Rinaldo's Inherited Bride. Lucy Gordon

for Vincente had been popular. Some were elderly men, ‘partners in crime’ who had spent days in the sun with him, drinking wine and remembering the old times.

      There were several middle-aged and elderly women, hinting wistfully at sweet memories, under the jealous eyes of their menfolk.

      Finally there were his sons. Gino spoke movingly, recalling his father’s gentleness and sweet temper, his ready laughter.

      ‘He’d had a hard life,’ he recalled, ‘working very long hours, every day for years, so that his family might prosper. But it never soured him, and to the end of his life, nothing delighted him as much as a practical joke.’

      Then he fell silent, and a soft ripple ran around the crowd. By now all of them knew about Vincente’s last practical joke.

      A heaviness seemed to come over Gino as he realised what he had said. The light went out of his attractive young face, and his eyes sought his brother with a touch of desperation.

      Rinaldo’s face revealed nothing. With a brief nod at Gino he stepped up to take his place.

      ‘My father was a man who could win love,’ he said, speaking almost curtly. ‘That much is proved by the presence of so many of his friends today. It is no more than he deserved. I thank each of you for coming to do him honour.’

      That was all. The words were jerked from him as if by force. His face might have been made of stone.

      The mourners began to drift away from the grave. Rinaldo gave Alex a last look and turned, touching Gino’s arm to indicate for him to come too.

      ‘Wait,’ Gino said.

      ‘No,’ Rinaldo was following his gaze.

      ‘We’ve got to meet her some time. Besides—’ he gave a soft whistle. ‘She’s beautiful.’

      ‘Remember where you are and show respect,’ Rinaldo said quietly.

      ‘Poppa wouldn’t mind. He’d have been the first to whistle. Rinaldo, have you ever seen such a beauty?’

      ‘I’m happy for you,’ his brother said without looking at him. ‘Your job should be easier.’

      Gino had caught the lawyer’s eye and raised his eyebrows, inclining his head slightly in Alex’s direction. Isidoro nodded and Gino began to make his way across to them.

      Alex caught the look they exchanged, then she focused on Gino. An engaging young man, she thought. Even dressed in black, he had a kind of brightness about him. His handsome face was fresh, eager, open.

      It had little to do with his youth. It was more a natural joyousness in his nature that would be with him all his life, unless something happened to sour it.

      ‘Gino, this is Signorina Alexandra Dacre,’ Isidoro hastened to make the introductions. ‘Enrico was her great-uncle.’

      ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Signorina Dacre.’ Gino’s smile had an almost conspiratorial quality, as if to suggest that they were all in this mess together.

      ‘I’m beginning to feel as if the whole of Florence has heard of me,’ she said, smiling back and beginning to like him.

      ‘The whole of Tuscany,’ he said. ‘Sensations like this don’t happen every day.’

      ‘I gather you knew nothing about it,’ Alex said.

      ‘Nothing at all, until the lawyers were going through the paperwork.’

      ‘What a nasty shock. I’m surprised you want to shake my hand.’

      ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Gino said at once.

      His grasp, like everything about him, was warm, enclosing her hand in both of his.

      ‘We must meet properly and talk,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, there’s a lot to talk about,’ she agreed. Suddenly she burst out, ‘Did I do wrong to come to your father’s funeral? Perhaps it was tasteless of me, but I only—look, I meant well.’

      ‘Yes, it was tasteless of you,’ said a dry, ironic voice. ‘You have no place here. Why did you come?’

      ‘Rinaldo, please,’ Gino said in a swift, soft voice.

      ‘No, he’s right,’ Alex said hastily. ‘I made a mistake. I’ll go now.’

      ‘But we’re having a reception in the Hotel Favello,’ Gino said. ‘Enrico was Poppa’s dearest friend, and you’re part of Enrico’s family, so naturally you’re invited.’

      He glanced at his brother, waiting for his confirmation. For a moment Rinaldo’s manners warred with his hostility. At last he shrugged and said briefly, ‘Of course.’

      He turned away without waiting for her answer.

      ‘The hotel isn’t far,’ Gino said. ‘I’ll show you.’

      ‘No need, I’m staying there,’ Alex told him. ‘I arrived last night.’

      ‘Then shall we go?’ He offered her his arm.

      ‘Thank you, but I’ll make my own way. You have guests who’ll want your attention.’

      She hurried away before he could argue, and rejoined Isidoro, who fell into step beside her.

      ‘If you’re going into the lion’s den I’m coming with you,’ he said.

      ‘That might be a good idea after all,’ she agreed.

      As they walked the short distance to the hotel Alex said, ‘He really did have a lot of friends, didn’t he?’

      ‘Yes, he was a much-loved man. But the people at the wake won’t just be his friends and lovers. They’ll be the vultures hovering over that mortgage, and you’ll be very interesting to them.

      ‘Watch out for a man called Montelli. He’s greedy and unscrupulous, and if Rinaldo sees you talking to him it’ll make him mad.’

      ‘Well,’ Alex said, apparently considering this, ‘since everything I do is going to make that man angry, I think I’ll just go right ahead and do what suits me.’

      The Hotel Favello was a Renaissance building that had once belonged to the Favello family, wealthy and influential for centuries, now fallen on hard times.

      It had been turned into a luxury hotel in such a way that every modern comfort was provided, but so discreetly that nothing seemed to have changed for centuries.

      Alex went up to her room first, so as not to arrive too soon, wishing she had time for a shower. It was June and Florence was hotter than anything she had experienced in England. Standing in the sun, she had felt the heat spreading over her skin beneath her clothes, making her intensely aware of every inch of her body.

      But there was no time for a shower if she were to join the reception. She mopped her brow and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked, as always, immaculate.

      It would have been over-the-top to wear black for a man she hadn’t known, but she was formally dressed in a navy blue linen dress, with a matching coat, adorned only by one silver brooch. Now she tossed aside the coat before going downstairs.

      She was relieved to see that the reception room was already crowded, so that she attracted little attention.

      Isidoro scuttled to greet her and pointed out some of the others.

      ‘The ones glowering at you in the corner are the other members of Enrico’s family,’ he said.

      ‘Don’t tell me they’re annoyed with me too?’ she exclaimed.

      ‘Of course. They were expecting to inherit more.’

      ‘So I’m in the firing line from both sides,’ she said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Oh, heavens!’

      ‘This is Italy,’ Isidoro said wryly. ‘The