The Padova Pearls

The thought made her feel as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

Even if he wasn’t, he was almost certainly her amante. There was no other way to explain the feeling of intimacy between them, the possessive touch of her hand on his sleeve, the way she was gazing up at him. Her voice soft, seductive, she begged, ‘Please tell me what I should do.’

‘I suggest you apologize to the signorina and return the painting.’

‘Apologize! But Stefano—’

‘It might be expedient,’ he told her.

After a moment or two of silence, she turned to Sophia and, handing her the miniature, said grudgingly in English, ‘I am sorry.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ Sophia assured her pleasantly, and even managed a smile.

Looking far from mollified, the Marquise said, ‘I understand that the artist is no longer living?’

‘No, unfortunately he died early in March.’

‘Perhaps you can tell me who the sitter was and precisely when it was painted?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

Glaring at Sophia, as if she were being deliberately obstructive, the Marquise ordered, ‘Then give me a catalogue, so I can look for myself.’

Handing her a catalogue, Sophia told her politely, ‘The miniature is listed on page twelve. You’ll find it just says, Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’

Throwing the catalogue angrily on to the desk, the Marquise said, ‘I have wasted enough time. I want to buy this picture and I—’

‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve already explained, it isn’t for sale.’

‘I have had more than enough of your impertinence…’

The man she had called Stefano put a warning hand on her arm but, too furious to heed it, she rushed on, ‘I insist on speaking to the owner of the gallery or someone in authority.’

‘Very well.’ Sophia picked up the phone and, when David’s voice answered, asked quietly, ‘Could you please come to the desk?’

Alerted by her tone, he asked, ‘Trouble?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Replacing the receiver, she braced herself for the storm she could see was about to burst.

‘You may well look apprehensive,’ the Marquise cried. ‘If you think you can treat me like this and get away with it, you are mistaken. I will make sure you lose your job and—’

‘That’s enough, Gina.’ The man by her side spoke with a quiet authority that brought the Marquise up short. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

After that first smile, Sophia had never looked directly at him, but she had been conscious of his presence. And, while the surface of her mind had been taken up with the Marquise, her whole being had been focused on him, aware of his steady regard, aware too of the unspoken empathy.

At that instant David appeared, immaculately 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 soon as the money was made available she brought in the builders, but as the work progressed it became clear that it was going to cost a great deal more than originally estimated…’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’ David murmured.

‘Too true,’ Stephen Haviland agreed. He added, ‘Luckily it wasn’t a problem, and the restoration was finished on time.

‘But, in order to have some spare money in hand for the ordinary day-to-day maintenance, and unwilling to accept any more help from me, my aunt made up her mind to sell some of the paintings which have been in the family for many generations.

‘Museums and art galleries worldwide and a number of rich private collectors expressed their interest, and she engaged an expert from Milan to examine the paintings in order to assess their value and condition, and also to do any cleaning and restoring that might prove to be necessary.

‘That done, she went on to plan a series of private viewings for the interested parties, but no sooner were all the arrangements in place than she became ill and died within quite a short space of time.

‘It was her stated wish that when I took over I should carry through the plans she had made. The first viewing is scheduled to take place in just over six weeks’ time…’

It was all very interesting, Sophia thought, but what had it to do with her?

With his next words, Stephen Haviland answered that unspoken question.

‘The expert my aunt engaged was due at the Palazzo on Monday to start getting the first batch of paintings ready. But just this morning I heard that he had been injured in a road accident and would be unable to fulfil his commitments. So I’m in urgent need of someone to step into his shoes.’

Turning to Sophia, he went on levelly, ‘When we were talking last night you mentioned that, as well as assessing their value, part of your job was cleaning and restoring old paintings…’

Though David never so much as batted an eyelid, Sophia could tell he was surprised to learn that they had met before.

‘If Mr Renton can spare you for a few weeks and you’re willing to come to Venice,’ Stephen Haviland went on, ‘you’re just the woman I need.’

The thought of keeping contact, of actually going to Venice to work for him, made excitement run through her veins like molten lava.

Catching sight of the dismay on the older woman’s face was like a douche of cold water.

‘What are you thinking of, Stefano?’ the Marquise said sharply. ‘Surely you could find someone closer to home?’

‘No doubt. But it would take time, and time is something I don’t have.’

Turning back to Sophia, he added, ‘I would be prepared to pay whatever salary you ask, and meet all your travelling expenses. You would, of course, stay at Ca’ Fortuna.

‘Have you ever been to Venice?’

She shook her head. ‘Though my mother was born at Mestre, I’ve never visited the area at all.’

‘In that case, this would be an excellent opportunity to combine business with pleasure.’

Then, addressing David, ‘As far as you’re concerned, Mr Renton, I’m willing to compensate you for losing Miss Jordan’s services by giving you first choice of the paintings at ten per cent less than their agreed market value.’

‘That’s very generous,’ David said slowly, ‘and for my part I have no objection to the plan, but of course it’s up to Sophia.’

‘Perhaps you would like a few minutes of privacy to discuss it?’ Stephen suggested.

‘An excellent idea,’ David said briskly. ‘If you and the Marquise would be kind enough to wait here? May I offer you more sherry?’

Having refilled their glasses, he led Sophia through to his office.

As they left the room she heard the Marquise—who since her previous outburst had been sitting still and silent—break into a flood of Italian.

‘You must be stark staring mad to consider bringing her to the Palazzo. What good can it possibly do? And it will be playing clean into the girl’s hands if she has any…’

The door closing behind them cut off the rest.

CHAPTER THREE

DAVID’S office, with its large imposing desk and state-of-the-art technology, was as businesslike as his sitting-room was sumptuous.

Waving Sophia to a black leather chair, he said, ‘Sit down, my dear.’

She obeyed, the hostile words she had just overheard still echoing in her ears. You must be stark raving mad to consider bringing her to the Palazzo…

The Marquise had said bringing rather than taking, which strongly suggested that the Palazzo del Fortuna was her home too. And what had she meant by, it will be playing clean into the girl’s hands?

Watching Sophia’s abstracted face, David perched on the edge of his desk. After a moment or two, he said, ‘Far be it for me to pry, but how long have you known Mr Haviland?’

She blinked before answering, ‘We met last night.’ Leaving out any of the deeper aspects, she briefly explained the circumstances. ‘He told me he was flying home today, so I really hadn’t expected to see him again.’

David could sense her reaction from the tone of her voice. ‘But you were pleased to?’

‘Yes.’ Sophia nodded shyly.

‘And the Marquise?’

‘Today is the first time we’ve met.’

‘I won’t ask you if you liked her,’ David said dryly. ‘Reading between the lines, I imagine she made herself quite unpleasant.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Sophia agreed.

‘So how do you feel about going to Venice?’

‘It’s something I’ve always dreamt of. Dad, who knew the city well, always said that one day we’d go. But somehow we never got there…’

‘Does that mean you’re considering accepting Haviland’s proposition?’

‘I’d very much like to…But I’m not sure.’

‘Because of the Marquise?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t need to come into contact with her,’ David said practically.

Sophia shook her head. ‘From the way she spoke about the Palazzo, I get the distinct impression that that’s where she lives.’

‘Even if she does, if you feel like taking the job, don’t let her put you off.’ David smiled, keen that Sophia make the choice that she wanted, without the influence of the Marquise.

‘She doesn’t want me there.’

‘Judging by what he’s prepared to offer, Haviland certainly does,’ David countered her argument. ‘And, if you don’t want to risk living under the same roof as the Marquise, you can always insist on staying at a hotel.’

When she said nothing, he asked shrewdly, ‘Something else bothering you?’

‘She’s very beautiful.’ Sophia made an effort not to sound wistful.

‘And married.’

‘Yes, I know, but…’

‘You still think that she and Haviland are rather more than just good friends?’

‘Don’t you?’ she countered.

‘It’s possible,’ David replied cautiously. ‘But, though they obviously know one another very well, from what I’ve seen of his attitude towards her, I tend to think not…’

David was a good judge of human nature, and his answer—combined with the thought that if Stephen and the Marquise were lovers, he would hardly have asked her out—made Sophia’s spirits rise.

‘In any case it’s really none of my business,’ David went on. ‘And it’s certainly not like you to worry about other people’s morals.’

Then, his glance sharpening, ‘Unless…Do I take it you’re seriously interested in him?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘If you don’t accept his offer, what are the chances of seeing him again?’

‘Nil, I imagine.’

‘You’ve been looking peaky lately. I think a complete break and some Italian sunshine is just what you need. You may come back feeling a new woman.’

‘And I may come back with a broken heart.’ She spoke the thought aloud.

David had known Sophia since she was a girl and was well aware that where men were concerned she tended to remain cool, unmoved, a veritable ice queen. Even after her engagement had ended, she had never spoken the words a broken heart.

Now, hiding his surprise that she should use them about a man she had only just met, he said firmly, ‘Then again, you may not.’

‘She’s a very beautiful woman,’ Sophia repeated.

‘So are you.’

Sophia, who had no great appreciation of her own looks, half shook her head.

‘Plus you have a lovely nature,’ David went on, ‘and in the long run it’s what’s underneath that really counts.’

Seriously, he added, ‘I’d like you to be happy, my dear, so if you feel Haviland may be the man for you, go and give this thing a chance.

‘Of course on closer acquaintance he may turn out to be so obnoxious you wouldn’t have him as a gift. But until you’re sure, then my advice is to ignore the Marquise and stay at the Palazzo, fight for him if you have to.’

Thinking of the other woman’s vivid beauty and voluptuous figure, Sophia said wryly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t see myself winning, and I don’t want to forfeit my self-respect.’

‘Knowing you, I’ve no fear of that. And if you don’t try, if you chicken out and stay at home, you’ll have lost anyway.’

‘You’re right, of course. But there’s a snag…’

‘What’s that?’

She made a self-deprecating moue. ‘I don’t know how to…Fight for a man, I mean.’

David laughed, as she had intended him to do. ‘Just be yourself. Now, shall we go back and give Haviland the good news? Oh, by the way, if you have any stipulations, don’t hesitate to say so.’

When they returned to the other room, the Marquise and Stephen Haviland, her gleaming black head and his blond one close together, were deep in a low-toned, earnest conversation.

If they weren’t lovers they were certainly very old and intimate friends, Sophia thought as, breaking off, Stephen rose to his feet and, his eyes on her face, asked evenly, ‘So what’s the verdict?’

Only too aware that the Marquise was going to be anything but pleased by her acceptance of the proposition, Sophia began, ‘I would be happy to come to Venice…’

He smiled at her and took her breath away.

Hearing David clear his throat, she added hastily, ‘On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘I would prefer to stay at a hotel rather than at the Palazzo del Fortuna.’ She hoped very much that he wouldn’t ask why.

He didn’t. ‘Certainly, if that’s what you want,’ he agreed. Then, crisply, ‘Can you be ready to travel by Monday afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation, ‘so long as I can get a flight.’

‘Though the Venetian tourist season is well under way, as you’ll be travelling mid-week there shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Now, would you like me to make the arrangements, or would you prefer to make them yourself?’

After a moment’s consideration, deciding she would prefer to have a free hand, she said, ‘I’ll make them, thank you.’

‘Have you any particular hotel in mind?’

She shook her head.

‘Then may I suggest you try the Tre Pozzi? Without being luxurious, it’s both comfortable and central…I presume you can speak Italian?’

‘Yes. My mother always spoke to me in Italian and for some years after her death my father carried on the practice.’

The Marquise looked momentarily discomposed, while Stephen Haviland nodded his approval, before saying, ‘I’ll give you the phone number.’ He produced a pen from his jacket pocket and, on a page torn from a small diary, jotted it down.

‘And this is my home number…When all the arrangements are in place and you know the time of your arrival, perhaps you’ll give me a ring?’

‘Of course.’

He held out his hand and, with a strange feeling of having irrevocably committed herself, she put hers into it.

It was the first time he had touched her and, as his strong fingers closed around her slender ones, every nerve in her body responded to that touch and her heart lurched crazily.

Even when his grip loosened, it was a moment or two before she was able to withdraw her hand.

Turning to David, he said, ‘Thank you for your time and for loaning me Miss Jordan. If you would like to come to Venice yourself and take a look at the paintings, you’re welcome to stay at Ca’ Fortuna.’

David murmured his thanks and the two men shook hands cordially.

The Marquise rose to her feet and held out her hand with a forced smile, ‘Thank you, and goodbye.’

Taking her proffered hand, David bowed over it. ‘May I wish you a pleasant journey home.’

Turning to Sophia, the Marquise said stiffly, ‘I’ll see you in Venice, Signorina Jordan.’

As David opened the door to escort them back to the gallery, his phone started to ring. Excusing himself, he went back to answer it, leaving Sophia to show them out.

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