The Rich Shall Inherit (17 page)

He saw Peter Maze beam delightedly and then a red sticker was affixed to the painting.
Carraldo had bought his watercolor of Portofino.

Putting down the champagne glass, Orlando made his way through the crowd toward them. “Ah, Orlando,” cried Peter, “come and meet Antony Carraldo.”

“I just bought one of your paintings,” Carraldo said.

“I’m flattered that someone as discerning as you liked my work enough to buy it, Signore Carraldo,” he replied.

Carraldo’s hooded dark eyes met his broodingly for a moment. “Your work is charming,” he said at last, “you have a nice touch.”

“It’s not what I really want to do, though, sir,” Orlando said eagerly. “It’s commercial, geared to these people’s pockets. If I were able to give myself free rein, let myself go and do the work I really want to do …”

“Then why don’t you?” Carraldo asked.

He shrugged. “The usual thing, money. Or lack of it. I have to make a living.”

“As do we all.”

“Carraldo! Is it really you? I thought you were in New York for the Van Gogh sale.” A tall, thin American woman, still swathed in her magnificent sable coat even though it was hot under the gallery’s lights, insinuated herself between them. “Did you know that Harry was here? You must come over and say hello to him.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again someday,” Carraldo said as the woman urged him away, “and good luck with your work.”

“What’s he doing here?” Orlando asked Peter Maze angrily.

“He was just passing the window and saw your painting of Portofino. He was amused to see his own villa in it, that’s all.”

God damn, Orlando thought savagely, even the great Antony Carraldo only wanted a picture of his house! He was destined to go on painting villas forever!

“Have you heard the latest gossip about him?” Peter asked, his small eyes gleaming with malicious mirth. “Carraldo’s in love! Her name is Aria Rinardi. She’s beautiful and juicy and not quite eighteen—and he’s asked her to marry him. Apparently she’s as poor as a church mouse and so of course she agreed. Who could turn down
that
kind of money? Anyhow—the thing is that now her mother is claiming she’s the Mallory heiress—and so despite all the parental pushing, Aria’s having second thoughts. After all, with her own fortune what girl in her right mind would marry the mysterious Signore Carraldo?”

Orlando stared at him, shocked. “The Mallory heiress? But who is she?”

“Didn’t you see the ad? I thought everybody had. That’s the trouble—it seems nobody knows who Poppy is …”

“Not that, you fool,” Orlando snarled.
“Who is Aria Rinardi?”

Peter eyed him huffily. “Don’t get so emotional, Orlando, it doesn’t become you. Anyway, if you really must know, she’s the daughter of an Italian baron—a deceased baron and also an
impoverished one. Hence the need for the rich husband. She lives in Venice in a wonderful old crumbling palazzo that probably needs a million or so spending on it to put it to rights. So she’ll be no good for you, old boy. What you need is a woman as rich as Carraldo!” He laughed his high-pitched laugh as Orlando glared at him.

“What I need is for you to sell a few more of my paintings,” he said, shouldering his way angrily through the crowd surrounding Carraldo. Sipping a glass of champagne, he studied him covertly, thinking about what he’d just heard. He had to find out about Aria Rinardi, but he knew he couldn’t ask Carraldo.

“I’m sorry I must leave,” Carraldo was saying. “I should be on my way to Paris right now. Yes, I’ll be in New York next week.” He shook a few hands, kissed a few scented cheeks, and as he turned to go, he caught Orlando’s eye.

“I enjoyed seeing your work.” He paused as a thought crossed his mind. “I bought the Portofino painting to give to my fiancee,” he told him. “She was at art school in Florence for a year and her chosen medium is watercolor. She misses her work now, and I think she would benefit from some tuition. If it would help you, and if you are interested, I could offer you the job of tutoring her for a couple of months. It would be in Venice, of course, but some arrangement could be made for your board and lodgings in a
pensione.
I don’t think you’d find the hours too arduous—it should leave enough time to paint
what you really want.”

It wasn’t quite the stroke of luck Orlando had expected when Carraldo walked through the door, but it surely was a gift from heaven. He was being given Aria Rinardi on a plate! “I’d be delighted, sir,” he said, smiling. “And just to be in Venice will be a bonus!”

Carraldo nodded. “I’ll have my secretary contact you. Goodbye then, Mr. Messenger.”

Even though the room was hot and crowded, Carraldo’s hand felt cold as Orlando shook it. He met his gaze uneasily. It was true what they said: There was something sinister about the man.

Carraldo was as good as his word; his secretary contacted Orlando the following day to make arrangements for his stay in Venice; the plane ticket was economy class and the
pensione
that would be his home for a couple of months was a modest one, but the salary was generous. He would be expected in Venice the
following week, if that was convenient for him. It certainly was, he thought, packing his bags and calling in at the Maze Gallery to check how sales were going and pick up a little ready cash. It gave him just enough time to go to Geneva first and meet Mr. Lieber and find out exactly what was going on. If there were other claimants to the estate of Poppy Mallory, he intended to find out who they were.

The law offices of Lieber & Lieber in Geneva were ultramodern and very smart, and the young blond receptionist had obviously been chosen to match. She glanced up inquiringly from her sleek telephone console on the rosewood reception desk, smiling prettily as her eyes met Orlando’s. “M’sieur?” she said.

“Hi,” he said, moving closer and leaning on the counter. “I’m Orlando Messenger, I’d like to see Mr. Lieber.”

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Messenger?” she asked, patting her short, swingy blond hair self-consciously.

“Sorry, no appointment; I just got in from London. It’s about the Poppy Mallory estate—I’d thought he’d be able to fit me in, just for fifteen mintues or so.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her blue eyes wide with sympathy. “I’m afraid Mr. Lieber doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. He’s a very busy man, you know.”

“I’m sure he is,” Orlando replied, “and he’s obviously a man of good taste.”

She put her head on one side, looking at him questioningly. “To have chosen you for a receptionist,” he added with a disarming grin. She sighed, shaking her hair at his brashness, but she was smiling. “Look,” he said quickly, “I’ve flown in from London especially to see him. I’m sorry I didn’t make an appointment, I just didn’t think about it. Isn’t there any way he can squeeze me in, even just for ten minutes?”

“If you like, I’ll ask his secretary,” she suggested.

He knew she was aware he was watching her as she walked across the bronze-colored carpet, swinging her hips and displaying a pair of very pretty legs, and he grinned. She tapped on a door and disappeared inside, emerging moments later with a red book under her arm.

“I forgot Mr. Lieber’s secretary took an early lunch today, but here’s his appointment book. Let’s see what it says.” He looked over her shoulder as she ran her finger down the list. “I’m sorry,” she said doubtfully, “but his day is really full. As you can see,
he’s marked how long he expects each meeting to take … there’s not even a minute’s gap. I told you he was a very busy man.”

Orlando nodded. “I see,” he said slowly. “Then I guess I’m going to have to try for tomorrow.”

She turned to look at him, frowning as the intercom line buzzed. She picked it up quickly. “Yes, Mr. Lieber?” she said. “I’m sorry, your secretary is not back yet, but I can get the call for you, sir. Yes. Mike Preston, Santa Barbara, California. Yes, sir, right away.” Whispering “Wait a moment” to Orlando, she dialed the number. “Mr. Preston? I have Mr. Lieber on the line for you, calling from Geneva. One moment, sir.” She put the call through and turned back to Orlando quickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Messenger,” she said sympathetically. “I wish I could help. Maybe you should speak to his secretary when she gets back.”

“Fine.” He sighed, but then his face brightened and he smiled at her. “How about taking pity on a poor lonely young man who’s feeling very hungry? I’d love to have your company for lunch.”

She laughed. “A consolation prize, Mr. Messenger?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he replied gallantly. “I would consider it an honor.”

She stared at him consideringly; he looked handsome and boyish and he was so charming … “Why not?” she agreed finally. The phone buzzed again and she picked it up. “Yes, Mr. Lieber? Fax another copy of the list of Poppy Mallory’s claimants to Mr. Preston in Santa Barbara? The one with the European telephone numbers. Yes, sir, I’ll get it from your secretary’s desk and do it right away.” With a smile at Orlando, she hurried back into the office, returning with several sheets of paper that she placed in the fax machine, dialing the number. Picking up her purse, she smiled eagerly at him. “I’ll just tell one of the other girls that I’m going,” she told him, disappearing down a corridor.

Orlando glanced at the machine. It had stopped humming and the pieces of paper were right there—the list with the names of the claimants to Poppy’s fortune and their reasons. Glancing around quickly, he picked it up and flipped through the pages, but there was no time to read it; he could already hear the girl returning along the corridor. Without a second’s hesitation he stuffed the list into his pocket and walked across to meet her.

“I hate eating alone,” he said, “and besides, I don’t know
where to go in Geneva.” He smiled at her winningly. “I can’t wait to find out more about you.
Who are you?
And what are you doing working in a boring legal office when you should obviously be modeling in Paris? I have some very good contacts in that world, you know.”

“Really?” she asked, forgetting all about the fax and the list, her eyes sparkling as they walked together to the elevator.

Carraldo sat alone in the study of the big empty house in Belgravia. He’d been in London for four days now, and he was still undecided about what to do. He had meant simply to deliver the Renoir to his London client, celebrate the man’s purchase over a leisurely lunch at the Connaught, and then fly back to Venice for Aria’s birthday dinner—and their engagement; but the advertisement for Poppy Mallory’s heiress had jangled in his memory all that day, like a nagging ache that refused to go away. He’d contemplated telephoning Francesca to see what she was up to, or even asking Aria herself, but he’d been afraid of the answer. It wasn’t the kind of deep physical fear that he’d felt in the early years as a child, nor the kind of intimidation he’d felt later when his circumstances had changed; this was a much more subtle fear, and a much more tortured one.

Francesca would want to claim Poppy’s money, and he could guess how she would do it, though he knew she still wouldn’t want to lose him as a catch for her daughter—two fortunes were better than one to Francesca. But if Aria had an alternative source of money to funnel to her mother, he knew in his heart she wouldn’t marry him. There were two courses left open to him: He could sit back and let fate take its chance, or he could take steps to ensure they were never able to prove Aria was the heiress.

He had called the Palazzo Rinardi after reading the ad. The Baronessa was out, Fiametta had informed him sullenly, and Aria was out, too, and no she didn’t know when they would be back.

“Tell them urgent business keeps me in London,” he’d said, “and that I’ll be back sometime next week. And please tell Aria I’m sorry about our engagement dinner, but as we’ve waited so long already no doubt it’ll wait a bit longer.”

Then he’d called the florist and ordered six-dozen white roses to be sent to Aria.

Swirling the brandy moodily in his glass, he listened to the sounds of silence in the vast house … the crackle of the log fire in the grate, the mellow voice of Pavarotti, turned low on the CD deck, the faint distinctive rumble of a London taxi as it turned the corner. And then his thoughts turned, as they always did when he was alone, to the past.

There had never been any love lost between Carraldo and Francesca Rinardi. She had realized when she’d married Paolo Rinardi that Carraldo knew her for what she was—shallow and superficial. But when Paolo had died, he’d hidden the depths of his sorrow for his only true friend and taken charge, seeing that Paolo was buried with all the proper respect in the Rinardi tomb.

Tiny six-year-old Aria had clutched his hand trustingly as the funeral procession had sailed across the misty Venetian lagoon to the burial island of San Michele, and he’d felt somehow as though they were sharing their grief. As he carried her, weeping, from the church, he’d been overwhelmed by a feeling of strong possessive love. Afterward, he’d kept his distance because of Francesca, but he’d always seen that Aria was looked after financially. On the odd occasions when he did see the little girl, she’d seemed afraid of him, backing nervously behind Fiametta, and he’d wondered what Francesca had been saying to her.

It had been five years since he’d last seen Aria, when Francesca telephoned asking him to go to the Palazzo Rinardi, and the photographs dotted about the salon showed that she was becoming a beauty, in a comtemporary delicate-boned fashion—and yet there was a look of her father about her. He’d listened to Francesca and realized with a shock that she was grooming Aria for the marriage market—to be sold to the highest bidder. Of course, he knew he could simply have given her the money she wanted and washed his hands of the whole situation, but he also knew there was no way to satisfy the greed of a woman like that. She would always want more—and he was sure she would use Aria to get it.

He’d thought over the situation that night, telling himself that there were two good reasons for marrying Aria Rinardi. One was that he couldn’t let the daughter of his old friend Paolo be humiliated by Francesca. The other was a much more personal reason, but one he knew would be to her benefit. But there was
also a third reason. Aria was too young to be used as Francesca’s bait; she needed time to grow strong, to mature—to become a woman. And when he thought of the woman Aria would become, he suddenly knew he wanted her with the same kind of possessive passion that made him bid millions for a Rembrandt or a Monet. Aria was youth and innocence personified—and right now, he needed her.