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At any rate, he was fascinated by the effects that pigment and texture could produce and by what she could teach him, showing himself to be entirely at his ease with her, and she had a shrewd suspicion that he would be far more awkward if suddenly called upon to play like other children of his age. It was not easy to imagine him chasing a ball or running a hoop, still less engaged in boyish rough and tumble. Sabrina’s younger sons were hooligans and would be much too boisterous for him; it was a puzzle, but she would not give up on it. Perhaps slightly older children, if gentle and serious, might be more fitting companions. Viola’s eldest son, Ned, was a thoughtful sort of boy, but he and his twin Robin were sixteen or so by now, and could have nothing to say to a child of Adrian’s age, however clever he might be.

‘Papa has been away,’ Lord Dawbney told her one noontide when they had just finished their cold meat and fruit. ‘He had a great deal to do on the estate because of my uncle’s death and his own long absence abroad, so he has not been in London very much, and he did not take me with him because he was too preoccupied with his affairs and I should have been bored there, he feared, without my tutors. But he is back now, and has promised he will come and see how the painting progresses. He is most interested to meet you, he says.’

Bianca smiled affectionately at the child. ‘I was not sure if your aunt meant the portrait to be a surprise or not. I thought maybe she intended him only to see it when it is done.’

‘I don’t think she thought of such a thing. No, she consulted him first before she asked you to paint me. I suppose it would not have been correct to do otherwise, since he is my papa and guardian, and she is just my great-aunt, though she lives with us at present.’

‘Do you ever see any of your mama’s relations, Adrian?’ she asked. This might be a way of approaching the topic of his mother without appearing too intrusive, she thought. If he did not want to take it up, he need not.

‘Well, I see my grandparents if I am in the country, because they live there,’ he explained with a rather curious expression on his face. ‘They are extremely old, you know. My mama was an only child, as I think I have told you, so I do not have any cousins or aunts or uncles at all on that side. They are very kind, of course, but sometimes my grandmama cries when she sees me, because I remind her of Mama, who is dead. I am sorry for it, naturally, but it is a little uncomfortable all the same and I never know what to say. She can’t be any sorrier that Mama is not here than I am. And perhaps that is another reason Papa did not take me to the country, where we would be obliged to visit them frequently together or they would be offended. It must make him unhappy too, I suppose. Certainly he cannot like it, for I think nobody could.’

Bianca was never to know what she might have found to say in response to this sad little speech, because at that moment the door opened and someone entered. A person of the male sex, and not the butler or one of the footmen – a gentleman.

One she knew.

It was as if London had been struck by a sudden, devastating earthquake. It was a wonder that the windows did not shatter and shower them with shards of glass, the walls and floor crack and the furniture tumble over. But a second later she realised that the upset was all in her head, and only one other person in the room, in the whole city, could be aware of it. Xan Challender had come into the room, was standing looking at her, his face showing shock that almost instantly – she saw – spilled over into anger. He was the last man in the world she might have expected to see here of all places – in fact she’d been reasonably sure she would never set eyes on him again if she lived to be ninety – and it was all she could do not to fall off her chair at his feet.

7

VENICE, EARLY SUMMER 1817 – A YEAR EARLIER

Xan was looking forward to the afternoon he’d be spending, alone, with the bewitching woman he’d recently met here in Venice. In truth, he was looking forward to it with great excitement. And this in itself was something remarkable. He’d never felt anything remotely like this before in all his eight and twenty years.

Men met women in this city; there could be nothing unusual in that. Men met women everywhere – of course they did – but Venice was widely acknowledged as Europe’s capital of illicit pleasure. Many gentlemen of all nations went there specifically for that purpose: to have an adventure, to do something scandalous they’d never dare at home. And so if Xan was about to have an adventure, starting today – he thought he was, he hoped he was – then he must recognise that he was a walking, breathing cliché. A lonely English widower, a chance-met woman in a foreign city, an assignation that made his pulses race, hours before, at the mere thought… What could be more predictable, or more ridiculously commonplace?

But it was remarkable, nonetheless. Unprecedented. Xan Challender was something of an observer of human nature, rather than an active participant in life, so far, and he imagined that part of the pleasure others felt in such amorous exploits came with talking about them, both before and afterwards. The drunken boasting, the exaggeration, the reaction of listening friends, half-approving, half-jealous. He wasn’t going to do any of that, God forbid, but if he did, nobody of his acquaintance, apart from his disreputable brother, would guffaw appreciatively and call him a sly dog, still less slap him on the back and ask for more salacious details. No – they’d gaze at him in astonishment and ask if he’d run mad, or even enquire with concerned faces if he was feeling feverish and needed to take a powder. Call the doctor – Xan is most definitely not himself! Because he was famous – in London – as the odd one out in his family; for not doing this sort of thing, anywhere, ever. And certainly – he could have sworn this, hand on heart – he had not come here with any such idea in mind.

But fate, or Venice itself, had had other plans for him.

He’d first encountered her a couple of weeks ago, and it was impossible to think that the meeting had been anything but accidental. Providential, perhaps, he might call it. Was that dangerously close to blasphemy? Probably, but he found he didn’t care. This too was new.

He’d arrived in the city a couple of days earlier and was still finding his way about, exploring alone, as suited his solitary nature. He’d just emerged unawares from a narrow, dank alleyway onto a broader walkway, to be assaulted, that really was the only word, by a gloriously open view ahead and to his left. It was what he now knew to be the island of Giudecca, and its jewel, the Church of the Redeemer in all its Palladian splendour. Hardly aware of what he was doing, blindsided by light and beauty beyond his comprehension, he’d wandered forward for a few yards and then stopped dead in his tracks. Apparently he wasn’t going to be able to walk on his two legs and look at the astonishing sight at the same time.

He didn’t know how long he stood there entranced before a voice intruded itself upon his contemplation, shattering his absorption in the scene. ‘Excuse me, sir?’ it said quite loudly. It was a woman’s voice – a lady’s – and those three words somehow managed to be both civil and perceptibly irritated.

Xander swivelled on his heel when he heard himself unexpectedly addressed. He realised now that in his reverie he had drifted in front of another canal-side alley, not even noticing it was there. It was a fraction broader at the opening, where he currently stood in his confusion, then narrowed to the dark passageway behind. The entrance to what seemed to be an abandoned house made a tiny alcove at the edge of the wide-open footway, a square of paving barely the size of a gentleman’s desk. In that small space, in front of a decaying wooden door stuck with ragged advertising posters, a woman had set up a stool and easel, no doubt to sketch or paint the spectacular view. But he could see now that he was blocking it from her vision almost entirely, standing as he was just a few feet away from her. So close, and yet he’d been entirely unaware of her presence until now. He could have been seized by footpads, robbed, attacked, anything… He was behaving like a perfect idiot abroad, heedless of any danger until it was far too late. This had to change.

‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ he murmured contritely, removing his hat, bowing low to her, and stepping back. And then, compelled by some sudden impulse he didn’t recognise and couldn’t easily have put a name to, he said, ‘How did you know I was British?’ He assumed she must have realised this somehow, to address him in the correct language. (Unless he’d been talking to himself. He devoutly hoped he hadn’t.)

He could not so easily assign a place in the world to her. He thought that the few words she’d spoken had been in the familiar accents of an Englishwoman, but she didn’t look English. She was young, in her early twenties perhaps, but she had an air of quiet assurance that made her appear both older and indefinably foreign, all the more because she was alone, unchaperoned and to all appearances entirely unconcerned by that fact, in this currently deserted spot. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin olive-toned, and she was looking at him full in the face as a well-bred English lady would not in such awkward circumstances, smiling a little. They had not even been introduced!

‘It’s not so difficult to tell,’ she said, her full red mouth quirking in amusement. ‘The people of the many nations of Europe are quite distinct from one another to a rational observer, in features, dress, and deportment. You are without doubt an English gentleman, and you have just arrived in Venice, perhaps in the last few days. It’s perfectly understandable that you should be so overset by the experience, sir, and I would not have said anything for all the world, except that you may perceive I have found this excellent position in which to work, and you were blocking my light and my view completely, English gentlemen being in general quite tall and broad, and you no exception to the rule. Though I should also say that if you take any more steps backward in your embarrassment, you will fall in the canal. I only mention the matter because I am not at all confident that I should be able to fish you out unaided.’

Mr Challender looked down and saw that she was right. He was teetering on the brink. ‘I assure you I should not sink like a stone and need to be rescued,’ he responded in a similar light tone. ‘Does not Byron make a great play of swimming long distances here? So I daresay I could do the same, if it came to it. I’m a year or two younger than he is, I venture, and probably fitter.’ He realised that this was a ridiculous boast the second it had left his lips. How provoking, how foolish, and how unlike him.

She shook her head. It was wrapped up in a patterned silk scarf – he supposed that a fashionable poke bonnet would be somewhat restrictive for an artist at work – but this had slipped back a little, and glossy dark curls had escaped from the covering to cluster charmingly about her ears and brow. ‘I believe, in fact I know, as does half Venice, that His Lordship does not take his regular aquatic exercise fully clothed and with his boots on. Quite the reverse.’

That seemed typical of the rackety fellow. He would not enquire further what shocking sights she might have witnessed. He became aware that he was blushing, perhaps because of the indelicacy of the topic; she, on the other hand, was not. He turned his hot gaze to the water, and the nameless lumpy things that bobbed there in the wake of passing gondolas. Was that the matted fur of a dead creature…? Yes, it was. Presumably that wouldn’t be included in her picture. ‘I’m not at all sure I would care to be immersed in it,’ he murmured, still looking at the murky canal, ‘whether deliberately or accidentally. Thank you, ma’am, for saving me from a most undignified ducking, and the ruination of my favourite boots from Hoby besides. I should cease bothering you now, and leave you to your work. Good day.’

‘You’re quite welcome, sir,’ she said abstractedly. ‘Enjoy your stay.’ When he looked back at her, he saw that he’d entirely lost her attention, with unflattering swiftness; she was frowning at the canvas in front of her and seemed to have forgotten he was there at all, or ever had been.

Xan shook his head – perhaps that might help to clear it – resumed his hat, and continued on his way, paying more mind to his surroundings now. He was aiming for St Mark’s Square, and this should be a path he could follow to get there. If he was correct, he could head right round the edge of this quarter, which he believed was called Dorsoduro, take in the spectacular vistas of water and buildings as he went, and then find a bridge or a boat that would bring him eventually to his destination across the Grand Canal. But it really didn’t matter if he was mistaken, if he walked a few miles out of his way, as long as he oriented himself eventually. He had no particular purpose in mind, no place he had to be, no urgent errand, and although the aimlessness of it all had depressed him not long since, adding to the heavy grey pall of depression that had enveloped him for months and prompted his flight from England, suddenly he was feeling unaccountably more cheerful.

Damn it, he was not yet thirty, he was healthy and solvent, and he found himself in one of the most beautiful places in the world, surrounded by all manner of wonders. That had to count for something. Life was a gift, a fragile, precious one, and he would not bring Louise back to life by moping in every city in Europe. (Whether she would have wanted him to was another question altogether, and one he did not propose to dwell on just now.)

When he reached a point at which the land bent sharply away to the left, and his view of where he’d come from would therefore be lost, he could not help but look back. He couldn’t see her, of course, the mysterious artist – the distance was too great, and she’d been dressed in dark, drab colours, he realised now, not bright ones that might snag the gazer; perhaps she had been in mourning, like him. That didn’t prevent him trying to make out her figure, and feeling an odd little stab of disappointment when he couldn’t. As their meeting had been a chance one, at that moment he couldn’t suppose he’d ever see her again – but why be gloomy? Perhaps he might. It could be no great matter, one way or the other, surely. He had not the slightest intention, he told himself with resolution, of furthering their acquaintance.

That was how it had begun.