Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

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ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Prelude to Enchantment
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE Palazzo Malatesta stood in all its crumbling magnificence overlooking the narrow waterway which was its main link with the rest of the city. Beyond this quiet backwater flowed the busy reaches of the Grand Canal where private and public craft alike provided an ever-changing parade of colour, and where every few yards some splendid remnant of Venice's turbulent history could be seen.

The palazzo itself retained a certain majesty that no amount of decay could entirely destroy. A patina of years had filmed its stone walls and cast a glazing of green across its gilded loggia and on the proudly raised head of the bronze griffin which guarded its entrance. Curled poles supported a stone landing stage in front of the palazzo beside which a motor launch gleamed incongruously.

To Sancha Forrest, leaning on the side of the craft in which she was travelling trailing a lazy hand in the cool water, the whole building exuded an air of timelessness that was in itself slightly unnerving. How could anyone live in such a place, following the day-to-day pursuits of twentieth-century Italy, when their surroundings so obviously belonged to the age when chivalry and violence so often walked hand in hand? In this quiet quarter of the city it was incredibly easy to visualise what the palazzo must have been like then when some noble family had filled its walls with life and vitality and put to full use its halls and apartments.

Sancha sighed and the faint sound that escaped her was sufficient to attract the attention of the young man who was lounging beside her in the stern of the motoscafo. He turned to look at her with twinkling eyes, noticing the rapt expression on her young face.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?'

Sancha withdrew her hand from the water and rubbed it dry. ‘It's very imposing,’ she answered, allowing her gaze to move upward over the façade of the building. ‘Does Count Malatesta really live here?'

Tony Braithwaite grinned. ‘You find it hard to believe?'

‘Don't you?’ Sancha shook her head. ‘It's so big! Too big for one man, surely.'

Tony shrugged. ‘I expect one day the Count hopes to share the place with a wife and family of his own. Until then …'

Sancha wrinkled her nose. ‘He's not married?'

‘No. Not yet.'

‘Then how old is he?'

‘I'm not sure. Late thirties—early forties perhaps.'

‘I see.’ Sancha fingered the notebook in her hand. ‘Not young, then. Why hasn't he married before?'

Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Now hold on, Sancha! These are the sort of questions you should wait and ask him. After all, that's your assignment. Mine is simply to take photographs.’ And as if to demonstrate this ability, Tony unfastened the protective shield over his camera, and standing up endeavoured to get a picture of the palazzo as the boatman brought their craft into the palazzo's landing stage.

Sancha got to her feet also as Tony examined his light meter, unable to suppress the tremor of anticipation that ran through her body. Now that they were actually here, alighting at the Palazzo Malatesta, all her earlier confidence fled away. This was her first real assignment and she only had this because Eleanor Fabrioli was ill and unable to take it herself.

She stumbled as she stepped on to the landing stage and Tony saved her from falling on the roughened stone surface and possibly laddering her tights. Her cheeks were flushed and her heart palpitated wildly, and Tony regarded her with amused tolerance.

‘For heaven's sake, Sancha, don't look so nervous! This is your big chance! Don't louse it up!'

Sancha nodded and straightened her skirt, smoothing the soft material over her hips. As she did so, she wondered whether Italian counts objected to the way modern girls wore such figure-revealing clothes. Maybe she should have put up her hair, she thought desperately. Tumbling about her shoulders in Scandinavian fair disorder, it made her look years younger than the twenty-two years she actually was. What would the Count be like? Would he be big and imposing, or small and dark and oily, like so many of the youths she had had to encounter during her six months in Venice? Not that he was any youth, of course. She hoped, too, that he would not be effeminate or effusive. Authors sometimes were; but he wasn't the first man to write an historical novel, and even if that novel had been acclaimed as a major investigation into life in thirteenth-, fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Italy that didn't mean it was going to become a best-seller anywhere else than here. On the contrary, Sancha had found it rather difficult to read, but maybe that was because she had only been given the book at lunchtime the previous day with this assignment in mind and she had sat up half the night, almost propping open her eyelids with matchsticks, in an effort to understand it. But at two and three in the morning, the merits of Dante's Divine Comedy, written as it was at a time when he was fleeing from his political enemies, had gone over her head. In consequence this morning she wondered whether she had absorbed enough of the book to discuss it intelligently with its author.

Tony intimated to the boatman that they wanted him to wait and then put a hand to Sancha's elbow.

‘Well, honey, this is it,’ he remarked mockingly. ‘Are you ready? Are your pencils sharpened? Is your brain functioning as it should be?'

Sancha gave him a pained glance. ‘Oh, stop it, Tony,’ she exclaimed. ‘I'm nervous enough as it is, without you making a joke of it all.'

‘But there's nothing to be nervous about!’ replied her companion, as they passed under the arched entrance to a courtyard about which the walls of the palazzo stood in grim silence. Moss and weeds had invaded this courtyard where once mosaic tiling had shone with polished magnificence. A faint odour of decay was about them, and Sancha shivered.

‘How does one address a count?’ she asked suddenly, the thought invading her head with sharp insistence.

Tony shrugged. ‘Well, you can hardly address him by his full title every time you speak to him. I should imagine Count would do—or just signore, perhaps.'

Sancha looked at him. ‘You're so casual, aren't you? Doesn't it bother you that this man is the last in a long line of aristocrats?'

Tony's expression was cynical. ‘Oh, honey, don't kid yourself. This aristocrat wouldn't give us the time of day if he didn't have to! Look at this place! Does this look like the home of an aristocratic gentleman? It's falling apart!'

Sancha looked about her reluctantly. ‘Oh, not that, Tony,’ she exclaimed. ‘It needs money spent on it, I agree, but it's still very impressive.'

Tony shrugged. ‘You're a romantic, Sancha!’ he said, with some regret. ‘I just hope that romantic soul of yours isn't torn apart by the savagery of realism.'

Sancha tugged at a strand of silvery hair. ‘You sound bitter, Tony.'

Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘And why not? I was like you once, many moons ago.'

‘You're not that old!’ she protested.

‘I can give you half a dozen years,’ commented Tony lightly. ‘And a few months is enough to destroy a dream.'

Sancha sighed, unwillingly aware that the shadow of the palazzo had in some way invaded their conversation almost without them being aware of it. Maybe a little of the violent past remained in this silent courtyard and objected to the brash indifference of contemporary youth. Maybe those grim gargoyles could still exercise their powers when subjected to the coldness of indifference. She shivered again, but for different reasons, and Tony broke the spell by stepping forward and tugging at an iron bell rope.

No sound penetrated those thick grey walls, and Sancha and her companion could not be certain the bell was still working. They waited a few moments, and then Tony tugged again, but still there was no sound from within.

Sancha's fingers played with the notebook in her hands. ‘Do you think anyone is at home?’ she asked doubtfully.

Tony made an impatient sound. ‘One doesn't arrange an interview of this sort and then go out,’ he observed dryly. ‘Wait a minute! I'll try the knocker. The bell doesn't appear to be working.'

The heavy iron knocker in the shape of a leather-studded hand fell heavily against the door echoing with a hollow sound in the quiet courtyard.

‘Eerie, isn't it?’ said Sancha, needing to keep verbal contact with Tony in an effort to dispel her own sense of unease.

Tony glanced at her. ‘If you think so,’ he said. ‘Personally. I'm getting pretty impatient. Do you realise we've been here fifteen minutes already?'

Sancha hesitated, and then said: ‘Listen! Is that someone coming?'

They both stood in silence for a moment and then they heard the distinct sound of a bolt being drawn back inside the heavy door and a moment later the door swung inwards. It didn't creak, and yet Sancha had the certain impression that she and Tony were like flies stepping into the spider's parlour. She thrust these thoughts aside impatiently. She was becoming fanciful, allowing the building to influence her almost without volition.

Behind the door a man was waiting, a man of middle years with a completely bald head and beetling black brows. Surely this could not be the Count, Sancha thought incredulously.

However, Tony had no such doubts. ‘We're from Parita magazine. The Count is expecting us,’ he said, handing the man the small square card signifying their identity.

The man, who was quite tall and whose chest muscles bulged beneath the polo-necked shirt he was wearing, glanced casually at the card before stepping aside and saying: ‘Please to come in, signore, signorina.'

Tony urged Sancha forward and with reluctance she preceded him into the palazzo. A gloomy dank atmosphere engulfed them and for a moment she wanted nothing so much as to escape from this assignment, but then she realised that she was behaving foolishly and as Tony pressed reassuring fingers against her arm she calmed down.

They were standing on a stone floor in what appeared to be a kind of entrance hall, a huge monolithic apartment which chilled them to the bone after the heat of an early summer day outside. It was an enormous room devoid of any kind of decoration apart from sculpted arches and columns now left to moulder and decay. No one could live in such a room, Sancha decided, and as though to confirm this decision the man, servant or otherwise, closed the door and led the way across to a flight of shallow marble steps leading up to a long gallery which appeared to run from front to back of the building.

The steps beneath their feet had been worn smooth with the passage of years and were slightly slippery so that Sancha was glad to use the handrail even though Tony was just behind her. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she was looking about her with genuine interest, trying mentally to compose the first few lines of her article. The interview with the Count would come later, but first she must describe the palazzo to her readers, many of whom had never even been to Italy, let alone seen such a place as this.

The gallery had a tessellated floor, its walls hung with portraits. Sancha supposed these grim-faced men and women must be ancestors of the present Count, but as their guide showed no efforts to instruct them she did not like to ask. However, she made another mental note and decided to ask the Count when the opportunity arose.

The man at last halted before double panelled doors and with a certain panache swept them open and advanced into the room. Tony and Sancha hesitated in the doorway, both unwilling to intrude. However, beyond the doors was merely a small ante-room and their companion had gone through this room into the apartment beyond.

Tony raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sancha. ‘Some ceremony,’ he remarked sardonically, and Sancha hid a smile.

‘Do you think he's a servant?’ she asked, indicating in the direction of the inner apartments.

Tony nodded. ‘Yes. That's Paolo! I had heard of him, actually,’ he replied, in an undertone. ‘He's sort of valet-cum-manservant-cum-bodyguard all rolled into one.'

‘I see.’ Sancha was impressed. ‘Does the Count have no other servants?'

Tony looked cynical again. ‘I don't believe so. The exchequer won't run to it, I hear.'

‘I should be most interested to hear from what source you gather your information, signore.'

The soft and yet menacing tones disconcerted both of them, coming as they did from immediately behind them. Neither had heard the approach of the man who was now standing regarding them with narrowed blue eyes which were startling in such a tanned complexion.

The man was not particularly tall, being a little above average height, nor was he stockily built. And yet he had the kind of arrogant presence which diminished the size of those around him. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow, and in a black silk shirt open at the throat to reveal the brown column of his neck and close-fitting black trousers he was essentially masculine. Thick black hair brushed his collar, touched here and there with traces of grey, and dark sideburns darkened high cheekbones which gave his face a patrician cast. He was certainly one of the most attractive men Sancha had ever seen and in spite of her nervousness she was fascinated by the penetrating quality of his eyes.

Now Tony tried desperately to regain his composure. ‘I—I beg your pardon, signore. I thought we were alone.'

‘Did you?'

The man moved past them into the ante-room and Sancha glanced swiftly at Tony who made a baffled movement with his shoulders.

‘Paolo! Avanti!'

The man spoke again and a few moments later the manservant came through the doors from the inner apartments.

‘Si, signore?’ he responded politely.

The man turned back to Sancha and Tony. ‘We will speak inglese, Paolo. For our guest's sake, si?’ There was a trace of humour about his lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, signore, signorina: I am the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta!'

For a moment there was complete silence in the room and Sancha, glancing again at Tony, saw that his cheeks had turned a brilliant shade of red. Embarrassment swept over her, too, and she wondered with a sinking sense of despair however they would be able to redeem themselves.

Tony took a deep breath. ‘Then we must apologise, Count, for speaking so carelessly. I—I'm afraid our natural curiosity made us say things we might otherwise not have said——'

The Count interrupted him. ‘You have a saying in your country, do you not, that eavesdroppers do not hear good of themselves? I suppose I was in a sense eavesdropping!'

Tony swallowed hard. ‘It's very good of you to say so, sir!'

The Count's eyes flickered over him penetratingly. ‘Not at all. Will you come in? Paolo! Some wine for our guests.'

The Count stepped back and pressed open the door leading to the inner apartments, indicating that they should precede him. Paolo disappeared through another door and Tony gently propelled Sancha before him past the Count and into the room beyond.

Sancha was intensely conscious of the appraising gaze of the Italian as she passed him and she could smell a faint aroma of some lotion he must use after shaving mingled with the heat of his body.

The room they were now in was enormous, but here at least there was evidence of beauty and comfort. The soft carpet underfoot was worn in places, but its colours were amazingly bright considering how old it must be. The furniture was a mixture of ancient and modern, with comfortable leather chairs cheek by jowl with examples of Venetian sculpture. On a low plinth there was an exquisite bronze of a winged goddess, small and childlike, and flawless in every detail, while on the walls Sancha recognised examples of the work of Titian and other famous Italian painters. It was a room of contrasts with odd pieces of antique value almost carelessly thrust aside by the modern hi-fi equipment and cocktail cabinet. It was a long room and Sancha could see that it overlooked the shadowy waters of the canal, which they had negotiated earlier.

‘Please, sit!'

The Count waved them to take a chair and Sancha for one was glad to sit down. The last few minutes had been altogether exhausting and the interview had not even begun.

Tony perched on the edge of a high carved chair which might once have supported some elegant medieval lady as she sat at her sewing frame, but the Count seemed to prefer to stand and Sancha found it incredibly difficult to look elsewhere than at him. He was such a disturbing personality and she wondered how she would ever dare to ask the questions she knew she must ask.

Paolo returned with the wine and after it was poured he departed about his business. The Count offered cigarettes, but Sancha did not smoke and refused politely. Tony accepted one and the Count lit it for him with a heavy gold lighter before taking a cheroot for himself. Then he said: ‘Shall we begin, Signore——?'

‘Braithwaite, Er—Tony Braithwaite,’ said Tony hastily. ‘And this is Miss Forrest.'

‘So!’ The Count nodded. ‘And you, Mr. Braithwaite—you are the photographer,'

‘Yes, sir. Miss Forrest will take the interview. I—er—I take it you have no objections to photographs being taken?'

The Count raised dark eyebrows. ‘Within reason, no. Providing I am not expected to take part in them.'

Tony frowned. ‘You don't want me to photograph you, sir?'

‘Thank you, but no. I prefer to remain, shall we say anonymous?’ He smiled suddenly and Sancha was struck by the whiteness of his teeth. ‘Where do you intend to begin?'

Tony swallowed the remainder of his wine. ‘Anywhere you like, Count.'

‘Oh, signore will do, Mr. Braithwaite. I do not think we need stand on ceremony.’ The Count straightened from his lounging position against the mantelpiece, an exquisitely carved mantelpiece done in a particularly delicate shade of pink marble. ‘Do you need any assistance? Would you like Paolo to accompany you? To show you about?'

‘I'd like that very much.’ Tony was eager. ‘I'd prefer to take a much greater number of shots than I need and choose which ones to use later. You'd see them, of course, before the final decision was made.'

The Count inclined his head and reaching forward tugged at the kind of tasselled rope Sancha had hitherto only seen in movies. Paolo appeared, as though by magic, as if he had been waiting for this summons. For Sancha it was a nerve-racking moment, knowing as she did that when Tony had gone she would be expected to begin the interview.

She folded her notebook, extracted two sharp pointed pencils from her bag and crossed her ankles nervously. Tony gathered together his equipment and after explicit instructions from the Count to Paolo they departed, the door closing heavily behind them.

Then the Count seemed to relax, taking the chair opposite Sancha and fixing her with his blue eyes. ‘Come, signorina,’ he said. ‘I can see you are very nervous and I am not without sensitivity. What is it you wish to know?'

Sancha sought about in her mind for a suitable beginning, and then said: ‘First of all I'd like some personal details.’ She flushed. ‘Not necessarily intimate details, you understand, but perhaps a little of your background.'

The Count tapped ash from his cheroot into an onyx ashtray. ‘Very well, signorina, I will tell you something of my family's history, si?’ He contemplated the jewel-inscribed signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. ‘I am the eleventh Conte di Malatesta, the title being granted to my family in the eighteenth century. There have been ancestors of mine in various walks of life, most notably politics and the church. But I am, regrettably, the last surviving member of the family, having no brothers and no sisters. My parents are both dead, and my closest living relative is an elderly aunt.’ His eyes challenged hers as she looked up from taking this down. ‘Is that the kind of thing you wanted?'

Sancha's colour deepened. ‘Y—yes, signore.’ She consulted her notebook with assumed concentration. ‘You—er—you haven't mentioned the palazzo. Perhaps you could tell me a little about it.'

He inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ He glanced round the huge apartment. ‘The palazzo was built in the sixteenth century and was originally owned by a commercial trading family who lost their fortune when Napoleon Bonaparte was making a name for himself. It is, as you can see, badly in need of renovation, although these apartments which I have for my own use are reasonably comfortable.'

‘Thank you.’ Sancha finished the sentence carefully.

‘What now?’ The Count surveyed her intently. ‘Tell me, are you not a little young to be conducting such an interview, or is Parita experimenting in the use of junior reporters?'

Sancha looked up indignantly. ‘I am perfectly capable of conducting this interview, signore,’ she retorted, her annoyance overcoming nervousness momentarily, but only momentarily so that when she realised what she had said she felt discomfited. However, there was a glint of amusement in the Count's slightly narrowed eyes, as he said:

‘I understood a Signorina Fabrioli was to interview me.'

Sancha bit her lip. ‘Yes, she was,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But I'm afraid she was taken ill at the last moment, so——'

‘So you were deputed to take her place?'

‘Yes.’ Belatedly she remembered she had not said signore.

‘I see.’ The Count stubbed out the remains of his cheroot. ‘Do go on. Do you wish to get on to the book now?'

‘Oh! Oh, yes!’ Sancha flicked over the page in her notebook. ‘Yes, of course. Er'—she was flustered—‘er—would you like to tell me what inspired you to write such a book?'

‘You have read it?’ His eyes were too piercing.

‘Yes,’ Sancha faced him resolutely. She would not let him disconcert her.

‘Then you ask me what you would like to know,’ he parried.

Sancha sighed. ‘All right.’ She sought about in her mind for an opening. ‘Have—have you always been interested in this period of Italian history?'

The Count frowned. ‘Well, signorina, the Borgias have always interested me. And the artists of that time—Dante, Michelangelo, Giotto; the Renaissance period was an inspiring period, don't you think?'

‘Undoubtedly.’ Sancha swallowed hard. ‘Did—did the book take long to write?'

‘To write, no. To research yes. I suppose in all it took perhaps two years from inception to completion. Writing is a fascinating business, do you not agree?'

Sancha smiled faintly and nodded. Mentally she went over what she had put down, trying desperately to keep the conversation going. It would be too awful to sit here with his man and say nothing, constantly aware of the searching penetration of his eyes. She was not used to men like him. He was much older than any of the men she associated with, for one thing, and she speculated upon his actual age. He could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, but she did not like to ask. She had a description, and that would have to be enough. There was the information about his family, of course, that could be enlarged upon back at the office, and there was the further history of the palazzo itself which she could no doubt research herself in the city's archives. Then there was the book; she could perhaps use some more information about his style of writing, and the reasons behind it.

Looking up again, she said: ‘How do you write, signore? I mean—do you have set hours every day when you work at the book? Or is it a thing of inspiration?'

The Count considered her question before answering. Then he said: ‘When I was writing the book I followed many variations. Sometimes I could write for hours on end, and at others a few lines only. At the moment, I am researching for another book and I work most mornings.'

‘Oh, that's interesting!’ Sancha was glad of another avenue to follow. ‘May we know what this second book is about?'

‘Of course.’ The Count inclined his head again. ‘It takes up where my first book left off, following into the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.'

‘I see.’ Sancha nodded, scribbling frantically on her pad.

‘But I am also creating yet another book,’ went on the Count softly. ‘It is not like the others. It is not an historical book, as such, but a book of poetry. Do you like poetry, Miss Forrest?'

Sancha's colour deepened hotly. ‘Er—yes,’ she answered uncomfortably. ‘When—when I find time to read it.'

‘But you must find time, signorina,’ he exclaimed urgently. ‘There is so much beauty to be found in words, don't you think? We should not always use words for prosaic things like this interview for instance. We should allow words to flow—to melodise; to lift us out of the coils of mortal man into the infinite!'

Sancha listened to him, enthralled in spite of herself. Then she realised he had stopped speaking and was regarding her with those disturbing eyes again and she sought refuge in the scribbled lines on her pad.

Wetting her dry lips, she went on. ‘You write poetry, signore?’ without looking up.

‘Very little, signorina,’ he confessed softly. ‘The poems I am collating are the work of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century poets who regrettably were never recognised or published. Some are anonymous, some have the names of their authors, but all are quite beautiful.'

The tenor of his voice changed as he spoke of these things he admired so much and Sancha realised that this was where his real enthusiasm lay. And because he was enthusiastic he had the power to fill her with enthusiasm, too.

‘Will you have some more wine, signorina?’ he asked suddenly, getting to his feet and crossing to where Paolo, had left the tray. ‘It is a hot afternoon. No doubt you are thirsty.'

‘Oh, no, no, thank you.’ Sancha shook her head vigorously. Already the heat of the room and the heady quality of the wine she had already drunk were combining to make her feel slightly drowsy. It was so quiet here, so peaceful after the hectic activity of the magazine offices.

The Count poured himself more wine and then came to lean against the mantel again, one foot upraised to rest upon the polished brass fender before it. Sancha from her position could see the polished boot on his foot and the tautness of the dark trousers against the muscles of his legs. He was altogether too close for comfort and she slid back in her seat as surreptitiously as she could.

‘Is that all?’ he enquired now.

‘I—I think so.’ Sancha closed her book with a snap.

‘Good.’ He swallowed some of the wine and holding up his glass to the light examined the remainder of its contents with intent appraisal. ‘And now perhaps you will tell me something about yourself.'

Sancha glanced jerkily towards the door, willing Tony to appear. This was the moment she had been dreading and now that it was upon her she was unprepared for it.

‘There's very little to know about me, signore,’ she replied, with what she hoped was casual nonchalance.

‘I am sure you are not serious, signorina,’ the Count persisted, turning his gaze to her once more. ‘For instance, what is an English girl like you doing working in Italy?'

‘How can you be sure I am English?’ Sancha was curious.

The Count half smiled. ‘Your companion informed me that your Italian counterpart could not take the interview because of illness. Your name is Forrest, which you will admit is an English name, and besides, you forget, I heard you talking together in the gallery. It was inconceivable that you should be anything else. Besides, few Italian women have your excessive fairness.'

Sancha bent her head. ‘I see.'

‘So now—you have not answered my question. Why are you working in Italy?'

Sancha shrugged her slim shoulders, wishing he would move away, go and sit elsewhere, anything!

‘My uncle is the editor here,’ she explained. ‘I was working in the London office when he suggested I might like to spend a year working in Venice.'

‘Eduardo Tessile, he is your uncle?'

‘Yes, signore. His wife is my mother's sister.'

‘Ah so,’ the Count nodded. ‘And do you like it here?'

‘Very much.’ Sancha managed a slight smile. ‘Venice is a very beautiful city.'

‘You think so? You do not find the odorous scents of the canals offensive?'

‘No, signore.’ Sancha made an expressive gesture. ‘Do—do you?'

‘Me?’ The Count's eyes narrowed. ‘No, signorina. But you see Venice is as much a part of me as I am of it. It is my city, my home. The churches—the squares—the bridges; they represent so much more to me than mere architecture.'

Sancha smoothed the cover of her notebook. ‘The Piazza San Marco is very impressive,’ she volunteered awkwardly.

The Count finished his wine. ‘Yes, very impressive,’ he agreed dryly. ‘But then it is designed to be. However, myself I prefer the less—shall we say tourist-inhabited places of the city.'

Sancha accepted his words silently. She couldn't think of any constructive comment to make. Although she had been in Venice six months she had in fact see little of the lesser-known areas of the city. She worked all week and at weekends her uncle and aunt seemed to think it was incumbent upon them to provide entertainment for her. They had no children of their own and consequently they went out of their way to show Sancha how much they enjoyed her company. In consequence she had done little sightseeing.

‘Tell me, signorina, how long have you been in Venice?’ The Count had poured himself more wine, and was now regarding her searchingly.

‘Oh—er—about six months,’ she replied quickly, wondering whether he was capable of reading her thoughts as well as disconcerting her as he did.

‘And of course you are staying with your uncle and aunt?'

‘Actually, no.’ Sancha shook her head. ‘My uncle's house is outside the city and although he commutes to his office every day he suggested I should share the flat of two other girls who work for Parita.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I—I spend weekends with them.'

‘I see.’ The Count inclined his head. ‘You must forgive me if I am excessively curious, signorina, but in Italy a girl such as yourself would not be permitted such freedom.'

Sancha shrugged. ‘Oh, we are quite-emancipated,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of the sardonic gleam in his eyes. She rose quickly to her feet and crossed the wide room to the tall windows which overlooked the canal, staring out with assumed interest. Opposite, the high wall of a building cast shadows on the water and beyond could be seen the gilded campaniles of the city. It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, but the scene was unbelievably beautiful.

The Count flicked his lighter and the sound caused her to turn and glance quickly behind her. He was lighting another cheroot and the flame of the lighter illuminated the tanned length of his fingers. The only effeminate thing about him was the inordinate length and thickness of his lashes and these flickered upwards now as his eyes encountered hers. For a moment he held her gaze and then she looked quickly away tremblingly, aware that his eyes had been assessing her with an almost clinical detachment. But why? What reason could he have? …

The opening of a door relieved her mortification and she swung round eagerly to see Tony entering the room with Paolo just behind him.

The Count's reactions in comparison were smooth and unconcerned. ‘You have completed your pictures, Mr. Braithwaite?’ he enquired.

Tony smiled politely. ‘I would like a couple of shots in here, if I may, signore,’ he replied, ‘but otherwise, yes, I'm very happy with what I've taken.'

‘Good! Good!’ The Count straightened and gestured expressively. ‘Go ahead. Is there anything in particular you wish to photograph?'

‘You would not agree to be photographed holding a copy of your book, I suppose?’ Tony suggested awkwardly.

The Count drew deeply on his cheroot. ‘My dear Mr. Braithwaite. I understand your dilemma, believe me. But it is not exactly to my liking that this article should be done at all as no doubt you have gathered from your editor. But my publisher——’ He spread a careless hand. ‘The palazzo is yours to do with what you will, but I …’ He shook his head. ‘I prefer my anonymity in this mad world of ours, Mr. Braithwaite.'

Tony smiled, obviously with difficulty, and glanced rather meaningfully in Sancha's direction. ‘Very well, signore,’ he said politely. ‘If you'll excuse me I'll get on.'

Within ten minutes it was finished and the Count was bidding them both arrivederci. ‘It has been most enlightening,’ he said, with enigmatic charm. ‘I trust you have both enjoyed it.’ He smiled. ‘As I have.'

Tony managed a polite rejoinder and Sancha murmured her thanks in an undertone.

Then Paolo was escorting them down the marble steps to the lower hall and out into the brilliant sunlight.

Once in the launch, Tony flexed his muscles and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God that's over!’ he exclaimed fervently, surprising Sancha. Tony was usually so unconcerned.

She looked up at him curiously. ‘What's wrong? Didn't you get the photographs?'

‘Oh, yes, I got plenty of photographs. Paolo saw to that,’ replied Tony lighting a cigarette with hands which were not quite steady. ‘But it was bloody awful down in the dungeons!'

‘The dungeons?’ Sancha stared at him.

‘Yes. You knew they had such things, didn't you?'

‘I—I suppose so. I never thought of it. Why? What went wrong?'

‘Nothing.’ Tony exhaled and seemed to regain a little of his composure. ‘Nothing except that that bloke Paolo seemed to resent me being there.'

‘You mean—he said so?'

‘Nothing so simple. No, it was his attitude. Sancha, I tell you, it made me realise that these servants men had who were reputed to be intensely loyal to the extent of murdering for their masters were real. My God, I believe old Paolo would have murdered me if he'd thought it would do any good.'

‘But why?'

Tony sighed. ‘I told you, the Count didn't want us to do the interview. He's been practically blackmailed into it by his publisher. Paolo knows this. These old Venetian families are pretty tough, you know. They're not used to having to do anything.'

‘Oh, Tony, you're exaggerating!'

Tony managed a chuckle. ‘Maybe I am,’ he admitted, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I was damn glad when we got out of there. How did you fare? Did you get the interview okay?'

‘Oh yes, yes.’ Sancha nodded, flicking open her notebook and showing him the pages of scribbled shorthand.

‘He's some man, isn't he?’ Tony regarded Sancha closely.

‘How do you mean?’ Sancha was deliberately obtuse.

‘Oh, come off it, Sancha!’ Tony stared at her exasperatedly. ‘Don't tell me you didn't notice.'

‘I—I thought he was rather—well—jaded,’ she replied carefully.

Tony lay back against the side of the boat. ‘Yes, I guess you could put it like that,’ he agreed. Then he looked at her and smiled. ‘Not for little girls like you, though, eh?'

‘Don't be silly!’ Sancha coloured and Tony chuckled again and looked away, his good humour returning as the walls of the Palazzo Malatesta disappeared from view.

CHAPTER TWO

THE offices of Parita magazine were situated in a narrow calle off the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. An international publication, it had offices in most of the major cities of the world, but was published simultaneously in only three: New York, London and Venice. It was a weekly publication slanted towards the arts, yet it maintained an excellent news service. To be featured in the magazine meant instant recognition, and its staff were not indifferent to the importance of the positions they held.

Sancha had first joined the London staff when she was eighteen as a very junior reporter. Her duties had encompassed a variety of occupations not unlike those of a shorthand-typist in those early days, but gradually she had progressed to being assistant to Helen Barclay, the social columnist.

It was then that her uncle had suggested that she might spend a year in Italy, learning the language and familiarising herself with their methods. He had made her assistant to Eleanor Fabrioli, the feature writer, but although Eleanor was only about six years older than Sancha she was vastly more sophisticated and treated the younger girl with a mixture of tolerance and contempt. Sancha did not much like her, but she did admire her work, and after all that was the most important thing.

Eleanor returned to work the morning after Sancha's interview with the Count, and Sancha could see at once that the older girl was not pleased.

‘I cannot imagine why Eduardo thought it necessary for you to handle the interview!’ she exclaimed, almost before Sancha had had time to take off her coat. Sancha had been a few minutes late for work and that had not helped matters. ‘He must have known I would be back today!’ Eleanor went on moodily, staring at Sancha with her heavily made-up dark eyes. ‘I do not believe any editor would have acted as he did without a reason. But of course, you are his niece!’ The way she said the words was an insult.

Sancha went to her desk and opening a drawer she extracted the typescript she had compiled the previous evening from the scribbled notes on her pad.

‘Here you are, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘I copied these out last night. If you want to write the feature, it's all right by me.'

Eleanor snatched the pages ill-humouredly. Scanning the sheets, she exclaimed: ‘Is this all? There are no personal details whatsover! What were you thinking about? You know our readers enjoy the personal touch.'

Sancha sighed. ‘The Count was not at all enthusiastic about the feature,’ she said. ‘He only wanted publicity for the book; not for himself.'

Eleanor's lips twisted thinly. ‘My dear Sancha, since when did a reporter only report what his interviewee wanted reporting? It is up to you to get your subject so interested in what he is saying that he tells you things almost involuntarily.'

Sancha flushed. To imagine herself capable of interesting the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta for more than a few desultory moments was ludicrous.

Eleanor regarded her closely. ‘What happened? Why are you looking so embarrased? Did the Count nearly eat you up?'

‘Don't be silly.’ Sancha turned away. ‘I did the best I could. I'm sorry if you don't think it's good enough, but I can't help it.'

Eleanor snorted. ‘We'll see about that,’ she said shortly, and rose to her feet, marching down the aisle between the typists’ desks towards Eduardo Tessile's office.

Sancha watched her go, wishing she had the other girl's style and confidence. It was not that Eleanor was tall or willowy, or overpowering in that way. In fact she was small and dark and rather fiery, but she had absolute belief in herself and in her work, and for that Sancha felt envious.

However, when Eleanor returned a few minutes later she looked more than a little put out. She flung the offending sheets of typescript on Sancha's desk and spat out:

‘You do them! It's your article! Your uncle has given the feature to you!'

And with that she stormed away to her own office.

Sancha picked up the typed sheets nervously, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively, but Eleanor had disappeared into her room and the door had been slammed behind her. Sancha stared at the sheets unseeingly. So Uncle Eduardo had not been intimidated; but what of her? How could she write a major article without Eleanor's advice and assistance, knowing as she did that the other girl would tear it to shreds if she dared to consult her? She sighed. She could take it to Uncle Eduardo, of course, he would help her, but did she really want that? Sancha sighed again. While Eleanor had been ill things had been so peaceful in the office, but now all was frustration and turmoil again.

She thought longingly suddenly of London, and Helen Barclay. Helen was quite an elderly woman and she had treated Sancha like her daughter, helping and encouraging her whenever possible. She reminded Sancha of her own mother who had died nearly ten years ago now. Sancha's father had remarried and although Sancha got along with her new stepmother it was not the same. That was why she had jumped at this chance of a year in Italy. It would, too, give her father and his wife some time alone. Even so, life there had been less eventful and perhaps less nerve-racking.

Tony passed her desk, a selection of cameras and meters hung round his neck. ‘Hi there, honey!’ he remarked, grinning. ‘Back to the grind today, eh?'

‘I'm afraid so!’ Sancha cupped her chin on one hand. ‘Are you off on another assignment?'

Tony nodded. ‘There's a new car being road-tested this afternoon. They say it's a sensational piece of engineering. I'm to go and photograph it and so on. Wish you could come along.'

Sancha wrinkled her nose at him. ‘So do I,’ she said fervently.

‘What's wrong? Is Eleanor back on form?'

‘You might say that.’ Sancha fingered the typescript. ‘I'm to write up the feature on Count Malatesta myself.'

‘No kidding! Well, that's great. Good luck, kid! I'm sure you'll make a damn good job of it.'

Sancha grimaced. ‘I wish I had your confidence.'

‘Hey, don't be a fool! Of course you can do it. Anyone can write that kind of stuff. You want to research some of that old history about the palazzo—the more gory the better. You know how sweet old ladies love to read about violence!'

Sancha chuckled. ‘Go on, you're cheering me up enormously.'

Tony laughed. ‘No, I really must go. See you later, eh?'

Sancha nodded and Tony walked off down the office. Then she heaved a sigh and cupped a chin on one hand. Maybe if she had another look at the book she would find inspiration …

At lunchtime she emerged from the office feeling slightly drawn. She had been concentrating hard all morning on Count Malatesta's book, not helped at all by Eleanor's frequent instrusions on her privacy. The older girl seemed to take a delight in mocking her, and she did not pass her desk once without making some scathing comment and momentarily distracting Sancha's attention.

Taking a deep breath, Sancha tucked her handbag under her arm and looked about her. It was a beautiful morning, the warmth lapping over her bare arms like so many rivulets of warm water. She was unaware of the attention she was attracting standing there, tall and slim and attractive, her corn-gold fairness accentuated by the silky curtain of hair which fell straightly to just below her shoulders. In a blue and white striped dress, and a blue suede waistcoat whose laces were hanging loosely, she was the very epitome of healthy young womanhood, and the man who was standing a few yards away watching her with narrowed blue eyes was not unaware of that fact.

Sancha was unconscious of anyone's scrutiny. She was intent on deciding which of the small ristorantes she would have lunch in. Eating houses of every kind abounded in this area, but some were too expensive for her limited allowance. Occasionally she lunched with one of the girls she shared the flat with, but they were both secretaries in the building and often had different lunch hours from hers. But she didn't mind. She was accustomed by now to the slightly predatory glances cast in her direction by the young men of the city, and was quite capable of fending off passes. Italians seemed to consider it their duty to show interest in every attractive female should she be unaccompanied, but a cool stare from Sancha's grey eyes was usually sufficient to quell any would-be pursuer.

‘Buon giorno, signorina!'

The deep attractive tones were vaguely familiar and Sancha swung round sharply to confront the man whose disturbing personality had occupied her thoughts all morning as she had pored laboriously over his book.

‘Count Malatesta,’ she murmured incredulously. ‘Buon giorno, signore.' She glanced about her hastily. ‘Were you—I mean—are you on your way to see my uncle?'

The Count allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk humorously. ‘Now why should you imagine I might be coming to see your uncle?’ he queried.

Sancha shook her head, her hair swinging curtain-like against her cheek. His unexpected appearance had startled her and she had said the first thing that came into her head. In a cream silk lounge suit and matching shirt he was devastatingly attractive and his eyes surveying her so thoroughly held a most disturbing glint.

‘If you'll excuse me——’ she began now, beginning to move away, but he stopped her, his long fingers curving coolly about the flesh of her upper arm.

‘Don't go, signorina,’ he commanded gently. ‘I came to see you!'

Sancha quivered. ‘To see me, signore?'

‘Si, to see you, signorina. Now tell me, you will have lunch with me, will you not?'

Sancha was flabbergasted. ‘Ha—have lunch with you?’ she echoed weakly.

He half smiled. ‘Is it an English characteristic to repeat everything that is said to them?’ he enquired mockingly.

‘Yes—no—I mean—of course not!’ Sancha wished he would let go of her arm. His grip was not cruel and yet she sensed if she tried to pull away it would tighten painfully. For all his charm and gentility, she somehow knew that he demanded, and usually got, his own way. Wetting her dry lips with a rather unsteady tongue, she went on: ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, signore. I—I only have an hour and——'

‘I am not such a big eater that an hour will not suffice,’ the Count observed dryly.

‘I—I didn't think you were.’ Sancha bit her lip. ‘I—look, signore, there is absolutely no need for you to take me to lunch. If—if you had arrived a few moments later I would have been gone.'

He shook his head. ‘No.'

‘No?’ Sancha frowned bewilderedly.

‘No, signorina. I have been waiting for you for some time.'

‘W—waiting for me?’ exclaimed Sancha, and then realised she was repeating him again. ‘I—I—but why?'

His eyes narrowed. ‘I wished to offer you my escort to lunch. What else?'

Sancha was hopelessly lost. It was bad enough encountering him like this and having him disconcert her to the point of confusion, but to actually hear him state that he had arrived with the sole intention of taking her to lunch was simply too much. Things might be different here, but in England members of the aristocracy simply did not arrive to take junior reporters to lunch—unless they had an ulterior motive, of course. She looked at him curiously, trying to gauge what his motives might be, and then gave it up. Count Malatesta was far too sophisticated and experienced to allow her to read his thoughts.

Desperately she sought about in her mind for some reason why she should not lunch with him. It seemed imperative that she should find one. Used as she was to dealing with the young men in the office she still knew that the Count Malatesta was an entirely unknown quantity and some inner sense of self-preservation urged her not to become involved with him.

And yet, for all that, an inner demon of pure feline origin urged her to accept if only for the satisfaction she would gain when she told Eleanor Fabrioli where she had been.

Squashing this thought, she said: ‘I—I'm afraid that's impossible, signore.'

The Count's fingers slid down over her elbow to her forearm with almost caressing insistence. ‘Why is it impossible?’ he asked huskily. ‘You are hungry and wish to eat, and so do I. Can we not eat together?'

In truth Sancha felt that food would choke her. She was overwhelmingly conscious of the pad of his thumb moving over the veins in her forearm and quivering awareness of him was invading every part of her being.

‘Excuse me,’ she said tautly, and as though he had suddenly become bored with the whole business she was free.

‘Very well, signorina,’ he said, his blue eyes like shafts of ice burning into hers. ‘Arrivederci!' and he strode away towards the bustling heart of this commercial quarter.

Sancha stood where he had left her for several minutes, too bemused and unsteady to trust the use of her legs. What had it all meant? Why had he come? What possible reason could he have had for wanting to take her to lunch?

She swallowed hard. Well, whatever his reasons he had gone now and she could only hope that she had not offended him. Her uncle would not be at all pleased if the article was jeopardised because of this.

Whenever the telephone shrilled during the next few days Sancha listened apprehensively for some violent explosion from her uncle's office, but happily nothing untoward happened and she was allowed to get on with the feature in peace. The day after she had met the Count outside the offices she had emerged at lunchtime with some trepidation, half afraid he might be there again, and experienced a kind of regret that he was not.

Life resumed its normal pattern. Eleanor was her usual objectionable self, but even she looked with evident interest at the photographs Tony had taken of the inside of the Palazzo Malatesta when he brought them to show Sancha.

‘Che peccato!' she exclaimed, when she saw how dampness was destroying the priceless murals on the walls of some of the apartments. ‘Is there no way of halting such a disaster?'

Tony shrugged. ‘Not unless the Count marries a rich woman,’ he replied cynically.

Eleanor glanced at him. ‘Is that likely?'

Tony's eyebrows lifted. ‘Well, he's young enough, and I have heard rumours that he's been seen in the company of that French millionaire and his daughter—what are their names?—Rumon, Roman?'

‘Rumien,’ put in Eleanor thoughtfully. ‘You do mean the perfumiers, don't you?'

‘That's right.’ Tony nodded. ‘Of course, his book could always become a best-seller, couldn't it, Sancha?'

Sancha hunched her shoulders. ‘I suppose so.'

‘But most unlikely,’ said Eleanor, shaking her head. ‘It was not the easiest book to read.'

‘It was history,’ remarked Sancha quietly, and they both turned to look at her so that she coloured defensively. ‘Well,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I mean it. I read it again, remember, and taken in the context in which it was written it's very good.'

‘Do I detect a fan?’ queried Tony, leaning on her desk, laughing at her.

Sancha cupped her chin on one hand. ‘All I'm saying is that I enjoyed it the second time. It does what it sets out to do—educate!'

Eleanor's dark eyes flashed contemptuously. ‘Tell me, Tony,’ she said, ‘what was this Count Malatesta like? He seems to have made a distinct impression on our Miss Forrest.'

Tony chuckled. ‘Maybe you're right, Eleanor. He was a most attractive individual, I must admit.'

‘Oh, stop it, you two!’ exclaimed Sancha impatiently.

‘I really think our Miss Forrest is smitten with Count Malatesta,’ Eleanor insisted maliciously. ‘Perhaps she hopes to impress him with her literary tastes.'

Tony gave Sancha a slanted look. ‘Do you think perhaps, Eleanor, she is hiding something from us? Maybe the Count secretly fell in love with her and they are at present conducting an illicit liaison——'

Sancha's cheeks burned. ‘Have you nothing better to do than stand here making ridiculous remarks?’ she demanded hotly.

Eleanor's expression was one of spiteful satisfaction. ‘Dear me, Tony, I do believe our Miss Forrest is nurturing a hopeless passion for the Count. Do you think we should tell him and put her out of her misery——'

Sancha got abruptly to her feet, anger overwhelming all other emotions. ‘Don't judge everybody by your own standards, Eleanor,’ she stated clearly and distinctly, her voice carrying to every corner of the huge office so that several pairs of eyes turned in their direction. ‘We're not all man-eaters, you know.'

For a moment there was complete silence and even Tony looked slightly uncomfortable, and then Eleanor almost spat out her next words: ‘You—you little bitch!’ she stormed. ‘Don't you dare to speak to me like that, or uncle or no I'll have you thrown out of this building!'

‘What is going on?'

The cool precise tones of Eduardo Tessile broke into the heated exchange.

Sancha's shoulders sagged and she leant on her desk weakly. Eleanor gave her one scathing glance before turning to the older man.

‘Oh, Eduardo, I am glad it is you,’ she said, her voice softened to a honeyed sweetness. ‘Sancha and I have been having an argument and she has said the most spiteful things to me.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not seem able to converse with her these days.'

Sancha compressed her lips. How dared Eleanor stand there and tell such barefaced lies? She looked at Tony. He must know Eleanor was lying, too, and yet he said nothing.

Eduardo looked at Sancha. ‘Well, Sancha,’ he said, ‘have you nothing to say for yourself?'

Sancha shrugged. ‘Eleanor's right, we don't get on. But I don't agree that it's all my fault.'

‘No. There are always two sides to every argument,’ agreed her uncle, sighing. ‘Nevertheless, for the efficient running of this magazine it is necessary to maintain harmony. Can you not at least save your differences for outside these office walls and make a pretence of co-operating while you are here?'

Sancha lifted her shoulders helplessly, while Eleanor sniffed. ‘Your niece cannot take a joke, Eduardo,’ she said, meaningfully. ‘Tony and I were teasing her, that is all, when she—how do you put it—flew from the handle!'

Eduardo shook his head and it suddenly became obvious to Sancha that while he might sympathise with his niece he did not want to offend Eleanor. She was a professional writer and they were hard to come by, and she would find no difficulty in taking her services elsewhere. Even so, Sancha would not have considered her irreplaceable. No, there was more to this than an impersonal desire for a good feature writer. It was something else, something in the atmosphere, something that put a guarded look in Tony Braithwaite's eyes, that enabled Eleanor to adopt an almost aggressive stance, and made Eduardo's voice almost appealing.

It was as though the scales had suddenly been lifted from her eyes, and Sancha wondered why it had never occurred to her before to wonder how Eleanor could get away with so much. The only occasion she could ever recall where Eleanor had not got her own way was over this feature and it must have been galling for her when he insisted on allowing his niece to cover it.

Sancha's probing ceased and she bent her head uncomfortably as she sensed Eduardo's gaze upon her. Had he guessed that she had stumbled upon the truth of the situation?

‘Sancha?’ he said now, questioningly.

Sancha shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say?'

‘Let this be an end to this petty bickering,’ Eduardo replied shortly. ‘Eleanor! I expect you to co-operate, too.'

Eleanor tossed her head indifferently. ‘We shall see what happens,’ she retorted, with careless disregard for his position, and walked away to her own office.

After she had gone Eduardo muttered a word to Tony and then turned and walked back to his own office. After he had gone Tony knocked gently on Sancha's desk. ‘Can I come in?'

Sancha looked up. ‘What is it now?'

Tony sighed. ‘Sorry, kid, but I couldn't help you there.'

Sancha's eyes narrowed. ‘And I know why.'

‘Too bad.’ Tony made an expressive gesture. ‘But that's the way it goes. Don't think too much about it. Your aunt doesn't even suspect, and why should she? Even Eleanor knows better than to brag about it.'

Sancha hunched her shoulders. ‘But why?’ she cried.

‘Why what? Why doesn't your aunt know?'

‘No, you know what I mean. Why?'

Tony glanced round to make sure their conversation wasn't being eavesdropped upon. ‘Who can tell why these things happen?’ he asked. ‘I guess Eduardo was attracted to her and she was flattered by his attentions. Now she seems to imagine she holds a kind of special position here.'

‘And doesn't she?'

‘Only so far,’ replied Tony thoughtfully. ‘You got this feature, didn't you? She didn't want that to happen, but it did.'

Sancha sighed. ‘It all seems so unnecessary somehow.’ She shook her head. ‘My uncle has a wife. Surely one woman is enough!'

Tony chuckled softly. ‘Oh, Sancha, how naïve you are! You frighten me sometimes with your complete lack of—well—knowledge. Men want women for different reasons. Don't try to analyse something about which you know so little. Just let it ride. It's been going on for some time now and no one's been hurt, so don't think about it.'

But after Tony had gone Sancha could not help thinking about it. It was all very well telling herself that it was nothing to do with her and that so far as she was concerned everything was just the same as it was before, but it wasn't! How could she watch Eduardo and her Aunt Elizabeth together without thinking of him with that other woman—with Eleanor Fabrioli? She would never be able to think of Eduardo in the same light ever again …

At the weekend she returned with Eduardo to his house by the shores of Lake Betulla several miles from Venice. Usually she looked forward to these weekends, enjoying the time spent with her aunt, lazing by the shores of the lake or swimming in its lucid depths. But this weekend she was taut and strained, and on the journey to the Tessile house she sensed that her uncle was strained also. Not that he said anything; on the contrary, he maintained a flow of casual conversation which would have fooled all but the most observant, but Sancha was not fooled. Instead, she made monosyllabic replies and was glad when the journey was over.

The Tessile house was quite beautiful. The red pantiles of its roof sloped down to a garden bright with flowers which were her aunt's pride and joy. Surrounding the house which was built on the lines of a dormer villa was a verandah, and it was here that they took most of their meals overlooking the blue sweep of the lake and the shadowed purple of the hills beyond. At first, Sancha had thought her aunt would find the isolation too much for her when she was alone all day, but she soon discovered that Elizabeth Tessile had far too many hobbies and pursuits to ever feel really lonely. She enjoyed gardening; she was an expert at making her own clothes; although she had a housekeeper she enjoyed cooking, and as she had plenty of friends popping in for coffee or her particularly English afternoon tea she seldom had a spare moment.

On Saturday evening her aunt had arranged for them all to attend a dinner party at the home of some friends whose younger members of the family would be company for Sancha, but Sancha declined. She felt she could not spend an evening in her uncle's company, listening to him regaling his colleagues with her aunt's idiosyncrasies knowing full well that he was being unfaithful to her. So she washed her hair instead, and spent the evening writing to her father and stepmother, and to her friends back home in England.

It was almost a relief when Monday morning came and they could drive back to the city.

On the journey back to town, Eduardo said: ‘Sancha, is anything wrong? You've seemed particularly constrained this weekend and I'm sure your aunt was concerned about you.'

Sancha looked up quickly. ‘Oh, surely not,’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘I—I had a headache on Saturday evening, I didn't want to go out.'

‘Was that all it was?’ he probed, glancing her way.

Sancha shrugged. ‘What else could it be?’ she countered.

He frowned. ‘I don't know,’ he said slowly. ‘But perhaps you have been thinking that I neglect my wife——'

Sancha's lips parted in protest and he went on:

‘Elizabeth's world is complete—without anyone else—without me!'

‘Oh, no!’ Sancha stared at him.

‘Oh, yes.’ Eduardo's hands changed gear automatically. ‘She has her sewing, her cooking, her gardening! She has her friends! She has whist clubs and bridge clubs and golfing parties! She doesn't need me—except perhaps as a meal ticket.’ He said it without bitterness and Sancha felt a tremendous feeling of responsibility suddenly. ‘It might have been different if we had had children,’ he added. ‘But we were not lucky enough to be so endowed, and so——’ He spread a hand. ‘Does what I'm saying mean anything to you?'

Sancha bit her lip. ‘I think so.'

‘Good. Good, I'm glad.’ Eduardo gestured towards the sea on their left, the sun turning its waters to a pale rose gold. ‘We have so much to be thankful for, don't you think, Sancha?'

Sancha bent her head but said nothing. Without actually mentioning the subject which was uppermost in both their minds, Eduardo had carefully succeded in explaining to her that sometimes things, and people, were not always what they seemed; that there were faults on both sides, not all of which were recognisable as faults.

It didn't excuse him; nothing could do that. But she appreciated his confidence and his perception.

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