Lee Wilkinson - The Padova Pearls

The Marquise, realizing she had lost Sophia’s attention, turned and, seeing him, grasped his arm and broke into a rapid stream of Italian. ‘This girl had the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t have taken down the miniature—’

Speaking in the same language, he said, ‘Didn’t I advise you not to?’

Her hot temper making her reckless, she snapped, ‘I get tired of being “advised” what to do. Men always think they are right. They always say, “I told you so”. You should be on my side, not agreeing with this insolent chit of a girl who—’

Putting a finger to her carmine lips to interrupt the flow, he warned, ‘It’s quite likely that the signorina speaks Italian…She is—’

‘I know what she is…A little nobody with an inflated sense of her own importance. Well, she’s making a mistake if she thinks she can—’

‘Cara, you are the one who is making the mistake. I advise you to calm down and—’

‘I don’t need advice,’ she flared. ‘I will act as I think fit.’

‘Very well.’

Though he spoke quietly, without any trace of anger, she clutched at his arm. ‘Stefano, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that…’

When he said nothing, tears welling in her black eyes, she whispered, ‘Forgive me. I had no right to get angry with you…’

Watching his face soften, Sophia wondered—was he this beautiful woman’s husband?

The thought made her feel as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

Even if he wasn’t, he was almost certainly her amante. There was no other way to explain the feeling of intimacy between them, the possessive touch of her hand on his sleeve, the way she was gazing up at him. Her voice soft, seductive, she begged, ‘Please tell me what I should do.’

‘I suggest you apologize to the signorina and return the painting.’

‘Apologize! But Stefano—’

‘It might be expedient,’ he told her.

After a moment or two of silence, she turned to Sophia and, handing her the miniature, said grudgingly in English, ‘I am sorry.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ Sophia assured her pleasantly, and even managed a smile.

Looking far from mollified, the Marquise said, ‘I understand that the artist is no longer living?’

‘No, unfortunately he died early in March.’

‘Perhaps you can tell me who the sitter was and precisely when it was painted?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

Glaring at Sophia, as if she were being deliberately obstructive, the Marquise ordered, ‘Then give me a catalogue, so I can look for myself.’

Handing her a catalogue, Sophia told her politely, ‘The miniature is listed on page twelve. You’ll find it just says, Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’

Throwing the catalogue angrily on to the desk, the Marquise said, ‘I have wasted enough time. I want to buy this picture and I—’

‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve already explained, it isn’t for sale.’

‘I have had more than enough of your impertinence…’

The man she had called Stefano put a warning hand on her arm but, too furious to heed it, she rushed on, ‘I insist on speaking to the owner of the gallery or someone in authority.’

‘Very well.’ Sophia picked up the phone and, when David’s voice answered, asked quietly, ‘Could you please come to the desk?’

Alerted by her tone, he asked, ‘Trouble?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Replacing the receiver, she braced herself for the storm she could see was about to burst.

‘You may well look apprehensive,’ the Marquise cried. ‘If you think you can treat me like this and get away with it, you are mistaken. I will make sure you lose your job and—’

‘That’s enough, Gina.’ The man by her side spoke with a quiet authority that brought the Marquise up short. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

After that first smile, Sophia had never looked directly at him, but she had been conscious of his presence. And, while the surface of her mind had been taken up with the Marquise, her whole being had been focused on him, aware of his steady regard, aware too of the unspoken empathy.

At that instant David appeared, immaculately dressed, a cream carnation in his buttonhole, and approached the little group.

Of medium height, he was a slim, elegant bachelor in his early fifties, an art connoisseur to his fingertips. His silvery hair worn slightly long, his pale blue eyes guileless, his air of bonhomie, all combined to disguise the fact that he was also a shrewd, hard-headed businessman.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.

‘Indeed there is. I am the Marquise d’Orsini, and this chit of a girl—’

He gave her a courteous little bow, stopping the threatening torrent of words. ‘And I’m David Renton, owner of A Volonté. If you and the Marquis would—’

‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ the other man broke in with grave politeness. ‘I’m not the Marquis. My name’s Stephen Haviland.’

So he wasn’t the Marquise’s husband after all. Sophia experienced such a rush of relief she felt almost giddy.

As the two men shook hands, his glance and his smile including the Marquise in his apology, David murmured smoothly, ‘I do beg your pardon.’

Obviously won over by his charm, she said, ‘Please do not apologize, Mr Renton. It was an easy mistake to make.’

‘You’re very forgiving. Now, if you and Mr Haviland would care to come through to my private suite, I’m sure we can sort things out to your satisfaction.’

As the Marquise flashed Sophia a look of malicious triumph, David continued avuncularly, ‘Will you please come too, Sophia, my dear?’

Sophia was aware that David had intended the ‘my dear’ to be both a statement and a subtle warning to the Marquise of where he himself stood.

Lifting a hand, he signalled to Joanna that the desk was unattended. Then, his smile pleasant, his manner affable, he turned to usher them through to his inner sanctum.

As Sophia made to follow, Stephen Haviland stood to one side to allow her to precede him.

With a murmur of thanks, she did so.

David’s sitting-room was quietly luxurious, with beautiful antique furniture, an Oriental carpet, two soft natural leather couches, a designer blind at the window and a small semicircular bar in one corner. Pictures, each worth a small fortune, lined the walls and fresh flowers scented the air.

Waving a well-manicured hand, David said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

The Marquise settled herself on the nearest couch and, with an inviting glance at Stephen Haviland, patted the seat beside her.

‘Sophia, my dear, perhaps you’ll sit here?’ David suggested blandly.

Stephen Haviland remained standing until Sophia was seated on the other couch.

David produced a bottle of fine old sherry and four sparkling crystal glasses and, at his most urbane, asked, ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’

‘That would be very nice,’ the Marquise accepted graciously.

The sherry poured and handed out, David took a seat by Sophia’s side. ‘Now, how can I help?’

The Marquise had obviously read into David’s attitude towards Sophia what he had intended her to read and, instead of launching into a denunciation, she began carefully, ‘I am afraid your employee and I…how do you say…got off on the wrong feet. I made an error of judgement, for which I have already made my apologies…’

When he merely waited politely, she went on, ‘I took down one of the pictures, a miniature. I hoped to buy it, but I was told it was not for sale.’

‘May I ask which one?’

‘The catalogue described it as a Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’