Widow - Anne Stuart [24]
The sharp rap on her bedroom door tore her from her abstraction. “Bathroom’s clear, princess. I’m heading downstairs.”
She took the fastest shower on record, both because she was afraid he might come back, and because he’d used most of the hot water in the old house’s outdated water system. She grabbed the first thing she could find in her suitcase—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and leaving her hair hanging wet down her back she raced barefoot down the wide stone stairs in the center of the farmhouse, knowing that if she had hesitated she’d never have left her room.
The main floor of the house consisted of four main rooms—the huge living room, with its massive fireplace, rustic furniture and windows, the formal dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty, the large kitchen and the smaller study. Everyone was gathered in the living room, and when she appeared in the doorway a sudden hush fell over the ill-assorted group.
Maguire was there, of course, watching her. Gia was beside him, dressed in a clingy silk dress that displayed her angular charms. Madame Antonella sat by the empty fireplace, dressed in voluminous black, a lacy shawl around her hunched shoulders, her white hair piled artfully on her head. She gazed up at Charlie with a blank, disapproving gaze.
“Who are you?” she demanded in soft, querulous French. “Are you one of the servants?”
“That’s Charlie, madame,” Lauretta said patiently. “She was the master’s wife.”
Madame Antonella let out a genteel snort. “At La Colombala we dress for dinner.”
Gia’s malicious laugh floated over the room.
“Now, Madame Antonella, you know that’s not polite,” Lauretta said, casting an apologetic glance in Charlie’s direction.
“I’m old. I don’t have to be polite,” Antonella announced smugly.
“You haven’t changed, madame,” Charlie murmured. Thirteen years ago she’d been wary of the old lady, and the last five hadn’t improved her manners.
Antonella’s eyes were mere slits beneath the crepey wrinkles, but they summed up Charlie with one disparaging glance. “Who are you?”
“It’s Charlie,” Lauretta said again. “You remember her.”
“Don’t tell me who I remember! I don’t remember a damn thing!” She pushed herself out of her chair, with more strength than Charlie would have suspected. In her youth Antonella Bourget had been a spectacular creature—tall, voluptuous, powerful. Now that power had degenerated into fat as her mind had slipped into forgetfulness, but she was still surprisingly agile. “Young man!” she called out to Maguire. “Come here and take my arm. You’re dressed in rags as well, but you may as well prove yourself useful. At least you have better manners than she does.”
Under any other circumstances Charlie would have laughed at the absurdity, but for some reason her sense of humor had fled.
Maguire moved to Antonella’s side, proffering his arm, and he gave Charlie an ironic grin. “Cozy little house party, isn’t it?” he muttered under his breath.
“What did you say?” Antonella demanded. “I hate it when people talk behind my back.”
“No one’s talking behind your back, madame,” Lauretta said calmly, taking her other arm. “I’ve prepared something lovely for dinner. You know how you love my gnocchi. The best in Tuscany, you’ve always told me.”
Antonella’s response was an unimpressed snort. She clung tightly to Maguire’s arm as she tottered into the dining room, the rest of the mismatched house party trailing after her. She went straight for the head of