Flora glanced at the still figure by the window, with the busy, destructive hands. She said softly, ‘Only his fidanzata preferred another man.’
The Contessa reared up like a cobra preparing to strike. ‘Like you, poor child, she was seduced—betrayed by passion. And because of this she ruined her life. Threw away her chance of true happiness.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Flora stood her ground. ‘But I don’t see how this concerns me. I’d really like to go home now.’
‘Home?’ The plucked brows rose austerely. ‘Is that how you regard the castello? You are presumptuous, signorina.’
Flora bit her lip. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’
There was a silence, then the Contessa said, ‘Be so good as to tell us how you met my godson.’
‘We happened to have lunch in the same restaurant,’ Flora admitted reluctantly. ‘As I was leaving someone tried to snatch my bag, and Marco—came to my rescue.’
‘Ah,’ said the Contessa. ‘Then that, at least, went as planned.’
Flora stared at her. ‘Planned? What are you talking about?’
‘Yes.’ The Contessa’s voice was meditative. ‘I am afraid you are quite dense. You see, it was not by chance that you encountered Marco that day. He followed you to the restaurant and staged that little comedy afterwards.’ She leaned forward, the cold eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Do you know why?’
Flora found suddenly that she couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in her chest. She was aware of Tonio’s gloating smile. Of the haggard face of the girl by the window, who had turned and was watching her now, the dark eyes burning like live coals.
‘Now, tell me, signorina, what your fidanzato said when he found you with Marco at that hotel? He must have been very angry. Did he try to hit him—make a terrible scene?’
Numbly, Flora shook her head.
‘And did that not seem strange—a man you had promised to marry simply allowing a stranger to steal you from him without protest? A stranger who had offered him such a terrible insult?’
‘I—I expect he had his reasons.’ Flora did not recognise her own voice.
‘Yes—he had reasons.’ The girl by the window spoke for the first time. Moving stiffly, she walked across the room towards Flora, who forced herself to remain where she was when every instinct was screaming at her to run. ‘Shall I tell you what they were?’ she went on. ‘Shall I explain that as soon as he saw Marco—heard his name—he knew exactly who he was, and why he was there. And he turned away in shame.’
She drew a deep shaking breath. ‘Because Cristoforo is a man without truth—without honour.’
Flora had been hanging on to her sangfroid by her fingertips, anyway, but now she felt it crumble away completely.
She was stumbling, suddenly, through some bleak wilderness. Her voice seemed to come from a far distance. ‘You—know Chris?’
The girl threw back her head. ‘He did not tell you about me? I knew he would not—the fool—the coward.’ She spat the words, and in spite of herself Flora recoiled a step. ‘He did not tell you that we met in the Bahamas, on vacation—that from the moment we saw each other nothing and no one else mattered? That we were lovers—and more than lovers. Because I laid my whole life at his feet.’
Her voice shook with frantic emotion. ‘I believed he felt as I did, that we would be together always. He—made me believe that—but he lied. On our last night together—when I offered to return to London with him and confront you with the truth that he no longer cared for you—he pretended surprise. He even laughed. He said that he had no intention of breaking his engagement to you because you suited him, and he did not want a wife who would make too many demands.’
Her shrill laugh was edged with hysteria. ‘He said what we had shared was only a diversion—a little holiday romance—and that he regretted it if I—I, Ottavia Baressi—had taken it too seriously.’
She shook her head. ‘He was so cruel—cruel beyond belief. He said that the best I could do was forget everything that had passed between us and return to my own fidanzato. Get on with my life, as he meant to do—with you.’
She wrapped her arms tightly round her body. ‘And when, later, I tried to telephone him in London—to speak to him—to reason with him—he did not want to talk to me.’
Flora said carefully, ‘But why should you want to do that? When he’d made his position so clear? Why didn’t you put him behind you and try and make your—your engagement work?’
‘Because I found I was expecting his child. I thought if he knew that, then he might change—realise that we belonged together.’
Flora felt as if she’d been poleaxed. ‘You—were going to have a baby? Then he must have said something.’
All this, she thought, had been going on, and she’d suspected nothing—nothing…
‘He was so angry. He shouted at me—called me a liar, and other bad names. Said that I was a sciattona—a slut—who slept with any man, and that there was no proof that it was his baby. That he wasn’t a fool, and he would fight me in court, if necessary, and make a big scandal. Then he laughed and said, “Or you could always blame Signor Valante and bring the wedding day forward.”’
She shuddered. ‘He thought I would do that—add to the dishonour I had brought to my family—and to Marco. That was when I knew I would be revenged on him. That I would hurt him and ruin his life, as he had done to me. And, because he had left me to go back to you, I decided you should also know what it is to be betrayed and deserted by a man who has pretended to love you.’
Flora’s hands turned into fists, her nails scoring the soft palms as she fought for her last remnants of control.
Her voice was small and cold. ‘And—Marco agreed to this? I don’t believe you.’
Ottavia’s eyes glinted with savage satisfaction. ‘No. Just as I did not believe that Cristoforo would ever leave me. We were both wrong, signorina. And Mamma is, after all, Marco’s madrina. In Italy that means a great deal. She made him see that it was his duty to avenge me—and his honour also. And that Cristoforo should know what had been done—and why.’ She shrugged almost triumphantly. ‘So—he came to find you, Flora Graham. And the rest you know.’
Flora’s legs felt so weak she was terrified that they would betray her, and she would end up on the floor at Ottavia’s feet. She said, ‘You had your revenge, Signorina Baressi, as I’m sure Marco reported to you. Was it really necessary to tell me all this?’
‘Yes,’ Ottavia threw at her. ‘Because Marco was supposed to leave you in London, to count the cost of your lust and stupidity. Instead he brought you here, to his home. And you were not given a guest suite, like any of his other whores. No—you must sleep with him in his own room—in the bed where he was born—and his father and grandfather before him. The place where I, as his wife, should have slept. Ninetta, who used to work for Mamma, has told us everything. No one at San Silvestro can believe he would do such a thing. It has outraged everyone.
‘And, now, while he is away, you give orders as if you were the mistress of the house, instead of just his fancy woman—for whom his fancy seems to be waning. If it ever existed at all,’ she added contemptuously.
Flora was shaking so violently inside she thought she would fall to pieces, but she couldn’t allow that to happen. Not here. Not yet.
She even managed a note of defiance. ‘Why else would I be here?’
The Contessa shrugged. ‘Maybe he pities you. Or else is grateful for your unstinting co-operation,’ she added with cold mockery. ‘Certainly your willingness to share