Sara Craven Tribute Collection

‘That’s certainly true if you’re trying to pair me with the Marchese Bartaldi.’ Clare tried to speak lightly, but she could feel the shoulder he’d kissed burning through the soft fabric of her dress.

Thank God Violetta didn’t know about that, she thought ruefully.

She said. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but the Marchese is the last man in the world I’d ever get involved with. Simply crossing his path has been more than enough, believe me. I’ve no wish to attract any more of his attention.’

She paused. ‘Besides, you seem to forget that he’s already chosen Paola,’ she added carefully.

‘Pah,’ Violetta said. ‘There has been no announcement. No formal engagement.’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘In your shoes, cara, I would not hesitate.’

‘A couple of hours ago, you seemed to think Paola would suit him ideally,’ Clare said with asperity.

Violetta gave her a beatific smile. ‘I had not met him then,’ she said simply.

In spite of her tiredness, Clare found sleep frustratingly elusive that night. Her comfortable mattress seemed to have been stuffed with sand, and the big feather pillows moulded from concrete.

She tossed from one side of the big bed to the other, seeking a restful spot, while her mind turned endlessly, denying her any peace. And every thought that plagued her seemed to lead inexorably back to Guido Bartaldi.

Something else to thank him for, she thought peevishly, punching a pillow into submission.

Consequently, it was a wan, rather shadowy-eyed girl who joined Violetta for a breakfast of cold meats, fresh fruit and coffee.

Not that she’d done anything to improve her appearance or disguise the ravages of her bad night. If the plan she’d formulated in the small hours was to work, she needed to look fairly deathly.

‘Are you unwell, cara?’ Her godmother, who’d been going through her morning mail, removed her reading glasses and gave her a concerned look. ‘You are so pale.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Clare, adding a brave smile for good measure.

‘You have not forgotten we are going to Perugia this morning?’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Clare, who had already decided that a refusal to go would only make Violetta suspicious. She would just have to make sure her godmother didn’t spend too much on the promised dress, or choose something out of keeping with her usual lifestyle.

They parked at the Piazza degli Invalidi, and rode the escalators up to the Rocca Paolina. Clare always felt it was like rising up from the bowels of the earth, and she found the remains of the Rocca, with its low-vaulted roof and maze of dark passageways, many of them with water dripping down the walls, a disturbing place. Like being in an underground cave, she thought.

But this labyrinth of foundations was all the Perugians had left of the mighty Papal fortress intended to subdue their arrogance, and they’d even put up a plaque to commemorate its destruction three hundred years later.

Arrogance seemed to be a common trait among the Umbrian population—especially the men, Clare thought broodingly as they emerged into the sunlight of the Corso Vannucci.

And tonight she planned to dismantle a few stones from the fortress of self-assurance that the Marchese Bartaldi had built round himself.

Like many women for whom money is not an object, Violetta was an exacting shopper, and, after two hours had passed, Clare began to wonder if she intended to visit every boutique in the city. She herself had seen several dresses which would have been a welcome addition to her wardrobe, but Violetta had dismissed them.

‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she had declared, as she’d swept to the door. ‘And that is not it.’

But eventually she said, ‘Ah,’ and nodded. ‘Try this, mia cara.’

It was a slim, fluid full-length sheath in black silk jersey, long-sleeved with a deep square neck.

Too deep, Clare thought, viewing with dismay how much it revealed of her small rounded breasts. In fact, it moulded itself completely to her figure, clinging to her narrow waist and slender hips, and the skirt was slashed at one side to well above the knee.

‘Violetta,’ she protested. ‘I can’t wear this. It isn’t—me. And what can I possibly wear underneath?’

But her words fell on deaf ears. Her godmother and the saleswoman merely exchanged speaking glances, and the dress was carried away to be reverently encased in tissue and placed in a carrying box.

By the time Violetta’s credit card had financed high-heeled black kid sandals and a matching evening purse it was almost time for the shops to close for the long afternoon break.

‘Most satisfactory,’ Violetta declared with a cat-like smile. ‘And now, mia cara, we will enjoy some lunch.’

But as they walked up the street, Clare was nudged by her godmother. ‘See—across the street? It is Bartaldi’s. Let us look.’

Unwillingly, Clare found herself propelled across the street to the shop. The window display was as expensive and glamorous as she could have imagined—a blaze of exquisitely fashioned gold necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, as well as a tempting range of etui and other small, desirable objets. She felt as if she should close her eyes to avoid being dazzled.

‘Beautiful, is it not?’ Violetta breathed.

‘Amazing,’ Clare agreed levelly. ‘If a bit overwhelming.’

Secretly, she preferred the adjoining window, which had a display of semi-precious stones. Her eyes strayed almost covetously from the glow of topaz to the mystery of aquamarine and the brilliance of jade and amethyst, again all set in gold.

‘Many of the designs are drawn from the Etruscan,’ Violetta explained, ‘while others have a truly Renaissance spirit, don’t you think? And they say Guido Bartaldi has been the guiding light behind it all. That he has the soul of a Renaissance prince.’

‘Really?’ Clare said in a hollow voice.

The soul of a condottiere, she thought smoulderingly. A robber baron.

She felt strange suddenly—uncomfortable—standing here outside these premises, staring at all this beauty that he’d had a hand in creating. As if she was intruding on something that was deeply personal to him.

It was time to act, she realised—in more ways than one.

She frowned unhappily. ‘Violetta, I’m not very hungry. Would you mind if we missed lunch and went straight home? I—I’m feeling a little giddy.’

‘Then we will not consider the escalators,’ Violetta said immediately, snapping her fingers for a taxi to take them down the long hill to the car park.

Clare felt like a worm on the drive back to Cenacchio, aware of the anxious glances being directed at her, but that did not stop her from making a strangled request for the car to stop at one point.

And when they arrived back at the Villa Rosa, she whispered a strained apology, and made an immediate beeline for her room.

She undressed, put on a cotton wrap, and lay down on the bed, watching the sunlight play through the shutters.

I’m a wretch, she thought penitently, but it’s in a good cause. Because there’s no way I’m going to the Villa Minerva for dinner tonight.

In the end, she dozed a little, only to be rudely awoken by the unexpected arrival of Violetta’s own doctor from Cenacchio.

Groaning inwardly, Clare submitted to having her pulse taken, her heart sounded, and her blood pressure checked.

‘I think perhaps it’s stress,’ she ventured in response to his questions, and gave a condensed history of the past thirty-six hours. ‘I had nightmares last night, and I can’t stop thinking about those men with guns.’ She shuddered and put her hands over her face.

The doctor made shocked noises, then prescribed rest, quiet, and a mild sedative. All of which Clare agreed to with outward meekness and inward jubilation.

‘Such a terrible pity,’ Violetta said mournfully, after the doctor’s departure. ‘I will phone the Villa Minerva, and tell the Marchese that we are unable to join him for dinner.’