Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [103]
“All her money?” Fitz asked idly. “That must have been a considerable sum.”
Venetia gazed contemplatively at her glass of wine, a glowing ruby in the candlelight. “Only ten thousand dollars. It was all we had, you see—all that mother left us.”
Fitz snapped to attention. “All that she left you? But surely, Venetia, your mother was a very rich woman?”
Venetia looked embarrassed; she really shouldn’t be telling him this. But it wasn’t as though he were a complete stranger—he’d met Jenny, and he’d been the kindest and most helpful person to them.
“Apparently Jenny had been foolish with her money. Her lawyer, Stan Reubin, told us that there was nothing left, she’d made bad investments in property and played the commodity markets. He said it didn’t take long to lose a lot of money that way. We didn’t want to believe him at first, but Bill—that’s Bill Kaufmann, who was her agent and manager for as long as I can remember, before I was born even—anyway, Bill implied that she’d been worried about her career and that she’d had a couple of … lovers … who had exploited her. So you see, in the end there was very little left. It wasn’t so much the money that I minded,” she added, “though Paris did, terribly—she needed it, you see, to launch her career—but it was the sort of slur on her character that they made, and the fact that though they’d been her friends all those years they never did anything to help her. Don’t you think they should have noticed what was going on?”
Fitz didn’t like to see the sadness that turned her beautiful eyes a grayer shade of blue, and he didn’t like the story he’d just heard. In the context of Jenny’s sudden death it was open to suspicion. He might have Ronson look into it for him; he had good contacts in Los Angeles, and he’d know what was going on.
“I think they certainly should have known, but it’s foolish to pass judgment without understanding all the circumstances. What about your other sister—India, isn’t it?”
“India will always come out smiling. She didn’t give a damn for the money, only for what had happened to our mother. She was in Rome working for the interior designer Fabrizio Paroli, but when I spoke with her just before I left she was off to the coast near Positano—Fabrizio has put her in charge of a conversion. The Montefiore family want to change their palazzo into a hotel. India seemed very excited at the prospect, but I got the feeling, too, that she was eager to get away from Rome—the paparazzi have been very persistent in their attentions since Jenny died. I think she’s probably quite relieved to be away for a white—and from Fabrizio.”
“Oh?” Fitz raised an eyebrow and Venetia felt herself blushing.
“Jenny always said I talked too much,” she remarked with a laugh, “but quite honestly, I haven’t talked—not like this, anyway—about my mother, I mean, not to anyone. Not even to Morgan.”
He’d been so absorbed in her, he’d forgotten about Morgan.
“Enough sad talk,” he said briskly. “I’m going to order you some dessert and then …” He glanced at his watch. Eleven. Raymunda’s party would still be going strong. “How’d you like to go dancing?”
Her face lit up. “Dancing? I’d love it.”
Why was it, wondered Fitz, that he felt as though he’d just given her something wonderful? She had this endearing ability to make even the smallest kindness or attention seem an act of graciousness. It must be her English good manners. Whatever, he liked it.
The Caribbean Pepperpot was hustling and bustling, getting into its nightly swing, as they arrived. Grabbing Venetia’s hand, Fitz led her through the dimly lit room to a corner table. It was silly, he knew, but he didn’t want to let go of her hand, it felt small in his—and soft.
The waiter brought drinks and the music changed to something softer as colored lights flickered through the room. Taking her hand he bowed over it, barely brushing it with his lips.
“Will you dance with me, Venetia Haven?” he asked.
It was