Rachel Lindsay - Affair in Venice
When Erica went to work in Venice she had never dreamed that she would end up by falling in love with the attractive, immensely rich Conte Filippo Rosetti.
And Filippo's close friend Claudia Medina, it soon appeared, was going to see to it that it remained only a dream!
CHAPTER ONE
Erica Rayburn looked at the diamond ring winking on her finger and wondered how it would feel to own a three- thousand-pound bauble. Slipping it off, she returned it to its black velvet bed and put it under the glass counter, snapping the lock shut as she did so.
Despite working for six months in the luxury atmosphere of Botelli's, one of Venice's most illustrious jewellery shops, she was still awestruck by the exquisite jewels surrounding her, each one costing more than she earned in a year. Surprisingly for someone who catered for an e1ite clientele, Signora Botelli herself was a practical, motherly Italian who regarded all her clients as friends, and all the people who worked for her as her protégées. Erica still found it difficult to believe her luck in getting the opportunity to work for her, since she had no practical qualifications other than a deep love of precious stones and antique jewellery, and a gifted amateur's ability to design and make pieces herself.
'Loving the things you sell is halfway to being a good saleswoman,' the Signora had said when she engaged Erica. 'Most girls of your age see the jewellery here as portable bank accounts. But you enjoy each piece because of the care that went into its making.'
'I appreciate its value too,' Erica had protested, not wishing to be thought as unworldly as the Signora made out But the woman had refused to be dissuaded from her viewpoint, and still held it after knowing Erica for six months.
This belief in her assistant's ingenuousness stemmed, Erica knew, from the aura of simplicity which not even skilful make-up and an austere hair-style could eradicate. Indeed, the more sophisticated she tried to look, the less she succeeded, so that now she accepted the fact that she looked five years younger than the twenty-three she was, and considerably more innocent than she felt herself to be. Not that she was worldly when compared with the bored beauties who made up a large part of their clientele. One in particular came into her mind: a husky-voiced young widow who, for the last three months, had been a consistent buyer of small but expensive items with which to adorn herself. Not that Claudia Medina's beauty required any adornment. She was so lovely that it was a wonder she had not yet married again. There was no doubt the choice would be hers. Sighing for the fact that she herself did not have a matt olive skin and mahogany red hair, Erica took out a pendant from the glass case and started to polish it
It was a quiet time of the day. She had re-opened the shop after the usual two-hour lunch break and most of the tourists were not yet in evidence, it being both too early in the season and too early in the afternoon. It was the time of year Erica liked best. Spring had not quite given way to summer, and though the chilly morning and evening mists had gone, the city still had the fresh, dewlike quality one seemed to find nowhere else except in Venice.
Venice. City of bridges and slow-moving canals; of narrow winding streets and breathtakingly beautiful squares; of magnificent crumbling palazzos and damp- ridden tenements.
The buzz of the bell above the door brought her back to her present surroundings and she saw a young, pretty girl standing by the counter. Before Erica had a chance to speak, the girl opened her handbag and, rummaging among a conglomeration of coins, gold-backed comb, small calf diary and purse, withdrew a brooch.
'I'd like to sell this,' she said in a breathless voice.
Erica examined the brooch carefully. It was an exquisite thing in gold and rubies, with a large and unusual pink stone in the centre. It was so pale a pink that it reminded her of a dawn sky, though it glittered with the brilliance of a light.
How much will you give me for it?' the girl asked, still speaking Italian.
Erica hesitated. As a general rule Signora Botelli did not buy second-hand jewellery, though there were times when - in order to help a client who needed some ready cash - she would buy back some of her own work. But this brooch, Erica surmised, had not been produced by any of the craftsmen the Signora employed. It had the patina of age; the stamp of antiquity that would increase its value and make it difficult for her to assess its worth.
'I would like Signora Botelli to see it,' she murmured. 'Perhaps you could call back at five o'clock.'
'I can't. It was difficult enough for me to get away now, without having to—' The girl stopped abruptly, as if afraid she had said too much. 'I'll take a half million lire,' she finished. 'It is worth at least treble that.'
It probably was, Erica decided, and wondered why the girl wanted to sell it and, even more important, if it was hers to sell. A surreptitious but careful glance showed her to be wearing a simple but expensive suit in hand-woven wool. Her handbag was equally expensive, its soft calf exactly matching the hand-stitched gloves which had been carelessly dropped on to the counter. Whatever else she might be, the girl was not a maid who had stolen her mistress's jewellery; yet neither was she a demi-mondaine trying to cash in on a present she had received.
'I am afraid you will have to come back and see Signora Botelli,' Erica reiterated. 'I cannot make an offer for the brooch myself.'
'Then what's the point of your being here? If you can't make decisions you might as well close the shop!'
'I can sell,' Erica replied with a faint smile. 'But I am not allowed to buy.'
The girl's pert features were marred by a scowl. It put a line on the smooth forehead and a shadow in the blue eyes.
'If you really can't come back,' Erica continued tentatively, 'there are several other shops who might be interested in the brooch. Carema are always looking for good pieces and—'
'I know where to go,' the girl interrupted rudely. 'That's why I came here. I want to sell this brooch quietly - without any fuss - and Carema know my - know my—' She hesitated and frowned.
Erica was more than ever convinced the girl was trying to surreptitiously dispose of a gift But it was more than she dared do to buy it. She picked it up and regretfully held it out. It really was one of the loveliest pieces she had seen. 'I'm terribly sorry I can't make you an offer, signorina. But as I said, if you return later this afternoon…'
The girl glanced out of the window at the crowds strolling in the direction of San Marco Square. A group of Italian women came towards the shop and she gave a gasp and stepped back, as if afraid of being seen. 'I can't return this afternoon,' she muttered, 'but I can probably come back in the morning. Will Signora Botelli be here then?'
'I'll make sure that she is. If you could tell me what time we can expect you?'
'As near to ten as I can make it.' Hurriedly the girl picked up her gloves and went to the door.
'You have forgotten the brooch,' Erica called.
'Keep it for me.'
'But-'
'You look honest,' the girl said, and quickly closed the door behind her.
Erica picked up the brooch and studied it. How trusting of the girl to leave it here: she had not even bothered to get a receipt. But then she had obviously been in a hurry to get away. Erica glanced through the window at the group who had attracted the girl's attention, but they had disappeared. Quickly she put the brooch into a velvet-lined drawer, then resumed cleaning the pendant.
There were few visitors to the shop during the afternoon, apart from some Americans who were more interested in looking than buying, and an old client who returned a ring to be reset, which Erica promised to do herself, since she knew the woman wanted to wear it the following day.
'I thought one needed to be strong to be a jeweller,' the woman commented, looking at
Erica's fine-boned wrists.
'Dexterity and patience are more important than strength,' Erica smiled. 'Don't worry, signora, re-setting the ring won't be difficult. I'll have it ready for you this time tomorrow.'
She had just put the ring on her work bench when her employer walked in. Signora Botelli was almost as wide as she was tall, with a pair of shrewd black eyes set in a full moon face. But she had the small, beautiful feet and ankles of the true northern Italian, and still walked with a grace that was surprising in one so heavy.
'Sorry to be late,' she puffed. 'But it's becoming more and more difficult to get people to keep their word on delivery. If I don't have better luck before the end of the week, I will have to buy some stock from Rome.'
'You hate paying Roman prices,' Erica reminded her.
'I know. But I can't have an empty window.'
'At least I can offer you one beautiful piece to put in it.' Erica opened the drawer and took out the brooch left in her care by the unknown girl.
Signora Botelli pounced on it. 'Where did you get this?'
Erica explained as her employer examined the brooch carefully.
'You say she wants half a million lire for it?' the woman questioned.
'Yes. You might be able to get it for less. I think she is anxious to make a quiet sale.'
'I don't doubt it,' Signora Botelli remarked caustically. 'Especially if this brooch is the one I think it is.'
Knowing there was significance behind the words,
Erica waited. She did not have to wait long, for her employer went into the inner office and returned with a large, well-thumbed book. It was the Bible of the jewellery trade and showed some of the greatest collections in the world, both private ones and museum- owned. A pudgy finger moved down the index, pages were quickly turned and there was a sharp exclamation.
'There!' said the Signora, and held the book under Erica's nose. 'Half a million, did you say? Ten million, more likely!'
Erica stared at a colour reproduction of the brooch. 'The Rosetti Rose,' she read aloud, 'so called because of the rare pink diamond in its centre.'
Taking the book in her hand she read on. The brooch was part of the famous Rosetti Collection and belonged to the family of that name. It had been made for a Countess Rosetti in the seventeenth century and the pink diamond was reputed to have been given to her by an eminent Roman cardinal.
Erica looked at the Signora. 'I can't believe the girl stole it. She didn't look like a thief.'
'Thieves usually don't,' the Signora replied.
'But she looked so—' Erica's arched brows drew together in a frown, 'so well cared for. I can't believe she stole it.'
'I'm sure the Conte Rosetti didn't give it to her to sell!'
'You mean the Rosetti family still exists?'
'Si, si. They are extremely well known. One of the wealthiest families in Italy - in Europe. It is inconceivable they would sell any of their heirlooms.'
;Perhaps the girl is his wife?'
'The Conte isn't married.'
"His girl-friend, then?'
'No, no,' the Signora said. 'He is not the sort of man to give family jewels to a mistress.'
'You speak as if you know him.'
'I do not know him personally, but I am well acquainted with his character. We will have to telephone him and let him know we have the brooch.'
'Are you sure it's the Rosetti Rose and not a copy?'
'This pink diamond is genuine,' came the firm reply. 'And there is only one like it in the world. I will telephone and make an appointment to see him.'
The Signora disappeared into the office again, returning a moment later to say that the Conte was in Rome and would not be back until the evening. 'I didn't want to leave my name,' she went on, 'in case someone in his household got to hear of it.'
'Does that mean you think one of his servants might have stolen it?'
'It is the only possible solution.' The Signora picked up the brooch and with a faint sigh put it into a small safe where their more expensive items were kept.
'What happens when the girl comes back in the morning?' Erica asked.
'That depends what Conte Rosetti wants to do. He is paranoically adverse to publicity, so we dare not call in the police without his permission.' The black eyes were sharp. 'Did the girl say what time she would be coming in?'
'About ten.'
'Then I will call the Conte at nine-thirty. That should give him time to decide what to do.'
The arrival of a, group of tourists - recommended by the concierge from a five-star hotel - prevented any further discussion of the matter. It was well after seven o'clock before they left, and half past before the Signora was ready to lock up the shop.
Despite a two-hour luncheon break, the working hours were long, and Erica felt more than usually tired as she bade her employer goodnight. Perhaps learning that the girl she had seen earlier that day was a thief had depressed her - as knowledge of human fallibility was apt to do - but whatever the reason for it, it lay upon her like a cloud, spoiling her appreciation of the blue dusk that was settling on the city; a time of day which she invariably enjoyed more than any other.
Slowly she skirted the square and walked past the side of San Marco church to the narrow cobbled street that led to the apartment she rented. It was in a shabby old building and gave her no view other than a glimpse of a canal, though even this required her to lean as far out of her bedroom window as safety allowed. But despite being small and viewless it was fairly quiet; a benefit not to be overlooked in Italy, where noise was regarded as a sign of happiness.
To combat her mood, Erica decided to treat herself to dinner in one of the many cafes to be found off the main tourist section. Here the Venetians themselves were catered for, and though the decor was generally simple, with plastic- topped tables and utilitarian steel cutlery, the food was as bountiful - and frequently as good - as one could get at the big hotels and, Erica knew, considerably cheaper.
Tonight she made for a little restaurant a couple of blocks from where she lived. Recognizing her as she came in - for she was a regular weekly visitor - the patron came over with a glass and a half bottle of Chianti, and stood beaming down at her while she looked at the menu and toyed between a choice of fritto misto - a delicious assortment of small fish fried to a crisp in oil - or osso bucco: veal shanks cooked in a sauce of fresh tomatoes, white wine and rosemary.
'Ill have the osso bucco, I think,' she said.
'A little pasta to begin with?'
She shook her head. 'Think of my figure, signore!'
'I do,' he chuckled. 'All the time!'
She laughed, too used to his flirtatious ways to be embarrassed by them. 'Just the osso bucco,' she reiterated.
As she waited for her meal to arrive she sipped her wine and slowly relaxed, thinking again of the rose diamond brooch. It was hard to believe that the girl who had brought it in was a thief. It was all very well for Signora Botelli to say thieves did not give themselves away, but the girl had possessed an indefinable air of breeding that had not come from acting ability. She had looked as though the brooch was hers; as if she had the right to possess it. So intently was Erica concentrating on the happenings of that afternoon that she only became aware of being watched when she finally looked round to signal the proprietor for her bill.
'You will allow me to buy you a drink?' said the young man at the next table.
'No, thank you,' she smiled. 'I am leaving.'
'But the night is young. Please let me persuade you to change your mind?'
Erica shook her head, glad her apartment was only a few doors away. If living in Italy had any disadvantage, it was the young Italian males. They were notoriously persistent suitors and would frequently pester an unescorted girl to the point of becoming a nuisance.
'I prefer my own company, signore, but thank you for your offer.'
The liquid brown eyes were reproachful. 'It is too lovely a night for a beautiful girl to be alone.'
> 'Not if she prefers it that way.' Thankfully Erica turned to accept her bill, and she went over to the counter to pay it, resolutely refusing to look behind her in case her admirer took it as a sign that she was relenting.
'You have problems?' the patron murmured as he gave her some change.
"Not unless the young man follows me.'
'I will make sure he doesn't. Go quickly while I stand in the doorway and watch until you reach your apartment.'
Thanking him for his kindness, she hurried out before the arrival of any new customers made it difficult for him to keep his promise, and only as she reached her own front door and closed it behind her did she allow herself to relax.
Dropping her jacket on to a chair, she kicked off her shoes and padded over to switch on the radio. As always there was opera music to be found, and humming her own accompaniment to a Rossini overture, she set about making herself some coffee.
Mug in hand, she settled into the only easy chair the room had, and glanced at the airmail edition of The Times. It was the one link with England that she refused to give up, even though she sometimes felt it to be an unnecessary expense. But reading about the latest British crisis or trying to do the impossible clues in the crossword puzzle satisfied the homesickness that often encompassed her at this time of the evening. No matter how long she lived abroad, she doubted if she would ever feel anything other than English; nor could she be mistaken for anything else either, for she had the colouring of a true Anglo-Saxon: skin the colour of a creamy tea rose, unusually large, dark grey eyes and silky hair that looked either silvery beige or pale blonde according to the time of day. At the moment it looked silvery beige, which made her skin seem paler too. Turning her head, she studied her image in the ornate Venetian mirror that covered nearly the whole of one wall. It was the only unusual feature in an otherwise ordinary room, and had been her most extravagant purchase to date. How she would manage to take it back with her to England she did not know. But time enough to worry about that when she left. She finished her coffee and stood up, a slender girl whose greyhound grace was emphasized by her quick, light movements. Compared with the somewhat overblown Italian women Erica felt herself to be very much understated, and often wished she were more positive-looking, failing to see the charm of her porcelain colouring and cameo-like features.
Affair in Venice Page 1
