Widow - Anne Stuart [65]
“Pompasse is dead, Antonella,” Olivia reminded her tactlessly. “Look at it this way—you outlived him.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure what the old lady would do. A torrent of grief and rage seemed imminent, and then to his amazement the old broad cackled. “True enough,” she said. “I’ll outlast you all.”
“Not if I can help it, you old witch,” Gia muttered, but fortunately Antonella was almost as deaf as she was senile.
“Bring me another glass of wine, Lauretta,” Antonella commanded grandly. “We must raise a toast to Pompasse.”
It was his cue to leave. He wanted to get the ruined painting up to the old church, and he had every intention of taking a little detour by Madame Antonella’s cottage. Despite Lauretta’s insistence that the paintings couldn’t be anywhere inside that small building, he wasn’t about to take anyone’s word for it.
Once he had the painting stashed he might go for a walk himself. Not that he was worried about Charlie, of course. Everyone insisted that she knew this countryside like a native—that she was perfectly safe alone out there in the dark.
Maybe she was. But maybe Gia was telling the truth, and she wasn’t the only one who hated Charlie. And the next little surprise might be more deadly than a slashed portrait and a bucket of paint.
There was a strong half-moon overhead, lighting the way, and he’d always had good night vision. He hadn’t wanted to bother with a torch—not wanting to draw attention to his little foray. As far as he could figure out there were as many as a dozen thick journals and, at the very least, two good-size paintings still unaccounted for. They should be easy enough to find if someone had stashed them in the old woman’s house.
He set the ruined painting down at the edge of the path leading up to the church and climbed onto the flagstone terrace. For a moment he remembered Charlie’s expression when he’d caught up with her this morning. She actually looked frightened of the old lady. But then, Charlie was frightened of everything—men, sex, touching, old women, probably spiders and snakes, as well. For some reason she wasn’t afraid of being out alone at night in a place where at least one person had it in for her—but logic didn’t seem to be her strong suit. Determination, self-sufficiency were far more important to her than safety.
The house smelled like lavender and mothballs and stale urine, a less-than-intoxicating aroma. It didn’t smell of turpentine or paint, however. The rooms were so cluttered he could barely move—there were tables of knickknacks everywhere and more furniture than would comfortably fit in a place twice the size. Antonella wasn’t a small woman—he wondered how she managed to move through the crowded pathways. He glanced up at the walls, but they were bare of everything. If Pompasse had ever given his former mistress any of his paintings they were long gone.
He barely made it out of the cottage before Lauretta arrived back with her charge. They were arguing about something, but the sound of their voices was muffled on the night air, and Maguire was too intent on stashing the painting and then going to look for Charlie to pay much attention to a couple of querulous old women.
He might as well admit it—he was worried about her. He wasn’t supposed to be swayed by tender feelings—if he started getting sentimental he might think twice about the story he was writing, and then he’d really be up shit’s creek without a paddle. Gregory would kill him, and he wouldn’t be too happy with himself, either.
Charlie was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’d already survived marriage to a creature like Pompasse—and the scandal he was busy stirring up would be child’s play for her compared to the real thing.
Unless, of course, she had actually killed the old man.
But he wasn’t even going to consider that possibility.