Bedded For The Italian's Pleasure

‘You’d be doing me the greatest favour, Jules. And Grandmama is bound to believe it when she sees it’s you. You know she’s always liked you.’

‘She hardly knows me!’

‘She knows of you,’ persisted Cary. ‘And when we get back, I’ll be able to write you a reference you can use to get another job.’

‘A real job, you mean?’

‘This is a real job, Jules, I promise you. Oh, please. At least say you’ll think it over. What have you got to lose?’

CHAPTER TWO (#u311e9e0a-db3c-5077-803f-a76d52bde6a7)

THE tide was in and the mudflats below Tregellin were hidden beneath a surge of salt water. There were seabirds bobbing on the waves and the sun dancing on the water was dazzling. For once, the old house had an air of beauty and not neglect.

It needed an owner who would look after it, Rafe thought, guiding his mud-smeared Land Cruiser down the twisting lane that led to the house. Though not him, he reminded himself firmly. Whatever the old lady said, she was never going to leave Tregellin to the illegitimate son of an olive farmer.

Not that he wanted her to, he reflected without malice. Now that the studio was up and running, he hadn’t enough time to do what he had to do as it was. Oh, he collected the rents and kept the books, made sure the old lady paid her taxes. He even mowed the lawns and kept the shrubbery free of weeds, but the house itself needed a major overhaul.

The trouble was, he didn’t have the money. Not the kind of money needed to restore the place to its former glory anyway. And if Lady Elinor was as wealthy as the people in the village said she was, she was definitely hiding it from her family.

He knew Cary thought his grandmother was a rich woman. That was why he seldom refused an invitation, ran after her as if her every wish was his command. It was pathetic, really. If Rafe had had more respect for the man he’d have told him the old lady was just using him to satisfy her lust for power. If she did intend to make Cary her heir, she was going to make him work for it.

Whatever happened, Rafe doubted Tregellin would survive another death in the family. Unless Lady Elinor had some hidden cash that no one knew about, when she was gone the estate would have to be sold. It was probably Cary’s intention anyway. Rafe couldn’t see his cousin moving out of London, giving up the life he had there. Nevertheless, with death duties and lawyers’ fees, Rafe suspected he’d be lucky to clear his grandmother’s debts.

Rafe was fairly sure the old lady had been living on credit for some time. The tin mines, which had once made the Daniels’ fortune, had been played out and dormant for the past fifty years. The estate, with its dairy farms and smallholdings, had struggled in recent years. Things were improving but, like everything else, they needed time.

Time they might not have, he acknowledged. It was sad, but the old lady wasn’t as robust as she’d once been. He hated to think of what might happen when she died. Tregellin deserved to be resurrected. Not sold to fund another loser’s debts.

He skirted the tennis court and drove round to the front of the house. Tregellin faced the water. It occupied a prime position overlooking the estuary. When he was a kid he used to love going down to the boathouse, taking out the old coracle Sir Henry had taught him to use.

He pushed open his door and got out, hauling the bag of groceries he’d bought at the local supermarket after him. Lady Elinor wouldn’t approve of him spending money on her, but Josie would. Josie Morgan was the old lady’s housekeeper-cum-companion, and was almost as old as Lady Elinor herself.

Although he’d parked the Land Cruiser at the front of the house, Rafe followed the path that led round to the kitchen door. Hitchins, the old lady’s Pekinese, was barking his head off as usual, but when Rafe came through the door he stopped and pushed his snub nose against Rafe’s leg.

‘Noisy old beast, aren’t you?’ Rafe chided him, bending to scratch the dog’s ears with an affectionate hand. Hitchins was almost fourteen and blind in one eye, but he still recognised a friend when he saw one. He huffed a bit, wanting to be picked up, but Rafe dropped his bag on the scrubbed-pine table and started to unpack it instead.

Josie bustled through from the hall, carrying a tray, and Rafe saw an empty cafetière and two cups, and a plate that still contained three chocolate digestives. He picked up one of the biscuits and bit into it as Josie welcomed him, making light of her thanks as she examined what he’d brought.

‘Fillet steak!’ she exclaimed with some enthusiasm. ‘You spoil us, Rafe, you really do.’

‘If I don’t, who will?’ he retorted philosophically. ‘How is the old girl this morning? I intended to get over yesterday evening, but then I got caught up with something else.’

‘The something else wouldn’t be called Olivia, would she?’ she teased him, putting the steak and other perishables he’d brought into the ancient fridge.

‘You’ve been listening to too much gossip,’ retorted Rafe, stowing a warm loaf in the bread bin. ‘Where is the old lady, anyway? I’d better go and say hello.’

‘Shall I bring another pot of coffee?’ Josie paused in what she was doing, but Rafe just shook his head.

‘I’ll take one of these,’ he said, picking up a can of ginger ale he’d bought for his own use when he was here. ‘No. No glass,’ he deterred her, when she would have taken one from the cupboard. He paused. ‘The conservatory, right?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Josie pulled a rueful face and tucked a strand of iron-grey hair behind her ear. ‘She’ll have heard the car, I don’t doubt for a minute. She may be old but her hearing’s as sharp as ever.’

Rafe grinned, and with Hitchins at his heels he walked across the mahogany-panelled hall and into the morning room opposite. Beyond the morning room, a vaulted conservatory basked in sunlight. It was built at one side of the old house, to take advantage of a view of the river. Weeping willows trailed their branches in water that mirrored their reflection, while kingfishers dived from the river bank, their speed only equalled by their success.

Lady Elinor was seated in a fan-backed basketwork chair beside a matching table. The morning newspaper resided on the table, turned to the crossword that was almost completed. It was the old lady’s boast that she could finish the crossword before eleven o’clock every morning and, glancing at his watch, Rafe saw she still had fifteen minutes to go.

‘Don’t let me keep you!’ she exclaimed shrewishly, noting his momentary distraction, and Rafe pulled a face before bending to kiss her gnarled cheek.

‘I won’t,’ he assured her. ‘I was just checking the time, that’s all. It looks like it’s in danger of defeating you today.’

‘If you’re talking about the crossword, that fool, Josie, has kept me gossiping again. She brings my coffee and then thinks she has to keep me entertained. I’ve said to her a dozen times, I don’t need her company.’

‘You love it really.’ Rafe was laconic. He picked up the Pekinese and walked across to the French windows, gazing out across the river to the meadows beyond. ‘So—what have you been talking about? Or am I not supposed to ask?’

‘Since when has that stopped you?’ Lady Elinor was impatient. ‘I was telling her that Cary’s bringing his fiancée to meet me on Thursday. I’m hoping they’ll stay for a few days. At least over the weekend.’

‘His fiancée, eh?’ Rafe turned, and put the dog down again. Ignoring its complaints, he pushed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, a heavy strand of night dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘That must please you. Him settling down at last.’

‘If it’s true.’ The old lady massaged the handle of the malacca cane that stood beside her chair and Rafe thought how difficult it would be for Cary to put one over on his grandmother. Her brain was as sharp as it had ever been, despite the many wrinkles that lined her patrician features. ‘I’ve met the girl, actually. She and her family lived in the same road as Charles and Isabel, when they were alive. Her name is Juliet Lawrence—well, it used to be Lawrence, but she’s a divorcee, so who knows what she calls herself now? She’s younger than Cary. Her father used to work in the City. Her mother died when she was just a baby and I believe her father died five or six years ago.’

‘A comprehensive history,’ remarked Rafe drily, and Lady Elinor gave him a darkling look.

‘I need to know these things, Raphael,’ she said irritably. ‘I don’t want Cary marrying some strumpet. At least this girl is from a decent family.’

Rafe shrugged. ‘You don’t think entertaining Cary and his girlfriend might be too much for you right now?’ he ventured, and saw the look of indignation that crossed the old lady’s face.

‘I’ve had a cold, Raphael. Not pneumonia. It’s the time of year. I always catch a cold in the spring.’

‘If you say so.’ Rafe knew better than to argue. ‘OK. If that’s all, I’ll go and see if Josie needs any help. If you’re putting them in the Lavender Room, I’d better check the bathroom for leaks.’

Lady Elinor looked positively offended. ‘I’m not putting them anywhere,’ she declared, laying great emphasis on the pronoun. ‘Cary will stay in his own room, as usual, and Miss Lawrence can use Christina’s apartments.’

Rafe’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ve never heard you call them that before.’

‘Haven’t you?’ The old lady was dismissive. ‘Christina was my daughter, Raphael. Just because she chose to live the kind of life I could never approve of doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten her.’

‘Or forgiven her?’

‘I’m too old to bear grudges, Raphael.’

‘OK.’ He inclined his head and strolled towards the door. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

Lady Elinor pursed her lips. ‘Josie told me that you had a reception at the studio last night,’ she ventured, with some reluctance. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’

Rafe sighed, pausing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

The old lady scowled. ‘And why would you think that?’

‘Why would I think that? Let me count the ways,’ he misquoted mockingly. ‘Because you don’t approve of my painting portraits for a living? Because you don’t want me to turn out like my mother? Because my independence sticks in your craw? Am I getting close?’