‘That shirt looks like it’s worth a thousand dollars,’ Guido mused, fingering his half-full glass significantly.

‘Only a joke,’ Marco placated him.

‘Not funny.’ Guido took another swallow and sighed mournfully. ‘Not funny at all.’

Roscoe Harrison’s London home was no palace, but it had had as much money lavished on it as the Calvani abode. The difference was that he was a man without taste. He believed in display, and the crude power of cash, and it showed.

‘I buy only the best,’ he was saying now to the fair-haired young woman sitting in his office at the back of the house. ‘That’s why I’m buying you.’

‘You aren’t buying me, Mr Harrison,’ Dulcie said coolly. ‘You’re hiring my skill as a private detective. There’s a big difference.’

‘Well your skill will do me just fine. Take a look at this.’

He thrust a photograph across the desk. It showed Roscoe’s daughter, Jenny Harrison, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders in the Venetian sunlight, listening ardently to a young gondolier playing a mandolin, while another gondolier, with curly hair and a baby face, looked on.

‘That’s the character who thinks he’s going to marry Jenny for her 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.’

‘They expect it. Especially the British. It’s something to do with ice cream cornets.’

‘And you pose with them for photographs.’ The count took out a snapshot showing Guido in gondoliering costume, serenading a pretty, dark-haired girl, while another gondolier, with curly hair and a baby face, sat just behind them.

‘My nephew,’ he growled, ‘the future Count Calvani, poses in a straw hat.’

‘It’s disgraceful,’ Guido agreed. ‘I’m a blot on the family name. You’ll just have to marry quickly, have a son, and cut me out. Rumour says you’re still as vigorous as ever, so it shouldn’t be-’

‘Get out of here if you know what’s good for you!’

Guido fled with relief, leaving the building and slipping away down tiny, darkened streets. As he reached the Grand Canal he saw a collection of seven gondolas, moving side by side. It was a ‘serenade’, a show put on to please the tourists. In the central boat the baby-faced young man from the photograph stood singing in a sweet tenor that drifted across the water. As the song came to an end there was applause, and the boats drifted in to their moorings.

Guido waited until his friend, Federico Lucci, had assisted his last passenger to disembark before hailing him.

‘Hey there, Fede! If the English signorina could hear you sing like that she would follow you to the ends of the earth,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’ for Fede had groaned. ‘Doesn’t she love you any more?’

‘Jenny loves me,’ Fede declared. ‘But her Poppa will kill me before he lets us marry. He thinks I’m only after her money, but it isn’t true. I love her. That time you met, didn’t you think she was wonderful?’

‘Wonderful,’ Guido said, diplomatically concealing his opinion that Jenny was a pretty doll who lacked spice in her character. His own taste was for a woman who could offer a challenge, lead him a merry dance and give as good as she got. But he was too kind a friend to say so.

‘You know I’ll help in any way I can,’ he said warmly.

‘You’ve already helped us so much,’ Fede said, ‘letting us meet in your apartment, covering for me on the gondola-’

‘That’s nothing. I enjoy it. Let me know when you want me to do it again.’

‘My Jenny has returned to England. She says she will reason with her Poppa, but I’m afraid she may never return.’

‘If it’s true love, she’ll come back,’ Guido insisted.