Free The Girl Behind the Mask by Stella Knightley Page B

more I became convinced I was reading the writing of a real woman. Of course, the book was always touted as having been written by a real woman, but I don’t think anyone really believed it even at the time. After all, what kind of Venetian girl would have had the education and the freedom to even imagine such a thing as writing an erotic memoir? Despite the widespread debauch of the Carnevale, most young noblewomen in Venice prior to marriage were every bit as closeted as their counterparts in any other part of Europe.
    So, I turned detective and determined to find out the truth behind the scandal. I made a shortlist of possible candidates for the author. There were a couple of courtesans who might have fitted the bill. Certainly, they would have known all about the demi-monde the author describes. But would they have known about life in a less exotic household, such as that of a respectable merchant? And after years in the sex trade, would they have been able to summon up the innocence and naivety that gives the book its unique voice? Would they have had the time to get the words down?
    I came across Luciana Giordano when I discovered her letter to a cousin in a book on the voices of Venice. I had read just a couple of sentences when the thought came to me that I was hearing the same voice that narrated The Lover’s Lessons . The same phrases. No one is truly anonymous when they write. A sentence written down contains as many hallmarks of the author as a voice or a fingerprint. Luciana’s turn of phrase was so familiar to me. I determined to find out more.
    And that is what brings me to Venice and to your beautiful library. How fortunate for me that you have decided to let me inside. I thank you again for your generosity and hope that we will meet in person very soon.
    Yours sincerely . . .
     
    I pressed send and immediately worried that I had sent an email that would bore Donato so rigid, he would not only fail to reply, he would withdraw his kind invitation to let me use the library as often as I wished. Bea read the email. She told me I was worrying about nothing. Though she added, to tease me, ‘If that’s the kind of dull note you wrote him in the first place, he must have seen your photo online and fallen in love with you. It’s the only explanation for why he let you into the library and not me.’
    I told her I doubted it. To my knowledge, the only photo of me in existence online (apart from a rather blurred one taken at my sister’s wedding) was my official portrait on the university website, in which I looked like I’d been arrested for shoplifting. I was rather embarrassed about it. Because of that, I told myself Bea was being facetious. Subconsciously, however, the idea worked upon me. Why was I the first person to gain access to the library in so long? Was it just that Donato was interested in getting a free translation of the diaries?
     
    Later that day, I found myself typing his name into the Google search bar again. The search turned up the same pictures I had already seen, and goodness knows I had already studied them closely. But this time, I felt I could start to put a voice to the man in the photographs. We had shared just a handful of exchanges but he had already teased me a couple of times: first about responding to his email granting me permission to visit the library so quickly. Secondly about my appalling handwriting. Were those teases delivered with a sneer or a smile? His interest in my research certainly didn’t fit with my image of the playboy prince. Perhaps he was just being polite.
    I studied Donato’s face in a particular couple of photographs again. He was ridiculously handsome. He didn’t seem to have a bad angle. If he hadn’t been the scion of a wealthy family, he might easily have made a fortune by his looks alone. He was so much at ease in his body and his confidence was incredibly sexy. It radiated even from the still images on my screen. Combine that body with a family