The Venetian Playboy's Bride. Lucy Gordon

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fortune,’ Roscoe snapped, jabbing at the mandolin player with his finger. ‘He’s told her he isn’t really a gondolier, but heir to a count—Calvani, or some such name—but I say it’s a big, fat lie.

      ‘I’m not an unreasonable man. If he really were a posh nob that would be different. His title, my money. Fair enough. But a posh nob rowing a gondola? I don’t think so. I want you to go to Venice, find out what’s going on. Then, when you’ve proved he’s no aristocrat—’

      ‘Perhaps he is,’ Dulcie murmured.

      Roscoe snorted. ‘Your job is to prove he isn’t.’

      Dulcie winced. ‘I can’t prove he isn’t if he is,’ she pointed out.

      ‘Well, you’ll be able to tell, ’cos you’re top drawer yourself. You’re Lady Dulcie Maddox, aren’t you?’

      ‘In my private life, yes. But when I’m working I’m simply, Dulcie Maddox, PI.’

      She guessed that Roscoe didn’t like that. He was impressed by her titled connections, and when she brushed them aside he felt cheated.

      Last night he’d invited her to dinner in order to meet his daughter, Jenny. Dulcie had been charmed by the young girl’s freshness and naïvety. It was easy to believe that she needed protection from a fortune hunter.

      ‘I want you because you’re the best,’ Roscoe returned to his theme. ‘You’re posh. You act posh. You look posh—not your clothes because they’re—’

      ‘Cheap,’ she supplied. The jeans and denim jacket had been the cheapest thing on the market stall. Luckily she had the kind of tall, slender figure that brought out the best in anything, and her mane of fair hair and strange green eyes drew admiration wherever she went.

      ‘Inexpensive,’ Roscoe said in one of his rare ventures into tact. ‘But you look posh, in yourself. You can tell aristocrats because they’re so tall and slim. Probably comes from eating proper food while the peasants had to make do with stodge.’

      ‘Maybe with the others,’ Dulcie said. ‘But with me it came from not having enough to eat because all the family money was blown on the horses. That’s why I’m working as a private investigator. I’m as poor as a church mouse.’

      ‘Then you’ll need a load of new gear to be convincing. I keep an account at Feltham’s for Jenny. I’ll call and tell them to do you proud at my expense. When you reach the Hotel Vittorio you’ve got to look the part.’

      ‘The Vittorio?’ She looked quickly out of the window, lest he guess that this particular hotel had a special meaning for her. It was only a few weeks ago that she had been planning her honeymoon in that very hotel, with a man who’d sworn eternal love.

      But that was then. This was now. Love had vanished with brutal suddenness. She would have given anything to avoid the Vittorio, but there was no help for it.

      ‘Most expensive hotel in Venice,’ Roscoe said. ‘So buy the clothes, then get out there fast. Fly first class. No cheap economy flights in case he checks up on you.’

      ‘You mean he might employ a private detective too?’

      ‘No knowing. Some people are devious enough for anything.’

      Dulcie maintained a diplomatic silence.

      ‘Here’s a cheque for expenses. It’s not enough to look rich. You’ve got to splash it around a bit.’

      ‘Splash it around a bit,’ Dulcie recited, glassy eyed at the size of the cheque.

      ‘Find this gondolier, make him think you’re rolling in money, so he’ll make up to you. When you’ve got him hooked let me know. I’ll send Jenny out there, and she’ll see the kind of man he really is. She won’t believe it, but the world is full of jerks on the look out for a rich girl.’

      ‘Yes,’ Dulcie murmured with feeling. ‘It is.’

      On the night of Count Francesco’s return, supper at the palazzo was formal. The four men sat around an ornate table while a maid served dish after dish, under the eagle eyes of Liza. To the count this was normal, and Marco was comfortable with it. But the other two found it suffocating, and they were glad when the meal was over.

      As they prepared for escape the count signalled for Guido to join him in his ornate study.

      ‘We’ll be at Luigi’s Bar,’ Marco called back from the front door.

      ‘Couldn’t this wait?’ Guido pleaded, following his uncle into the study.

      ‘No, it can’t wait,’ Francesco growled. ‘There are things to be said. I won’t bother to ask if the stories I’ve heard about you are true.’

      ‘They probably are,’ Guido agreed with a grin.

      ‘It’s time it stopped. After all the trouble I’ve taken, making sure you met every woman in society.’

      ‘I’m nervous with society women. They’re all after just one thing!’

      ‘What!’

      ‘My future title. Half of them never look at me properly. Their gaze is fixed on the Calvani honours.’

      ‘If you mean that they’re prepared to overlook your disgraceful way of life out of respect for your dignity—’

      ‘Dignity be blowed. Besides, maybe I don’t want a woman who’ll overlook my “disgraceful” life. It might be more fun if she was ready to join in.’

      ‘Marriage is not supposed to be fun!’ Francesco thundered.

      ‘I was afraid of that.’

      ‘It’s time you started acting like a man of distinction instead of spending your time with the Lucci family, fooling about in gondolas—’

      ‘I like rowing a gondola.’

      ‘The Luccis are fine hard-working people but their lives take one path and yours another—’

      In a flash Guido’s face lost its good humour and hardened. ‘The Luccis are my friends, and you’ll oblige me by remembering that.’

      ‘You can be friends—but you can’t live Fede’s life. You’ve got to make your own way. Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed you to see so much of them.’

      ‘You didn’t allow me,’ Guido said quietly. ‘I didn’t ask your permission. Nor would I. Ever. Uncle, I have the greatest respect for you, but I won’t allow you to run my life.’

      When Guido spoke in that tone the merry charmer vanished, and there was something in his eyes that made even the count wary. He saw it now and fell silent. Guido was instantly contrite.

      ‘There’s no harm in it,’ he said gently. ‘I just like to row. It keeps me fit after my other “excesses”.’

      ‘If it were just rowing,’ Francesco snorted, recovering lost ground. ‘But I’ve heard you even sing “O sole mio” for tourists.’

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