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to make the introductions, Master Pearce. This is Signor Datini, a guest of my parents.’

      Signor Datini moved forward into the room with an admirable nonchalance. Caps were lifted and brief bows exchanged, Master Pearce being quick to ask the first question. ‘Your profession, signor?’ he said, looking him up and down as he tried to guess.

      ‘I am a merchant,’ said Santo Datini. ‘My home is in Italy, sir.’

      Fractionally, Aphra’s eyes widened, quickly hiding her astonishment before the elder visitor winkled out of the Italian more in half a minute than she had bothered to find out in an hour. ‘So,’ continued Master Pearce with some hope in his voice, ‘you will not be conversant with English law.’

      ‘I am indeed fully conversant with English property law,’ Santo said, ‘or I would not be of much use as a merchant, would I? In Italy, the English system of justice is much admired and all merchants must understand how it works or quickly run foul of it.’

      ‘I see,’ said Master Pearce, looking from one to the other with a frown. ‘And you are here to assist Mistress Betterton, then?’

      ‘I have been asked to assist Mistress Betterton in certain matters,’ he said, smoothly. ‘I would certainly need to take a close look at any changes to the extent of land belonging by ancient right to her and to witnessing any signatures.’

      He sounded, she thought, exactly as a lawyer would sound. Rigidly formal. And if she had not already heard him speak, she would think this was how he would always be, in professional mode, utterly convincing. Was he speaking the truth? Leon had said nothing of this to her. Or had he, when she was not listening? What was more, she knew, as did Signor Datini, that Master Pearce was not speaking the truth when he appeared to be claiming that Sandrock Mill was his. The miller might have tried to short-change her over his rent, but she knew he would not have paid her at all if this man had been his landlord instead of her.

      ‘Is that so?’ said Master Pearce, already removing the books from the corners of the map. ‘Well then, perhaps we should leave this for another occasion. These things can get incredibly complicated, can’t they?’ He let the roll spring back into his hands.

      ‘And I shall have to unearth the priory’s map, shan’t I, to be sure of getting it right?’ Aphra said.

      ‘Excellent,’ said Santo, smiling his satisfied merchant’s smile. ‘That should leave us in no doubt about who owns what. Don’t you agree, Master Pearce?’

      ‘Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, mistress, I must attend to my duties.’ He bowed, curtly, pausing on the top step to look directly at the Italian. ‘Have you really come all the way from Italy, signor, to assist Mistress Betterton?’

      There was only the merest fraction of a delay in Santo’s answer. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said.

      If there had been any doubt in the elder man’s mind about the Italian’s expectations here at Sandrock, they were dispelled by that reply. He turned, disappearing an inch at a time.

      Aphra smoothed a hand over the tooled leather bindings of the nearest book as if to comfort it. ‘He’s been here almost every day since I arrived. I don’t like him,’ she whispered. ‘I wish he would stay away.’

      ‘And would you have signed?’

      She shook her head. ‘Probably not. But he would have stayed and talked till kingdom come to convince me.’ She smiled at Santo’s shout of laughter.

      ‘Your idiomatic English,’ he said. ‘I shall never get used to it.’

      ‘But your knowledge of English law?’ she said, quietly. ‘Was that a bluff?’

      ‘Bluff?’ he said, twitching his eyebrows.

      ‘Pretence,’ she replied.

      ‘Ah...bluff. Yes, a little. But I’d wager I know more about English property law than he does.’

      ‘Or his lawyer?’

      ‘Argh! He’ll not have a lawyer. He’d have to pay him, wouldn’t he?’

      ‘So shall I, signor, for your professional assistance and I cannot afford you. You may as well go home.’

      He tilted his head this way and that to catch her eye, without success, and he could tell that she was in no mood for a confrontation, just as she had not wanted to deal with Master Pearce’s claims. He chose to ignore the command. ‘May I sit?’ he said, purposely distancing himself from that man’s appallingly bad manners.

      ‘Please do,’ she said, seating herself on the other side of the table. ‘Are you really a merchant, signor? Or was that a pretence, too?’

      ‘I am indeed, mistress. Did my brother not tell you?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking at the table between them. ‘I don’t remember what he told me. I’m trying not to remember. I don’t want to remember.’ Her voice shook.

      ‘No, I can understand that. But be assured that what I tell you will always be the truth.’

      ‘Forgive me, signor,’ she said, ‘if I regard that with scepticism. My belief in men’s words is at a low ebb. Your brother lied to me and so might you be doing for all I know. Since then, I’ve learnt to believe very little and to trust no man.’

      ‘Then listen to me, madonna, if you will. As a newcomer to land ownership and to the sharp practices of others, like him, for example, you may find yourself in need of a man like me who can speak with some authority. A man who has your interests at heart and for no ulterior motive.’

      ‘That sounds too good to be true, signor, but I’ve already said I cannot afford you.’

      ‘I’m not looking for payment, only for your friendship, since I cannot be of any help to you unless we are friends, at least.’

      ‘At least? What does that mean, exactly?’

      Saints alive, he thought, she’s as prickly as a holly bush.

      ‘Trust,’ he said. ‘I suppose it means you must trust me. After your experience, you find that difficult. But if you could perhaps try to see things from my point of view, my offer of help is to make up, in part, for my brother’s failings. It’s something I want to do for you, to help you through your grief, to make these first few months less difficult. It will cost you nothing, except perhaps a meal now and then.’

      By the time he had finished explaining to her, her hands were covering her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and soft mewing sounds were sifting through her fingers, dripping with tears. He sat in silence without moving, knowing that this would not be the last time she would weep for her losses. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her safe against the world, to shield her from more harm, to heal the wounds caused by his brother whose foolishness he could understand but never condone. And then there was this charismatic man called Ben. Had she come up here to this room to find comfort in his workplace? How close had they been?

      The weeping was brought under control soon enough, followed by a whispered apology. He was quick to put her mind at rest. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. With her knuckles she wiped the tears from her face and pushed a strand of damp hair away into the thick plait that hung down her back, revealing the fine bones, the high cheeks and delicate ears, the delicious tilt of the nose and well-defined mouth, the graceful sweep of her throat and neck. Yesterday’s faded old clothes had been replaced by a plain bodice and skirt of dull rose pink over a white chemise, the lacy top of which could just be seen at the neckline. Santo thought of all the women who had wept in his presence, but could recall not one as exquisitely lovely as Aphra Betterton. ‘Do you know where we might look for a map of Sandrock?’ he said. ‘If we both knew exactly where the priory land lies and who rents it, we shall have the advantage of Master Pearce. Do you agree?’ For a moment, he thought she might insist on going it alone, that pride might get in the way of common sense, which would be a pity.

      Her eyes rested

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