Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

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      ‘You would not agree to be photographed holding a copy of your book, I suppose?’ Tony suggested awkwardly.

      The Count drew deeply on his cheroot. ‘My dear Mr. Braithwaite. I understand your dilemma, believe me. But it is not exactly to my liking that this article should be done at all as no doubt you have gathered from your editor. But my publisher——’ He spread a careless hand. ‘The palazzo is yours to do with what you will, but I …’ He shook his head. ‘I prefer my anonymity in this mad world of ours, Mr. Braithwaite.'

      Tony smiled, obviously with difficulty, and glanced rather meaningfully in Sancha's direction. ‘Very well, signore,’ he said politely. ‘If you'll excuse me I'll get on.'

      Within ten minutes it was finished and the Count was bidding them both arrivederci. ‘It has been most enlightening,’ he said, with enigmatic charm. ‘I trust you have both enjoyed it.’ He smiled. ‘As I have.'

      Tony managed a polite rejoinder and Sancha murmured her thanks in an undertone.

      Then Paolo was escorting them down the marble steps to the lower hall and out into the brilliant sunlight.

      Once in the launch, Tony flexed his muscles and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God that's over!’ he exclaimed fervently, surprising Sancha. Tony was usually so unconcerned.

      She looked up at him curiously. ‘What's wrong? Didn't you get the photographs?'

      ‘Oh, yes, I got plenty of photographs. Paolo saw to that,’ replied Tony lighting a cigarette with hands which were not quite steady. ‘But it was bloody awful down in the dungeons!'

      ‘The dungeons?’ Sancha stared at him.

      ‘Yes. You knew they had such things, didn't you?'

      ‘I—I suppose so. I never thought of it. Why? What went wrong?'

      ‘Nothing.’ Tony exhaled and seemed to regain a little of his composure. ‘Nothing except that that bloke Paolo seemed to resent me being there.'

      ‘You mean—he said so?'

      ‘Nothing so simple. No, it was his attitude. Sancha, I tell you, it made me realise that these servants men had who were reputed to be intensely loyal to the extent of murdering for their masters were real. My God, I believe old Paolo would have murdered me if he'd thought it would do any good.'

      ‘But why?'

      Tony sighed. ‘I told you, the Count didn't want us to do the interview. He's been practically blackmailed into it by his publisher. Paolo knows this. These old Venetian families are pretty tough, you know. They're not used to having to do anything.'

      ‘Oh, Tony, you're exaggerating!'

      Tony managed a chuckle. ‘Maybe I am,’ he admitted, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I was damn glad when we got out of there. How did you fare? Did you get the interview okay?'

      ‘Oh yes, yes.’ Sancha nodded, flicking open her notebook and showing him the pages of scribbled shorthand.

      ‘He's some man, isn't he?’ Tony regarded Sancha closely.

      ‘How do you mean?’ Sancha was deliberately obtuse.

      ‘Oh, come off it, Sancha!’ Tony stared at her exasperatedly. ‘Don't tell me you didn't notice.'

      ‘I—I thought he was rather—well—jaded,’ she replied carefully.

      Tony lay back against the side of the boat. ‘Yes, I guess you could put it like that,’ he agreed. Then he looked at her and smiled. ‘Not for little girls like you, though, eh?'

      ‘Don't be silly!’ Sancha coloured and Tony chuckled again and looked away, his good humour returning as the walls of the Palazzo Malatesta disappeared from view.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE offices of Parita magazine were situated in a narrow calle off the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. An international publication, it had offices in most of the major cities of the world, but was published simultaneously in only three: New York, London and Venice. It was a weekly publication slanted towards the arts, yet it maintained an excellent news service. To be featured in the magazine meant instant recognition, and its staff were not indifferent to the importance of the positions they held.

      Sancha had first joined the London staff when she was eighteen as a very junior reporter. Her duties had encompassed a variety of occupations not unlike those of a shorthand-typist in those early days, but gradually she had progressed to being assistant to Helen Barclay, the social columnist.

      It was then that her uncle had suggested that she might spend a year in Italy, learning the language and familiarising herself with their methods. He had made her assistant to Eleanor Fabrioli, the feature writer, but although Eleanor was only about six years older than Sancha she was vastly more sophisticated and treated the younger girl with a mixture of tolerance and contempt. Sancha did not much like her, but she did admire her work, and after all that was the most important thing.

      Eleanor returned to work the morning after Sancha's interview with the Count, and Sancha could see at once that the older girl was not pleased.

      ‘I cannot imagine why Eduardo thought it necessary for you to handle the interview!’ she exclaimed, almost before Sancha had had time to take off her coat. Sancha had been a few minutes late for work and that had not helped matters. ‘He must have known I would be back today!’ Eleanor went on moodily, staring at Sancha with her heavily made-up dark eyes. ‘I do not believe any editor would have acted as he did without a reason. But of course, you are his niece!’ The way she said the words was an insult.

      Sancha went to her desk and opening a drawer she extracted the typescript she had compiled the previous evening from the scribbled notes on her pad.

      ‘Here you are, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘I copied these out last night. If you want to write the feature, it's all right by me.'

      Eleanor snatched the pages ill-humouredly. Scanning the sheets, she exclaimed: ‘Is this all? There are no personal details whatsover! What were you thinking about? You know our readers enjoy the personal touch.'

      Sancha sighed. ‘The Count was not at all enthusiastic about the feature,’ she said. ‘He only wanted publicity for the book; not for himself.'

      Eleanor's lips twisted thinly. ‘My dear Sancha, since when did a reporter only report what his interviewee wanted reporting? It is up to you to get your subject so interested in what he is saying that he tells you things almost involuntarily.'

      Sancha flushed. To imagine herself capable of interesting the Conte Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta for more than a few desultory moments was ludicrous.

      Eleanor regarded her closely. ‘What happened? Why are you looking so embarrased? Did the Count nearly eat you up?'

      ‘Don't be silly.’ Sancha turned away. ‘I did the best I could. I'm sorry if you don't think it's good enough, but I can't help it.'

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