I set off, full of expectation, praying that my hair would stay in place during the crossing of the lagoon. We had been invited for eight, but I had been brought up to think it was rude to arrive on the dot. But I hadn’t expected to wait so long for a vaporetto, and when it came it was horribly crowded with people going across to the Lido for dancing or gambling, as I gathered the nightclubs and casino were out there. We took a long time to disgorge passengers at San Zaccaria, and then at the subsequent stops. So it was late when we finally arrived, and I walked briskly from the landing stage, across the plaza and down the broad street called Granviale Santa Maria Elizabeta. I remembered how Imelda had been scathing about Henry when he was late. I wondered what she was saying about me now—if she had come, that is. I had extended the invitation to my fellow foreign students, and they hadn’t seemed overwhelmingly excited.

“If nothing better comes up,” Gaston had said. “Not exactly how I would choose to spend Sunday evening. Does anyone know where there is good dancing?”

So now I took a deep breath before opening those tall, gold-tipped gates and then walked up a gravel path between palm trees to a blood-red villa. The door was opened by an elderly male servant, who ushered me down a long marble hallway and out to a patio at the rear of the house. Lights had been hung between trees, and they flickered in a cool breeze off the Adriatic. Even though it was still not quite dark, the figures on the patio were bathed in shadow, and I paused for a moment, unsure of myself and not wanting to step out into that group.

Then the countess spotted me. “Ah, my little English friend,” she said, coming forward with her arms open. “You have come. How wonderful. Do let me introduce you to my friends.”

I was led forward feeling horribly shy. I saw then that the other students had come. Even Henry had made it before me. He gave me a little wave and raised a glass to me. He and Franz were standing with our professor and his wife. I recognized also the jolly priest from the other night, and the smooth Vittorio, chatting with a painfully thin but horribly elegant blonde woman, an older dark-haired man at her side.

“Let me introduce Bibi and Arturo from Spain,” the countess said. “Another of our visitors, Miss Browning from England.”

They nodded politely and went back to their conversation as I was led away. I was sure Bibi had taken one look at my dress and decided I was not worth talking to. I was moved on to another distinguished-looking couple. “And let me present you to Il Conte Da Rossi.”