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Stefan stopped reading as white-hot anger burned inside him. There had been no end to Alphonse’s vindictiveness. Familiar guilt intensified within him. Eloise had given up so very much for him, and had had no redress in a court in a land where the ruler’s word was law.
When Eloise left Lycander I was unable to find her—I promise you, I tried. I wish with all my heart she had contacted me—I believe and I hope she would have if illness hadn’t overcome her.
If Eloise were alive I would leave Il Boschetto di Sole to her. Instead I have decided to give you, her son, a chance to own it. In this way I hope I can make up to you the wrong I did your mother. I want to give you the opportunity to return to Lycander as I believe your mother would have wished.
Eloise was happy at Il Boschetto di Sole, and I truly believe that if she is looking down it will give her peace to see you settled on the land she loved. Land you could pass on to your children, allowing the grove to continue as it has for generations—as an independent business that passes from father and mother to son or daughter.
If you wish this, then I wish you luck.
Yours sincerely,
Roberto Bianchi
Stefan let the letter fall onto his knees as he considered its contents. He hadn’t set foot in Lycander for eight years. The idea of a return to his birthplace was an impossibility unless he accepted his brother’s charity. But now he had an opportunity to return under his own steam, to own land in his own right, defy his father’s edict and win the place his mother had loved—a place she would have wanted him to have.
He closed his eyes and could almost see her, her delicate face framed with dark hair, her gentle smile.
But what about the Romano claim?
Not his concern—he hadn’t made this will. Roberto Bianchi had decided that the grove should go either to Holly Romano or himself. So be it. This was his way back to Lycander and he would take it. But he was damned if he’d jump to Roberto Bianchi’s tune.
* * *
Holly watched as Stefan re-entered the room, his stride full of purpose as he faced the lawyer.
‘I’ll need a copy of the will to be sent to my lawyers asap.’
James Simpson rose from behind his desk. ‘Not a problem. Can I ask why?’
‘Because I plan to overturn the terms of the will.’
The lawyer shook his head and a small smile touched his thin lips. ‘With all due respect, you can try but you will not succeed. Roberto Bianchi was no fool and neither am I. You will not be able to do it.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ Stefan said, a stubborn tilt to the square of his jaw. ‘But in the meantime perhaps it would be better for you to tell us any other provisions the Count saw fit to insert.’
‘No matter what the outcome, Thomas Romano retains the right to live in the house he currently occupies until his death, and an amount of three times his current annual salary will be paid to him every year, regardless of his job status.’
Holly frowned. ‘So in other words the new owner can sack him but he will still have to pay him and he can keep his house?’
She could see that sounded fair enough, but she knew that her father would dwindle away if his job was taken from him—if he had to watch someone else manage Il Boschetto di Sole. Especially Stefan Petrelli—the son of the woman he had once loved, the woman who had rejected him and broken his heart.
‘Correct.’ James Simpson inclined his head. ‘There are no other provisions.’
Stefan leant forward. ‘In that case I would appreciate a chance to speak with Ms Romano in private.’
Suspicion sparked—perhaps Stefan Petrelli thought he could buy her off? But alongside her wariness was a flicker of anticipation at the idea of being alone with him. How stupid was that? Hard to believe her hormones hadn’t caught up with the message—this man was the enemy. Although perhaps it didn’t have to be like that. Perhaps she could persuade him to cede his claim. After all, he hadn’t set foot in Lycander in years—why on earth did he even want Il Boschetto di Sole?
‘Agreed.’
The lawyer inclined his head. ‘There is a meeting room down the hall.’
Minutes later they were in a room full of gleaming chrome and glass, where modern art splashed bright white walls and vast windows overlooked the City and proclaimed that Simpson, Wright and Gallagher were undoubtedly prime players in the world of law.
‘So,’ Stefan said. ‘This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
His gaze assessed her. ‘Surely this can’t be a surprise to you? You knew Roberto Bianchi, and it sounds like the Rom
