The steps beneath their feet had been worn smooth with the passage of years and were slightly slippery so that Sancha was glad to use the handrail even though Tony was just behind her. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she was looking about her with genuine interest, trying mentally to compose the first few lines of her article. The interview with the Count would come later, but first she must describe the palazzo to her readers, many of whom had never even been to Italy, let alone seen such a place as this.
The gallery had a tessellated floor, its walls hung with portraits. Sancha supposed these grim-faced men and women must be ancestors of the present Count, but as their guide showed no efforts to instruct them she did not like to ask. However, she made another mental note and decided to ask the Count when the opportunity arose.
The man at last halted before double panelled doors and with a certain panache swept them open and advanced into the room. Tony and Sancha hesitated in the doorway, both unwilling to intrude. However, beyond the doors was merely a small ante-room and their companion had gone through this room into the apartment beyond.
Tony raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Sancha. ‘Some ceremony,’ he remarked sardonically, and Sancha hid a smile.
‘Do you think he's a servant?’ she asked, indicating in the direction of the inner apartments.
Tony nodded. ‘Yes. That's Paolo! I had heard of him, actually,’ he replied, in an undertone. ‘He's sort of valet-cum-manservant-cum-bodyguard all rolled into one.'
‘I see.’ Sancha was impressed. ‘Does the Count have no other servants?'
Tony looked cynical again. ‘I don't believe so. The exchequer won't run to it, I hear.'
‘I should be most interested to hear from what source you gather your information, signore.'
The soft and yet menacing tones disconcerted both of them, coming as they did from immediately behind them. Neither had heard the approach of the man who was now standing regarding them with narrowed blue eyes which were startling in such a tanned complexion.
The man was not particularly tall, being a little above average height, nor was he stockily built. And yet he had the kind of arrogant presence which diminished the size of those around him. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow, and in a black silk shirt open at the throat to reveal the brown column of his neck and close-fitting black trousers he was essentially masculine. Thick black hair brushed his collar, touched here and there with traces of grey, and dark sideburns darkened high cheekbones which gave his face a patrician cast. He was certainly one of the most attractive men Sancha had ever seen and in spite of her nervousness she was fascinated by the penetrating quality of his eyes.
Now Tony tried desperately to regain his composure. ‘I—I beg your pardon, signore. I thought we were alone.'
‘Did you?'
The man moved past them into the ante-room and Sancha glanced swiftly at Tony who made a baffled movement with his shoulders.
‘Paolo! Avanti!'
The man spoke again and a few moments later the manservant came through the doors from the inner apartments.
‘Si, signore?’ he responded politely.
The man turned back to Sancha and Tony. ‘We will speak inglese, Paolo. For our guest's sake, si?’ There was a trace of humour about his lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, signore, signorina: I am the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta!'
For a moment there was complete silence in the room and Sancha, glancing again at Tony, saw that his cheeks had turned a brilliant shade of red. Embarrassment swept over her, too, and she wondered with a sinking sense of despair however they would be able to redeem themselves.
Tony took a deep breath. ‘Then we must apologise, Count, for speaking so carelessly. I—I'm afraid our natural curiosity made us say things we might otherwise not have said——'
The Count interrupted him. ‘You have a saying in your country, do you not, that eavesdroppers do not hear good of themselves? I suppose I was in a sense eavesdropping!'
Tony swallowed hard. ‘It's very good of you to say so, sir!'
The Count's eyes flickered over him penetratingly. ‘Not at all. Will you come in? Paolo! Some wine for our guests.'
The Count stepped back and pressed open the door leading to the inner apartments, indicating that they should precede him. Paolo disappeared through another door and Tony gently propelled Sancha before him past the Count and into the room beyond.
Sancha was intensely conscious of the appraising gaze of the Italian as she passed him and she could smell a faint aroma of some lotion he must use after shaving mingled with the heat of his body.
The room they were now in was enormous, but here at least there was evidence of beauty and comfort. The soft carpet underfoot was worn in places, but its colours were amazingly bright considering how old it must be. The furniture was a mixture of ancient and modern, with comfortable leather chairs cheek by jowl with examples of Venetian sculpture. On a low plinth there was an exquisite bronze of a winged goddess, small and childlike, and flawless in every detail, while on the walls Sancha recognised examples of the work of Titian and other famous Italian painters. It was a room of contrasts with odd pieces of antique value almost carelessly thrust aside by the modern hi-fi equipment and cocktail cabinet. It was a long room and Sancha could see that it overlooked the shadowy waters of the canal, which they had negotiated earlier.
‘Please, sit!'
The Count waved them to take a chair and Sancha for one was glad to sit down. The last few minutes had been altogether exhausting and the interview had not even begun.
Tony perched on the edge of a high carved chair which might once have supported some elegant medieval lady as she sat at her sewing frame, but the Count seemed to prefer to stand and Sancha found it incredibly difficult to look elsewhere than at him. He was such a disturbing personality and she wondered how she would ever dare to ask the questions she knew she must ask.
Paolo returned with the wine and after it was poured he departed about his business. The Count offered cigarettes, but Sancha did not smoke and refused politely. Tony accepted one and the Count lit it for him with a heavy gold lighter before taking a cheroot for himself. Then he said: ‘Shall we begin, Signore——?'
‘Braithwaite, Er—Tony Braithwaite,’ said Tony hastily. ‘And this is Miss Forrest.'
‘So!’ The Count nodded. ‘And you, Mr. Braithwaite—you are the photographer,'
‘Yes, sir. Miss Forrest will take the interview. I—er—I take it you have no objections to photographs being taken?'
The Count raised dark eyebrows. ‘Within reason, no. Providing I am not expected to take part in them.'
Tony frowned. ‘You don't want me to photograph you, sir?'
‘Thank you, but no. I prefer to remain, shall we say anonymous?’ He smiled suddenly and Sancha was struck by the whiteness of his teeth. ‘Where do you intend to begin?'
Tony swallowed the remainder of his wine. ‘Anywhere you like, Count.'
‘Oh, signore will do, Mr. Braithwaite. I do not think we need stand on ceremony.’ The Count straightened from his lounging position against the mantelpiece, an exquisitely carved mantelpiece done in a particularly delicate shade of pink marble. ‘Do you need any assistance? Would you like Paolo to accompany you? To show you about?'
‘I'd like that very much.’ Tony was eager. ‘I'd prefer to take a much greater number of shots than I need and choose which ones to use later. You'd see them, of course, before the final decision was made.'
The Count inclined his head and reaching forward