“Dear Mrs Grant. Welcome. I am so sorry that you got caught in the sudden rainstorm. I’m afraid this is a disadvantage of living in Venice in the winter months. Luca, pour some Prosecco for our guest.”

“Come and sit beside me.” The countess patted the sofa beside her. “You must warm up after your ordeal. And we can speak English.”

She looked younger than her years, although her husband looked his age, with a shock of iron-grey hair. The countess’s hair was still an attractive red-blonde. Whether this was natural or not, Caroline couldn’t say. But she did notice that the countess was most elegant in a plain grey cashmere dress with a Hermè s scarf at her neck.

“It’s kind of you to have me when you must be jet-lagged,” Caroline said.

“Not at all. It stopped us from falling asleep at seven o’clock and then waking in the middle of the night,” the count said. “So our son tells us that you have inherited a floor of one of the Da Rossi buildings. How fascinating. And we don’t know how or why this lease was granted?”

“We don’t,” Caroline said. “All we can think is that it was wartime and maybe they were glad to have the building occupied.”

“Possible, I suppose,” the count said. “So what do you plan to do with the place? Keep it as a holiday retreat?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Caroline said. “It’s all been a bit of a shock. We had no idea, you see. My great-aunt was a private person and never mentioned to any of us that she had lived in Venice. The first I knew was that I inherited the key to her bank vault.”

Caroline looked up as there was a satisfying pop and Luca uncorked a bottle of Prosecco.

“She was a woman who liked to travel? A fashionable type?” the count asked.

Caroline smiled. “Quite the opposite when I knew her. She was quiet, reserved—the epitome of a British spinster. That’s why I’m still so surprised. We were wondering . . .”—she paused, and glanced across at Luca, who was now coming towards her with a glass—“if maybe she had been employed by your family as a nursemaid, a nanny. Although she may have left Venice when you were still a baby. Do you remember your nanny?”

His face lit up, making him suddenly look much younger. “But yes. As it happens, I do remember her well,” he said. “She was very nice. Warm. Unlike my mother, who rarely came to visit the nursery.”

“And your nanny’s name? Did you know that?”

“Let me see. Of course I always called her Nanny. Yes. It was Julie . . .”

“Juliet?”

“No, no. Giuliana. She was a big woman. Arms like tree trunks.” He laughed. “She’d envelop me in her arms and make everything all right. She spoke Venetian to me.”