Page 6 of Betrothal Between Enemies

Welcome him? Alistair’s glass froze halfway to his lips as the import of Sir Thomas’s words hit him. He was going to need something stronger than mashed arugula leaves and orange peel. ‘Your art business? Partner?’ And what the hell did being thirty-two have to do with anything?

Lady Margaret gave a light laugh, exchanging a look with her husband that made Alistair feel quite the outsider. What was going on here? ‘He doesn’t know what to make of it, Thom. You’ll need to ease him into it. Start at the beginning.’

Sir Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Part of studying ancient history in this section of the world is about coming across real remains of that history. Pottery sherds, statues, pillars from old villas, jewellery even. I help connect those who find such things with buyers who want to purchase such things. I work with museums and private collectors alike. I ensure the items are authentic and honestly come by—no grave-robbing, no temple-plundering involved. I have an international reputation for integrity when it comes to this market, and my business has grown beyond what I can handle without help at my age.’

So this was the opportunity his father had meant. He was to be an artefacts merchant, an international man of business. Alistair wasn’t sure what he thought of that. He didn’t dislike the idea entirely, although he was certainly no expert on the subject. ‘But why me?’ Surely, there was any number of people in Naples Thomas Rose could hire who would know such business better than him.

‘It must be you.’ Sir Thomas gave another kindly smile meant to disarm, to make one think he was a safe, guileless gentleman with his head in the academic clouds. ‘Your father and I decided twenty-eight years ago when Ismay was born that you would be the son I’d never have, the son I could leave all this to when I passed and who would help me in the interim if nothing else had caught his eye when the time came.’ Alistair saw the dark beauty of their friendship pact. If that time did indeed come, it would mean they were both desperate men: one of them concerned for a son’s future, the other seeking to protect his legacy.

Alistair’s gaze strayed to the documents on the desk, his mind racing to assimilate the news and the emotions that news raised. Something he’d been ambivalent about a few moments ago had become tinged with anger—at himself for having let it come to this and at his father for having made plans without his consent, like this trip, only on a much larger scale. ‘That’s what is in those papers? A twenty-eight-year-old pact?’ Perhaps he should have steamed the letter open and risked his father’s wrath. The pact sounded horribly medieval as did the knowledge that he’d toted his own fate across Europe. It was somewhat like digging one’s own grave.

He could hear his father’s voice in his head: Not grave, Alistair, opportunity. You are digging your own opportunity. Alistair remembered how that voice had sounded—exhausted, desperate, worried. I would settle for having you do one thing, his father had said. He remembered, too, his own desire in those moments to try for his father. But this?

He had so many questions. Where to start? ‘I am to be an art curator? I know nothing about art. I studied history at Oxford.’ And he’d enjoyed it, but perhaps Thomas Rose had forgotten. The only thing he knew about art was that he liked it more when it involved nudes.

‘I’m not talking about art that comes in frames and hangs on walls. I am talking about artefacts. I think your background in history will serve you well, but that’s not your greatest asset, to me.’ Sir Thomas waved a dismissive hand. ‘You know people, Alistair. That’s the skill that shines through in all of your father’s letters when he writes about what you’ve been doing. That talent will be far more valuable to me. All else will come in time, and I still have some of that to give even though your father and I are not young men anymore.’

Sir Thomas leaned forward and reached for his wife’s hand. ‘Margaret and I knew after Ismay was born that there would likely be no more children for us, no son to leave my work to. But your father, my best friend, offered me his. He had no title to protect, no primogeniture to ensure. He and I decided if you turned thirty-two without an endeavour of your own, I would take you on. It filled both our needs. My need for a son, and his to offer you occupation.

‘I dare say it fulfils your needs, too, Alistair. A man must have purpose in his life. This can be yours. You will be good at it. Your father says you’re an excellent critical thinker, a man with vision who just needs to cultivate his follow-through. He says you have more persuasive talent than the great Demosthenes himself. Especially when it comes to women, eh?’ Sir Thomas gave a wink and earned a playful glare from his wife while Alistair shifted uncomfortably. He’d prefer not to be so openly discussed. He might need to have a word with his father about that, among other things. The letter he’d be writing would be long indeed.

Thirty-two. The pieces were starting to settle. Thirty-two was the age his father had married; the age at which his father often remarked he’d finally felt settled in life. His father must have put these plans in motion shortly after his birthday in December. This was why his father had wanted him in Naples by the fall, so that all would be secure before his thirty-third birthday.

Sir Thomas was beaming, either genuinely unaware of Alistair’s own shock or consciously choosing to run roughshod over it, flatten it into oblivion with his own exuberance until Alistair had no choice but to accept it. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go to my warehouse down by the harbour, and I’ll show you around.’

Hell’s bells! What a day this had been. Alistair tossed back the remainder of the rucolino and grimaced. It was definitely not for gulping. But neither was this sudden news. It, too, would need to be parsed in pieces and in private. He needed some time in which to digest this latest turn of events.

Sir Thomas stood, signalling the end of the interview. ‘Margaret, my dear, show Alistair to his chambers. He’ll want to freshen up before supper. His trunk should have arrived by now.’ He was still beaming. ‘Tonight will be a celebration. We are having a few close friends to supper. It will be the perfect time for the announcement.’ Sir Thomas rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and carried on as if acceptance was assured—much like his own father had done the night he’d unveiled the Italian trip. Once again, he was left with no opening. He could not protest without interrupting or upsetting Sir Thomas and Lady Margaret’s happiness and plans.

‘We’ll have so much to celebrate.’ Sir Thomas glowed with fatherly affection, an indecipherable look passing between him and his wife. Was there something more than taking on a partner? Alistair wondered. Sir Thomas clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am glad you’re here, dear boy. You’re the answer to our prayers.’ But perhaps, Alistair thought uncharitably as he followed Lady Margaret up the marble stairs, he wasn’t the answer to any prayers as much as he was the answer to two old men’s problems.

* * *

Those problems had now become his, a reality that not even the opulence of his chambers could obscure as Alistair’s anger reached a full boil. That anger had been held at bay downstairs by the simple shock of the news and attempting to process the enormity of what it meant. There’d been time for questions but no time for anger. Now there was.

Around him, a footman and a valet he’d apparently been assigned, along with his new purpose in life, began unpacking his trunks with all the obeisance due a visiting monarch. ‘How would you like your shirts? Folded or hung?’

‘Folded is fine. However you decide to arrange the clothing is suitable to me.’ Alistair moved towards the balcony. If he stayed in here, he’d be besieged with a thousand questions about his garments that would delay the real thinking he needed to do. He had mental unpacking of his own to accomplish, starting with What just happened downstairs? and ending with What am I going to do about it?

He stepped outside and was momentarily rendered speechless by the view of the Bay of Naples with Mount Vesuvius in the distance: stunning, regal and perhaps just a bit menacing. Not unlike Sir Thomas. Of course it was. Alistair laughed out loud, his anger dissipating. It seemed everything this afternoon was an attempt to keep him speechless: his first view of Vista Sulla Baia; Sir Thomas’s strategic glee designed to prevent him from protesting; and now this extraordinary view. By Jove, Sir Thomas knew how to make an argument.

Alistair gripped the stone balustrade of the generous balcony—one of many that lined the backside of the house. Each guest chamber seemed to have one. He was careful to keep his gaze fixed on the mountain on the horizon and not to look down. He was only afraid of two things in life: failing and falling, two things that were not entirely dissimilar if one thought about it.

What a mess this was, and yet he could not summon his anger to return. He could summon dismay, perhaps. Resentment, maybe. But not anger. In some ways, this was one gigantic prank where he’d toted a letter across a continent and then had to do what the letter said when he arrived. He didn’t find it particularly funny, though. His future had been settled for him, divvied up by his father and his father’s best friend, without his consent.

He did resent that on principle. His father and Sir Thomas had manipulated his future, and now they were manipulating him into accepting their plans with the temptation of a beautiful home to live in, combined with the pressure to finally do something with his life, and the threat of causing two old men to lose face: Sir Thomas with his friends, and Alistair’s father with Sir Thomas if his son didn’t come through on the deal.

‘Wily old bastards,’ Alistair swore under his breath. But they hadn’t been old bastards when they’d done this. They’d been two young men at the time. His father couldn’t have known how his four-year-old son would turn out. Perhaps the pact had merely been a sop for his father’s friend. Perhaps his father hadn’t truly expected it to come to pass. But it had, and that was not entirely his father’s fault. It was Alistair’s. In that way, he’d had a hand in shaping his own destiny, in putting himself on the path that had led to today. If he was going to be angry, he had to save some of that anger for himself.

That anger wouldn’t solve anything at this point. The plan was done, fully sprung. All that remained was what to do about it. Alistair supposed he had two choices. He could simply leave and abandon Naples altogether, refusing to acquiesce, or he could stay and try out this option. The former would shame his father and perhaps drive a final wedge between them. I just want you to try his father had pleaded.

Therein lay the risk of doing the latter. It wasn’t a matter of simply trying this new opportunity. He could not afford to fail in front of Sir Thomas Rose. If he stayed, he had to see this through, and he had to succeed. He’d not seen anything through for years, not even a relationship. He was always careful to cut those off at three months before they got serious, before anyone expected too much. Did he dare stay? Did he dare try one more time to make something of himself? Something deep inside began to stir. Alistair Burke-Price never said no to a dare.

If he did say no, on what grounds could he refuse an offer that had been put to him as if he was the one doing the Roses the favour? There was nothing repellent about the offer. It was wrapped in luxury: this beautiful home, this stunning view, a welcome as warm as this land where he need never endure a lonely, grey, cold Devon winter again. Those were just the obvious benefits. There were other benefits, too. He’d been given a path, a chance to establish himself in the artefact trade with a mentor to help him. He’d been gifted a future, albeit done in a manner of shaky principle. But principles aside, this was no different than a father buying his son a commission in the military or finding him a living in a parish. Wealthy men gifted their sons futures all the time.

Alistair leaned against the balcony’s balustrade and let out a sigh. It was all true. If his father was here, that was exactly how he’d make the argument. This is a good opportunity… Sir Thomas will help you. He was with friends of the family, living in a home that bordered on opulent. Alastair would live in luxury as he found his way. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel he was being coerced. Why hadn’t his father simply told him? Did his father think he would not have come?

To be fair, his father may have been right. It would have been easier to refuse back in March. Now that he was here, he could not refuse without embarrassing his father in front of his best friend. His father had given his word. He might be something of a rake and a pleasure-seeker, but he was not without an appreciation of honour—his and that of others. Both were now at stake.