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glanced in what she thought was his direction, it was always as if he stepped from sight a bare second before she turned. It was unnerving, and she told herself that she was imagining things, but the feeling still persisted. In the hotel he stared quite openly at her and there was little she could do except ignore it, but outside it was quite different, for she felt alone and unprotected. The tall figure in green and crimson was always there, just on the edge of her thoughts —close and menacing.
    The nervousness he wrought in her remained with her all the time, until one afternoon in the Piazza San Marco it erupted into sudden terror. In the shadow of the campanile she came face-to-face with him. He seemed to appear from nowhere to stand in her path, and although the square was crowded, she felt that she was alone with him. His hands were on his hips in the arrogant stance she had come to loathe, and there was something positively threatening in his silence. She froze, unable to move, and he reached out to catch her wrist, drawing her inexorably toward him, but as his other hand slid around her waist she at last could fight him. With a cry she pushed him roughly away, turning in wild panic to run across the square, setting a cloud of pigeons fluttering wildly into the air as she fled, and almost knocking some costly bales of cloth from one of the many stalls cluttering the open space before the cathedral. Her heart was thundering as she ran blindly toward the steps leading down to the water. She hailed a gondola and begged the gondolier to return her to the Hotel Contarini as swiftly as possible. She felt hot and frightened, and her wrist burned as if the baron still held it. When the gondola was well out on the waters of the Grand Canal, she dared to look back, but there was no sign of him.
    She remained immured in her room for the rest of that day, trying to convince herself that it was all foolishness on her part. But she had been badly frightened now, and there was no mistaking the baron’s actions as he had drawn her closer. He desired her.
    The time to dine approached and she reluctantly began to dress. She must make herself go down, for she could not remain locked safely in her room for the remainder of her sojourn in Venice. Just as she was putting the final pin in her hair, however, someone knocked very softly at her door. She went to open it, but then her outstretched hand froze on the handle. Instinct told her that it was the baron. She remained absolutely still and silent, conscious of the thunderous beating of her heart. He knocked again and the handle turned, but she had taken the precaution of locking the door earlier and so he could not come in. At last he went away, and she leaned weakly back against the door, her eyes closed. Her mouth was dry and her hands ice cold.
    She waited until she heard several people in the passageway before daring to emerge, and even then she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder in case the baron was there, but there was no sign of him again. Her silk skirts rustled as she hurried along, but then she halted as she passed the open doors of one of the many elegant drawing rooms, for inside she caught a glimpse of the reassuring figure of Sir Nicholas Grenville seated at an escritoire.
    Under any other circumstances she would never have dreamed of approaching him, but today was decidedly different and so she entered the green and gold room.
    “Good evening, Sir Nicholas.”
    He looked around quickly, the surprise plain in his gray eyes. “Good evening, Miss Milbanke.”
    “Are you about to go down to dine?”
    “I am.”
    “Then may I wait for you?”
    He stared.
    “After all,” she went on bravely, “we are the only two Britons here and we should show a united front, should we not?”
    His eyebrow was raised just a little. “If you wish.”
    She smiled nervously, toying with the strings of her reticule and opening and closing her fan with a flick of her wrist. She