Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [122]
India Haven was clever. Her energy and inventiveness were phenomenal. Her ideas had gone from merely the conversion of the palazzo—though God knows she’d done wonders with that—to suggestions for running the place and, most importantly, how to let the world know of the Palazzo di Montefiore’s existence. The palazzo was to have a dozen deluxe suites, and a dozen smaller suites on the third floor. The estate manager’s house, long unused, since there were no more “estates” to be managed, was to become a special private villa to be rented, fully staffed with maids, cooks, and a butler, at enormous expense, to those who demanded complete privacy. The great hall and the main reception rooms would stay very much as they were structurally, and India was working on the new decorating schemes that would brighten their faded charm and enhance their comfort. There was no doubt she was doing an excellent job, and with the sale of a considerable amount of the Palazzo’s furnishings, pictures, and bibelots, he should just about be able to cover the cost.
At India’s suggestion he had appointed a good PR company and contacted the Italian Tourist Authority, who were being extremely helpful, as were American Express and Thomas Cook, and most of the major airlines. The palazzo was already being mentioned in travel columns and airline magazines as the new place for the tourist who demanded that little bit extra. Straightening his tie in the mirror, Aldo prayed there were plenty of them. His brown eyes gazed back at him as he paused for a moment, thinking of those past Montefiores. All of them, except for Enzo, who had died in a duel in the Bois de Boulogne in the arms of a delicious blonde, had married for love. The Conti di Montefiore had always been known for their looks and for their charm—and their reputation as lovers. Not a single one had ever married for money. Well, thought Aldo, surveying his flattened nose with a grin, I don’t have the looks; I’m not sure about the charm; and as for the rest … He turned away from the mirror with a laugh.
The marble stairs were cracked at the edges, but Aldo knew where to avoid the worst bits as he ran down them and across the tiled hall to the small salon.
India was alone, leaning against the long window, gazing out into the garden. It had the dense greenness of twilight, and with the lamp behind her she was like a painting by Renoir, all soft curves and delicate lines. But there was a touch of sadness on her face.
“India,” said Aldo gently. She spun around, startled. “You looked as though you were miles away—lost in sad thoughts.”
“I was thinking about my mother—missing her,” she replied. “I suppose it sounds silly for a grown woman to admit, but I do miss her. She was always there in the background, at the end of a telephone line, when we needed help.”
“Then is something the matter?” asked Aldo, concerned. “Perhaps I can help?”
“It’s not just me, I guess—it’s all three of us.” India managed a shaky laugh. “Jenny’s daughters don’t seem to be making a great success of life so far.” She thought of the letters she had had from Venetia, unhappy on a luxury yacht in Barbados, in love with the wrong man. But it was Paris who was worrying her most. “Our family problems seem to have begun with Jenny’s death and they get more complex as time goes on. Now Paris thinks she’s responsible for someone’s death and I just don’t know what she’s going to do.”
This sounds serious, thought Aldo, and she obviously needs to talk. He took her arm firmly.
“Let’s take a walk around the garden before dinner,” he suggested. “It’s so beautiful when the light is like this, and you can tell me all about Paris.”
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