“A respectable strange man, I assure you,” he said, but with a grin.

“No, I’m afraid I had better return to my hotel. My aunt will be expecting me by lunchtime.”

“And what will she say about your appearance? Or is all forgiven in England if someone jumps in a canal to rescue a cat?”

“I’m not sure about that,” I said. “I shall probably never be allowed out alone again.”

His eyes lit up with amusement. “You can tell her that you were trying to sketch a rooftop and had to lean out too far. She may accept that.”

“Oh yes. Brilliant idea,” I agreed, nodding. “Thank you.”

“So, I must take you back to your hotel. Where do you stay?”

“Pensione Regina,” I said. “My aunt always stays there when she comes to Venice. It has a garden.”

“Ah yes. Terrible food but a garden. So typically English.”

He revved up the motor and we moved forward.

“You have a lovely boat,” I said, realizing as I said it how lame this sounded. Really, I would have to learn sophisticated conversation now that I was no longer a schoolgirl.

He turned to smile at me. “It belongs to my father. He lets me use it sometimes. And I agree. It is very lovely.”

“How is it that you speak such good English?” I asked.

He was staring straight ahead now as the canal narrowed, passing between the walls of tall buildings. “My father wished me to be a man of the world. First I had a French tutor, then he sent me to an English boarding school. French for the language of diplomacy, then English for commerce. My family owns a shipping company, you see.”

“Which boarding school did you attend?”

“Ampleforth. Do you know it? In the cold and dreary north of your country. Good Catholic priests. I hated every moment. Freezing-cold weather. Cold showers. Cross-country runs before breakfast, and the food was abysmal. They served us porridge and baked beans.”

“I like baked beans on toast,” I said.

“Well, you would. The English have no sense of good food,” he said. “I will take you for a good meal before you leave Venice. Then you will see the difference.”

“Oh, I don’t think Aunt Hortensia would allow me to go for a meal with a young man,” I said. “She is frightfully old-fashioned.”

“Even if I met her and introduced myself?” he said. “My family goes back to the Middle Ages, you know. We have several doges in our ancestry and even a pope. Does that count?”

“Against you,” I replied, smiling as I said it. “Aunt Hortensia is strongly Church of England. The pope is the enemy.”

“Then I will not mention the pope.” He turned to flash me a wicked grin. “But here we are talking, and I do not know your name. Aunt Hortensia would not approve.”

“My name is Juliet,” I said. “Juliet Alexandra Browning.” I didn’t add that I was only called that by my aunt, who had insisted on christening me with a Shakespearean name, and that I was usually known as the less dramatic Lettie.