The Padova Pearls. Lee Wilkinson
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dressed, a cream carnation in his buttonhole, and approached the little group.
Of medium height, he was a slim, elegant bachelor in his early fifties, an art connoisseur to his fingertips. His silvery hair worn slightly long, his pale blue eyes guileless, his air of bonhomie, all combined to disguise the fact that he was also a shrewd, hard-headed businessman.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.
‘Indeed there is. I am the Marquise d’Orsini, and this chit of a girl—’
He gave her a courteous little bow, stopping the threatening torrent of words. ‘And I’m David Renton, owner of A Volonté. If you and the Marquis would—’
‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ the other man broke in with grave politeness. ‘I’m not the Marquis. My name’s Stephen Haviland.’
So he wasn’t the Marquise’s husband after all. Sophia experienced such a rush of relief she felt almost giddy.
As the two men shook hands, his glance and his smile including the Marquise in his apology, David murmured smoothly, ‘I do beg your pardon.’
Obviously won over by his charm, she said, ‘Please do not apologize, Mr Renton. It was an easy mistake to make.’
‘You’re very forgiving. Now, if you and Mr Haviland would care to come through to my private suite, I’m sure we can sort things out to your satisfaction.’
As the Marquise flashed Sophia a look of malicious triumph, David continued avuncularly, ‘Will you please come too, Sophia, my dear?’
Sophia was aware that David had intended the ‘my dear’ to be both a statement and a subtle warning to the Marquise of where he himself stood.
Lifting a hand, he signalled to Joanna that the desk was unattended. Then, his smile pleasant, his manner affable, he turned to usher them through to his inner sanctum.
As Sophia made to follow, Stephen Haviland stood to one side to allow her to precede him.
With a murmur of thanks, she did so.
David’s sitting-room was quietly luxurious, with beautiful antique furniture, an Oriental carpet, two soft natural leather couches, a designer blind at the window and a small semicircular bar in one corner. Pictures, each worth a small fortune, lined the walls and fresh flowers scented the air.
Waving a well-manicured hand, David said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’
The Marquise settled herself on the nearest couch and, with an inviting glance at Stephen Haviland, patted the seat beside her.
‘Sophia, my dear, perhaps you’ll sit here?’ David suggested blandly.
Stephen Haviland remained standing until Sophia was seated on the other couch.
David produced a bottle of fine old sherry and four sparkling crystal glasses and, at his most urbane, asked, ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’
‘That would be very nice,’ the Marquise accepted graciously.
The sherry poured and handed out, David took a seat by Sophia’s side. ‘Now, how can I help?’
The Marquise had obviously read into David’s attitude towards Sophia what he had intended her to read and, instead of launching into a denunciation, she began carefully, ‘I am afraid your employee and I…how do you say…got off on the wrong feet. I made an error of judgement, for which I have already made my apologies…’
When he merely waited politely, she went on, ‘I took down one of the pictures, a miniature. I hoped to buy it, but I was told it was not for sale.’
‘May I ask which one?’
‘The catalogue described it as a Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’
‘I’m afraid that particular miniature forms part of our current exhibition and is merely on loan.’ As though to make it quite plain, he added, ‘It doesn’t belong to the gallery.’
‘Perhaps you can tell me who it does belong to?’
In response to David’s glance, Sophia said quietly, ‘It belongs to me.’
‘It belongs to you?’ the Marquise repeated after a moment as though doubting her ears.
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did you refuse to tell me who the sitter was and when it was painted?’ she demanded angrily.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know. My father painted the portrait many years ago, before I was born.’
‘Your father…Then you must be…’
‘Sophia Jordan,’ Sophia agreed.
The Marquise turned to Stephen and, in Italian, began, ‘Why didn’t you—?’ Seeing the unmistakable glint in his eye, she broke off abruptly.
For a moment or two there was silence, then, rallying, the Marquise addressed Sophia and, speaking English now, said earnestly, ‘Signorina Jordan, I would very much like to add the miniature to my collection. I am willing to pay well.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but, as I said earlier, it isn’t for sale.’
The Marquise bit her lip. ‘I know we have got off on the wrong feet, but—’
‘Believe me, it has nothing to do with that. My father’s paintings are precious to me and I have no intention of parting with any of them.’
Seeing how downcast she looked, Sophia felt almost sorry for this fiery-natured woman.
‘Perhaps you would care to see the miniatures that are for sale?’ David suggested. ‘There are some extremely fine ones, and two that are very like the portrait of a Venetian lady.’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Then is there anything else I can do for you?’
As she started to shake her head, Stephen Haviland said, ‘We’re flying back to Venice today…’
We’re flying back to Venice today…Did that mean he was living in Venice? Sophia wondered.
‘Which means we have to start for the airport shortly, but I would be grateful if you could spare just a few more minutes.’
‘Of course,’ David agreed politely. ‘In what way can I help?’
‘There’s a somewhat urgent matter I would like to discuss with you…’
Sophia rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should get back to the desk.’
‘Please don’t go, Miss Jordan,’ Stephen Haviland said. His grey eyes on her face, he added, ‘As what I’m about to ask particularly concerns you, your presence is essential.’
She resumed her seat, satisfied that this was merely a further attempt—on his part—to persuade her to sell the miniature.
Judging by the hopeful glance the Marquise gave him, she thought so too.
He put down his sherry glass and, his eyes on Sophia’s face and his long, well-shaped hands resting lightly on his knees, began, ‘I’ll endeavour to be as brief as possible while I put you in the picture.
‘When my aunt died earlier this year, she left me the Fortuna family home in Venice…’
He paused, almost as if he were expecting some reaction from her.
When she just waited quietly, he went on, ‘The Palazzo del Fortuna is a beautiful place but, with the decline of the family fortunes over the last couple of hundred years, unfortunately it has been somewhat neglected.
‘When my aunt discovered that one wing of the Palazzo was sinking and in urgent need of substantial structural repairs, she asked me for financial help, which I was more than willing to provide.
‘As