She moved toward the bar, heads turning as she passed, and was immediately accosted by an Italian air force colonel who was obviously slightly the worse for drink. Chavasse gave the man enough time to make a thorough nuisance of himself, then moved through the crowd to her side.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” he said in Italian. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Her reflexes were excellent. She turned smoothly, assessing him against the general situation in a split second and making her decision.

She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You said you’d only be ten minutes. It’s really too bad of you.”

The air force colonel had already faded discreetly into the crowd and Chavasse grinned. “How about a glass of Bollinger? I really think we should celebrate.”

“I think that would be rather nice, Mr. Chavasse,” she said in excellent English. “On the terrace, perhaps. It’s cooler there.”

Chavasse helped himself to two glasses of champagne from the table and followed her through the crowd, a slight frown on his face. It was cool on the terrace, the traffic sounds muted and far away and the scent of jasmine heavy on the night air.

She sat on the balustrade and took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a wonderful night?” She turned and looked at him and laughter bubbled out of her. “Francesca – Francesca Minetti.”

She held out her hand and Chavasse gave her one of the glasses of champagne and grinned. “You seem to know who I am already.”

She leaned back and looked up at the stars. When she spoke it was as if she were reciting a lesson hard-learned.

“Paul Chavasse, born Paris, 1928, father French, mother English. Educated at Sorbonne, Cambridge and Harvard Universities. Ph.D. Modern Languages, multilingual. University lecturer until 1954. Since then…”