Indiscretions (37 page)

India Haven was clever. Her energy and inventiveness were phenomenal. Her ideas had gone from merely the conversion of the palazzo—though God knows she’d done wonders with that—to suggestions for running the place and, most importantly, how to let the world know of the Palazzo di Montefiore’s existence. The palazzo was to have a dozen deluxe suites, and a dozen smaller suites on the third floor. The estate manager’s house, long un-used,
since there were no more “estates” to be managed, was to become a special private villa to be rented, fully staffed with maids, cooks, and a butler, at enormous expense, to those who demanded complete privacy. The great hall and the main reception rooms would stay very much as they were structurally, and India was working on the new decorating schemes that would brighten their faded charm and enhance their comfort. There was no doubt she was doing an excellent job, and with the sale of a considerable amount of the Palazzo’s furnishings, pictures, and bibelots, he should just about be able to cover the cost.

At India’s suggestion he had appointed a good PR company and contacted the Italian Tourist Authority, who were being extremely helpful, as were American Express and Thomas Cook, and most of the major airlines. The palazzo was already being mentioned in travel columns and airline magazines as the new place for the tourist who demanded that little bit extra. Straightening his tie in the mirror, Aldo prayed there were plenty of them. His brown eyes gazed back at him as he paused for a moment, thinking of those past Montefiores. All of them, except for Enzo, who had died in a duel in the Bois de Boulogne in the arms of a delicious blonde, had married for love. The Conti di Montefiore had always been known for their looks and for their charm—and their reputation as lovers. Not a single one had ever married for money. Well, thought Aldo, surveying his flattened nose with a grin, I don’t have the looks; I’m not sure about the charm; and as for the rest … He turned away from the mirror with a laugh.

The marble stairs were cracked at the edges, but Aldo knew where to avoid the worst bits as he ran down them and across the tiled hall to the small salon.

India was alone, leaning against the long window, gazing out into the garden. It had the dense greenness of
twilight, and with the lamp behind her she was like a painting by Renoir, all soft curves and delicate lines. But there was a touch of sadness on her face.

“India,” said Aldo gently. She spun around, startled. “You looked as though you were miles away—lost in sad thoughts.”

“I was thinking about my mother—missing her,” she replied. “I suppose it sounds silly for a grown woman to admit, but I do miss her. She was always there in the background, at the end of a telephone line, when we needed help.”

“Then is something the matter?” asked Aldo, concerned. “Perhaps I can help?”

“It’s not just me, I guess—it’s all three of us.” India managed a shaky laugh. “Jenny’s daughters don’t seem to be making a great success of life so far.” She thought of the letters she had had from Venetia, unhappy on a luxury yacht in Barbados, in love with the wrong man. But it was Paris who was worrying her most. “Our family problems seem to have begun with Jenny’s death and they get more complex as time goes on. Now Paris thinks she’s responsible for someone’s death and I just don’t know what she’s going to do.”

This sounds serious, thought Aldo, and she obviously needs to talk. He took her arm firmly.

“Let’s take a walk around the garden before dinner,” he suggested. “It’s so beautiful when the light is like this, and you can tell me all about Paris.”

Half hidden by the gathering darkness, India found Aldo easy to talk to. He listened without comment as she spilled their tales of disaster, from Jenny’s mysterious and unresolved death and the disappearance of her fortune to Paris’s disastrous fashion show, her guilt at losing the last of their money, and now the death of Stan Reubin.

“Paris told Stan that she was planning to take him to
court and that she’d get back our mother’s money. She practically accused him of stealing it! She said she would never go out to dinner with him at some smart restaurant, paid for with Jenny’s money. Stan went out to dinner anyway. And he died, Aldo. Right there in Lasserre. Now Paris thinks that he was so upset by what she’d said that she killed him. She says she was responsible and she’ll never be able to sleep again. I don’t know what to do about her, Aldo. I’m afraid. Paris is so volatile, so unpredictable, she’s capable of … of anything.…”

Aldo could guess what India meant by “anything”; she was afraid to put into words the possibility that her sister might kill herself.

“Paris shouldn’t be alone,” he said. “Is she with friends?”

“No. She’s at her studio. It’s really just a converted loft and she says now it’s full of bad memories.”

“India, why not invite her here? You know well enough that we’ve got plenty of rooms.”

India’s face lit up with pleasure and surprise. “Aldo, could I really do that?”

“Of course, I’d be delighted to have her here, and anyway, India …”

“Yes?”

“If she didn’t come here, then I know you would feel compelled to go to her. I prefer not to lose you … again.”

“To lose me?” The scent of jasmine was overwhelming in the dusky garden. Aldo bent closer to look into her dark eyes.

“I lost you once before. I’d only just met you and you ran away from me. I wouldn’t want that to happen twice.” Her mouth had been tempting him a dozen times and he couldn’t resist any longer. Aldo pulled her to him and kissed her, holding her close. India put her arms around his neck, lost in his kiss. She thought that the
sweet sound was in her head until she realized it was the bell from the house, summoning them to dinner. She could feel a tremor run through Aldo’s body as he held her closer, kissing her again, and she sighed as he released her at last, reluctantly.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since that first night,” said Aldo, dropping an extra kiss on the tip of her nose. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me why you ran away from me so abruptly?”

His arm was around her shoulders as they walked back to the house. India remembered clearly why she’d run away—because Marisa had made it clear he was to marry for money, a family duty, she’d said, and the Haven girls had no money. And because of Fabrizio. She reminded herself now of her resolve never to become a mistress again. She had no right to be kissing him, no right to be kissing any man who couldn’t count her as a part of his life and not merely as an extracurricular activity. Hadn’t she made that promise to herself? But no man who was prepared to marry just for money should be as nice as this one and, damn it, as attractive! I must have a gene missing, thought India as she paused on the terrace with Aldo’s arms around her again, a commonsense gene … but I do like it so much. How can a girl fall out of love with the wrong man and in love again with another so quickly?

India called Paris right after dinner. She was at home alone. She said she’d had a long day at Mitsoko’s and she was tired; she hadn’t felt like seeing anyone. India could sense her depression, though Paris didn’t complain. She protested at first when India suggested that she come to Italy: she couldn’t get away from work, she’d be in the way, India didn’t need her there hanging about.…

“Oh, but, Paris, I do,” replied India. “I do need you. Please come.”

In the end they didn’t know who needed whom most, but she was coming. She’d arrive by train that weekend.

The Contessa di Montefiore was seventy-two years old. She had buried two sons as well as her husband, and Aldo, her last remaining, and youngest, son was the light of her life. Aldo had always been a charmer, even with that broken nose that he had refused to have fixed, though his brothers had teased him about it. Tommaso, the eldest son, had been the most handsome of her boys; even as a baby he could melt hearts with those wide brown eyes, and later as a young man he’d wreaked havoc among the girls at university. Paolo was a year younger than Tommaso and he had followed in his brother’s footsteps. Though not as handsome, he had been attractive. Aldo had been born later in her life, when the other boys were already fifteen and sixteen years old, and he had come as something of a surprise to Paola and her husband. But how glad she had been to have him, a third boy, when the other two died in the car crash on the autostrada near Naples. It was ten years ago now, but she would never forget that day. It was worse even than when her husband died, because she had come to expect that, and though it saddened her, she could accept it as God’s will.

All she had left was Aldo, and she was getting older. Paola di Montefiore wanted grandchildren—the sooner the better. It was time Aldo got married. But to whom? Renata had been here quite a lot lately—that is, until India Haven came to stay with them. Paola wondered about that. She’d noticed the way he had looked at India at dinner tonight. It was all quite interesting and she supposed it would sort itself out. All she wanted was for Aldo to be happy. And to give her her grandchildren before she grew too old to appreciate them.

It would be a busy weekend. Renata was coming with
that maneuvering wife of Fabrizio’s. She couldn’t stand Marisa—but then she had never been able to stand Marisa’s mother either. The compensation was that Marisa was bringing her children and they would be a delight. And then India’s sister Paris would be arriving. Yes, it would be amusing to have the house full again, she must talk to the cook and plan a formal dinner for Saturday, and tell her to get extra help in from the village for the weekend. Now which rooms should she put them all in …?

Fabrizio was at the wheel of the big Chrysler station wagon with the children and the nanny and enough luggage for a family of twelve, while Marisa traveled with Renata in her little Mercedes.

“Let Fabrizio take the children.” Marisa laughed. “He always complains about not seeing enough of them. A few hours in a car and he’ll be happy to hand them over to their nurse.”

“But they’re sweet, Marisa, they’re really such good children,” protested Renata.

“Of course they are, but even the best children can turn into monsters after more than an hour in a car. You’ll learn, Renata, when you have children of your own. And that reminds me—try to spend some time with the Contessa this weekend. The old lady wants grandchildren, Renata—she would like nothing better than to have you as a daughter-in-law.”

“The question is, though—does Aldo want me as his wife?”

Marisa glared at her in exasperation. “Of course he wants you. It’s the perfect marriage, Renata.”

“What I mean is, does he want me or does he want my money?”

“What a question! Ask yourself what
you
want—Aldo or his title? Naturally, it’s a combination of both. And
why not? Marriage is a practical situation and it should be considered that way.”

“Really? Then why did you marry Fabrizio? He had no money and no title.”

Marisa smiled. “Clever girl. It’s quite simple. Fabrizio had what
I
needed, he was very handsome, very amusing, very social. He was an artist and I could help him along in the world. I’m a managing sort of person and he gave me a purpose.”

“Tell me the truth, though, Marisa. Were you in love with him, I mean really in love?”

Renata’s tone was wistful. Surely the silly girl couldn’t be thinking of giving up Aldo when she’d done all this work? This weekend was meant to be the climax. Aldo would ask Renata to marry him. She was certain of it. Marisa had made it plain the last time they met that Renata was his for the asking, and Aldo was a young man who knew where his duty lay. It would never do to admit that when she had married Fabrizio she had been carried away on a wave of passion that had left her helpless. Unfortunately her passion hadn’t lasted.

“We all love our husbands, Renata,” she said, “and we love our children. There are more important things in life than passion.”

Renata glanced sideways at her with a sly smile. “I see. I’ll keep that in mind, Marisa, this weekend.” She put her foot down on the gas, suddenly anxious to reach Marina di Montefiore.

India dashed down platform six of the big railway terminal in Naples, late as usual. The traffic had been hell in the city, but thank heavens, the train was also late. Paris, slender as a reed, chic in an old cream safari jacket from St. Laurent and with her short Japanese haircut, waited by a mound of baggage, clutching a wicker basket from which piteous meows emerged.

“India, I’m so happy to see you, you don’t know how much it means to me.”

Tearfully they clung to each other as the little white cat kept up its mournful refrain.

“Oh, by the way, this is Alice.” Paris displayed her cat, and India poked a finger into the basket and received a friendly purring rub. “She’s very bossy,” complained Paris. “She runs my life. I warn you, India, she sleeps on my bed and she eats proper food, none of this canned cat stuff. Alice is a person.”

India looked at the little blue-eyed cat and back at her sister.

“A substitute person,” she commented, taking the basket and beckoning a porter.

“She’s a friend,” admitted Paris, “one I was glad of. I’ve been so lonely, India.”

India tucked her arm into her sister’s.

“There’s no need to be lonely anymore,” she said firmly. “You’re here with me now. We can tell each other our problems and cry about them—or maybe laugh, whichever we feel like.”

“The trouble is, we’re too much like Jenny,” said Paris. “She couldn’t change our genes just by sending us away to school.”

Thinking of Aldo, India knew Paris was right.

The short, sturdy Neapolitan porter hefted Paris’s bags and wheeled them toward the exit where India was double-parked—as usual. There was no ticket today, though.

“It’s a good omen,” she exclaimed. “You see, Paris, the gods are with us at last!” She inspected her sister’s too-thin figure worriedly. “Listen, kid,” she said finally, “the food’s terrific at this place and you’re going to eat it
all—
every string of pasta, every sauce,
everything
. A few breakfasts at the Café-Bar Ricardi and I’ll soon have you in terrible shape!” They were laughing as India pulled the
car out of the traffic of Naples and headed south down the open road toward Marina di Montefiore.