Dorothy Eden (25 page)

Giovanni drove in his usual swift, hair-raising way to the outskirts of the city. Then he took a turn Kate knew. She recognized the beginning of the Appian Way, and the street into which they came was disturbingly familiar. Outside Gianetta’s house he stopped.

“We’re a little early,” said Lucian. Then, “No, we’re not. They’re coming now.”

Another car had turned into the street and was drawing up behind them. As the inevitable heads began to peer out of windows, Kate gave a cry. She reached for the door and throwing it open leapt out of the car.

“Francesca! Francesca!”

The little girl in the stiffly starched white dress who got composedly out of the other car didn’t answer or smile. She came towards Kate, her large, dark eyes full of accusation.

“Where is Pepita?” she asked in careful English.

“Oh! She’s at the hotel! I didn’t know I was going to see you this morning. No one told me.” Kate could not restrain herself then. She threw her arms around the child. She was laughing and crying. “Francesca, it’s just so wonderful to see you again. Everyone tried to tell me you weren’t real. But look at you! Fatter than ever. What have you been eating in England? Ravioli?”

“So that’s the dream child,” said William. “Blue bow and all. Incredible!”

“Pepita!” said Francesca stolidly.

The young man who got out of the car after her said in a pleasant Cockney voice, “She would wear those clothes. Didn’t half make a fuss. Mrs. Dalrymple gave up in the end. If we hadn’t been flying I don’t think we’d have persuaded her to come at all. What is it she has to do?”

Lucian spoke swiftly to Francesca in her own language. She listened, blinking her great eyes. Then with decision she shook her head. She spoke in a high, definite voice. Lucian tried to reason with her. Giovanni joined in persuasively. Francesca shook her head stubbornly.

“Pepita!” she said.

Giovanni shrugged. Lucian sighed.

“I’m sorry, Kate. We’ll have to dash back to the hotel for that wretched doll. She won’t do what we want until she gets it. The rest of you can wait here. Sorry, Sergeant. But you know by now what you’re dealing with.”

The young police sergeant nodded. “If I’d been you, Miss, darned if I wouldn’t have pushed her off the train myself. It’s just as well aeroplane windows don’t open.”

Francesca, gazing from one to another, gave her faint Mona Lisa smile and folded her plump hands on her plump stomach.

When Lucian and Kate returned to the scene some thirty minutes later, however, they found that Pepita as a bribe was no longer necessary. Francesca glanced at her indifferently and turned away. She was sitting on the side of the gutter talking animatedly to William, her plump face breaking into a series of delighted dimpled smiles.

Never, thought Kate furiously, never once had Francesca smiled like that for her.

“What are you telling her?” she demanded.

William gave his slow, maddening grin.

“That when she’s grown up and wears these fascinating bits of glass around her neck I’ll marry her.”

He opened his large hand and there, winking and glittering fabulously in the sunlight, were the diamonds, undoubtedly the stolen and broken-up necklace of the Venetian Contessa.

“Where—” began Lucian.

Giovanni burst into a roar of laughter.

Francesca chattered animatedly, spreading her skirts and preening herself like a little peacock.

“Just here,” William said, poking his fingers into the outlet drain of the long-dry gutter. “Poor kids in Rome always play in the gutter. And Francesca thought rightly that these were just a handful of stones. Why should Pepita be cluttered up with them?” Then he looked rueful. “But now I seem to have sown the seeds of vanity. I’ve told her they make her look pretty.”

“Even with two black eyes you have quite a way with girls, haven’t you,” Kate said scathingly. “Just for that you can help me look after Francesca until her mother gets back.”

“Kate! This is our honeymoon!”

“Or we can take her with us on the train back to England.”

“Heaven forbid!” William exclaimed.

Francesca gave her unexpected and enchanting dimpled smile.

“No spik
Inglese,
” she said, and waited for the usual looks of frustration that would follow her flat and inexorable statement.

When, this time, they didn’t come she looked a little puzzled, then philosophically shrugged her plump shoulders, dismissing the adult world which had never particularly interested her, and turned at last to be reunited with Pepita.

Dorothy Eden (1912–1982) was the internationally acclaimed author of more than forty bestselling gothic, romantic suspense, and historical novels. Born in New Zealand, where she attended school and worked as a legal secretary, she moved to London in 1954 and continued to write prolifically. Eden’s novels are known for their suspenseful, spellbinding plots, finely drawn characters, authentic historical detail, and often a hint of spookiness. Her novel of pioneer life in Australia,
The Vines of Yarrabee
, spent four months on the
New York Times
bestseller list. Her gothic historical novels
Ravenscroft
,
Darkwater
, and
Winterwood
are considered by critics and readers alike to be classics of the genre.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1959 by Dorothy Eden

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-2970-3

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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