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He frowned. “Well, it is utterly wrong. The Venetian lagoon is a vast river delta. The ground is mud.”

“But…” She trailed off. “Mud?”

“Yes.” He gave her a quizzical look from beneath the brim of his fashionable straw top hat. “In fact, when the first refugees arrived from the mainland—fleeing Attila the Hun—they discovered that the ground here was so soft that buildings simply sank into it. And so, over the centuries, they perfected a system of driving huge logs into it to act as foundations. Those logs now support the weight of the entire city of Venice.”

Was West being serious? It sounded preposterous. She studied him. If only Lord and Lady Alford had thought it worthwhile to educate girls! But they had not. And so now here she was—too ignorant to know what she didn’t know. It was mortifying.

“May I ask why you are taking such an interest in the geology of Venice?”

She stiffened. “I am not.”

“Everywhere we go, one of the first things that you have wished to know is whether there are any caves or tunnels. And now you tell me that you were expecting cliffs, too.”

“I... I am merely curious.”

He leaned back on his elbows in the prow of the boat. Despite the heat of the day he looked effortlessly composed in his close-fitting buff-colored pantaloons, glossy top boots, impeccably tailored linen tailcoat and snowy, perfectly tied neckcloth. “Well, I know you, Pomona West. So I know when you have something in mind.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I heard you ask the Austrian commander whether there are any concealed tunnels beneath the fort. Apparently the poor man was rather alarmed.”

“I was making conversation.” But what West had just told her was beginning to sink in. “Then you are certain that there are no cliffs? Or tunnels?”

“No. How could there be? Look at it logically. Venice is scarcely above sea level. There are no cellars. A tunnel would flood. And caves and cliffs require bedrock—and there is none.”

He was just as annoying as Charles was sometimes. She stared across the water. The lagoon was busy with traffic—sailing skiffs, barges, gondolas and tall-masted ships arriving from distant ports. In the humid air, the glassy surface of the sea seemed to merge with the sky on the horizon. Ahead, the domes and spires of the city gleamed above the haze. How could she possibly have known that these fairytale structures had been conjured into existence on humble river mud and log pilings?

And that meant that... almost everything that she’d written was... wrong. The terrifying episode in the skull-filled catacombs? Ridiculous. The scene in the dungeon? Impossible.

All her dreams were crumbling around her. She’d told herself that with this book, she could become independent. That she would have her own money… her own security. Her own life. After all, West had only married her because he had to. Everyone knew that. But if she were an authoress, even when he abandoned her again, even when she was alone, she'd still be... someone.

Only she’d been lying to herself. She wasn’t an authoress. She wasn’t even educated. She was merely a foolish girl. She knew nothing. And the idea that she could make a life for herself out of that nothing had always been a fantasy.

“Pomona?” She looked up. West was frowning. “You have not had too much sun again, have you?”

The boat nudged the quay before the water gate of the palazzo. They were here already. She felt almost too crushed by the weight of disappointment to stand. West stepped onto the quay and held out his hand. She forced herself to take it and step off the boat. He was looking down at her with a strange expression. "Darling?"

“No, I…” She blinked back tears. “Excuse me. I must… go lie down.”

Chapter Ten

“Your letters, your grace.” Tompkins bowed.

West flicked through the stack of letters that had been forwarded to him via poste restante. Unless someone had forgot to send them onward, he’d received no reply to his two letters to the mine overseer—what was his name? Bray? — at Castle March, instructing him to end the employment of children in the coal mines.

Could it be possible that the man didn’t realize that he’d given an important directive, and that West expected a reply? He frowned. The previous duke had spent his last years living full time at Castle March. Perhaps this man simply wasn’t accustomed to responding via letter. Elderly servants could become set in their ways.

He glanced up. Tompkins was still there. “Yes, Tompkins?”

Tompkins’ military bearing and even his mustache seemed to convey disapproval of something. He cleared his throat. “I wish to speak to you about a matter of household management, your grace.”

“Yes?”

Tompkins lowered his voice, as though he might be overheard. “It would not ordinarily be my place to say so, your grace, but it is my opinion that the servants here have a great deal too much to say. I cannot at all approve of it. As you know, I do not care to repeat gossip. Therefore, I must apologize in advance for what I am about to say.”

West had a sudden premonition that he was about to hear something upsetting. “Well? What is it?”

Tompkins took a breath. “The servants are saying that her grace has been staying in the library until all hours. They say that she is talking to herself and making peculiar stacks of papers, and that she scarcely sleeps.”

“I see. Well, that sounds like a great deal of fuss over nothing.” But for some reason his heart was thudding. What could Pomona be doing? He supposed that as her husband, he would have a right to demand answers from her. But that seemed ridiculously overbearing. And besides, he’d promised not to question her about her letters.

“Some of the servants have been…” Tompkins broke off. “They are comparing her to the man that they call the English Lord—Lord Byron, of course. They are saying that she has gone mad. Such gossip is indecorous. They ought to be reprimanded.”