I pick up a plate and pile it high with smoky grilled fish and sweet peppers, listening all the while. Most of what I know about Mussolini comes from the film reels, enthusiastic in their approval of his efforts to regenerate the country, his emphasis on everything running like clockwork. I have also seen the silent footage of young, strong troops marching in perfectly ordered lines. The cold, mechanical quality of it left me feeling more disturbed than impressed. While I may not know as much about Mussolini and Italy, I do know a little about Moseley’s new British Union of Fascists and what I see frightens me.

“But look at Germany,” another voice breaks in. “Look at what is happening there. That’s the danger. Don’t think it can’t happen here.”

“You can’t deny that under Mussolini things are improving,” Uncle Leo says, taking a sip of wine. He is not alone – others are nodding.

“What about the Blackshirts?” I ask then.

“Not you too,” Hero groans under her breath. “I give up.” She turns on her heel and stomps back towards the house.

“What do you know about the Blackshirts?” Leo’s smile is indulgent.

“That some of their methods are less than pleasant,” I say calmly. “And that, historically speaking, fanatical nationalism doesn’t usually end well.”

There’s a brief silence, while Leo looks at me with surprise in his eyes.

“Well when I met him, I thought Il Duce was rather charming,” a languid redhead says, before flashing a dazzling smile at Ben who has just appeared on the terrace. The hum of debate picks up again. I take the opportunity to bite into a good chunk of warm bread, briefly closing my eyes in appreciation of Rosa’s genius.

“Good to see you again, Simone,” Ben murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the woman’s hand, and smiling down into her wide green eyes. There’s something lingering in the look they share, and I wonder suddenly if they have been to bed together. Then I push the thought away. It’s none of my business, after all.

“Ah, Benedick,” she sighs. “How nice to see you.”

“Benedick?” I choke on a giggle, and he shoots me a warning glare. Simone’s wide eyes shift and sweep over me in a leisurely fashion, taking it all in, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. The slight wrinkling of her nose and the way her mouth tightens into a brief pucker of disdain tells me that she has found me lacking in every way. For some reason, I find it amusing rather than insulting.