It had been one of Maria’s late husband Alfonso’s brothers who had told him her real age. She had been furious at the time, not just because Luigi had revealed her secret but because Alfonso’s brother had been trying to warn Nathaniel off, threatening him that if he didn’t leave Maria alone it would be the worse for him. It had taken Nathaniel a while to reassure her that he didn’t give a monkey’s cuss about her age or that she had lied to him. And in truth it didn’t matter to him. Alfonso had left his wife very nicely off when he’d succumbed to a heart attack eighteen months ago. She owned the inn that was also her home, and the blacksmith’s premises next door, as well as several cottages in the town of Chester-le-Street which were rented out and brought in a nice little income. She was sitting pretty. Alfonso had been an astute businessman by all accounts. Once his little empire was flourishing he had brought two of his younger brothers over from Italy to work in the kitchen of the inn, maintaining that family made the most loyal employees. He had been twenty-five years older than his wife, and according to Maria, useless in bed. She’d certainly been ripe for him, anyway, Nathaniel thought. Ravenous, in fact.

As Maria left the bedroom he sat up straighter and reached for his wine glass on the small table at the side of the bed, draining the ruby red liquid inside and smacking his lips. She knew all about wine, did Maria, probably because she had lived in Italy until she and her husband had come to England when she was just twenty-one. She’d told him all about her home country, the good food, the wine, the heat and endless days of sun under blue, blue skies. They knew how to live, did the Italians, she had said. Not like the cold English. Not that she found him cold, not in bed.

He had originally intended to stay no more than a couple of months in Chester-le-Street. He had come to the town because someone had told him on his travels that a woman answering to his description of Rose lived there and was working in a grocer’s shop near the train station. The woman concerned hadn’t been Rose but he had taken a room at the inn while searching her out, and Maria had needed a barman at the time, her previous one having fallen foul of the cholera and passed away just days before Nathaniel’s arrival in the town. Within two weeks he had been warming Maria’s bed every night and life had been so comfortable he had stayed longer than intended.