There was no putting it off any longer. She reached for the phone, but it rang before she could touch it.

‘Dulcie, cara.’

‘Hello,’ she said, flooded with delight before she could get her defensive caution into position.

‘I’ve been trying to find the courage to call you. You’re going to be annoyed with me. I can’t make it tonight, but it really isn’t my fault.’

‘You can’t make it?’ she echoed. She felt ridiculously disappointed, almost as though she hadn’t been about to do the same thing herself.

‘Something’s come up. I can’t get out of it.’

‘Can’t you tell me what it is?’

In the brief silence she sensed his unease. ‘It’s-complicated,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. You’re not cross with me, are you?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, not entirely truthfully. ‘It’s just that I was looking forward to seeing you.’

‘And I you. I’ll call you tomorrow. Ciao.’

So that was that, she thought as she hung up. He’d made it easy for her. She should be glad. And she would be glad, just as soon as she’d silenced the little voice that said something was wrong. He couldn’t tell her the real reason for his defection, and he hadn’t worked out a convincing excuse.

Or perhaps he didn’t think her worth a convincing excuse. He wouldn’t call her tomorrow after all. This was the brush-off.

Stop being absurd, she told herself. He only did what you were planning to do. What’s the difference?

But there was a difference, and a small dark shadow hovered over the evening ahead.

It should have been unalloyed pleasure. She was collected by a motor boat bearing the Calvani arms, and driven slowly along the Grand Canal just as the sun was sliding down the sky and turning the water to red. All around her Venice was settling in for the evening. Lights came on along the waterfront, bars and cafés buzzed with life, some gondoliers drifted home after a hard day while others emerged to start work on the late shift.

And then they were passing under the Rialto Bridge and there was the Palazzo Calvani, the whole great building ablaze with light. For a moment Dulcie had a glimpse of how it must have looked in its glory days, when Venice ruled the Adriatic, and palaces were alive with powerful men and glamorous women. It was a dream, of course. Reality had never been like that. But, looking at the gorgeous building, she could almost believe it.

And there was the count, resplendent in dinner jacket and snowy white shirt, looking as though he’d stepped out of that other age. Now she was glad that she’d dressed up in her gladdest of glad rags, and wouldn’t feel out of place.

As the boat drew up at the landing stage he was there to assist her out, bowing low over her hand and declaring, ‘You honour my house.’

Behind him were two fine-looking young men, both apparently in their early thirties. Neither looked remotely like the man she was investigating.

‘My nephews, Marco and Leo.’ Both young men greeted her with a flourish. ‘You are very fortunate to find them here. Leo lives in Tuscany and Marco in Rome, but they came to see me when I became ill. My other nephew, Guido, lives with me all the time. He’ll be here soon.’

So Guido was the one she needed to see, Dulcie thought. Alive to every nuance, she hadn’t missed the way Leo and Marco had studied her without seeming to, and exchanged glances. They were gallantry itself, but the count outdid them both, brushing them aside to lead her out onto the terrace where he had ordered drinks.

From here the view was dazzling, not just the Grand Canal but the Rialto Bridge, bathed in floodlight. Dulcie looked a long time, awestruck by so much beauty.

‘I see you understand my city,’ the count said, smiling. ‘You pay it the compliment of silence.’

She nodded. ‘Words would only spoil it.’

‘I linger here every night. It is best enjoyed alone or-’ he bowed ‘-with charming company. But I neglect your comfort. What will you drink?’

She accepted a wine that he recommended and returned to studying the view. Although the balcony looked out over the water she could see grounds to either side of it, ending in trees and shadows.

Then it seemed that one of the shadows moved, but the impression vanished in an instant.

‘Is something the matter?’ Francesco asked.

‘No, I just thought I saw someone move down there. I must have been mistaken.’

They looked down into the gardens, but all was still and silent.

A last-minute phone call from an important customer meant that Guido was later reaching the palace than he’d meant to be, and arrived in jeans and sweater. Knowing this would incur his uncle’s censure he slipped into the garden by a small gate to which only the initiated had the key, and moved quietly through the growing shadows. With luck he could reach his own room and change quickly into what Francesco called ‘the proper attire’ and what he called ‘stuffed shirt.’

Through the trees he could discern the terrace overlooking the water, where the count would be entertaining their guest to pre-dinner drinks. Yes, he could see him now, also Leo and Marco, but the lady was still obscure. He could just make out that she was wearing an ice-blue dress, but not her face. It would be useful to discover more of her and know the worst that awaited him this evening. As he emerged from the trees he hugged the wall, flattening himself against it as he edged nearer the terrace.

There was a flash of pale blue as she turned to look outwards, and suddenly he saw her face clearly.

For a split second he froze with shock. Then he moved fast. It was too late to return to the trees. The only concealment lay directly under the terrace. A swift dash, and he just made it.

‘Is something the matter?’ he heard his uncle ask over his head.

Then Dulcie’s voice. ‘No, I just thought I saw someone move down there. I must have been mistaken.’

Guido’s brow was damp. This couldn’t be happening to him! What had become of his famous luck that had protected him through a thousand scrapes? Creditors-he’d paid them all eventually, but his early days in business had involved much tap-dancing-ladies with marriage in their eyes, husbands with shotguns, he’d sidestepped them all with wit and charm.

But where was his guardian angel now? Absent without leave, that was where. Another few minutes and he’d have walked in on Dulcie and his family, to be introduced in his true identity. It was no use saying that he’d meant to tell her soon anyway. He hadn’t meant it like this.

Muffled noises from above, Leo and Marco voices, then his uncle’s, irritated. ‘What’s happened to the fellow? My apologies for my nephew’s tardiness. Call him one of you and ask when he’ll be here.’

Guido moved fast to switch off his mobile before it could ring and reveal his location. He mopped his brow.

Marco spoke. ‘His phone is off.’

‘No matter,’ Francesco declared. ‘He’ll be here at any moment.’

Not on your life! Guido thought desperately.

‘I do hope so.’ That was Dulcie. ‘Because I’m really looking forward to meeting your third nephew, count…’

Their voices faded.

With calamity staring him in the face, Guido thought fast. Nobody had seen him. He could still get away. His mind was racing. Slip out the way he’d come in, call his uncle to apologise for the unexpected crisis that would prevent him having the pleasure of joining them tonight. Then tap-dance like mad.

He was about to begin his journey back through the garden when a truly appalling thought turned his bones to jelly.

He knew his uncle’s routine with new guests. It never varied. Dinner, then a tour of the palace, finishing in his study. There he would produce his photo albums and display family pictures in which Guido would feature prominently.

He groaned aloud, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve this. But the list was too long to contemplate. At all costs Dulcie mustn’t be allowed to see those pictures.

Backing against the wall he encountered a small door that he knew was never used. If he could get through he would be in a passage that led past the kitchen to the rear of the house and from there it was just a step to his uncle’s study.

As he’d expected, the door was locked, but the wood was so old that a thump from a stone splintered it easily. The passage was pitch-black and he had to grope his way along, stumbling on the uneven floor, and once actually falling. He picked himself up, sensing that he was covered in dirt, but he had no time to worry about that. There was a light up ahead. The kitchen would be busy tonight and he must get past the door without being seen.

It took five minutes anxiously waiting for the right chance to present itself, and then he had to take a flying leap. Then he was in a narrow corridor, at the end of which was a secret door. By pressing the right knob he could make a section of the wall revolve, and bring himself into the study. The device had been installed in the seventeenth century by a count who feared assassination. Guido felt assassination might be a merciful end compared with what faced him if he couldn’t get those photo albums.

His luck held. The study was empty and dark. The less light the better, so he put on just one small lamp and went to the desk drawer where his uncle kept the key to the glass-covered bookcase where the albums were kept. Moving quietly he knelt down and began to turn the key in the lock.

‘Freeze!’

The voice came from behind him. He took a deep breath, hoping against hope that the cold metal he could feel against his ear wasn’t what he thought it was.

‘Stand up and turn around slowly with your hands up.’

He did so and found his worst fears realised as he stared down the length of a double-barrelled shotgun.