thirteen
THE MARRIAGE WAS only a pretence. A ploy. Nothing else. Unfortunately.
It didn’t matter how many times Keith repeated that, the stupid flutter in his chest didn’t want to stop. The ring he’d just purchased for Violante had a violet stone that would match her eyes, and the gold band was the same shade as her hair. She’d wear his ring but only to make her performance more real.
I don’t want to marry you.
He couldn’t blame her. His proposal had been hasty and unconvincing, but if he’d told her he really wanted to marry her, she would have run for the hills. Obviously, she didn’t feel what he felt. She might not hate him, but she didn’t care for him either.
He closed the lid of the velvet ring box and resumed walking along the busy pavement. The warm sunlight didn’t do much for his foul mood, and the ladies and gentlemen promenading and crowding his space didn’t help either.
His heart gave a kick at the thought of seeing the ring on Violante’s finger, of her smile when she put it on. Count Bassini-Verdelli would never believe Violante was Keith’s secretary because the way Keith looked at her would betray him. He hadn’ttold her that. She would have understood how much he wanted her.
Before going home and offering her the ring, he stopped at Mr. & Mrs. Beresford Private Investigators.
The visit to the renowned private detectives could be either the best idea he’d ever had or the worst. A bell chimed when he pushed open the glass door to the investigators’ office. The sound of clerks beating the keys of the typewriters filled the room. The smell of tobacco rose from a corner where another clerk smoked.
“Sir?” A young woman walked towards him along the aisle formed by the rows of desks. “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Beresford.”
“Your name?”
“I’m Lord Ashford.” The title still sounded pompous to his own ears.
The secretary curtsied. “Follow me, my lord.” She showed him to a quiet study where filing cabinets took up half of the space.
“Lord Ashford.” Mrs. Beresford dropped a quick curtsy as her husband bowed. “Please take a seat.”
“What can we help you with?” Mr. Beresford asked.
“I want to employ you for a case, although, I don’t have much to share, unfortunately.” He patted the ring in his pocket before taking a seat in the stuffed chair in front of the desk. “I need to find a woman, Mrs. Marina Sharpe.”
As Keith wentup the stairs with the velvet box in his hand, he wondered if the private detectives would find anything. What he knew about Violante’s mother wasn’t much. A letter for him layon the console table. It was from his Italian friend, and of course, Keith didn’t understand a word. Thank goodness Violante was here.
He sidestepped a silk slipper on his way up. The modiste’s visit had left a trail of empty boxes and scraps of fabric on the stairs, landing, and corridor. Empty cups of tea were piled on a tray with squeezed half lemons and sugar cubes. His housekeeper wouldn’t be happy when she came the next morning.
He knocked on Violante’s door, clenching the precious box. “Violante?”
“Come in.” Her voice held a hysterical note.
“Is something the matter?” He walked around another frilly box with a silk ribbon to enter her bedroom.
She paced, surrounded by gowns of every colour, fabric, and shape. Shoes, hats, silk sashes, and reticules were scattered around in a riot of colours. There were chemises, fine unmentionables, stockings, and corsets as well. The pink corset with satin roses on the neckline would look great on her. Not that the chances of him seeing her in that corset were good.
“Look at this.” She spread her arms. Her dishevelled curls bounced over her reddened cheeks.
Yes, he looked at the glorious display of intimate garments and enjoyed it. “You don’t like the clothes?”
“I do. Very much.” She selected a light-blue capelet rimmed with velvet. “Look at this. It’s beautiful.”
“What is the problem then?”
“It’s too much.” She lowered the capelet carefully. “Too expensive. Not even when I lived with Papa, could I afford such beautiful gowns. Half of these are from Paris. The other half is from Milan.”
He didn’t know what to say. He understood nothing of fabric and gown values, and money wasn’t a problem for him at the moment.
“I see,” he said, although he didn’t see at all.
