The Rich Shall Inherit (31 page)

Aria laughed mockingly. “I think you’d better start looking for those birth certificates, Mama,” she called, “Mr. Lieber’s not going to like your ‘intuition.’”

“Send back that worthless painting!” Francesca commanded, sweeping angrily from the room.

Aria opened the note that accompanied the painting, wondering what Carraldo would have to say this time. He seemed to have accepted the postponement of their official engagement calmly, far more calmly than her mother, who’d gone crazy; but she had the feeling that she’d hurt him, and that worried her. She hadn’t thought that Carraldo was a man who could be hurt by anything; he’d seemed too powerful, too invincible—and when someone was that rich you never thought of them as being able to be wounded.

When he found the time, Carraldo would fly to Venice to see her, and they’d have lunch or dinner together, but Aria always insisted on going to a restaurant, so they were never truly “alone.” He’d talk to her about the paintings he’d seen that week, or works that he’d sold or bought, and especially about his young artists, and she got the feeling that they were a true source of pleasure and pride in his life. But he rarely touched her, or even held her hand, and, thank heaven, she thought with relief, he never attempted to kiss her.

My dear Aria
, he’d written in his fine bold hand, I
hope you will
like this charming little sketch of Portofino. I noticed it in the window of a gallery in London last week and saw that my own villa was in it. Knowing your talent for watercolor, I thought you might enjoy having it. I haven’t forgotten that you told me you’d have to give up your studies at art school, and my promise to find you a teacher. I think this young artist shows ability and therefore I asked him to come to Venice to tutor you for a few months. I know you never accept gifts from me, but this is also a roundabout way of helping the artist earn some much needed money, and at the same time keep his self-respect. His name is Orlando Messenger, and he will be in touch with you in a day or so. Please say yes this time.

He’d signed it simply
Antony.

She folded the letter thoughtfully: maybe Carraldo wasn’t as bad as people said he was, after all. She remembered that her father, Paolo, had liked him and trusted him, but yet there were all those rumors—everyone said he was a cruel, heartless man. She sighed again; she didn’t know what to think, but of course she couldn’t refuse his gift this time, because she’d deprive the artist of a much needed chance to earn money.

Orlando Messenger called her the next day and she arranged to meet him at Florian’s for tea. He’d surprised her on the phone by speaking Italian, though with a charming English accent, and then he’d told her he’d spent two years at the same art school in Florence that she herself had attended. “So you see,” he’d said with a laugh, “we already have something in common.”

She hurried through the cold, gloomy gray afternoon to the Piazza San Marco, her portfolio under her arm, and pushing open Florian’s door she stepped into its steamy warmth. Florian’s Tea Rooms had been established for more than two centuries, and when Venice was occupied by the Austrians in the early nineteenth century, the Venetians had always taken their coffee at Florian’s while the enemy patronized Quadri’s, the cafe opposite. Byron had taken tea there and Elizabeth Barrett Browning her chocolate; the mirrored walls had reflected the famous and the notorious and Florian’s hadn’t changed its decor of red velvet banquets and marble-topped tables since the day it first opened.

Aria glanced around the tables, expecting to see a thin, half-starved, bearded artist and she was surprised when a tall, handsome young man with thick blond hair met her eyes expectantly.

“Aria?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“You must be Orlando,” she replied, her heart thumping as he took her hand. “But I didn’t expect you to look like this!”

Orlando laughed as he sat opposite her at a little marble-topped table. “And neither did I expect you to look like this!” he replied. And indeed he hadn’t; she was tall and young and stylish, and very beautiful in an offbeat way. She had the sort of bone structure that any artist would long to paint and those startlingly winged eyebrows and heavily lashed blue eyes were devastating. Surely this girl didn’t need to marry Carraldo. With those looks she could marry anybody! And then he remembered that she might not marry Carraldo; the betting was she was the Mallory heiress and would be a rich woman like all the others he knew, able to pick and choose at will. But like him, she still had to prove it. He sighed; it would be a pity to lose such innocence and charm beneath the self-indulgence of too much money.

“You’re staring at me,” Aria said uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking I’d like to paint you,” he said, and for once it wasn’t just a come-on line, he meant it.

“I didn’t realize you did portraits.”

“I work in oils and gouache as well as watercolor. Usually I’d do a portrait in oils, but I’d like to sketch you in charcoal first, and then maybe try a watercolor. But that’s not what I’m here for, is it. Signore Carraldo asked me to help you.”

The waiter came to take their order and she asked for tea with lemon. “I’ve brought my portfolio to show you,” she said shyly.

He took it from her, inspecting each sketch carefully. They were soft, mystical views of landscapes, but in each she had caught the essence of the scene. She had talent, there was no doubt about that. “These are good,” he told her, “but I think I see where you need help. It’s a question of structure, you see, here—and here.” Leaning closer to her, he pointed out what he meant. “If this had been the focus, then all the rest would have radiated from it. It’s a question of seeing it a certain way, that’s all.”

“Of course,” she cried, “now I understand. It seems too obvious, I can’t believe I was so stupid not to see it right away.”

“No problem.” He shrugged. “We’ll begin tomorrow and you’ll soon develop an eye. And then we should talk about using pen and color wash to get a little more definition. But that will come later.”

“Is it really difficult, being a professional artist?” Aria asked, putting the drawings and the sketches back in her portfolio. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to be.”

Orlando looked at her; he never met girls like this who gazed
at you so trustingly and sweetly with eyes that could melt your heart, and he felt like a stranger in a strange land. She was light years away from those tough, glossy women who lived on gossip and diets and champagne. “It’s hard,” he admitted, “and I’m having to come to terms with that now. It’s easy enough to make a living painting the sort of stuff people like to hang on their walls as part of their interior decor. No one will ever make a fortune at it, but it’s enough to get by and it’s an easy trap to fall into. I’ve decided that if I’m ever going to paint the way I really want to paint, I’m going to have to do it
now
—even if it means starving in a garret! That’s where Carraldo comes in. I suppose he told you that we met at the Maze Gallery in London. I was having an exhibition there and he bought the Portofino picture. We got talking and I told him my ambition—he offered me this job as a way to help me.” Orlando laughed. “Two months in Venice, teaching a beautiful girl! How could I refuse? Oh, but I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I shouldn’t talk like that, I know you’re engaged to Carraldo.”

“I’m not engaged to Antony Carraldo,” Aria said quietly, “but I did say I would marry him. Now, I’m not sure.”

“But why?” he asked seriously. “Why are you even considering marrying him? You’re obviously not in love with him or you wouldn’t have to think about it. A lovely girl like you could marry anybody … anybody at all.”

My mother doesn’t think so,” she said, blushing. “She said nobody would want to marry a poor girl, even with the Rinardi name. You see, we have no money. We have the palazzo and the villa, but everything belongs to the family trust. My mother … well, my mother is a very special sort of person; she’s worked hard, she says, to bring me up properly and keep up our standards. She … well, I suppose she
arranged
the marriage for me.”

Orlando gazed at her, stunned. “I didn’t know that sort of thing still went on. But surely you didn’t have to agree?”

“My mother is ill. I’m all she has. I have to look after her. Carraldo was an old friend of my father’s.”

Orlando whistled in disbelief. Leaning back in his seat, he said, “So Aria, when’s the big day?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, staring down at her steaming glass of tea. “I was hoping that maybe now I won’t have to marry him after all.”

“Why is that?” He leaned forward, fascinated by the curve of her eyelids and the shadow her long lashes created on her smooth
cheek. Her dark tousled hair shone with chestnut highlights under the red-shaded lamps, and her blue eyes were wide with new hope as she glanced back up at him.

“Maybe you saw the ad in the newspapers, about the search for Poppy Mallory’s missing heiress?” she asked. She smiled as Orlando nodded. “It seems as though everyone read it. Well, Mama thinks I am the Mallory heiress. She says my grandmother was her daughter. If I inherit Poppy’s money, I will give it to my mother—and then I’ll be free.”

“Free of Carraldo, you mean?” Orlando asked gently.

She shook her head. “It would be unkind to put it that way. Sometimes Carraldo is … oh, I don’t know, I just don’t understand him. Sometimes he frightens me.”

Orlando reached across the table and took her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said protectively. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She smiled gratefully at him across the table. Her hand felt safe in his; he made her feel secure. With his blond hair and rugged masculine beauty, he was like a knight in shining armor come to save her.

“Shall we begin our lessons tomorrow?” he asked, squeezing her hand comfortingly.

Aria nodded, smiling up at him. “I’ll look forward to it,” she said simply.

Orlando’s claim was interesting, Mike thought, walking through the chill, dank rain up London’s Cork Street, toward the Maze Gallery. Like Pierluigi and Claudia, he was claiming that Poppy’s child had been a son, not a daughter. But the story of Aleksandr Galli was based on sound psychology, while as far as he could tell, Orlando’s was based on pure conjecture.

He studied the paintings in the window before going in; they were pretty and decorative and had a definite appeal, but he could tell they were not great art. The gallery was warm and brightly lit and Mike stepped thankfully inside, shutting out the damp gray afternoon. A small, plump man eyed him inquisitively, assessing if he was a potential purchaser or just another browser, and Mike smiled.

“Good afternoon,” he called, “is Mr. Maze here, by any chance?”

“That’s me,” the man said, bustling toward him. “Peter Maze. What can I do for you?”

“Mike Preston,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m looking for Orlando Messenger.”

“What’s Orlando been up to now?” Maze asked apprehensively.

Mike laughed. “Should he have been ‘up to’ something then?”

“You never know with Orlando, he’s all over the place. And he has a terrible way with women … I thought you might be an irate husband looking for revenge.” He laughed apologetically. “Of course I didn’t mean that, Orlando is a nice guy, and he’s a fine painter.”

“A good artist maybe, Mr. Maze,” Mike agreed, “but not great.”

“Well, you know, you’re basing your judgment only on what you see here. But I mean what I say; Orlando is a fine artist and he could be a great one, if only he’d give himself the chance. Let me tell you, if he ever does, then these pretty little daubs here will be worth a fortune as ‘early Orlando Messengers.’
You
should buy, Mr. Preston, while the price is right, because now that Antony Carraldo has taken Orlando under his wing, we might yet see a masterpiece from him.”

“Carraldo? The famous art dealer?”

“He was in here a couple of weeks ago, at the opening of Orlando’s exhibition. He bought a painting and then he offered him a job in Venice, tutoring his fiancée—apparently she dabbles in watercolors. But it was really an excuse to get Orlando away from the rat race he was in, and allow him to earn some money and still have the time to paint ‘the way he really wants to paint’—to quote the artist himself. Of course, Orlando was thrilled, came in here to get an advance on his money and took off right away. I’m hoping when he comes back we shall see a marked difference in his work.” He glanced shrewdly at Mike. “And now I’ve told you all this,” he said, “maybe you’d better tell me why you want to see him.”

“Oh, I was passing through London; it was just the suggestion of a mutual friend that we should meet,” Mike said quickly. “I guess I’ll catch up to him some other time. One thing, though, Mr. Maze, what did you mean ‘the rat race he’s been in’? What is it? Drugs, booze …?”

“God, no! Poppy’s straight-arrow on that score! No, his problem is that he likes the good things in life and he hasn’t had the money to buy them.” He shrugged, throwing his arms in the air graphically. “He’s young and very good-looking, women like him … you can imagine the rest. But I think young Orlando’s becoming bitter, he’s tired of having to ‘paint’ for his supper—and believe me some of those rich international ladies can be true bitches. They know how to wield the power of money over someone like Orlando—and they enjoy every little humiliation along with every little gift they bestow on him. It’s a tough price to pay, Mr. Preston, and I think he’s just about had enough.”

“Money and power,” mused Mike, “they’ve always ruled the world.”

“Yes, well, I get the feeling Orlando thinks it’s time
he
was the king. Now, can I interest you in one of his paintings, Mr. Preston?”

“I wish I could say yes,” Mike said, smiling, “but they’re just not my style. Still, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” said Peter Maze as the door closed behind him.

Mike stopped off just long enough in Geneva to meet Johannes Lieber. The lawyer was a small, plump man, but nevertheless had a commanding presence. He was about sixty years old, his face was lined, and the eyes that assessed Mike across his desktop were used to seeking out the flaws in a man’s character.