The Undoing Of De Luca. Кейт Хьюит
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her malice. Larenz suppressed a sigh. Sometimes Amelie could be rather…obvious. He’d known her since his first days starting out in London, sixteen years old and an errand boy at a department store. She’d been working in the shop where Larenz bought sandwiches for the businessmen to eat at their board meetings. She’d cleaned up quite nicely, but she hadn’t really changed. Larenz doubted if anyone ever did.
‘You don’t,’ he commented after Ellery had walked swiftly out of the dining room, the green baize-covered door swinging shut behind her, ‘have to be quite so rude.’
Amelie shrugged. ‘She’s been arsey with me since I arrived. Looking down that prim little nose at me. Lady Muck thinks she’s better than anyone, but look at this hovel.’ She glanced contemptuously around the dining room with its tattered curtains and discoloured patches on the wall where there had surely once been original paintings. ‘Her father may have been a baron, but this place is a wreck.’
‘And yet you said it was spectacular,’ Larenz commented dryly. He took a sip of wine; despite the wreck of a house this manor appeared to be, the wine was a decidedly good vintage. ‘Why did you bring me here, Amelie?’
‘Spectacular was your word, not mine,’ Amelie returned swiftly. ‘It’s a mouldering wreck, there’s no denying it.’ She leaned forward. ‘That’s the point, Larenz. The contrast. It will be perfect for the launch of Marina.’
Larenz merely arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t quite see how a decrepit manor house was the appropriate place to launch the new line of haute couture that De Luca’s, his upmarket department store, had commissioned. But then perhaps this was why Amelie was his head of PR; she had vision.
He simply had determination.
‘Imagine it, Larenz, gorgeous gowns in jewel tones—they’ll stand out amazingly against all the musty gloom—a perfect backdrop, the juxtaposition of old and new, past and future, where fashion has been and where it’s going—’
‘It all sounds rather artistic,’ Larenz murmured. He had no real interest in the artistry of a photo shoot; he simply wanted the line to succeed. And, since he was backing it, it would.
‘It’ll be amazing,’ Amelie promised, her Botoxed face actually showing signs of animation. ‘Trust me.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ Larenz replied lightly. ‘But did we have to sleep here?’
Amelie laughed lightly. ‘Poor Larenz, having to rough it for a night.’ She clucked. ‘How will you manage?’ Her smile turned coy. ‘Of course, I know a way we could both be more comfortable—’
‘Not a chance, Amelie,’ he replied dryly. Every once in a while, Amelie attempted to get him into bed. Larenz knew better than to ever mix business and pleasure, and he could tell Amelie’s attempt was half-hearted at best. Amelie was one of the few people who had known him when he was a young nobody; it was one of the reasons he allowed her so much licence. Yet even she knew not to get too close, not to push too hard. No one—and in particular no woman—was allowed those kinds of privileges. Ever. A night, a week, sometimes a little more, was all he allowed his lovers.
Yet, Larenz acknowledged with some amusement, here was Amelie thinking they might get up to something amidst all this mould and rot. The thought was appalling, although…
Larenz’s glance slid back to Lady Maddock. She’d returned to the dining room, her lovely face devoid of any make-up or expression, a glass of wine in one hand and a litre of vinegar in the other. She carefully placed the glass in front of Amelie and then, with a murmur of apology, knelt on the floor again and began to dab at the stain. The stinging smell of vinegar wafted up towards Larenz, destroying any possible enjoyment of the remainder of his soup.
Amelie hissed in annoyance. ‘Can’t you do that a bit later?’ she asked, making a big show of having to move her legs out of the way while Ellery scrubbed at the stain. ‘We’re trying to eat.’
Ellery looked up; the vigorous scrubbing had pinkened her cheeks and her eyes now had a definite steely glint.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Weyton,’ she said evenly, not sounding apologetic at all, ‘but if the stain sets in I’ll never get it out.’
Amelie made a show of inspecting the worn carpet. ‘I hardly think this old thing is worth saving,’ she commented dryly. ‘It’s practically rags already.’
Ellery’s flush deepened. ‘This carpet,’ she returned with icy politeness, ‘is a nearly three-hundred-year-old original Aubusson. I have to disagree with you. It’s most certainly worth saving.’
‘Not like some of the other things in this place, I suppose?’ Amelie returned, her gaze moving rather pointedly to the empty patches on the wall, the wallpaper several shades darker there than anywhere else.
If it was possible, Ellery’s flush deepened even more. She looked, Larenz thought, magnificent. He’d first thought her a timid little mouse but now he saw she had courage and pride. His lips curved. Not that she had much to be proud about, but she certainly was beautiful.
She rose from her place at their feet in one graceful movement, retrieving the bottle of vinegar and tucking the dirty cloth back into the pocket of her apron.
‘Excuse me,’ she said stiffly and walked quickly from the room.
‘Bitch,’ Amelie said, almost idly, and Larenz felt a little flash of disappointment that she had gone.
Ellery’s hands shook as she rinsed out the rag and returned the vinegar to the larder. Rage coursed through her, and she clenched her hands into fists at her sides, pacing the huge kitchen several times as she took in great cleansing breaths in an attempt to calm her fury.
She’d handled that badly; those two were her guests. It was so hard to remember that, to accept their snide jibes and careless remarks. They thought paying a few hundred pounds gave them the right, yet Ellery knew it did not. They gave mere money while she gave her life, her very blood, to this place. And she couldn’t bear to have it talked about the way that callous crane of a woman had, wrinkling her nose at the carpets and curtains; Ellery knew they were threadbare but that didn’t make them any less precious to her.
She’d disliked Amelie Weyton from the moment she’d driven up the Manor’s long sweeping drive that afternoon. She’d been at the wheel of a tiny toy of a convertible and had gone too fast so the gravel had sprayed all over the grass and deep ruts had been left in the soft rain-dampened ground. Ellery had said nothing, knowing she couldn’t risk losing Amelie as her customer; she’d rented out the manor house for the weekend and the five hundred pounds was desperately needed.
Only that morning the repair man had told her the kitchen boiler was on its very last legs and a new one would cost three thousand pounds.
Ellery had swayed in horror. Three thousand pounds? She hadn’t earned that kind of money, even with several months at her part-time teaching job in the nearby village. Yet the news should hardly surprise her for, from the moment she’d taken over the running of her ancestral home six months ago, there had been one calamity after another. Maddock Manor was no more than a wreck on its way to near certain ruin.
The best Ellery could do was slow its inevitable decline. Yet she didn’t like thinking like this, couldn’t think like this, not when holding on to the Manor sometimes felt akin to holding on to herself, the only way she could, even if only for a little while.
Most of the time she was able to push such fears away. She focused on the pressing practical concerns, which were certainly enough to keep both her mind and body occupied.
And so Ellery had kept her focus on that much-needed boiler as Amelie had strolled through the house as if she owned the place.
‘This place really is a disaster,’ she’d said, dropping her expensive faux-fur coat on one chair; it slithered to the floor and she glanced pointedly at Ellery to pick it up. Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Ellery had done so. ‘Larenz is going to