The Baby Gambit Part 7

'Miss Horton.' While Grace had been lost in the chaos of her own thoughts, Matteo had introduced her to his grandmother, and now the old lady was holding out her hand. 'My grandson has spoken of you,' she added, speak ing English, much to Grace's surprise. She smiled. 'I trust our milder climate will prove beneficial to your recupera tion.'

Grace was taken aback, and she glanced round for Julia to see if she'd noticed. 'W-well-thank you,' she stammered. 'I am feeling much better already.'

'That's good.' The old lady nodded her approval, and then gestured for the younger woman who was standing beside her to come forward.

'You haven't met my great-granddaughter, have you, Miss Horton?' She smiled up at the girl. 'This is Cecilia.'

'Ceci,' amended the young woman ruefully, and Grace realised that this was who Matteo had been talking about earlier. She reached up and kissed the air at either side of Grace's face. Then she grimaced. 'I wish I was as tall as you.'

'Cecilia!'

The marchesa evidently didn't approve of that, but Grace hurried to put her at her ease. 'It's all right,' she said. 'I've always wished that I was small and feminine.'

'I don't think your femininity is in question, cara,' * Matteo murmured, appearing behind her, and Grace glanced around in alarm, half afraid Julia had overheard him. But her friend apparently knew the other member of the party, and when Matteo introduced his uncle Paolo Grace realised that this must be the 'disgusting' old man Julia had protested about last weekend.

But, in fact, Grace found him a charming old man. He was a little hard of hearing, but she suspected that in his youth he had probably been as attractive to women as his nephew. Certainly, he seemed to find her a delightful com panion, and she was only too eager to show Matteo that she preferred his uncle's company to his.

His daughter was another matter, however, and after ac- cepting a gla.s.s of wine Grace allowed herself to be drawn back to where Ceci hovered beside her great-grandmother's chair.

'I understand you live in London, Miss Horton,' the old , lady commented with interest, but Grace shook her head.

'I work in London,' she explained quickly. 'But I live in Brighton. That's on the south coast, as you probably know.

Oh, and please-call me Grace. Miss Horton sounds so formal.'

'Very well.' The marchesa inclined her head.

'Wouldn't it be easier if you lived in London, too, as you work there?' asked Ceci artlessly, and suffered another of her great-grandmother's disapproving looks.

'I don't know what the world is coming to, Cecilia!' the old lady exclaimed impatiently. 'In my day, we didn't ask such personal questions.'

'That's all right.' Grace shared a look of understanding with Ceci. 'It's a reasonable question, really...'

'Why do you never say that to me?' asked Matteo softly, coming to stand beside her. He exchanged an enigmatic smile with his grandmother. 'Would anyone like more wine?'

'No, thanks.'

Grace put a protective hand across the rim of her gla.s.s just in case he took it into his head to ignore her words, and the marchesa' s lips twitched with reluctant amus.e.m.e.nt. 'What my grandson means is that no one has commented on the quality of the vintage,' she remarked drily. 'This is the '96 pressing, is it not, Matteo? Are you a wine con noisseur, Miss-Grace?'

Grace's lips had parted at her words. 'Do you mean this is your own wine?' she asked involuntarily, and then wished she hadn't sounded so incredulous when she met Matteo's dark gaze.

'Do you like it?' he asked, and Grace had the uneasy feeling that he wasn't just talking about the wine.

'Urn-' She looked back at his grandmother for inspi ration.

'I-well, yes.'

'It's a new departure for the vineyard,' observed the mar chesa, holding out her gla.s.s to be refilled. 'A Cabernet Sauvignon that incorporates a small amount of our Merlot grapes. Do you know anything about wine-making, Grace?'

'Careful, Nonna,' put in Ceci teasingly. 'That's a leading question.'

'And we never did get an answer to why Grace lives in Brighton when she works in London,' added Matteo, filling his grandmother's gla.s.s as he spoke, and proving that he had been aware of their conversation all along. He touched Grace's shoulder with an enquiring linger. 'Isn't that so?'

Grace swallowed. 'My mother lives in Brighton,' she said quickly, addressing herself to the marchesa.

'And you live with your mother?' the old lady remarked approvingly. 'How refres.h.i.+ng to meet a young person who doesn't feel it is inc.u.mbent upon them to prove their in- dependence by moving out of the family home.'

'It was more a case of Grace moving back into the family home,' Julia commented with some asperity, coming to stand beside Matteo and resting a familiar hand on his shoulder. 'Grace is no angel, are you, darling?'

Grace shook her head. 'No.'

'So what made you decide to move back home?' asked the marchesa pleasantly, ignoring the other woman, and Grace wondered if she was the only one who heard Julia's angry intake of breath.

'I-my mother was ill,' she murmured, aware that her friend would think she was milking the situation for all it was worth.

'There was no one else.'

'Only two other sisters,' protested Julia impatiently. 'And I think while you've been here that they've proved that you didn't have to martyr yourself all these years!'

There was an awkward silence after she'd finished and then the marchesa reached for her cane that was leaning against her chair. Getting purposefully to her feet, she waved Matteo away when he would have helped her. 'Grace,' she said, gesturing towards her, and Grace could feel the hot colour burning her cheeks at being singled out for attention. 'Will you give me your arm, child? I want to show you something.'

Grace didn't look at Julia as the old lady tucked her hand under Grace's elbow and directed her to where a cl.u.s.ter of spiny cactus plants hid the flowering succulent that nestled in their midst. 'My husband bought me this plant almost forty years ago, in Bermuda,' she said, with evident pride. 'Beautiful, isn't it? It's called Queen of the Night, and has this distinctive scent that resembles vanilla, don't you think?'

It was a beautiful specimen. Large white flowers that were opening as darkness fell were framed by salmon- coloured petals that radiated around it like a sunflower. Its perfume was unusual and did remind Grace of the scent of vanilla, but she had the uneasy feeling that this was not why the marchesa had brought her away from the others.

'Its Latin name is Selenicereus grandifiorus,'' the old lady went on, 'from which you'l have gathered that it's a mem ber of the Cereus family.' She looked up at Grace. 'Are you interested in horticulture? And can you tell me what your friend expects to achieve by pursuing my grandson?'

Grace blinked. The. change of topic had been so sudden that even though she had been half expecting it she was still stunned by the speed of its delivery.

'Julia,' she eventually managed faintly, and the marchesa indicated that they should move on.

She paused a few seconds later in front of a j.a.panese lily. 'So delicate,' she murmured softly, putting out her gnarled fingers and touching its pearl-like blossom. 'I've always been interested in plants. That was why Michele, Matteo's father, had a conservatory built onto the villa. You must let me show it to you some time.' She paused. 'You do know she is pursuing him, don't you?'

Grace swallowed. 'Perhaps he's pursuing her,' she re marked quietly. 'They have been seeing one another for several months.'

'Four months and a handful of days, to be precise,' de clared the marchesa disparagingly, cutting Julia's estimate by at least eight weeks. 'And for at least half that time Matteo has been trying to extricate himself from her ten tacles. But he is too polite to-what is the expression?- tell it how it is?'

Grace nodded. 'Something like that.'

'So, you agree with me?'

'No.' Grace was horrified. 'I just meant, yes, that's what people say.' She inwardly groaned at her own stupidity. 'Urn-don't you think your grandson's old enough to-to handle his own affairs?'

The marchesa paused to give her another searching look.

'You think this is why I am asking you these questions? Because I am trying to-handle-Matteo's affairs?'

'Well-'

'Oh, no, my dear. You are wrong. Matteo must make his own mistakes.' She drew an audible breath. 'I just thought you might have a vested interest.'

Grace's eyes went wide. 'A vested interest?' she echoed weakly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Don't you?' For a moment, Grace thought the old lady was going to accuse her of pursuing Matteo herself. 'Well, Julia is your friend, is she not? You do not strike me as the kind of woman to allow her friend to be hurt unnec essarily, that's all.'

Grace felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and it was incredibly difficult to articulate a response.

'Perhaps-perhaps you're wrong, Mar-Marchesa,' she stammered, stumbling over the unfamiliar t.i.tle. It was hard, but it had to be said. 'I-I believe Julia loves your grand son-'

'Love!' The old lady was scornful. 'What is love in to day's society? A promise of fidelity-or just an excuse to indulge in pre-marital s.e.x!' Her cane tapped irritably against the ornately tiled floor. 'I may be old, Grace, but I am not unaware of what goes on. And so long as Matteo does not pursue his conquests here-'

'But-'

'No. Listen to me, Grace. I like you, and I think you are an intelligent woman, which is something I cannot say for your friend, regrettably.' She sighed. 'You should know something, however, which you can pa.s.s on to your friend or not as you choose. My grandson loved his wife; he loves his daughter. But he does not love your friend. End of story.'

Grace wished it was that simple, but there was something else she wanted to know. 'He-he told me that he does not intend to marry again,' she ventured, and, as she'd hoped, the marchesa took her up on it.

'So he says,' she said, with some regret. 'Although, I must confess, I was hoping to change his mind. There was a young woman-' She broke off. 'But that is not what you wish to know, is it, my dear? You are curious as to why Matteo should make such a declaration, and I can tell you it is because of the way Luisa died.' She shook her head with evident sadness. 'Luisa was Cecilia's mother, and she and Matteo were expecting their second child when something went wrong and the baby was born prematurely. Unfortunately, Luisa developed an infection soon after wards, and although she received the finest care that was available she seemed to fade away before our eyes. Matteo swore then that he would never put another woman through such an ordeal, and if it seems to you that he does not take life very seriously these days, then I must a.s.sure you that this is not the case.'

Grace found she had nothing to say. The idea that she could attempt to mediate on Julia's behalf in these circ.u.m stances was simply not feasible, and she was inestimably relieved when the marchesa suggested that they rejoin the others. 'Signora Carlucci must be almost ready to serve dinner,' she added. 'I must admit, I shall be glad to sit down. These old legs are not what they used to be.'

Julia raised enquiring eyebrows at her friend when they reached the group beside the fountain, but she evidently considered it was more important to retain Matteo's atten tion than to give in to her obvious curiosity to know what Grace and the marchesa had been talking about. It was Ceci di Falco who left her great-uncle's side and came to take her great-grandmother's arm. 'Are you all right, Nonna?' she asked solicitously. 'You're looking a little tired. Is any thing wrong?'

'What could be wrong?' demanded the old lady a little testily.

'I have perhaps been standing for too long. Please do not make Grace feel as if she is to blame for my short comings.' She managed a smile. 'I have been showing her some of my prized possessions, that is all. I may be wrong, but I think she was impressed.'

The arrival of the maid to announce that the meal was ready curtailed any further conversation, and Grace was glad when Ceci offered to show her the way. 'Zio Paolo will escort Nonna,'

she said. 'And I'm sure Julia will insist that Papa takes care of her.' Her lips tightened as they started out of the loggia, and Grace glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Julia and Matteo exchanging what appeared to be a few cross words. She s.h.i.+vered and swung round again just as Ceci added, 'I must say, you're not at all like Julia, are you? Papa says you're really Dr Horton. Is that true?'

Although Grace was loath to talk about herself, she was glad of Ceci's chatter throughout the curiously tense meal that followed. They ate in what the marchesa called the small dining room, although Grace thought there was noth ing particularly small about it. Still, she hesitated to ask what the other dining room might be like when it was ob vious that everything about the villa was built on a grand scale.

The table they ate at was a huge circle of inlaid mahog any with an intricately carved base, from chairs that had tall carved backs, which had obviously been designed more for effect than comfort. Even the wall brackets that sup ported the candle-shaped lamps were carved, too, and Grace wondered if anyone ever got used to living in a place like this.

Antipasti was followed by a dish whose main ingredient appeared to be spinach, and then thin slices of lean beef were served with a red wine sauce. Grace, who wasn't very hungry to begin with, found the food rather too rich for her taste, and she was intensely conscious that Matteo's eyes often rested on her throughout the meal. It was just as well Julia was seated beside him, she thought. In her position, she was unable to see where he directed his gaze when he wasn't looking at her, but Grace had no such advantage, and she almost jumped out of her skin when he spoke to her.

'This is another of our wines,' he said, holding his gla.s.s up to the light. The dark red liquid glinted with a subdued brilliance, and Grace felt almost hypnotised by its glowing l.u.s.tre, concentrating on it rather than on the man who was displaying it.

'It's a Chianti, but we used a white grape to soften its flavour.

What do you think?'

'Oh-' Grace felt the hot colour invading her neck and put up her hand to hide her throat, 'I know nothing about wine, signore.

It-seems very nice.'

'You like it?' the marchesa inquired from her position at Grace's right hand, and Grace was forced to concede that she did. 'Good.' The old lady looked pleased. 'But why are you addressing my grandson so formally? I understood from him that you'd seen one another on several occasions before tonight.'

Julia's head jerked round and then, as if suspecting that the marchesa was provoking her, she forced a tight smile. 'Just a couple of occasions,' she corrected her, with obvious restraint.

'Isn't that right, Grace? I wouldn't exactly call you and Matt-friends.'

'Oh, but-' began the marchesa, clearly about to argue, but Matteo himself intervened.

'I think Grace is just a little shy,' he said smoothly, and Grace realised that he had no intention of exposing his real intentions to his grandmother. He deftly changed the sub ject. 'By the way, Ceci, I saw Domenico Pasquale in Siena this afternoon.' His brows arched with warm humour. 'He wonders why you haven't returned his calls.'

'Oh, Papii-'

'Domenico?' At least the marchesa was diverted. 'You haven't been avoiding Domenico, have you, cara'

Ceci sighed, and Grace felt a surge of sympathy for her. 'No, Nonna-'

'Yet it seems he told your father that you hadn't returned his calls.' The old lady frowned. 'Is this true?'

Ceci sighed again, and this time her father seemed to take pity on her. 'I expect Ceci's been so busy with her end-of-year exams, she hasn't had time to phone all her friends,' he declared gallantly.

His eyes settled on Grace again, and this time she forced herself not to look away. 'My daughter is a very popular young lady,' he added mockingly. 'Evidently, she does not take after her father.'

'Oh, Matt!' Julia leaned towards him and put a proprietorial hand on his arm. 'You know she's the image of you.' She circled her lips with the tip of her tongue. 'Stop teasing Grace. She doesn't like it.'

'I'm sure Grace can answer for herself,' the marchesa put in sharply. 'Ring the bell, Matteo. I think we're all ready for dessert.'

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Grace was deciding whether to wear trousers or shorts the next morning when she heard someone knocking at her door.

She had taken the precaution of locking the outer door the night before, but although she had lain awake until the early hours no one had disturbed her. Now, however, she quickly stepped into the pale green Bermudas that were easiest to fasten and called nervously, 'Who is it?'

'Who are you expecting?' Julia's response was terse, and Grace searched for an excuse as she opened the door.

'It could have been the maid,' she said, deciding no de fence was necessary. And then her expression turned to one of concern. 'What's wrong? You look awful!'

'Oh, boost my confidence, why don't you?' Julia re marked grimly, walking into the parlour with a cold face cloth pressed to her temple. 'I've got a migraine, what else?' She snorted. 'Isn't that just par for the course? Matt and I get a chance to spend some time together, and I go and ruin everything by getting a headache.'

Grace shook her head. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Yeah.' Julia slumped down into a velvet-covered arm chair.

'Have you got any aspirin or paracetamol that I can take?'