The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener. Sara Craven
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restored tapestries, furnished with groupings of superbly comfortable sofas and chairs, with a fireplace big enough to roast a fair-sized ox.
The long windows opened on to a broad terrace, and offered a beguiling view of the grounds beyond, including the walled garden where Cesare Damiano cultivated the roses that were his pride and joy.
But her host, Ellie learned, would not be joining the party until the following day.
‘My poor Cesare—a meeting in Geneva, and quite unavoidable,’ the Principessa lamented. ‘So tonight will be quite informal—just a reunion of dear friends.’
She turned to her other god-daughter, who was standing, her expression like stone. ‘Ciao, Silvia mia. Come stai?’
‘I am fine, thank you, Godmother.’ Silvia submitted rather sullenly to being kissed on both cheeks, causing Ellie to eye her narrowly.
She didn’t look fine, she thought. On the contrary, since she entered the house, Silvia appeared to be strung up on wires. Nor had it been lost on Ellie that, on their arrival, she had scanned almost fiercely the cars parked on the gravel sweep in front of the villa’s main entrance as if she was looking for one particular vehicle before sinking back in her seat, chewing at her lip.
‘And now there are people you must meet,’ the Principessa decreed, leading the way out on to the terrace.
An elderly lady, dressed in black, her white hair drawn into an elegant chignon, was seated at a table under a parasol, in conversation with a younger, plumper woman with a merry face, but they turned expectantly at the Principessa’s approach.
‘Contessa,’ she said. ‘And my dear Anna. May I present my god-daughters—the Signora Silvia Alberoni, and Signorina Elena Blake. Girls, allow me to make the Contessa Cosima Manzini and Signora Ciprianto known to you.’
The Contessa extended a be-ringed hand to both, murmuring that it was her pleasure. Her smile was gracious, but the eyes that studied Ellie were oddly shrewd, almost, she thought in bewilderment, as if she was being assessed in some way. If so, it was unlikely that her simple button-through dress in olive-green linen, and the plain silver studs in her ears would pass muster. And nor, she imagined, would her very ordinary looks.
The Contessa, by contrast, was not only dressed in great style, but her classic bone structure still suggested the beauty she must have been in her youth.
They took the seats they were offered, and accepted glasses of fresh lemonade, clinking with ice. Silvia seemed to have come out of sulky mode and was talking brightly about the journey, the warmth of the day, and the beauty of the gardens, her smile expansive, her hands moving gracefully to emphasise some point, while Contessa Manzini listened and nodded politely but without comment.
Under the cover of this vivacity, Ellie found herself being addressed quietly and kindly by Anna Ciprianto, and asked, with what seemed to be genuine interest, about her work at the Avortino company, so that she was able to overcome her usual shyness with strangers and chat back.
After a while, Lucrezia Damiano went off to greet more guests, a couple called Barzado, also middle-aged, the wife bright-eyed and talkative, whom she brought out to join the party.
So what on earth am I doing here? Ellie asked herself in renewed perplexity. And, even more to the point, what is Silvia?
On the surface, her cousin was brimming with effusive charm, the very picture of the lovely young wife of a successful man, but Ellie could see that her posture was betrayingly rigid, and the hands in her lap were clenched rather than folded.
I want to help, she thought, wondering why, when she and Silvia were together, she so often felt like the older one. But how can I—if she won’t talk to me—won’t tell me the problem?
And at that moment she saw the Contessa look down the terrace, a hand lifting to shade her eyes, as the faint austerity of her expression relaxed into warmth and pleasure.
‘Mio caro,’ she exclaimed. ‘Alla fine. At last.’
Ellie did not have to look round to see who was approaching, and whose tall shadow had fallen across the sunlit flagstones. Because one glance at Silvia, her eyes wide and intense, her natural colour fading to leave two spots of blusher visible on her cheekbones, suddenly told her everything she needed to know, making her realise at the same time that it was information she would far sooner have been without. And that all her concerns about this weekend were fully justified.
Nor did she need to wonder further about the whispers round the coffee machine, either in her workplace, or probably any other.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered under her breath, dry-mouthed with shock. ‘I don’t believe this. Silvia—you complete and utter fool.’
‘My dearest one.’ Count Angelo Manzini, contriving to look elegant in chinos and an open-necked white shirt, bent to kiss his grandmother’s hand, then her cheek. ‘Ladies.’ A brief, charming smile acknowledged everyone else at the table, but bestowed no special attention anywhere.
Ellie had the curious sensation that the air around them had begun to tingle, and hastily drank some more lemonade, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, as he pulled up a chair and joined the group.
In daylight and close up, he was even more formidable, she thought, taking a deep steadying breath, and wishing with all her heart that she was back in Rome. Or that Silvia was.
She wondered if she could invent some emergency to provide her with an excuse for leaving, only to remember, with a sinking heart, that she had inadvertently left her mobile phone on charge back at her apartment, and that any landline calls to the villa would be answered by Giovanni, the major domo, and relayed through the Principessa herself.
So it appeared she was stuck here for the duration.
Lucrezia was speaking. ‘My dear Count, I know you are acquainted with Signora Alberoni, but I believe you have not been introduced to her cousin, my other god-daughter, the Signorina Elena Blake.’
‘No, I have not had that pleasure. I am charmed, signorina.’
Ellie sat up with an alarmed jolt, forcing herself to look at him, and murmur something polite and meaningless in return. His mouth was unsmiling, but his dark gaze that met hers held a faint glint that might have been amusement. Or—equally—anger.
Though what he had to be angry about defeated her, she thought, glancing away, her own expression stony. After all, she was the one who’d been manipulated into providing cover for his affair with Silvia. But if he imagined she’d have come within miles of the Villa Rosa if she’d known the truth, then the glamorous Count Manzini could think again. And, she told herself almost grinding her teeth, if he actually thought it was funny …
As soon as she could do so, she excused herself on the grounds she needed to unpack and went indoors, feeling as if she’d escaped.
There was never any question about which room she’d be using. Since her first childhood visit, when she’d gazed entranced at the little tower, telling her amused godmother that it was like something out of a fairy tale, that had been where she’d slept.
But as she climbed the spiral staircase leading up to it from the little sitting room below, she reflected that, mercifully, the Principessa no longer teased her that she was waiting for some princely hero to leap up the other steep flight of exterior steps from the garden to the small balcony outside her window and carry her off.
On the contrary, in recent years, she’d come to regard the tower room in much the same light as the Casa Bianca—as something of a refuge, and probably it would never be more so than this time, she thought with a troubled sigh as she contemplated the afternoon’s developments.
Unlike Silvia, Ellie had only brought one small case, so her unpacking was soon completed, but she had no intention of returning to the terrace, even though it would probably be expected of her.
Instead, she used the tiny adjoining bathroom to shower away the stickiness of the journey,