twenty-one
VIOLANTE COULDN’T REMAIN still during the dinner, despite the fact the cook had done an excellent job. The braided bread was fragrant and perfectly crunchy. The broad bean stew was spicy and not too salty.
Every time a servant entered the room, she champed at the bit to ask if a wire for Keith had arrived. Paul didn’t look at her once, chatting politely with the count and making a point of ignoring her. His accent sounded different. No longer British but had a certain lilt when he dropped his ‘r’s. Instead, Sir Nigel shot her glares for whatever reason, and the countess was uncharacteristically silent, focused on her meal. She smiled only when the cherry tart with cream was served.
“A toast,” the countess said without enthusiasm. “To my husband Giuseppe for this lovely Italian dinner and because today is his name day. A simple dinner to remind us we’re all humble human beings. Happy Saint Giuseppe’s day.”
Everyone raised their glasses, but the guests had to be preoccupied because the toast lacked gaiety. What a pity. Violante had looked forward to celebrating Saint Joseph’s Day, but she wasn’t in the mood for a party. The fact it was alsoFather’s Day added a hint of sadness to the evening. Her papa would have loved this dinner. He would have laughed and hugged her. Keith was right. She should keep those precious memories away from the darkness.
When the men retired to the smoking room, Keith paused to give her a heated glance, which lifted her spirits. She smiled at him, following Lady Diana to the drawing room.
“You seem quiet, Diana,” she asked, sitting down on the sofa.
“A little tired.” Small saffron roses with red dots, like the one Keith had given her, adorned Lady Diana’s hair.
“Are those roses from the maze? I haven’t seen them in other parts of the garden. Their colour is so peculiar. They’re surely a special type. I’ve seen that Sir Nigel had one in his jacket as well.” She must have said something wrong because Lady Diana’s hand froze with the cup of tea halfway up.
“Yes, I took a stroll in the maze today.” The countess sounded defensive. Another fax pas on Violante’s part. She must have hit a nerve. Although, the countess owned the grounds and the maze. It was perfectly normal she strolled in it.
Violante hurried to say, “I didn’t mean to pry. Keith and I got lost in the maze, and we spotted those beautiful roses by the fountain.”
“Yes.” Lady Diana put her cup down. “I love them. They’re an Italian variety. Venetian Roses, they’re called. Did my husband and yours find an agreement?”
Fine. The countess wanted to change the subject.
“Not yet. The count seems interested in supporting Sir Nigel’s project.” Disappointment crept into her tone.
The countess brightened. “Sir Nigel offered my husband a hefty share of the hotel’s profit.”
What?It was Violante’s turn to remain frozen.
“A quite generous share, I have to say.” Lady Diana patted her curls. “The deal will require us to travel to London moreoften than usual, but it’s a small sacrifice. You can’t blame my husband for wanting to be part of what promises to be a great enterprise compared to your husband’s charity. The hotel is going to make us a fortune.”
“But my husband is making an honest effort at improving people’s lives while Sir Nigel means to kick people out of their houses to build a luxurious hotel,” she said. “Which one of the two projects is more important?”
“There will always be people in need. We can’t take care of every poor in the world. We wouldn't make any money, otherwise.” The countess laughed.
Yes, there were too many people in need. But men like Keith and the count could help one person at a time. Violante’s papa had been a businessman as well, but she’d seen both side of society—the rich one and the poor one. But as someone who had lived on the street, the countess’s laugh hurt. Deeply. Poverty was no laughing matter.
She stood up, fighting the urge to talk back, or worse, to burst into tears. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m afraid I need to retire. I feel a bit sick all of a sudden.”
The countess nodded. “Have a nice cup of tea.”
“Good night.” She bunched a fistful of her skirts and left of the room.
The count didn’t want to do business with bachelors because he valued honesty and commitment, but a charity was disgraceful because it didn’t produce money. Now she understood Keith’s frustration and doubts.
Mrs. Collins came out of a door. She sighed when she saw Violante and muttered something under her breath.
“My lady,” Mrs. Collins said in a tired tone, starting to follow her, but Violante didn’t wish to talk to her.
“I’m all right, Collins. Thank you. You may retire.”
Mrs. Collins released a breath. If she’d had enough of pretending Violante was a real lady, that made two of them. “Good night.”
Violante went up the stairs when Paul’s voice reached her ears from the count’s study.
He was standing in the doorway. “Goodnight, my lord. Thank you for the meeting.”
