‘Well, Nino?'

'As I told you, Commandante, there are difficulties. The message you mentioned, Commandante. By chance I met a person who knew something of alabaster but nothing about a little boy and Dante. This person was expecting friends, Commandante, but is worried.'

Ramage guessed the Italian was deliberately not referring to the person's sex. Well, it was many years ago, and there was no particular reason, he supposed, why the Marchesa di Volterra should remember his Dante. But she must remember his mother. Perhaps she was so old her memory had gone. She must be - well, more than seventy now ... A sudden thought struck him.

'This lady of the alabaster, Nino: is she very old?'

Nino's eyes narrowed. 'No, she is not old. On the contrary!’ he exclaimed, as if the idea outraged him.

So the person is a woman, Ramage thought, and she is very young. Therefore the old Marchesa must be dead, and this is her daughter. Yes! Gina... Gianna: that's it: she was younger than himself; pretty too, from what he could remember, but impulsive and unpredictable, and very self-possessed for a child. Wasn't there some bitterness in the family because the old Marchesa had no son? The girl must have inherited the title by some dispensation or other, and those vast estates: hmm, she'll be a handful for a man to handle unless she's changed a lot.

'Nino, perhaps the old lady I refer to is dead and this is her daughter. I cannot be certain.'

'Commandante, name this lady, and tell us yours, or we cannot help you.'

Ramage hesitated: there was sudden tension in the cavernous room: it seemed to reach out from the two brothers, from each dark corner and from the shadowy vaulted ceiling. The Italians, standing by the table, were facing him squarely while Jackson, who had been examining the small door which apparently led to the stairs, quietly turned and watched, recognizing the threatening tone of their voices although not understanding the words.

'Are we having trouble, sir?'

"No, I don't think so.'

Ramage looked at Nino straight in the eyes.

'I give you my name willingly, because it is of no consequence; but' - he searched for a strong phrase - 'but may the Madonna strike you dead if you ever repeat the lady's name. It is - the Marchesa di Volterra.'

'Ah,' the relief was obvious in Nino's voice.

The little door creaked for a moment and was flung wide open. Jackson leapt to one side and as the draught made the candle flicker, putting the room almost in darkness for a few moments, there was a swirl of movement. As the flame recovered, Ramage saw someone almost completely hidden in a long black-hooded cape standing just inside the room.

How it happened, Ramage was not quite sure; but equally suddenly Jackson made a quick cat-like movement which put him behind the hooded figure, the point of his cutlass pressing between the stranger's shoulder blades. He kicked back and shut the door. Ramage was surprised to see how small the stranger was, compared with Jackson.

A hand - a small hand, Ramage noticed - came from among the folds of the cape, and it was holding a pistol: a pistol whose blue steel barrel, shining dully in the candlelight, was pointing straight at his stomach, and which was cocked, ready for firing. He glanced from the muzzle - which in a moment seemed to have grown to the calibre of a cannon - to the stranger's face, but it was hidden in the shadows thrown by the hood. Just as he glanced sideways at the candle, measuring the distance to it, the hooded figure spoke.

'If the gentleman behind me does not remove his sword, I shall be forced to use my pistol.'

The voice spoke in English, but had a heavy accent; it was calm but quite determined; and it was a girl's voice. From sheer relief Ramage started laughing and just stopped himself in time from gesturing to Jackson: a sudden movement might lead the girl to squeeze the trigger....

'Stow the cutlass, Jackson.'

The American sheepishly put the cutlass behind his back. The two brothers did not understand what had been said, but smiled when they saw Jackson's embarrassed movement and heard Ramage's spontaneous laugh: not, Ramage felt, because they saw anything funny in the situation, but their peasant instinct - stronger and wiser than that of more cultured people - told them only maniacs killed while laughing.

However, the girl in the black cape merely took a few steps sideways to avoid having Jackson behind her, and told the two brothers to stand to one side, which they hastily did. Getting them out of the line of fire, Ramage noted, because the pistol still pointed unwaveringly at his stomach.

She said: 'Tell your friend to stand beside you.'

'Come over here, Jackson.'

Ramage had an uneasy feeling the girl not only knew how to handle the pistol but would use it without hesitation. But what had gone wrong? For a moment he had thought she must be the Marchesa; yet now ... He wriggled his right forearm slightly to make sure the throwing knife in his sleeve would fly clear, and was thankful he had transferred it there from the sheath in his boot.

Obviously she had been listening at the door - she came in as soon as he mentioned the Marchesa's name. Why the pistol, then? Perhaps Jackson's sudden movement had startled her into producing it. Where were the rest of them? Were the men even now waiting behind that door? Supposing they came in and startled the girl, so that she accidentally squeezed the trigger?

'What,' the girl said icily, 'is this about alabaster and "L'amor che muove il sole"?'

'May I introduce myself: I am Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage of the Royal Navy.' He decided to risk being wrong and continued: ‘I am sorry your mother is dead, madam: she was one of my mother's closest friends. My message was intended for her: the quotation from Dante was one of her favourites - she often made me recite it when I was a boy and I knew she'd recognize me when she remembered it. I thought it safer not to name names...'

'And who, sir, was your mother?'

The voice was still icy: she was not a girl who had an attack of vapours when a servant dropped a wine glass: she was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Hardly surprising, since she was the head of such a powerful family. But why did she not know his name or remember him? Then he realized she would never have heard his family surname, since Father had inherited the earldom long before they lived in Italy.

'My mother is Lady Blazey. My father is Admiral Lord Blazey. Perhaps you remember me as their son "Nico"?'

The pistol was withdrawn into the folds of the cloak, and with the other hand the girl swept back the hood, shaking her head to tidy her hair. It shone blue-black, like sun on a raven's wing feathers. Then she looked up at him.

His head swam, and it seemed he had to gasp for breath. God, she was beautiful: not paintings-on-the-wall beautiful, but the beauty of a face moulded by strength of character and determination, assurance and courage, and an expression deriving from the confidence of a woman knowing her own beauty and accustomed to being obeyed.

Even by candlelight he could see the finely chiselled features: high cheekbones, large, widely spaced eyes, a small, slightly hooked nose. The mouth - it was a little too wide, with lips a fraction too full, for classic perfection. It was as though a sculptor had deliberately carved a sensuous goddess. Yes! Except for the nose, she might have been the model for - he searched his memory, Siena - no, Florence: Ghiberti's beautiful carving of 'The Creation of Eve' on the east doors of the Baptistry. Had she the naked Eve's same bold, slim, body, the same small, jutting breasts, the same glorious shoulders, flat belly and rounded thighs? The girl's face was certainly a little fuller and more sensuous. Ramage glanced down at her breasts; but the cape ... she might as well be wrapped in a parcel.