Page 5 of Betrothal Between Enemies

That got a chuckle out of him. ‘That’s what I said. My father insisted it must be delivered in person. Given the rebellion this summer, perhaps it’s turned out for the best. I came with Cousin Hayes. He’s bought a vineyard outside of Florence and married a British woman living there.’

‘So we’re your last stop. You’ll deliver your letter and go home, then?’ She hoped that was the case.

‘I suppose.’ The question seemed to stump him. ‘I’ve been so focused on the journey I haven’t given much thought to what comes afterwards.’

She laughed. ‘Speaking of things that haven’t changed, you never did think about what came next.’ He’d always been a great one for starting things and not finishing them.

Alistair stopped walking and stared. For a moment she thought she might have succeeded in rendering him speechless at last. Then she realised it was the house that had done that. She smiled. She knew the feeling. She’d lived here seventeen years and the sight of Vista Sulla Baia still moved her: the verdant parkland filled with flowering bushes leading up to the enormous façade of the neoclassical villa with its carefully spaced windows and shutters, everything balanced and immaculate. A tiered fountain graced the circular drive, the sound of water making a refreshing splash in the basin at the end of a hot afternoon.

‘This is your home? It’s stunning.’

Ah, something they agreed upon at last. ‘You haven’t seen the best part yet. The views of the bay are spectacular off the back terrace. You’re on your own now. I need to make my own way back in before anyone notices I’ve been gone. My father will be in his study, second door on the right on the main floor.’ She paused. She hated that she had to ask, that she had to be in his debt. ‘Please don’t tell him you saw me.’ This was important. She’d beg if she had to. She hoped Alistair would not make her. The last thing she needed in a day full of unpleasant surprises was one more disappointment.

‘Of course not. Pranksters’ honour.’

‘Thank you.’ She left him then, moving swiftly to get upstairs. It had taken longer to get home than she’d anticipated. Her maid would be up to help her dress for supper. Under other circumstances, she might have engaged in a little eavesdropping outside her father’s office, but unearthing whatever it was Alistair had come to discuss with her father would have to wait. The sooner this unlooked-for piece of her past was on his way, the better. Men were nothing but trouble, no matter how handsome they were.

Chapter Three

Ismay Rose would never be anything to anyone but trouble. Twenty years since he’d last seen her and she was still sneaking out, gallivanting about in trousers and antagonising people. She’d not changed at all where it counted. But she had changed, Alistair mused, using the last of his patience to give Sir Thomas Rose an opportunity to read the letter he’d carried across Europe. Many a time he’d been tempted to steam open the envelope; only his honour and his respect for his father had prevented it. But his curiosity over the letter’s contents was champing at the bit now that the seal was broken. Thinking about Ismay was a helpful distraction.

The scrawny tomboy who’d more closely resembled a street urchin than a girl had turned into a striking woman. There was no denying that his reaction to her had been quite positive before he’d realised who she was. Ismay reminded him of the sundew plants that grew in the bogs of Devon, their treacherous tentacled leaves shimmering with apparent dew to attract and trap insects before devouring them. The dew was an illusion. In reality, the substance on the tentacles was not wet but sticky. It was quite the mirage, not unlike Ismay Rose’s slim curves and high breasts. They’d captivate a man until it was too late for him to escape. Alistair pitied the unsuspecting man who fell for that particular trap.

Thomas Rose put down the thick sheaf of papers, some of which looked…old. ‘Thank you for coming. It is good to see you, Alistair. How is your father?’

The question took him by surprise. He’d been expecting a comment about the papers he’d toted all over Europe, but Sir Thomas sat behind his desk making casual conversation as if there wasn’t a sheaf of papers before him. ‘He is well. When I left, he was heading a committee to implement a network of roads in our part of the wilds.’ But certainly Sir Thomas knew that, given that he and Alistair’s father exchanged copious numbers of letters each year.

Alistair’s curiosity could take it no longer. He nodded toward the letter. ‘Is everything in order? Father was adamant that I deliver this in person, refusing to send it by post. Such admonition led me to believe that the contents were important, sensitive even,’ Alistair prompted, hoping for full disclosure. Surely, he was entitled to that now that he’d completed his mission.

Sir Thomas pushed his spectacles up his nose, a mop of greying hair falling in his face. This was how Alistair remembered him: a benign, unprepossessing, perhaps absent-minded gentleman instead of a knight of the realm, renowned for the storehouse of knowledge he carried in his head. He was not as benign as he appeared. ‘Forgive me. I was waiting for my wife to join us. She should be along any moment.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Everything is in order. It’s only natural that you are curious, since this involves you.’

It did? Curiosity became concern. Alistair shifted in his chair, suddenly wary. ‘My father didn’t indicate…’ he began. Or had he? Alistair replayed that fateful conversation from almost six months ago in his mind. This is a good opportunity, Alistair. At the time, he’d thought his father meant the travel, the chance to see Italy, to spend time with Hayes and help with the vineyard. The opportunity had not been defined. But then there’d been the other part of the conversation towards the end, when his father had hinted that he might find something that would be absorbing enough to keep him in Italy. Did the letter have something to with that?

‘Would you like a drink while we wait?’ Sir Thomas rose and went to the set of decanters displayed on the sideboard. ‘I’ve got vermouth from Turin and rucolino from Ischia.’

‘Rucolino?’ A new drink. That sounded promising. He was always up for trying a new beverage.

‘Yes, our local aperitif. It’s made from arugula and orange peel among other things.’ Arugula? Wasn’t that a lettuce? He’d not ever thought of lettuce as a liqueur before. To be honest, it didn’t sound like it would be very good, but it would be an adventure either way.

‘You must try it.’ Sir Thomas dropped two cubes of ice into the glasses and poured. Alistair didn’t miss the little luxury of the covered ice bucket set alongside the decanters. Sir Thomas lived well in the heat. Alistair took the glass, and Sir Thomas raised his in a toast. ‘Salute.’

Alistair sniffed, tasted. Rucolino was definitely for sipping, not for downing like whiskey. It was surprisingly complex with bittersweet layers, the peppery arugula mixed with a caramel sweetness, citrus and hints of herbs.

He took another swallow, and Sir Thomas nodded approvingly. ‘Do you like it? I knew you would. You’ve always been interested in new things.’ He said it as if the characteristic was a compliment and not a flaw.

‘It’s, uh, complex,’ Alistair offered thoughtfully, careful to not offend. It was also an acquired taste, but one Alistair thought he might take to given time to study its intricacies.

‘You’re thirty-two this year,’ Sir Thomas commented between his own sips. ‘How the years have flown. It seems just yesterday you and Ismay were running pell-mell around Sessile Oaks, getting up to all sorts of mischief. You’ll get to meet Ismay at supper. I am sorry she isn’t able to greet you. She’s lying down with a bit of a headache. She’s become a lovely young woman, so accomplished.’

Hmm. Alistair could tell from his tone that Sir Thomas actually believed that. Far be it for him to debunk the myth. Ismay was indeed accomplished—at sneaking out and misleading her parents. She certainly had her father fooled. He had no idea that even now, she was upstairs shucking out of trousers and a cut-down shirt before her maid came up. Alistair set the thought aside. The image of a naked Ismay Rose was best left unexplored.

There was a soft rap at the open door. ‘I heard you had company, Thom.’ Lady Margaret Rose swept forward, hands outstretched, a smile on her face, the similarity between her and her daughter so striking Alistair couldn’t help but think that this is what Ismay would look like in twenty-five years: slender, elegant, blond hair fading to a silvery-gold, turquoise eyes still sharp. Alistair rose and took her elegant hands in his, but she drew him close into a hug instead. ‘My dear Alistair, you’re here. We’ve been looking forward to this since your father wrote last winter.

‘Tell me everything. How is your mother? Is your sister adjusting to married life? I do miss all of you so much, but my music is here.’ Margaret was a cellist who’d found her gender limited her career in London, but not in Naples.

She took a seat as Sir Thomas poured her a glass of rucolino. ‘Am I in time? Have you discussed everything?’ she asked, taking the drink from her husband.

‘I was waiting for you, my dear, so that we could share the news with Alistair together.’ Sir Thomas turned towards him. ‘Now that you are thirty-two, Alistair, you have become a full partner in my art business, and I could not be more pleased to welcome you into the fold.’