The Sicilian Duke's Demand. Madeleine Ker
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your own work paid, Isobel?’ he asked softly. ‘Sometimes my job calls for me to become a kind of search-and-rescue agency for orphaned treasures. You’re quite right to say that many other dealers won’t touch this stuff. That’s not because of their high ethics, dear heart. It’s because they’re too afraid of tarnishing their haloes.’
‘I don’t see a halo over your head,’ she retorted.
‘Quite right,’ he said seraphically. ‘My reputation is hopelessly blemished. I really don’t give a damn. In fact, in my business, it is a distinct advantage to be thought of as a scoundrel. It’s the perfect entrée for certain kinds of dealer.’ He grinned at her wickedly. She had never seen such perfect teeth. ‘And I don’t always make a profit. Sometimes my virtue is its own reward.’
The arrival of the main course, a magnificent roast, forestalled her reply. Alessandro carved the joint expertly, his razor-sharp carving knife sliding through the juicy meat.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘if I don’t make sure those treasures end up in the world’s top institutions, they disappear for ever. The British Museum pieces, for example, are exquisite carvings in marble, a notoriously fragile material. The military gentlemen who were selling them had the bright idea to break them up and sell the fragments piecemeal. A head here, an arm there. You understand? They hoped to double their investment that way.’ He laughed heartily at their expressions. ‘I was in a position to dissuade them from this path and make sure the pieces reached the museum intact. Wouldn’t you say that history owes me a debt?’
‘Is that a true story?’ David asked. There was a grudging smile on his thin face and Isobel realized with a flash of real annoyance that even David was falling prey to this man’s monumental charm.
‘Absolutely,’ Alessandro said silkily as succulent slices of meat made their way onto Sèvres plates. ‘And I have stories better than that, believe me.’
And he proceeded, as Isobel sat in a seething silence, to tell two more. Tall tales, in which he himself emerged as the reluctant hero from hair-raising deals with looters or international smugglers. And the other three sat there with wide eyes, drinking all this rubbish in!
Could her colleagues be such idiots? Wasn’t anyone going to challenge these ridiculous tales of his? At last she couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Don’t morals come into any of this?’ she demanded icily. ‘Don’t you care who you deal with?’
He turned to her, deep blue eyes meeting hers. ‘Not in the slightest,’ he said with a velvety smile. ‘I believe that the end justifies the means, every time. A single good deed is worth all the good intentions in the world. You’re shaking that glorious head. You disagree?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ she snapped. ‘Without morals, you’re just a thief.’
‘I have been called many worse things,’ he said, without turning a jet-black hair. ‘But you live in the realms of theory, my dear Isobel. Let me give you a real-life case. A man calls you to say that he has been with guerrilla tribesmen in a remote area of a war-torn country. While hiding in a cave, the guerrillas have turned up a cache of scrolls, thousands of years old. Manuscripts of great historical value. These gentlemen are anxious to sell the scrolls. He names a figure. You happen to know a world-class museum willing to pay that price. What do you do?’
‘Walk away,’ she shot back at him without hesitation. ‘Of course.’
‘And save your soul?’
‘And save my soul.’
His nostrils flared. ‘Really? But supposing you know that if you walk away, these manuscripts will immediately be offered to an unscrupulous merchant.’ His mouth turned down in disgust. ‘A man who will chop up the scrolls so that he can sell the pages one by one to buyers all over the world—thus destroying the sense of the scrolls so that nobody will ever be able to piece together their true significance. So that a piece of history is mangled for ever.’ His lids lowered lazily. ‘Have you really saved your soul? Or have you lost it?’
‘But as long as there are men like you around,’ David Franks put in, ‘art treasures will continue to be looted.’
‘Now that is just nonsense,’ Alessandro said with a smile. ‘Looting is part of the human condition. I know perfectly well that if someone puts a bullet through my brain—and not too long ago, some gentlemen were most eager to do exactly that—it would make not one iota of difference to the looting of artworks. But it might make a difference to how many of those looted artworks wind up in responsible hands.’
‘How long are you going to be staying here?’ Isobel asked abruptly.
He seemed amused. ‘This is where I live. I’m home.’
‘So you’re not planning to go off on some search-and-rescue mission in the near future?’
‘Not unless duty calls. I’m looking forward to observing your work on the wreck.’
Isobel’s jaw tightened ominously. What a terrible prospect!
‘This meat is delicious,’ Antonio said diplomatically. As the local representative of the Beni Culturali, the authorities in charge of cultural assets, he was probably uncomfortable at having such a notable patron of the arts challenged in this way.
‘Do you all know Sicily well?’ Alessandro asked.
‘Theo and I have been many times on various digs,’ David replied. ‘It’s Isobel’s first visit.’
‘Indeed!’ His dark brows rose. ‘I hope you’ve had a chance to visit our incomparable treasures? Agrigentum, Syracuse, the exquisite temples at Selinunte and Segesta?’
‘I’m familiar with those sites on a theoretical level,’ she replied sullenly. ‘I hope to be able to make some visits before I go back to New York. But right now, there’s a lot of work to do.’
‘My dear Isobel,’ he said compellingly, ‘nobody can understand a site like Segesta ‘‘on a theoretical level’’. You have to go there to understand. It will be my privilege to escort you as soon as there is a break in your busy schedule.’
Her mouth opened to tell him to shove it, but she caught David’s warning eye and managed, for once, to control her tongue. But nothing on earth, she told herself firmly, would persuade her to go on any guided tour with Alessandro Mandalà!
The conversation slipped into less controversial channels and it became a happy, animated meal. Except, that was, for Isobel, who could hardly eat a mouthful of the delicious food for the ball of anger in her stomach. She’d already had a taste of the Duke of Mandalà’s morality that morning.
He could have told her who he was out there at the wreck. Instead, he had preferred to make a fool of her, terrify her, then force his odious attentions on her. Some joke. And now here he was, charming the birds out of the trees, favouring them all with his opinions on morality!
The meal drew to a close with exquisite Sicilian cassata ice cream and liqueurs. Their host suggested brandy and cigars on the terrace, to which the men readily assented.
Isobel rose abruptly. ‘I don’t care for the smell of cigar smoke in my hair,’ she said. ‘And I’ve had a long day. I hope you’ll all excuse me if I go to bed early.’
‘But this is devastating,’ Alessandro said, laying his hand on his heart. ‘The golden moon sets and the night is left bereft.’
‘Like I said, it’s been a tough one,’ she replied frostily.
‘Can I beg one favour before you go?’ he asked, rising to tower over her. ‘Show me the artefacts you have recovered from the wreck.’
‘I—’
‘The gentleman need not bother themselves,’ he purred. ‘Go to the terrace, my friends. Turi will serve you with cigars and cognac and I will join you in a moment. But I must see these