Charles,’ she was saying. ‘He was still a young man when he died, barely fifty-three, and so charming!’ She glanced at Emma. ‘Naturally, Emma and I shared our grief together, and I think we helped one another at that awful time.’
‘Of course.’ The Contessa was understanding. ‘It is always an unhappy time, and you were lucky to have a companion so near your own age. After all, my dear, you could not by any means be taken for this child’s mother! You look ridiculously young yourself, and you could almost be taken for sisters.’ The calculating look she gave Emma as she said this implied more implicitly than words that she considered Celeste far too attractive and delicate to have such an opposite for a daughter.
‘Emma and I are good friends,’ said Celeste, looking again at Emma, as though daring her to deny this statement, but Emma was too absorbed to care.
And, as the evening wore on, she wondered why she cared anyway. After all, she had never been left in any doubt as to Celeste’s feelings towards herself from the time she was sent away to boarding school, and she had only assumed she was being taken on this trip as a kind of maid-companion, so what did it matter if Celeste chose to act as though she were the fairy godmother who had taken Emma from a life of prosaic existence, to the elegant world of palaces and countesses and riches?
It seemed logical to suppose that Celeste wanted to appear as Emma’s saviour and mentor, and the Contessa with her obvious pride in family would hardly consider a woman who had abandoned her stepdaughter without regret two or three years ago as a fit and proper member of her society.
Emma was not a fool, whatever Celeste might think, and chances of free holidays, although they might not come every day, should not be sufficient to warrant the deliberate deceiving of an old lady. For that was what Celeste was doing, there was no doubt about that. And the reasons would no doubt become evident if the present Count chose to make an appearance. Middle-aged, ugly, debauched; he might be any or all of these things, but Celeste, who had not baulked against marrying a man already in his seventies in the United States for the sole and obvious purpose of gaining a wealthy position in society, would hardly consider any of these things important when compared to the noblesse she would achieve by calling herself the Contessa Celeste Cesare.
Emma felt sickened, and ashamed. By even being here she was allying herself in the deception, and all thoughts of the pleasure she herself might gain from this free holiday were banished by embarrassment of the situation. She would tell Celeste as soon as they got back to their suite that she was going home, and Celeste could move into the Palazzo tomorrow and do whatever she liked without any assistance from her.
The Contessa suddenly turned her attention to Emma. She studied her for a moment, and then said:
‘How are you liking your visit to Venice, my dear?’ She smiled. ‘Are you interested in old buildings and museums and art galleries? Or are you more enamoured of the Lido, and the calm blue waters of the Adriatic?’
Emma gathered her thoughts. ‘I think it’s a beautiful place,’ she replied politely, none of her earlier enthusiasm now evident, and Celeste looked curiously at her. ‘Of course I’ve already visited the Doge’s Palace, and this morning I had coffee in one of those outdoor cafés in St. Mark’s Square.’
‘Ah, yes, the Piazza San Marco. And did you go into the Basilica?’
‘Unfortunately, no. I didn’t have the time to explore it properly, and I didn’t want to have to rush it.’
The Contessa clasped her hands. ‘I can see you do find pleasure in beautiful things. That pleases me. My family used to have a great collection of paintings and sculptures, but alas, many of these have had to be sold, but that does not prevent me visiting the art galleries, and the churches where there is a veritable fortune in famous art treasures to be seen and gloated over.’ She laughed, and turned to Celeste. ‘Your mother and I used to spend hours in the Louvre when we were young students. Did she tell you?’
Celeste hesitated. ‘Of course, dear Aunt Francesca,’ she said smoothly, but Emma felt sure that this was just more of Celeste’s lies. She herself had been unable to prevent the surge of excitement that talking about such world-famous masterpieces could arouse, and the Contessa’s knowledge, strengthened by years of exploration and interest, would have enthralled her for hours. It was a pity that tomorrow she must return to London, and try and forget this almost unforgettable interlude.
When dinner was over, Emma excused herself thankfully. Now at least she could leave without arousing Celeste’s annoyance, for she felt sure her stepmother wanted to be alone with the Contessa to pursue whatever reason had brought her to Venice in the first place.
Emma went up to her room, collected a light wrap, and went downstairs again. If she was leaving in the morning, she intended enjoying as much of her final evening as was possible. She didn’t particularly care that it was not the thing for an unescorted young girl to venture out alone on the streets of Venice, particularly as Italian men were noted for their amorous advances.
But Emma felt perfectly capable of handling any would-be suitor and she ignored the admiring glances cast in her direction, and the casual greetings sometimes flung across at her.
The Riva degli Schiavoni was crowded even so early in the season, and gondolas were departing at intervals from the landing stage taking couples for an unforgettable trip along the canal, the gondolas with their lights glinting in the dusk.
The shops were closed now, but the numerable cafés were still open, and Emma was tempted to go in and ask for coffee, but in this her courage defeated her. She had not brought her purse with her or she might have hired a gondola herself, despite the extravagance, for there at least she would be free of the necessity of continually looking away from bold dark eyes.
She returned to the hotel at last, depression beginning to invade her consciousness. She still had Celeste to face, and it was not going to be pleasant. She could remember in the past the viciousness of Celeste’s temper when she was crossed.
She reached the Danieli, and was crossing the foyer unseeingly, when she was brought up unexpectedly against the chest of a man coming just as self-absorbedly from the bar. She stepped back awkwardly, her cheeks flushed, and a ready apology on her lips. But the man forestalled her, his inbred courtesy always in evidence.
‘ Scusi, signorina. Si lo un mio sbaglio.’
‘Non importa, signore,’ Emma murmured, swiftly, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as her eyes encountered the light blue gaze of the man confronting her, and as his experienced appraisal of herself was taking place she found herself studying him just as intently.
There was something about him which she felt set him apart from the other Italian men she had encountered this evening. That he was Italian she was left in no doubt despite the fact that he was easily six feet in height, which is tall for an Italian. He was lean, but his shoulders were broad and belied the casual elegance of his dinner jacket. She felt sure he was not simply a sybarite, although he looked completely at ease in these luxurious surroundings. His skin was darkly tanned for a European, as though he spent much time outdoors, and his lashes were the longest she had ever seen on a man and were the only effeminate thing about an otherwise completely masculine face. She supposed some women would call him handsome, but his attraction did not rely on good looks, but rather on a magnetic kind of charm which surrounded him leaving a woman completely aware of her own femininity. He was much older than Emma, anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five, with a kind of agelessness that utterly disarmed Emma. She had never been attracted to older men; boys of her own age had always seemed much more fun than the older doctors at the hospital but suddenly
