Czytaj książkę: «The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize»

CHAPTER TWO

“THERE IS A man at the door, here to see Queen Lucia.”

Princess Gabriella looked up from the book she was reading and frowned. She was in the library, perched on a velvet chair that she privately thought of as a tuffet, because it was overstuffed, with little buttons spaced evenly over the cushion, and it just looked like the word sounded.

She hadn’t expected an interruption. Most of the household staff knew to leave her be when she was in the library.

She pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, untucking her legs out from underneath her bottom and stretching them out in front of her. “I see. And why exactly does this man think he can show up unannounced and gain an audience with the queen?”

She slipped her glasses back onto her face and planted her feet firmly on the ground, her hands resting on her knees as she waited for a response.

“He is Alessandro Di Sione. An American businessman. And he says he is here to see about...to see about The Lost Love.”

Gabriella shot to her feet, all of the blood rushing to her head. She pitched sideways, then steadied herself, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” asked the servant, Lani.

“Fine,” Gabriella said, waving her hand. “The Lost Love? He’s looking for the painting?”

“I don’t know anything about a painting, Princess.”

“I do,” Gabriella said, wishing she had her journal on hand so she could leaf through it. “I know plenty about it. Except for whether or not it actually exists.”

She had never outright asked her grandmother about it. The older woman was loving, but reserved, and the rumors about the painting were anything but. She could hardly imagine her grandmother engaging in the scandalous behavior required for The Lost Love to exist...and yet. And yet she had always wondered.

“Forgive me, but it seems as though knowing whether or not something exists would be the most essential piece of information to have on it.”

“Not in my world.”

When it came to researching genealogical mysteries, Gabriella knew that the possibility of something was extremely important. It was the starting point. Sometimes, collecting information through legend was the key to discovering whether or not something was real. And often times, confirming the existence of something was the final step in the process, not the first.

When it came to establishing the facts of her family’s banishment from Isolo D’Oro, legend, folktales and rumor were usually the beginning of every major breakthrough. In fact, her experience with such things was leading her to odd conclusions regarding yetis and the Loch Ness monster. After all, if multiple cultures had rumors about similar beasts, it was logical to conclude that such a thing must have a grain of truth.

But until she was able to sift through the facts and fictions of her familial heritage, she would leave cryptozoology for other people.

“What should I do with our visitor, ma’am?”

Gabriella tapped her chin. She was inclined to have their visitor told that she and her grandmother were Not at Home, in the Regency England sense of the phrase. But he knew about The Lost Love. She was curious what exactly he knew about it. Though she didn’t want to confirm the existence of it to a total stranger. Particularly when she hadn’t established the existence of it in all certainty to herself.

She had to figure out what his game was. If this was just a scammer of some sort determined to make a profit off an elderly woman—and that was likely the case—then Gabriella would have to make sure he was never given entry.

“I will speak to him. There is no sense in bothering the queen. She is taking tea in the morning room and I don’t wish to disturb her.”

Gabriella brushed past the servant, and headed out of the library, down the richly carpeted hall, her feet sinking into the lush, burgundy pile. She realized then that going to greet a total stranger with bare feet was not the most princess-like act. She did quite well playing her part in public. A lifetime of training made a few hours of serene smiling and waving second nature. But when she was home, here in the wonderful, isolated estate in Aceena, she shut her manners, along with her designer gowns, away. Then unwound her hair from the tight coil she wore it in when she was allowing herself to be trotted out in front of the public, and truly let herself simply be Gabriella.

She touched her face, her glasses. She also didn’t go out in public in those.

Oh, well. She didn’t want to impress this stranger; she wanted to interrogate him, and then send him on his way.

She padded through the grand entryway, not bothering with straightening her hair or preening in any way at all.

He had already been admitted entry, of course. It wouldn’t do to have a man like him standing outside on the step. And she could see what kind of man he was immediately as he came into her view.

He was...striking. It reminded her of an experience she’d once had in a museum. Moving through wall after wall of spectacular art before entering a small room off to the side. In it, one painting, with all of the light focused on it. It was the centerpiece. The only piece that mattered. Everything that had come before it paled in comparison.

The journey had been lovely, but this man was the destination.

He was like a van Gogh. His face a study in slashing lines and sharp angles. Sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw roughened with dark stubble. There was a soft curve to his lips that spoke of an artist with a deft hand. Who knew that after so much hardened and fearful symmetry there needed to be something different to draw the eye. There was a slight imperfection in his features, as well, one peak of his top lip not quite rising as high as the other. It gave a human quality to Alessandro that was missing from the rest of him. Those broad shoulders, muscular chest and slim waist covered by his severely tailored suit. Long, strong legs, feet covered by handmade shoes.

Yes, everything about him was formidable perfection.

Except for that mouth. The mouth that promised potential softening. That hinted at the fact that he was a man, rather than simply a work of art.

She blinked, shaking her head. That was a lengthy flight of romantic fantasy. Even for her.

“Hello?” She took a step deeper into the entry. “Can I help you?”

His dark eyes flickered over her, his expression one of disinterest. “I wish to speak to Queen Lucia about The Lost Love.”

“Yes. So I was told. However, I’m afraid the queen is unavailable to visitors at the moment.” She resisted the urge to push her glasses up her nose, and instead crossed her arms, trying to look slightly regal, though she was wearing black leggings and an oversize sweatshirt.

“So she sent... I give up. What are you exactly? The resident disaffected teenager? Ready to head out to a mall or some such?”

Gabriella sniffed. “Actually, I am Princess Gabriella D’Oro. So when I say that my grandmother is not available to see you, I speak from a place of authority. This is my home, and I regret to inform you that we have no space for you in it.”

“Strange. It seems quite spacious to me.”

“Well, things are organized just so. Quite a few too many American businessmen have been by of late. We would have to store you in the attic, and you would just collect dust up there.”

“Is that so?”

“I fear you would atrophy completely.”

“Well, we can’t have that. This is a new suit, and I don’t particularly want to atrophy in it.”

“Then perhaps you should be on your way.”

“I came a great distance to speak to your grandmother. This may surprise you, but I did not come to Aceena to engage in frivolity. But rather to speak to her about a painting.”

“Yes, so you said. I regret to inform you there is no such painting. I’m not entirely certain what you heard about it...”

“My grandfather. He is...the collector. I came to see about purchasing the painting on his behalf. I’m willing to offer a generous sum. I imagine disgraced royals might not be in a position to turn such an offer down.”

“Oh, we do just fine, thank you for your concern. Should you like to make a donation to someone in actual need of your charity, I would be happy to provide you with a list.”

“No, thank you. The charity was only a side effect. I want that painting. I’m willing to pay whatever the cost might be.”

Her mouth was dry. It made it difficult to speak, and yet she found she also couldn’t stop the flow of words. “Well, I’m afraid to disappoint you. While we do have paintings, we do not have that painting. That painting, if you weren’t aware, might not even exist.”

“Oh, I’m well aware that it’s what your family would like the public to think. However, I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

“No,” she said, and this time she did push her glasses up her nose. “I’m just a teenager headed out to the mall. What could I possibly know that you,” she said, sweeping her hand up and down, “in all your infinite and aged wisdom, do not?”

“The appeal of Justin Bieber?”

“I’m not entirely certain who that is.”

“I’m surprised by that. Girls your age love him.”

“In that case, can I offer you a hard candy? I hear men your age love those.”

She was not sure how this had happened. How she had wound up standing in the hallowed entry of her family estate trading insults with a stranger.

“I’ll accept the hard candy if it means you intend to give me a tour while I finish it.”

“No. Sorry. You would be finishing it on the lawn.”

He rubbed his hand over his chin and she shivered, an involuntary response to the soft noise made by the scrape of his hand over his whiskers. She was a sensualist. It was one of her weaknesses. She enjoyed art, and soft cushions, desserts and lush fabrics. The smell of old books and the feel of textured pages beneath her fingertips.

And she noticed fine details. Like the sound skin made when scraping over stubble.

“I’m not entirely certain this is the tactic you want to use. Because if you send me away, then I will only circumvent you. Either by contacting your grandmother directly, or by figuring out who manages the affairs of the royal family. I am certain that I can find someone who might be tempted by what I offer.”

He probably wasn’t wrong. If he managed to find her parents, and offer them a bit of money—or better yet, an illegal substance—for some information on an old painting, they would be more than happy to help him. Fortunately, they probably had no idea what the painting was, much less knew any more about its existence than she did.

But they were wretched. And they were greedy. So there was very little that she would put past them.

Still, she was not going to allow him to harass her grandmother. Tempting as it was to keep him here, to question him. She’d been studying her family history for as long as she’d known how to read. Rumors about this painting had played a large part in it.

Part of her desperately wanted him to stay. Another part needed him gone as quickly as possible. Because of her grandmother. And partly because of the dry mouth and sweaty palms and strange, off-kilter feeling that had arrived along with him.

Those things defeated curiosity. He had to go.

“I’ll chance it. Do feel free to meander about the grounds before you go. The gardens are beautiful. Please consider limitless viewing time on the topiaries a conciliatory gesture on my end.”

The corner of his mouth worked upward. “I assure you, I have no interest in your...topiaries.”

Something about the way he said it made her scalp prickle, made her skin feel hot. She didn’t like it.

“Well, my topiaries are all you’re going to get. Good day to you, sir.”

“And good day to you,” he said, inclining his head.

He sounded perfectly calm, but a dark note wound its way around his words, through his voice, and she had a feeling that somewhere within it was also woven a threat.

However, she didn’t allow him to see that she had picked up on it. Instead, she turned on her heel—ignoring the slight squeak her bare skin made on the marble tile—and walked out of the entry without a backward glance, leaving him there. She fully expected a servant would show him out. Either that or she would have to have him installed in the attic. The idea of collecting a man like him and putting him in the attic like one might do to an old, rusted suit of armor amused her.

She let that little smile linger on her lips as she made her way down the hall, toward the morning room where her grandmother was having her breakfast.

“There was a man here, Gabriella. Who was he?” The queen’s voice, wispy, as thin as a cobweb, greeted Gabriella as soon as she walked into the ornate room.

There was no sense asking how her grandmother knew about the visitor. She was never ignorant about the goings-on in her own household.

“An American businessman,” Gabriella said, walking deeper into the room, feeling somewhat sheepish, yet again, about her bare feet.

Her grandmother was, as ever, impeccably dressed. The older woman made no distinction between her public and private persona. As always, her crystal white hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her makeup expertly done. Her fingernails were painted the same pale coral as the skirt she was wearing, her low, sensible heels the same cream as her blouse.

“I see,” the queen said, setting her teacup down on the table in front of her. “And what did he want?”

“This is not something we’ve ever discussed before, I know, but he was...he was inquiring about a painting. The Lost Love.”

Her grandmother continued to sit there, poised, her hands folded in her lap. Were it not for the subtle paling of her complexion, Gabriella would have thought she had merely been commenting on the weather. There was no mistaking her grandmother’s response to what she had just said.

“But of course,” Gabriella continued, “I told him that it has never been confirmed that there is any such painting. I told him it was nothing more than salacious rumor. And I sent him on his way. Though he may be meandering around the gardens.”