‘The Emp—?’ she echoed, dismayed. ‘Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake?’

But she was already being swept away to the third floor where gilded double doors opened before her and she walked into the palatial apartment. Everything about it was designed to look like the abode of an empress, including the eighteenth-century furniture. On one wall hung a portrait of the beautiful, young Empress Elisabeth of Austria, painted in the nineteenth century when Venice had been an Austrian province.

To one side was another pair of double doors, through which Dulcie found her bedroom, with a bed large enough to sleep four. She gasped, overwhelmed by such opulence. A maid appeared, ready to unpack her luggage. Just in time she remembered Roscoe’s orders to ‘splash it about a bit’ and distributed tips large enough to get herself talked about even in this place.

When everyone had gone she sat in silence, trying to come to terms with the shock of being here, alone, when she should have been here as a blissful bride.

She forced herself to confront the memory of Simon, painful though it was. He’d assumed that Lady Dulcie Maddox, daughter of Lord Maddox, must have a potful of family money hidden somewhere. He’d courted her ardently, using practised words to sweep her away in a magic balloon, to a place where everything was love and gratification.

But the balloon had fallen to earth, with her in it.

Simon had lived lavishly—all on credit, as she’d later discovered. She hadn’t cared about his money, only about his love. But the one was as illusory as the other.

He’d shown her the Hotel Vittorio’s brochure one evening when they were dining at the Ritz. ‘I’ve already made our honeymoon booking,’ he’d said, ‘in the Empress Suite.’

‘But darling, the cost—’

‘So what? Money is for spending.’

She’d spoken with passionate tenderness. ‘You don’t have to spend a lot on me. Money isn’t what it’s about.’

His quizzical frown should have warned her. ‘No, sweetie, but it helps.’

Then she’d said—and the memory tormented her still— ‘You don’t think I’m marrying you for your money do you? I love you, you. I wouldn’t care if you were as poor as I am.’

She could still see the wary look that came into his eyes, and sense the chill that settled over him. ‘This is a wind up, right? As poor as Lady Dulcie Maddox.’

‘You can’t eat a title. I haven’t a penny.’

‘I heard your grandfather blew twenty grand at the races in one day.’

‘That’s right. And my father was the same. That’s why I haven’t a penny.’

‘But you lot have all got trust funds, everyone knows that.’

The truth had got through to her now, but she fought not to face it. ‘Do I live like someone with a trust fund?’

‘Go on, you’re just slumming.’

She’d finally convinced him that she wasn’t, and that was the last time she saw him. Her final memory was of him snatching a credit card statement from his pocket and tossing it at her with the bitter words, ‘Do you know how much money I’ve spent on you? And for what? Well, no more.’

Then he stormed out of the Ritz, leaving her to pay for the meal.

And that had been that.

Sitting in the quiet of the Empress Suite Dulcie knew that it was time to pull herself together. Now there was another fortune hunter, but this time he was the prey and she the pursuer, seeking him out for retribution, the avenger of all women.

She showered in a gold and marble bathroom and chose something to wear for her first outing ‘on duty’. She finally left the hotel arrayed in an orange silk dress, with a delicate pendant of pure gold. Gold earrings and dainty gilt sandals completed the ensemble. So much gold might be overdoing it, but she needed to make an impression, fast.

When she’d finished she took a final look at the picture, to make sure his face was imprinted on her mind. She dismissed the baby-faced boy at the back. There was the one she wanted, playing the mandolin, over-flowing with confidence, smiling at Jenny, no doubt serenading her with honeyed words. The rat!

Finding one gondolier among so many was a problem, but she’d come prepared. Guidebooks had told her about the vaporetto, the great water buses that transported passengers along the Grand Canal, so she headed for one of the landing stages, boarded the next boat, and took up a position in the front, armed with powerful binoculars.

For an hour the vaporetto moved along the canal, criss-crossing to landing stages on each side, while Dulcie searched for her quarry, without success. At the end of the line she turned back and started again. No luck this time either, and she was almost about to give up when suddenly she saw him.

It was only a glimpse, too brief to be sure, but there was the gondola gliding between two buildings while she frantically focused the binoculars, catching him clearly only at the last moment.

The vaporetto was about to cast off from a landing stage. Dulcie moved fast, jumping ashore just in time and looking desperately about her. The gondola had vanished. She plunged down an alley between tall buildings to a small canal at the far end. No sign of him there, but he must be somewhere to her left. She made for a tiny bridge, tore over it and into another dark alley.

At the far end was another small canal, another bridge. A gondola was heading towards her. But was it the same one? The gondolier’s face was hidden by a straw hat. She placed herself on the bridge, watching intently as the long boat neared, the oarsman standing at the far end.

‘Lift your head,’ she agonised. ‘Look up!’

He had almost reached the bridge. In a moment it would be too late. Driven by desperation she wrenched off one of her shoes and tossed it over the side. It struck his hat, knocking it off, before landing exactly at his feet.

Then he looked up, and there was the face she’d come to Venice seeking, the face of the mandolin player. Eyes of fierce, startling blue, set in a laughing face, seemed to seize her, hold her, almost hypnotise her, so that she found herself smiling back.

‘Buon giorno, bella signorina,’ said Guido Calvani.

NO SOONER were the words out of his mouth than he’d vanished under the bridge. Dulcie dashed to the other side as he emerged and began to negotiate his way to the shore. She took a quick look at the picture to make sure she had the right man. Yes, there he was, smiling at Jenny, playing the mandolin.

Thank goodness he didn’t have a passenger, she thought as she hobbled off the bridge and along to where he’d pulled in.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she called. ‘I just turned my foot and the shoe slid off and went right over the side of the bridge before I could grab it. And then it hit you on the head. I’ll never forgive myself if you’re hurt.’

He grinned, holding up the dainty gilt sandal with its absurdly high heel.

‘But I am hurt, very badly. Not in my head but—’ he bowed gallantly with his hand over his heart.

This was what she’d expected. Practised charm. Right! She was ready for him.

He’d pulled in by a short flight of steps that ran down into the water.

‘If you will sit down, I’ll return this to you in the proper fashion,’ he said.

She sat on the top step and felt her ankle grasped in strong, warm fingers as he slid the shoe back onto her foot, adjusting it precisely.

‘Thank you—Federico.’

He gave a little start. ‘Fed—?’

‘It’s written there.’ Dulcie pointed to a label stitched near his collar, bearing the name Federico.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Guido said hurriedly. He’d forgotten Fede’s mother’s habit of sewing nametapes on the gondolier shirts of her husband, two brothers and three sons. No matter. He would simply tell her his real name. But he became distracted by the feel of her dainty ankle in his palm, and when he looked up he found her watching him with a quizzical look that drove everything else out of his mind. What did names matter?