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‘I know where it’s going to be,’ she said.

‘Oh you do? All right, clever clogs, where?’

She smiled. ‘I’ll wait for the experts to confirm it, but Caravaggio was trying to outrun his demons of drinking and gambling and women, of angry, drunken brawling and then of murder, wasn’t he?’

Peter nodded. ‘That is true. If not for killing his nemesis, he might have remained in Rome. It was the sin of killing hanging over his head that brought him ultimately to this holy place.’

‘He seeks atonement through this work for his bloodstained past. That’s why I think I can guess where his signature is.’

Peter shook his head and looked back at her in wonder. ‘Valentina, you simply must be in the cathedral for the royal visit. I have an idea.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Dinner was lovely… and what came after was even better,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be occupied for the next couple of days, but I’ll see you soon. I have something to do.’

TWENTY-FOUR

It was like a long-awaited arrival. Even a few days later, Valentina could still feel Peter upon her, could still touch the memory of their lovemaking as though it had just occurred. She could still smell his skin, his hair, see the half-moons on his fingernails and the lashes of his eyes.

He was vivid.

Peter Fox.

He was hers… at last.

She didn’t see him for the next couple of days, as he’d warned, although she looked out for him around the city. Valletta was now fully decorated and ready to greet the British royals. It was incredible to see all the flags hanging from people’s balconies, atop shops and lining the streets. The Union Jack flapped alongside flags of St George, flags proclaiming Elizabeth Regina, and the three lions flag of historic England that Valentina knew dated back to Richard the Lionheart. The streets were swept, and all the women seemed to be obsessed with what the Queen would be wearing and the fact that she was to be reunited with the young Prince Charles and Princess Anne in Malta. Everyone knew the Queen loved their country and had been so happy here when she’d lived here for a couple of years, then a princess, when Prince Philip had been serving with the Royal Navy. Villa Guardamangia, which she had called home for those years, was on the outskirts of Valletta. Now she was returning as Queen to a favourite place.

Valentina too had become swept up in the excitement of the visit, and she had a fresh white shirt laundered and pressed and ready for Danjel to wear on the first day, as well as a dress for herself. As they chatted over breakfast about the impending visit, he told her he could remember the last time she’d arrived. He’d been nearing six, and the Queen had left when he was eight. He was thrilled because all the schools were giving the pupils the day off to welcome the royals to Malta.

‘Where would you like to stand?’ she asked him.

‘I don’t mind,’ he replied. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, I love the upper levels, the gardens. We can watch the royal yacht come in and perhaps catch a glimpse of her stepping ashore.’

‘Sounds good,’ he said, and she could tell he didn’t really care. He was simply going along with the fun and distraction of it all.

‘Well, we’ll have to go up there early to make sure we get a good spot,’ she warned him. ‘Everyone will be thinking the same way, although most will line the streets to cheer as the royals pass by.’

Danjel nodded. ‘Is it definitely an open car?’

‘So I hear.’

‘Maybe we can run down from the gardens and see them?’

‘Maybe.’ She laughed, enjoying this rare moment of unguarded fun. Normally breakfasts were a tense affair with a potentially hungover Lawrenz, certainly a moody Lawrenz, not encouraging any chatter. Laughter did not ring out in their household if he was around. She virtually tiptoed around the kitchen, but now they were at full volume.

Normal family volume, she corrected herself. And they were smiling, their body language was relaxed. As it should usually be. She sighed. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Peter’s challenge. Hadn’t slept much either, and yet she hadn’t been happier in years.

No one needed to know what had happened between them, and if life was cruel enough to never allow her to be in his arms again, at least she knew she’d made him hers. She had always known they were meant to be together, and if that had to be just in her imagination, living off their single evening of lovemaking, it would be enough. A small voice said, If you can do it once, you can do it again. Make your ideas reality. Make your dreams work.

What was her dream, though, now that she’d ticked off such an important one from her list? Well, first was to make sure Danjel was safe, and to give him a future that involved no heated arguments, no fists, no watching his mother crumpled in a corner nursing fresh bruises. She wanted a life for them where he never had to worry about her again, and had the space and freedom to plan his own life around his own needs and passions. She would encourage him to follow his ambition wherever it led him, be that art, football or even the clergy. She would celebrate his drive and help him to make it happen, but none of that was possible as long as he feared for her safety. He would want to stand by her. Be her shield. She shuddered at the notion.

Then make it happen. Remove the problem. Get away from Lawrenz.

The thought frightened her. To resist the temptation of packing their bags this minute, she grabbed her work clothes and headed out into the street. She would go to the cathedral, where her thoughts were always calm and peaceful. Give it one more quick dust before the royal guests arrived.

The Queen would be busy with a full diary of official events, from a sparkling dinner with the Prime Minister of Malta to unveiling a memorial to honour the fallen airmen during the war. Valentina wondered briefly if Peter might be involved in that – he should be. There were to be warships tomorrow escorting the Royal Yacht Britannia into the harbour from its previous stop, Tobruk, and she’d read that the Queen would conduct an inspection on board one of the aircraft carriers. It wouldn’t be much fun being Queen, she thought. All those official duties, with your feet hurting, an ache in your neck from all those straight-backed parades, all the polite conversation and constant smiles, the outfit changes – it would be exhausting. You couldn’t have an off day, a headache, a bad mood. You’d have to always be on show and looking perfect. No, it wouldn’t be fun – but the power might be. Valentina giggled. The power to say no would feel terrific. Except Her Majesty would never say no.

‘And that’s why you’re not a queen,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You’re just a cleaner who serves wine and coffee in her spare time.’

‘Valentina!’