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  Her eyes lingered on the red of the Madonna’s robe, the crown on her head, the sunlight coming through the Gothic windows of the Church. Then suddenly Tempera was very still.

  She stared at the picture, drew nearer and stared again. She shut her eyes and blinked, then put her face to the left in order to behold it from another angle.

  There was something strange, something she had not noticed before – or had she forgotten?

  She could not explain to herself what had happened, but the picture looked different.

  She told herself she was imagining things. It must be exactly the same as when she first saw it, when it had given her an irresistible excitement because it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  But now it did not arouse the same feeling in her as it had done before. It did not speak to her, its spirituality did not reach out to touch some chord within herself.

  What was wrong? What was the difference?

  Tempera put out her hands and lifting the picture from its hook took it to the window.

  She stared at it for some moments, then turned it over and looked at the back.

  As she did so she knew without obvious proof, but with a conviction that was unshakeable, that the picture was a fake!

  Tempera walked through the arched entrance gate and stepping off the roadway took a winding path which was little more than a sheep track down into the valley.

  She walked through an olive grove until she was out of sight of the Chateau, then she sat down on the grass beside a small ravine.

  At any other time she would have thrilled by the blue-green of borage and hyacinth and the yellow and red of the jonquils and wild anemones.

  But as she now sat with her back against the twisting trunk of an ancient olive tree she was concerned only with the problem that seemed to fill her mind with darkness.

  It was as if suddenly, as she walked along in the sunshine, a vast chasm had opened at her feet and she could not pass over it or get around it.

  There was no doubt in her mind what had happened.

  It was as clear as if someone had told her with an undeniable authority, that a fake picture of the ‘Madonna in the Church’ had been substituted for the original.

  There was also no doubt as to who had done it.

  Why else had Lord Eustace been up so early in the morning? And why had he been in the Duke’s special sanctum? And, as Tempera realised now, he had actually been standing in front of the picture.

  He might, she thought, have just at that moment substituted the fake for the real and stood back to see the effect. If she had come into the Sitting Room a few minutes later she would doubtless have missed him.

  Even though she would still have recognised the picture as being false, she would have had no idea who was the thief.

  There was no doubt now, but the difficulty was what should she do about it?

  She was well aware that the fake was an extremely good one, but there were as she knew artists in Europe who could copy a picture so skilfully that they could deceive even the experts.

  She thought that if she had not examined the ‘Madonna in the Church’ so closely when she first saw it, she might quite easily have been deceived by the copy which now hung in its frame.

  But there was something about the original which had aroused an unmistakable response in her.

  That was how, as her father had said so often, one listened to what a picture had to say. It would be hard to describe, but to her it was an irrefutable method of knowing the real from the false.

  “Papa would never for a moment have been deceived by that fake,” Tempera told herself. “But I might have been, if it had been of any other picture.”

  That particular masterpiece meant something very special to her, just as it had meant something to the Duke.

  At the thought of him Tempera clasped her hands together and wondered frantically what she should do.

  The obvious course, had she been an ordinary guest, would have been to tell him exactly what had occurred so that the thief could be apprehended.

  But if she did that, it was inevitable that in the sensation which would ensue her real identity would be brought to light.

  Even if the police were not brought in, which Tempera imagined would be unavoidable where such a valuable possession was concerned, the Duke and his Comptroller would make searching inquiries amongst the servants and everybody would be suspect until they were proved innocent.

  In those circumstances suspicions would be bound to fall on her.

  After all, she had shown that she could paint, and it could easily be observed that she was not the ordinary lady’s maid she pretended to be.

  While Tempera was certain that her name would be cleared eventually, it would be impossible to conceal that she was her father’s daughter.

  What was more, long before any special enquiry could take place, there was every chance of the Count recognising her as he was staying in the house.

  Tempera’s vivid imagination made her see all too clearly the confusion that would ensue if she told the Duke what had happened. The revelations would be not only embarrassing but also devastating as far as her stepmother was concerned.

  She put her hands up to her eyes and tried to think clearly. The alternative was to do nothing and to hope that they would have left the Chateau before the Duke discovered what had happened to his picture.

  But she had an uncomfortable feeling that long before they had the chance to leave, the Count, when he inspected the Duke’s collection as he was bound to do, would realise as she had, that something was wrong.

  Whichever way it happened she was in a trap, and as far as she could see there was no escape.

  “Oh, Papa,” Tempera prayed, and it was a cry from her very heart, “wherever you are, help me! I need your help desperately!”

  Chapter Five

  The more Tempera considered what she should do, the more confused she became.

  She felt as if everything had fallen into small pieces around her and she could not put them together again. There was danger in every course she might take, and even more in doing nothing.

  If only the Count were not staying at the Chateau, then perhaps the deception might not be noticed for a long time. Many people saw what they expected to see, and the Duke would be so familiar with his picture so that even he might merely feel happy to know it was there and would not examine it closely.

  But she was quite certain that sooner or later during his visit to the Chateau the Count would look at every picture on the walls and discuss them with the Duke.

  It was the sort of things that connoisseurs like her father always did.

  Even if they had seen a picture hundreds of times before, they would still stand in front of it again, look and appraise it and, as her father had said so often, listen to what it had to say.

  “I have to do something,” Tempera told herself. The question was – what?

  She sat in the shade of the olive tree staring with unseeing eyes across the verdant valley, aware of nothing but her own confusion.

  She was oblivious to the loveliness of her surroundings, the bees buzzing amongst the flowers and the fragrance of wild thyme.

  Then with a sense of shock which made her start violently she heard an amused voice say,

  “I could show you a better hiding place than this.”

  She looked up at the Duke, her eyes wide in her heart-shaped face, and thought he seemed larger and more overpowering than ever.

  It was impossible to ignore that her whole being responded to the knowledge that he was there and that she was seeing him again.

  “What has happened? Why are you looking so worried?” he enquired.

  She looked away from him, surprised that he should have noticed and aware that her heart was pounding in a most unaccountable manner.

  He sat down beside her amongst the wild flowers.

  “What has upset you?” he asked.

  Now there was a beguiling n
ote in his voice that Tempera thought she had not heard before.

  “It is – nothing,” she murmured.

  Even as she spoke she knew how annoying it was when people made such a silly answer when there was obviously something very wrong.

  “That is not – quite true,” she added quickly, “but it is – something I cannot tell Your Grace.”

  “Why not?” he enquired. “And why have you come out here to hide yourself?”

  She did not answer and he said with a smile,

  “If you are trying to hide from me may I say it is impossible. I lived here for months when I was a boy and I know every nook and cranny where it was hard for first my nurse, then my tutors to find me.”

  Tempera gave a little sigh.

  She knew she longed to ask him about his childhood, to listen to him talking to her in his deep voice that seemed to compel her attention.

  Then remembering her position and the fact that in no circumstances should she be sitting here beside the Duke she replied,

  “If you have finished luncheon, Your Grace, I must go back to the Chateau. Her – Ladyship – ”

  “You are much too late,” the Duke interrupted, “and her Ladyship has no need of your attentions. She has in fact gone driving with the Count in his motor car.”

  “Oh, no!” Tempera exclaimed involuntarily.

  It was in fact an involuntary reaction to the knowledge that Lady Rothley was with the Count, but fortunately the Duke misunderstood her anxiety.

  “There is no need to worry about her Ladyship’s safety,” he said. “I can assure you that the Count is a very experienced driver and his car is one of the safest and most up-to-date models in existence. He has entered it for the Concours d’elegance in Monte Carlo.”

  It was hopeless, Tempera thought, to try to prevent her stepmother from doing all the things she should not do. How could she be so foolish as to go off alone with the Count in his car and inevitably link their names together where the gossips were concerned?

  “Do not look so anxious,” the Duke pleaded. “I am sure, although I am too polite to ask, that Lady Rothley is older than you and quite capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Her Ladyship is very – impulsive,” Tempera said slowly, choosing her words with care, “and she is so kind and – gentle that she hates to refuse to do anything that is asked of her.”

  “I can see that, although you are too diplomatic to say so, you do not approve of Count Vincenzo Caravargio,” the Duke remarked.

  “It is not for me in my position to approve or disapprove, Your Grace,” Tempera replied. “But I think that Italians have an eloquence which, while it is to them no more than a form of good manners, is often misunderstood by Englishwomen.”

  “How do you know such things?” the Duke asked. “I cannot believe that at your age and in the life you have chosen, Miss Riley, you have had much experience of Italians.”

  Too late Tempera realised as she had spoken that she had fallen into yet another quicksand.

  It had been her intention to make the Duke understand how simple and inexperienced her stepmother was, but she thought perhaps she had merely made things worse rather than better.

  The Duke was looking at her profile silhouetted against the bare rocks of the ravine at their side, and when neither of them was speaking there was the sound of water from a small cascade falling into a pool below.

  “I have not been here for many years,” the Duke said conversationally, “and you might find it useful to know that a little further down there is a cave in the side of the ravine which none of my tutors ever discovered.”

  Tempera felt he was teasing her, and she thought it was something he should not be allowed to do.

  “I am – not hiding from anybody, Your Grace,” she said, “and I am sure I should – return to the Chateau and that – you should not be here with me.”

  “Who is to say what I should or should not do?” the Duke enquired. “I am my own master.”

  “Y – yes – of course I realise that,” Tempera replied quickly, “but if anyone saw us here they would think it very – strange.”

  “I think it is very unlikely that anyone will see us,” the Duke said, ‘and that is why you came here in the first place.”

  “I certainly did not – expect Your Grace to – follow me.”

  “I am aware of that,” he replied, “but surely you knew I should wish to thank you for the present of your picture? You did mean it as a present, did you not?”

  There was a little pause before Tempera said,

  “If – Your Grace really wishes to – keep it.”

  “I certainly do wish to, and may I say in words which need no Italian eloquence that I consider you have a very outstanding talent and a feeling for colour which is unusual.”

  Tempera felt the blush rising in her cheeks.

  “Your Grace is – very kind.”

  “I expected to find you painting this afternoon,” the Duke said. “Surely the canvases were what you wanted?”

  “Yes – of course,” Tempera stammered.

  “But I know the answer to my own question,” the Duke went on. “It lies in the fact that you have a problem which you will not share with me.”

  Tempera made a little gesture with her hands.

  How could she make him understand, she wondered, that even while there was no question of her sharing her troubles with him he should not be sitting here talking to her, while her stepmother was philandering with the Count who would only destroy her socially.

  “Many people have brought me their problems at one time or another,” the Duke said softly, “and I pride myself that it has been the exception for me not to be able to help them and give them the advice they needed. I would like you to trust me.”

  “That is impossible! Quite – quite – impossible!” Tempera spoke passionately because she found it hard to resist the pleading in his voice. Then she said, “Your Grace must excuse me. I know you think I am behaving very foolishly, but this is something for which only I can find the answer.”

  “Are you sure of that?” the Duke asked.

  She turned her head to look at him as if she could not help it and he willed her to do so, and because they were sitting on the same level her eyes met his.

  Time seemed to stand still and it was hard to breathe.

  It was as if they were two people who met each other across eternity, and yet all the time Tempera was conscious of the gulf that lay between them, the gulf which held her Stepmother, her pretended identity and, worst of all, the substitution of a fake for the Duke’s picture.

  “Tell me what is the matter?” he pleaded.

  For one moment Tempera thought she must confess everything, and she felt too, although he did not move, that his arms reached out towards her.

  She only had to make the smallest movement to be close against him hiding her face against his shoulder.

  Then with what was a superhuman effort she looked away – the spell was broken and she knew as it broke that there was a physical pain somewhere within her body. With a convulsive movement she rose to her feet.

  “I – I must go back – Your Grace,” she said in a frightened voice that was somehow very young and very breathless. “I must beg Your Grace not to talk to me – not to come near me. I cannot – explain – but it is something which – must not – happen again.”

  The Duke did not move and she looked down at his handsome face. The sunshine percolating through the leaves of the olive tree cast little glimmers of gold on his hair.

  Then with a sound that was almost a sob she turned and walked back the way she had come, climbing the twisting path which led back to the Chateau.

  When she reached her own room, feeling it was hot and confining after the sunshine outside, Tempera flung herself down on her bed.

  “Why? Why? Why does he make me feel like this?” she asked herself aloud.

  She knew the answer, but at the same time she dared not face it, da
red not listen to her heart trying to tell her what her brain repudiated as being impossible.

  When Lady Rothley returned from her drive with the Count she was glowing like a lovely jewel set against the light. Since she had fallen in love her face had taken on a new beauty and looking at her Tempera wondered how any man could resist anything so lovely.

  “You were not here, Tempera, when the Count asked me to go driving with him,” she said gaily, “but I found a light coat to cover my gown and Lady Barnard very sweetly lent me a long chiffon veil to tie over my hat.”

  As she spoke she flung her things down on the bed and walked across the room towards Tempera, crying rapturously,

  “It was wonderful! Almost like flying in the sky or swimming in the sea. We sped along the road at least fifteen miles per hour! And the Count said one day he will take me out in his new racing car which does up to thirty! Think of it, Tempera! It is almost impossible to imagine such speed!”

  “You had no right to go with the Count,” Tempera said. The words seemed to be dragged from her.

  “Nobody else asked me,” Lady Rothley retorted, “and I wanted to go. It was such fun, Tempera – I have never been so happy!”

  “Belle-mère, please be sensible. I know what you feel for this man. At the same time suppose you accept his proposal and in five years, perhaps sooner, he is tired of you – what then?”

  “I do not know,” Lady Rothley replied, “and I do not care! I love him, Tempera, and when he is there I cannot even see any other men, they simply do not exist!”

  “And the Duke?”

  “You will not believe me,” Lady Rothley said, “but if the Duke asks me to marry him, I shall refuse.”

  “I cannot believe you,” Tempera replied. “If he does propose marriage, you will accept.”

  “I will not! I will not!” Lady Rothley cried, banging her fists on the dressing table. “I want to be with Vincenzo and anyone else is a waste of time!”

  “You have been asked to stay here for another week,” Tempera said coldly, “then we have to go back to London. Have you asked the Count what his plans may be?”

  “He was talking last night of returning to Italy,” Lady Rothley said in a low voice, “but he was speaking to somebody else.”