Page 68

“Why, yes, in fact,” said West, waving off a housemaid who was straightening the pillows under his head. “As it happens, there is something that his grace would very much like her grace to read aloud.”

Lorenzo flattened himself against the wall of the study. Only feet away, on the other side of the tapestry, Sir Aloysius spoke. “You fools! You incompetent fools! It is your fault that she has escaped again! A girl! Nothing more than a girl! And yet she has humiliated both of you grown men!”

“My lord, it is believed that she ”—

“Silence!” The sound of his footfalls retreated in the direction of the window.

Lorenzo clutched the hilt of his sword. Violetta was alive! Hope was not yet lost!

“You will find her. And you will take her to the island—that most dreary of prisons—and there I shall hold her captive until she comes to her senses and agrees to marry me before one and all! She will be taught not to defy me!”

“Yes, my lord.” The two men spoke in unison.

“Well—what are you waiting for? I do not pay you to stand here and flatter me! Get out!”

“Yes, my lord.” The door shrieked on its rusty hinges and the two men rushed out. But before Lorenzo could leap out… Sir Aloysius’s footfalls left the chamber as well! Ah! Woe! He had missed his chance to strike!

“What a villain he is! How well you have drawn him in all his vanity and deviousness.”

West's voice rang with pride. Pomona had paused for a much-needed sip of water. At first, her embarrassment at reading the words that she’d written aloud had made it impossible to look at West as she read.

But Dr. Farnham had been right: She had to do something to distract West long enough that he would rest. And at least The Specter of Venice was keeping him interested enough that he was listening to the story—instead of worrying about work on the tenants’ houses and a report from some mining engineers.

She managed to stretch the reading over three days. By the time she closed the last volume West didn't look so deathly pale, and was allowed to eat solid food. “That was wonderful. And it was also wonderful to see how you used all the places that we visited as locations for your story. The scene in the marsh—the silhouette of the man with the gun against the lightning flash—it is most memorable."

“So you liked it?”

“Yes! It is marvelous! It is only a pity that you are trapped here with your invalid husband, instead of being in London where you could be fêted by your publisher, as you should be.”

Her face heated. “One cannot be fêted when one uses a pseudonym. And besides, I am only a gothic novelist.”

“’Only a gothic novelist.’ I see. And yet it seems—based on what I have read in the newspaper—that half the country has read your book, and everyone talks of it.”

“Which makes it worse. When Townley tells everyone that I am the one who wrote it, I shall be a laughingstock all over England. Only this time, he will use my scandal against you.”

West leaned back against his pillows. “Well, let us think about this logically. If he intends to tell everyone, why has he not done so already? He did some incoherent shouting about ghosts, yes—but that is all. What is stopping him?”

She'd wondered this herself. “I suppose that he is simply waiting for some moment when he thinks that he can inflict the maximum amount of humiliation. Certainly there is nothing that could actually stop him. He has no conscience at all. He tried to murder you. He would have incited a riot here. Why, he followed us to Venice simply to…” She broke off, and gasped.

“Pomona? What were you about to say?”

“West!” Her heart was pounding. “The man on the marsh! It was Townley!”

"Good God." He stared back at her. "Yes. It was."

“I knew that I knew him!” The blinding white glare of the lightning that had frozen every detail in place for a split second... the silhouette of the man behind the scrim of reeds... the way the afterimage of it had burned into her brain… If she closed her eyes, she could see it now. It was Townley.

“And then he lied about when he had arrived in Venice.” West spoke slowly. “Because... he could not be certain if we could identify him.”

"What will he do now?”

“I do not believe that he will do anything. He has already overplayed his hand.” He frowned at the ceiling. “He believes that you wrote that scene to send a message to him. As a threat. And ever since he read it, he has been living in terror that you will expose him as an attempted murderer. That is why he seemed so... unhinged. You have quite literally frightened him out of his wits.” The grin began to play around the corners of his mouth again. “Townley may have brought a dueling pistol to Castle March. But your aim is far deadlier.”

She stared down at the gold stamped title on her book. This novel—which she’d thought that she couldn't finish, and which she’d feared would ruin her reputation all over again—had possibly saved them both. “Well. Then I suppose that I shall just have to get to work on my next book." She caught West's eye. "After all, I should hate to keep Mr. Townley waiting for the sequel.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

St. James Square, London, November 1819