Darkness took over the room as the last candle guttered and died. She felt the bed move as her lover lay down beside her. For a long moment he remained silent, then his hand found hers.

“Bella donna,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. “Always remember that I’m waiting for you. That I love you.”

She couldn’t find her voice to reply. Her throat grew tight as she fought to hold back the sob that threatened to shatter her tenuous control. Instead she took a giddy delight in touching him, clinging to him, feeling his arms around her.

She said nothing, not even when he gently moved her legs apart and slid into her, but she tightened her hold on him, trying to etch every precious moment into memory.

Words were meaningless as he brought her to the inevitable conclusion.

The Channel between Calais and Dover was rough and choppy as usual. Emma stayed on deck, huddled in a canvas chair tucked into a corner out of the wind. As they approached the berth she pressed up to the rail and she spotted her father immediately. When she stepped off the gangway, he swept her into a wordless embrace, unmindful of the other passengers swirling around them. He kissed her forehead and she felt the dampness of tears on his cheek.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He released her at last and mopped his eyes with a large, white handkerchief. “Come, come,” he said, as if she had been the one causing the delay. “The car is waiting.”

He’d brought the Rolls and a driver, so he could sit in the back with Emma, holding her hand and asking her endless questions.

After she’d given a few short answers he patted her hand. “Quite understand, my dear,” he said. “Bad experience. Not ready to talk about it yet. Take your time, take your time. It’s enough to have you back safe and sound.”

They fell silent as the car whisked them west toward the Cotswolds. Emma knew her father would never ask her another question until she was ready to talk. Although he might long to know every detail, he would allow her the time she needed and while he waited he would quietly watch over her, looking after her comfort.

Home. Home where she could relax, where she knew what to expect, where she would be welcomed and cherished. Home that had lost most of its power to delight, because it held no trace of Marco.

It began to rain, a soft, gray drizzle that sucked the color out of the surroundings. The suburbs of London were drab, the streets a sea of umbrellas, and the country towns were virtually deserted. The grey stone of the houses blurred through the rain-streaked windows and the roofs shone black like the tarmac of the road. She held her father’s hand and made small talk, blocking her mind to the contrasting memory of the bustle and vivid colors of Marco’s country.

Her father might have decided to wait for more answers, but in the next few days everyone else had questions for her. Her friends, and of course the authorities, were hard to satisfy.

The parents of Catherine Hall, her maid, had to be informed that their daughter was dead, not missing. Emma spent a dreadful few hours with them in their grief, knowing all the time the question they wanted to ask was, Why her? Why not you? The same question had echoed for days in her own head.

Catherine’s body, identified as Lady Emma Houndsdale, was to be shipped from Naples the same day Emma had left, and her father had been preparing to receive it when she had telephoned him. He still seemed bewildered by the sudden change in circumstances and she often found him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, as if unable to believe she was there. As she passed him, or sat close in the evening, he sometimes reached out to touch her, a light, gentle stroke, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming.

The cook prepared all her favorite recipes and she took long walks or rode across the fields with the dogs.

But after a few days she grew restless. It was wonderful to be home, to see the happiness in her father’s eyes, to be pampered and spoiled again, but her thoughts continually returned to Marco. Too frequently she found herself gazing blankly at a picture she didn’t see, or staring out of a window where there was no view. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about her? Was he wondering if she would come back, or had he put her out of his mind? Her bed felt cold and empty and she found it hard to settle back into any of her old routines. At last she decided to travel up to town to fill a day with some shopping and have lunch with Gillian Westmarland.

Gillian had been at the last episode of the Game, before she met Johnny Westmarland and helped save his life. There was talk, too, that she had brought off some clever coup that was important to the country’s security, but the details had remained hush-hush and vague.

Whatever the truth of the story, Gillian had married Johnny as soon as he recovered from his wounds, the Game had been shut down, and a lot of the people who had joined in had discreetly retired from society. Including Emma herself.

She found Gillian waiting for her in the lobby of the Savoy. A silver tray sat on a low table with two cups and a silver coffee service.

As soon as she caught sight of Emma, Gillian sprang to her feet and gave her a hug and a kiss. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said. “We heard such terrible things about the fire on the ship.” She stepped back to look her up and down. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

“It’s nothing. Just a little tired still.” Emma returned Gillian’s penetrating scan, taking in the loose-fitting and most unfashionable frock. “My God,” she said as she plumped into a large armchair. “Don’t tell me you’re-”

Gillian nodded excitedly and stroked the small bulge in her abdomen. “Just in time for Christmas,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Wonderful. Congratulations. This calls for something stronger than coffee-” Emma looked around for a waiter.

“No, no, thank you. This is quite strong enough for me.” Gillian stroked her belly again and gave it a little pat as if communicating reassurance to the baby. “But if you want…”

Emma caught the eye of a waiter at last. “Do you have a bottle of Bel Amore?” naming the glorious white vintage from Marco’s estate.

“No, madame, that wine is not available to restaurants. It’s sold only to a select private list. I’m sorry. May I suggest something else? Or would you like to see the wine list?”

“No, no thank you. I’ll stick to coffee.”

She glanced across and saw Gillian watching her, a thoughtful look on her face. “Is that a special wine you found in Italy?”

“Yes. It’s rather nice, and I thought I’d like to try it here. Away from the sunshine and the hills, you know, it often tastes quite different.”

“Special memories, then?”

“In a way.” Emma took a sip of coffee, then looked at her nails, newly manicured and polished, and changed the subject. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

Gillian gave a long sigh and stirred her full cup of coffee. “I’m quite sickening about it, actually. I keep telling all my friends they shouldn’t be afraid to do it.” She stirred her coffee yet again.

“Look, are you going to drink that, or just stir it to death?”

Gillian put the spoon down. “Sorry, I ordered it by habit. To tell the truth, it tastes horrible. Ever since I knew I was pregnant, my taste buds have gone haywire.”

“Have a glass of milk or something. Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”

“Yes, but I’m starting to loathe the sight of milk. Johnny keeps bringing it to me.”

“Johnny? Gentleman Johnny in MI5, the swashbuckling hero?”

Gillian bristled. “He’s not like that at all. He’s very sweet and understanding-”

Emma reached out to touch Gillian’s knee. “I know, darling. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and I shouldn’t be teasing you. He adores you, I could see that.”