“Why? He is surely not in love with you?”
“Certainly not,” she answered, laughing at such an idea. “His object was not jealousy.”
“Then he is actually my enemy?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Avoid him. If you desire to return to England with me, I will allow you to do so with one stipulation. The moment we set foot in London we must part. If it were known that we were together, all my plans would be frustrated.”
“And I am to leave you to the mercy of these mysterious enemies of yours?” he observed dubiously.
“It is imperative. You must leave London instantly and go away into the country. Malvano must not know that you are in England. Go to your uncle’s in Berkshire, and wait there until I can with safety communicate with you.”
“But all this is extraordinary,” he said mystified, taking from her hand the glass of wine she had poured out for him. “I must confess myself still puzzled at finding you mistress of his magnificent palace, and yet existing in deadly fear of mysterious enemies.” He knew nothing of her connexion with the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and only regarded her as a wealthy woman whose caprice it had been to masquerade, and who had earned a wide reputation for gaiety and recklessness.
“Some day, before long, you shall know the whole truth, Nino,” she assured him in deep earnestness.
“When you do, you will be amazed—astounded, as others will be. I know I act strangely, without any apparent motive. I know you have heard evil of me on every hand, yet you still trust me,” and again she looked into his eyes; “yet you still love me.”
“Yes, piccina,” he answered, calling her once again by that endearing term she had taught him in those summer days beside the sea when he knew so little Italian and experienced such difficulty in speaking to her. “Yes,” he said, placing his arm tenderly round her waist, “I trust you, although evil tongues everywhere try to wound you.”