‘But it felt as bad.’ She shuddered. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think properly. I realise now why people confess to things they haven’t done.’ She frowned darkly. ‘And there was that wretched Guido Bartaldi behaving as if he owned the police station.’
‘Well,’ Violetta said with a tolerant shrug. ‘He is a great man in this region. His family have been here since the quattrocento.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You realise, of course, who he is?’
‘He’s a marquis,’ Clare said wearily. ‘That was made more than clear.’
‘Not just that.’ Violetta spread her hands dramatically. ‘Even you, carissima, who takes no interest in such things, must have heard of Bartaldi’s, the great jewellers.’
‘My God,’ Clare said slowly. ‘So that’s why the name seemed familiar. It just never occurred to me…’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I didn’t expect to find an aristocrat running a jewellery business. Isn’t it a little beneath him—that type of thing?’
‘It is not merely a business, cara.’ Violetta sounded shocked. ‘With the Bartaldis, the working of gold and precious stones has become an art form. It all began in the sixteenth century.’
She shrugged again. ‘There was a younger son—the black sheep, I suppose, of the family. He was sent into exile by his father, after a quarrel, and rather than starve he became apprenticed to one of the great goldsmiths of Siena. He had a flair for design, an eye for beauty and consummate taste, all of which he passed down to future generations. Eventually, he married his master’s daughter, and bought his business.’
‘And a shrewd eye for the main chance,’ Clare said drily. ‘He seems to have passed that on too.’
‘And when the main branch of the family became weakened, and died out,’ Violetta went on, ‘his descendants took over the title and estates.’
‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ Clare muttered.
‘And it is not just gold and jewellery now, you understand, although they remain one of the most prestigious companies in the world. Guido Bartaldi has recently diversified and opened a chain of boutiques selling the most exquisite leather goods, and scent to die for.’ She sighed joyously. ‘His “Tentazione” is quite heavenly.’
And naturally he’d have to call it ‘Temptation’, Clare thought sourly. Named for himself, no doubt.
She said drily, ‘I imagine the price will be equally celestial. I remember now—I saw the shop in Rome when it first opened. The window display was one white satin chair, with a long black kid glove draped over it, and a red rose on the floor. The ladies who shop were treading on each other to get in there.’
‘Hoping that Bartaldi would be there in person, no doubt.’ Violetta’s smile was cat-like. ‘He is not exactly handsome, I think, but so attractive, like il diavolo. And still a bachelor.’
‘But not for much longer.’ Clare carefully selected another cake. ‘He’s going to marry his ward, poor little soul.’
‘You pity her?’ Violetta shook her head. ‘Few women would agree, mia cara.’
Clare gave her a straight look. ‘She doesn’t want him, Violetta.’
‘Then she is crazy.’ Her godmother poured more coffee. ‘It is one thing for a man to be successful and fabulously wealthy. Per Dio, one could almost say it was enough. But when he also has sex appeal—such formidable attrazione del sesso—then he is irresistible.’ She winked. ‘And the little Paola will not resist long, I think. Not when he has her in his bed.’
Clare found she was putting down her cake, not only uneaten, but suddenly unwanted.
She said, ‘According to Paola, he has a mistress in Siena.’
‘Which proves only that he is very much a man,’ Violetta said comfortably. ‘Do not be prim, carissima. It does not become you. And all will change when he marries—for a while at least,’ she added with charming cynicism.
‘But if so many other women want him,’ Clare persisted. ‘Why choose one who doesn’t?’
‘Who can say? Possibly because she is young and malleable, and comes from good breeding stock. No doubt he wishes for children. And the girl will be a Marchesa. It is a good bargain.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t suit me,’ Clare said with sudden fierceness. She got to her feet. ‘Darling, would you mind very much if I had a rest before dinner? I—I’ve got rather a headache. All the stress, I suppose.’
‘Poor little one.’ Violetta’s sympathy was instant and genuine. ‘And I have been bothering you with my chatter. Go and lie down, mia cara, and I will tell Angelina to bring you some of my special drops. Your headache will be gone in no time.’
Her headache, perhaps, Clare thought, as she went slowly up the curving marble staircase. But she was totally unsure what to do about the painful feeling of emptiness which had assailed her with incredible and inexplicable suddenness.
Except, she thought wearily, pretend, for all she was worth, that it didn’t exist.
But it was not to be dismissed so easily. It was there, within her, like a great aching void.
And, as she lay on the bed, staring up at the ornately gilded ceiling fan revolving slowly above her, she was also unable to close her mind against the image of Guido Bartaldi’s eyes burning into hers like a dark flame. Or the caress of his voice saying ‘Chiara’.
And that, she thought, was infinitely worse.
THE headache drops which Angelina had duly brought must have done the trick, because Clare found she had been able to sleep a little, and woke feeling calmer and more composed.
A long, scented soak in a warm tub helped restore her equilibrium still further. Afterwards there was the usual array of body lotion, eau de toilette, and scents in the personalised crystal flasks that Violetta favoured.
Clare uncapped the body lotion, sniffing it luxuriously, then smoothing it into her skin with sensuous pleasure, breathing in the aroma that the warmth of her body released.
Usually she chose very light fragrances, but this one was different—almost exotic with its rich, seductive tones of lily and jasmine. But a little sophistication might make her feel better, she thought.
As she dressed, Clare reviewed with satisfaction the hours ahead. Unless guests had been invited, the evenings invariably followed the same pattern.
First, she would join Violetta for an aperitivo on the rose terrace which gave the villa its name. Then they would indulge themselves with one of Angelina’s long, delicious dinners. Afterwards, the lamps would be lit in the salone, and they would listen to music and chat while Violetta stitched her petit point.
She sighed happily, and skimmed through the clothes she’d brought with her. Her godmother enjoyed investing her evenings with certain formality, so she passed over her casual shirts and skirts, opting for one of her newer acquisitions, a simple ankle-length dress, with short sleeves and a vee neckline, in a silky crêpe fabric. Its deep ruby colour emphasised the paleness of her hair, and gave added warmth to the cream of her skin.
One of my better buys, she thought with satisfaction, taking a long and critical look at herself as she turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror.
She darkened her long lashes with mascara, and touched a dark rose colour to her mouth before she went down.
As she walked across the salone to the long glass doors which gave access to the terrace, she heard Violetta’s