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Why was she getting so nervous about her appearance ? Who was she trying to impress ? Certainly not Count Vilhena. She told herself that she couldn’t care less what he thought of her.
    Cautiously she dabbed her nose with foundation cream, and the burnt area became a little less noticeable. After all, it was the sort of thing that could happen to anybody. By the time she was ready to go downstairs the blue dress had lost most of its creases and she decided that, on the whole, she didn’t look too bad. In any case, it was doubtful whether anyone would even notice her.
    Quietly she opened her bedroom door and stepped out into a gallery that seemed to run the entire length of the house. On the way up, attended by Carmen, she hadn’t noticed very much, but now she saw that the walls were adorned with pikes and cutlasses, halberds and rapiers. They were souvenirs, presumably, of Malta’s colourful history. Feeling that she ought to walk on tiptoe, she slipped along the gallery to the head of the uncarpeted marble staircase, her sandals making no sound as she crept downstairs.
    In the long hall at the bottom she lingered again, gazing around her in awe. Though there was little furniture in sight, the walls were lined with portraits — a long succession of black-eyed men and women. There were Renaissance nobles in doublets of crimson, priests with thin, ascetic faces, veiled women whose white fingers were heavy with rings. All of them, she supposed, were members of the Vilhena family, wealthy, proud Maltese aristocrats.
    They made her shiver and she turned away from them quickly. At one end of the hall a door opened into the passageway through which she had entered the house, and she hurried through it. She could hear the sound of voices. There seemed to be several of them and she guessed that they came from the courtyard. Though not usually shy, or particularly nervous, she felt a sudden urge to take flight.
    But she knew she couldn’t do that. Whoever these people were, she had to join them. Drawing a deep breath, she walked through the passage into the courtyard.
    Between the fountain and some hibiscus bushes a table and chairs had been set out and in the scented coolness she saw a small group of people were enjoying aperitifs. Pete r Vilhena was standing beside the fountain, his right hand caressing the head of a magnificent borzoi, and it occurred to her that he looked rather sombre. He didn’t seem to be taking much part in the conversation.
    Toni, wearing a glamorous sarong-style evening dress, was curled up on a pile of cushions in the shadow of the orange-tree. Her hair was hanging loose, cascading down her back, and heavy gold bangles weighted her wrists. She looked like a figure from the Arabian Nights.
    But it wasn’t Toni, or even her brother, who drew and held Catriona’s attention. It was the third member of the group, a strikingly beautiful woman who was clad dramatically in scarlet.
    Feeling more uncertain than she had ever felt in her entire adult life, Catriona stood hovering in the shadow of the archway. By comparison with the two women reclining in graceful attitudes in front of her she was going to look little more than ridiculous, and for the second time she began to consider seriously the possibility of retreat. Then Toni caught sight of her.
    ‘Catri o na ... come and join us!’
    All three heads turned in her direction, and Peter Vilhena accorded her an almost imperceptible bow.
    She felt herself flushing, but with a determined effort she went forward to join them.
    ‘Have a drink, Miss Browne.’ There was no expression whatsoever on the Count’s face, but, she felt certain, nevertheless, that he was taking in every detail of her appearance.
    Toni sent a friendly smile in her direction. ‘Have a lemonade, if you don’t want anything stronger,’ she suggested. With an expressive gesture, she indicated the other woman present. ‘This is Jacqueline Calleja. She is a friend of my brother’s. I