The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy Gordon

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      ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

      Harriet went into the back of the shop and put on the coffee, annoyed with herself for having made a mess of everything after Olympia’s warning. But she’d half convinced herself that Marco wouldn’t bother coming to see her, and her mind had been so taken up with worries about her creditors that she’d had little time to think of other things.

      As an expert in antiquities Harriet had no rival. Her taste was impeccable, her instincts flawless, and many an imposing institution accepted her opinion as final. But somehow she couldn’t translate this skill into a commercial profit, and the bills were piling up.

      The coffee perked and she brought herself back to reality. She would have given anything not to have betrayed her money worries to this man, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Then he appeared beside her and she became distracted by the resemblance. Just where had she seen him before?

      She’d promised Olympia not to let Marco suspect that she’d been forewarned, so it might be safest to play dumb for a while. It was a melancholy fact, she’d discovered, that if you pretended to be really stupid people always believed you.

      ‘Why did you want to see me, Signor—Calvani, was it?’

      ‘My name means nothing to you?’

      ‘I’m sorry, should it?’

      ‘I’m a friend of your sister Olympia. I thought she might have mentioned me.’

      ‘We’re only half-sisters. We grew up far apart and don’t see each other often.’ She added casually, ‘How is she these days?’

      ‘Still the beautiful social butterfly. I told her I’d look you up while I was in London. If it’s agreeable to you we might spend this evening together, perhaps go to a show and have dinner afterwards.’

      ‘That would be nice.’

      ‘What kind of show do you like?’

      ‘I’ve been trying to get into Dancing On Line, but the seats are like gold-dust and tonight’s the last performance.’

      ‘I think I might manage it, just the same.’

      She was conscience stricken. ‘If you’re thinking of the black market, the tickets are going for thousands. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

      ‘I shan’t need to resort to the black market,’ he said, smiling.

      She regarded him with something approaching awe. ‘You can get seats for this show, at a moment’s notice?’

      ‘I can’t afford to fail now, can I?’ he remarked, somewhat wryly. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll collect you here at seven.’

      ‘Fine. And we can always go to a different show. I really don’t mind.’

      ‘We shall go to this show and no other,’ he said firmly. ‘Until tonight.’

      ‘Until tonight,’ she said, a trifle dazed.

      He turned to the door, but stopped as though something had just occurred to him.

      ‘By the way, I believe in mixing business with pleasure. Perhaps you would look at this and value it for me.’

      From his bag he drew a package which he unwrapped before her eager eyes, revealing a fabulously beautiful ornate necklace in sold gold. She took it gently and carried it to a desk, switching on a brilliant light.

      ‘I have a friend in Rome who specialises in these things,’ Marco said smoothly. ‘He thinks this is one of the best Greek pieces he’s ever seen.’

      ‘Greek?’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Etruscan.’

      She’d passed the first test, but he concealed his pleasure and pressed her further.

      ‘Are you sure? My friend is a real expert.’

      ‘Well it can be difficult to tell them apart,’ she conceded. ‘Etruscan goldsmiths of the archaic and classical periods…’

      She was away and there was no stopping her, he recognised. Words poured out. ‘Their jewellery of the third to first centuries BC often closely resembles Greek works but—Celtic influence—’

      He listened with growing satisfaction. She might be a little strange but here was the educated lady he’d hoped for. This fabulous piece had been in his family’s possession for two centuries. It was pure Etruscan. And she’d spotted it.

      Then she blew his satisfaction out of the water by saying regretfully, ‘If only it were real.’

      He stared. ‘Of course it’s real.’

      ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s a very good copy, one of the best I’ve ever seen. I can understand why it fooled your friend—’

      ‘But not you,’ he said, feeling illogically annoyed at her slander of his non-existent ‘friend’.

      ‘I’ve always taken a special interest in artefacts from Etruria,’ she said, naming the province that had later become Rome and its surrounding countryside. ‘I visited a dig there a couple of years back and it was the most fascinating—’

      ‘And this qualifies you to pronounce on this piece?’ Marco interrupted, his annoyance overcoming his good manners.

      ‘Look, I know what I’m talking about, and frankly this “expert” of yours doesn’t, since he can’t tell Greek from Etruscan.’

      ‘But according to you it’s a fake which means it can’t be either,’ he pointed out.

      ‘It’s a copy, and whoever did it was copying an Etruscan piece, not a Greek one,’ she said firmly.

      The transformation in her was astonishing, he thought. Gone was the awkward young woman who’d collided with him at the door. In her place was an authority, steely, assured, implacable in her own opinion. He would have found it admirable if she wasn’t trying to wipe a million dollars off his fortune.

      ‘Are you saying that this is worthless?’ he demanded.

      ‘Oh, not entirely worthless. The gold must be worth something.’

      She spoke in the manner of an adult placating a disappointed child, and he ground his teeth.

      ‘Would you like to explain your opinion?’ he said frostily.

      ‘All my instincts tell me that this isn’t the real thing.’

      ‘You mean feminine intuition?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ she said crisply. ‘There’s no such thing. Funny, I’d have expected a man to know that. My instincts are based on knowledge and experience.’

      ‘Which sounds like another name for female intuition to me. Why not be honest and admit it?’

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