husband. It was his... his responsibility to ensure that she was safe, and respected, and that she wasn’t mixed up in anything scandalous or dangerous.

It would be the work of a moment to put his mind to rest. She need never know.

His hand stretched toward the writing desk. He lifted the lid.