by J. M. Stengl
Mother gave me a wary sideward glance. “And what is that, dear?”
“If Gillian will serve as companion to Lady Beneventi, the dowager viscontessa, for a full year, the Trefontane family will never again speak of the entire matter, and I’ll be debt-free.” His large eyes focused on me, his gaze simmering. I knew exactly what he thought of me—his useless daughter, always a disappointment. Only a year ago I’d failed to nab Prince Omar’s heart when to all appearances he’d been mine for the taking! Now I’d failed yet again.
But there was more to Father’s expression: Behind the disappointment there was a gleam of desperation. And hope. That hope hit me like a ton of bricks. After all, if Father fell, he’d take all of us down with him. But if I could save him . . . save us . . .
“You’re telling me that if I agree—if I go keep some old lady company for a year—they won’t press charges, and they’ll let you keep your position? In the company?”
Father cleared his throat. “I am no longer associated with Trefontane Interests International. However, I do retain other important connections.”
My brow puckered. “But this company . . .”
“T.I.I.”
My eyes widened—even I recognized that eminent initialism. “T.I.I. won’t press charges or demand repayment?”
He nodded, looking uneasy yet haughty.
This all sounded too easy. Too bizarre. “What’s the catch?” I demanded.
“No catch. You serve Lady Beneventi for a year, and the debt is covered. It’s that simple.”
I didn’t believe it. I glared at both my parents in turn, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. “This has got to be some sort of joke.” They stared back at me, their eyes too wide and too intent. I tried to force another laugh, but it sounded hollow in my ears. “You can’t really expect me to agree to something so ridiculous.”
“Gillian,” Mother said in her sweetest, most reasonable tone, which never failed to get her what she wanted, “think of the importance to your future of keeping this matter hushed. Think of your brother’s future as Earl of Roxwell, and your sister’s standing in good society as the Duchess of Ardyll.”
Father spread his arms and turned his gaze toward the ceiling. “Think of Roxwell Hall!”
His dramatics made me sick. I fixed him with a level stare. “I’m not planning on announcing my father’s crimes to the world. But think what you’re asking! You want me to give up an entire year of my life to . . . what? Save the family honor?” It sounded silly to say it out loud.
My father cast my mother a desperate look. She took my hand and squeezed it. “Darling, after only one year, you would be free to resume your former life.”
As if I could disappear for a year then pick up where I’d left off with no one asking questions! But I understood what she carefully avoided saying: Father faced prison, financial collapse, and social ruin. If I refused to accept this position, I would lose everything.
I drew a long, steadying breath. “Where is this place?” The question came out in a rude growl, but I didn’t care.
“Lady Beneventi lives at Torre Santa Lucia, a lovely villa in the wine country of Vetricia. She is elderly and in need of assistance at times.”
“Assistance? You’re not expecting me to be nursemaid to a doddering old woman, I hope!”
Mother firmly shook her head. “Nothing like that. She has a personal maid. You would be more like a secretary, organizing her calendar, driving her to social events. She lives quietly in the country, so it can’t be too taxing of a position.”
I considered this information, all the while feeling the weight of my parents’ expectations. But perhaps this weird agreement wouldn’t be all bad for me. Vetricia, after all, was as pleasant a place as any to spend the next year. If I worked at this villa, I might be in good position to meet up with Prince Fidelio during my exile. I could tell my friends I was vacationing at a villa over the winter. And being companion to an old viscontessa . . . how hard could that be?
But if that bearded-billionaire troglodyte had the nerve to come around and try to strong-arm me into marriage, he would get an earful!
Ten days later found me on an airliner bound to Vetricia. I stared out the window, with a talkative woman crammed into the seat between me and the aisle, wondering how, exactly, I’d been talked into this crazy venture. The last few days had been a surreal haze of preparation, packing, and carefully worded not-quite-lies to friends and acquaintances. And now here I was, bound for whatever this year of servitude had in store.
It was all his fault. Bird-nest Beard. Though I knew the blame really lay at my embezzling father’s door, it was more satisfying to focus my wrath on my unwanted suitor. He was doing this just to get back at me, I was sure. I’d embarrassed him by rejecting his proposal, and this was his revenge. Why else would he propose something so ridiculous? Hateful man.
Sure, a reasonable part of me tried to whisper in the back of my head, I ought to be grateful. After all, he could have sent my father to jail and ruined my entire family . . . But I preferred not to dwell on that. It was easier to think of him as a villain.
How was Bird-nest Beard related to this Lady Beneventi, anyway? Her son? Grandson? Nephew? I’d been so focused on condensing my wardrobe down to two trunks and a roller bag that I’d never thought to grill my father about the evil mob family. If Beardy decided to renew his proposals while I was stuck in that house with his dotty old relative, what could I do? What exactly was I walking into?
On the other hand, what if Lady Beneventi turned out to be related to the king? I might find myself among the royal family, at least on holidays. How beautifully ironic if my slavery brought me opportunity to talk with Prince Fidelio without Raquel or Eddi around as distractions!
The airliner banked, and I saw the coastline below, the land gold and green, the sea a vivid blue. My eyes burned from lack of sleep—I’d crawled out of bed before dawn to catch my economy flight from the island, then waited three hours at the airport in Auvers to catch this two-plus-hour connecting flight to Vetricia. I felt as cranky as the obnoxious child kicking the back of my seat. What was the use in being daughter to an earl if I had to travel among common people?
My trunks had been sent ahead, so I had only one checked bag and my carry-on with me. Someone from the villa was supposed to meet me at the airport, but no one waited at the baggage-claim area. I was obliged to collect my own roller bag, then haul it out to the curb. None of this improved my mood.
The weather was glorious—bright blue sky and brilliant sunshine. Yet as I waited in the shade of the terminal, gazing out across the open-air carpark, a fresh sea breeze froze my bare legs. I knew I looked chic in my black-velvet ankle boots with four-inch heels, leopard-print flippy skirt, and sleeveless white shirt, with my hair in loose curls down my back . . . but gooseflesh rose on every inch of exposed skin. Wasn’t September in Vetricia supposed to be balmy?
I had just set my carry-on bag on top of the roller bag, prepared to unzip it and dig out my jacket, when a deep voice said, “Signorina Montmorency.”
“Lady Gillian Montmorency,” I corrected without looking up.
“I’m your ride to the villa.”
I straightened and met a frown as intense as my own, which was unexpected. “You?” I said.
But my actual thought was Whoa! The man was younger than I’d expected, short dark hair, strong jaw, and nicely built. Very nicely built. I blinked once or twice but caught my gaping reflection in his sunglasses and got a grip on myself.
“You don’t look like a chauffeur,” I observed coolly. He wore paint-stained, ratty jeans and a faded gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves. “Where’s your uniform?”
His brows rose high. His mouth looked as if he might laugh, but then he shook his head and deepened his scowl. “My uniform? You’re looking at it. I had to be in the city today so I offered to pick up Lady Beneventi’s new servant.”
I flinched at that word. “Oh. Have my trunks arrived yet?”
He laughed outright and turned away. “Follow me.”
What was so funny? It wasn’t like it was a strange question for me to ask. Scowling, I snatched up my shoulder bag and trotted after him, dragging my roller bag. “Wait! Who do you think you are? What about my trunks?”
“Your trunks have already been delivered to the villa,” he said over one shoulder, then beckoned me onward with one hand as we crossed the street on the signal.
I hurried to keep up, regretting my adorable heels and seething over his rudeness. When we reached the other side, I leaned against a post to tug at one of my boots, muttering complaints. There had to be a blister forming on my heel.
The man stopped, and I knew he noticed my legs, but then he grabbed the handle of my roller bag and took off again. “This way.”
I followed, limp-hopping and puffing a bit. “How far is it to the villa?”
“Look, the traffic will be heavy soon. Let’s get to the car and on the highway before you grill me for information, all right?”
Gritting my teeth, I clopped after him. So rude! A few choice words sprang to my lips, but for the moment I didn’t have breath to spare.
He approached a junky little car. Not until he popped open the boot did I believe my eyes. The nerve of that Trefontane mafia crowd, sending a common laborer in a junk heap to be my ride! Somebody was going to hear about this. I opened my mouth to sound off at the driver . . . and snapped it shut. He might drive off without me if I made a stink.
Even in direct sun, that breeze cut through me. While he loaded my roller bag, I shuffled closer. “Is it usually so cold here? I thought Vetricia would be warm.” I unzipped my bag, pulled out my purple-velvet jacket with the cute peplum, and bundled up, but my bare legs felt like icicles.
“It’s warmer inland,” the man said in a flat tone as he took my carry-on and stashed it in the boot. “Go ahead and climb in. There’s a lap robe behind the passenger seat. The heater doesn’t work.” He didn’t seem to feel the cold at all.
I climbed in and bundled the lap robe around my legs. It smelled better than I’d expected.
As soon as he settled behind the wheel, I said, “As you probably know, I’m Lady Beneventi’s new companion.” I maintained an agreeable yet distant tone. “What is your name?”
After a pause during which I feared he might refuse to answer at all, he gave a little sniff that might have been amusement and said, “Call me Manny.” With that, he started the car, which turned out to be incredibly noisy.
What was with this guy? My question was simple enough. I’d just asked his name! Was that some sort of social gaffe in Vetricia? Or maybe just among the commoners? Did common people even have etiquette rules?
“I thought . . . I mean, do you work at Lady Beneventi’s house, Manny?”
“I’m the construction supervisor in charge of renovations at Torre Santa Lucia.”
I pulled my sunglasses off but still couldn’t read his expression. Again I had the uncomfortable feeling he was inwardly laughing, which was downright rude. But what did I expect from the lower classes? Frowning, I pulled the lap robe up under my chin and settled back in the seat. The car buzzed onto the highway, and before long we left the city behind.
I dug my cellphone out of my tiny handbag, careful not to touch the driver or bump any control buttons or levers in the tiny car. “I need to let my parents know I’ve arrived safely.”
“Feel free.”
It rang and rang, and I got Mother’s voicemail. Why didn’t she pick up? I waited for the beep. “I’m in Vetricia, Mother. Currently on my way to Lady Beneventi’s house. I’ll keep in touch.”
I dropped my phone back into my bag and leaned my head against the headrest, tipping my face to the side so I could observe his unsmiling profile. So, this guy was not a house servant but a construction worker. Men didn’t laugh at me, not even hired laborers. Something must be done about that even if I never saw him after today.
“How soon will we arrive?” I asked, mostly to hear him speak again.
“About twenty more minutes,” he answered. “The villa is forty minutes from the city in good traffic.”
Nice voice. Great profile with a classic Vetrician nose. If all the lower-class men in Vetricia looked like this one, my year of hard labor might be bearable.
“Is it a large house?” I asked.
“Twelve bedrooms, not counting the servants’ quarters.”
I rather enjoyed watching signs of irritation flit across his face. But exactly what about me did he dislike so much? Men always sneaked looks, but he never even glanced my direction.
“Do other people live there? Besides Lady Beneventi, I mean.”
“Just servants.” He checked over his shoulder and changed lanes.
“Is it a luxury estate?”
The corner of his mouth turned up, but he didn’t look pleased. “It’s a working vineyard. The house is around two hundred years old and hadn’t been renovated in over sixty years.”
I had visions of kerosene lanterns and chamber pots. “How far along are the renovations?”
“Work started a little over two weeks ago. So far, we’ve installed an elevator for Lady Beneventi. She can still walk, but the stairs were getting to be too much for her. This weekend we installed two large generators for the house and vineyard.”
So, questions about his work got him talking, but I really didn’t care to hear details. “How near is the villa to the capital? Do you ever see the royal family?”
He shook his head with a laugh. “At the villa? No.”
His tone irked me. “But isn’t Lady Beneventi related to the royal family?”
“Only by marriage. One of her daughters-in-law and the queen are sisters, so the royal children are first cousins to four of Lady Beneventi’s grandchildren. But remember your place: You, as a servant, would not be associating with either family anyway.”
The insolence of the man! “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? I may be working as a companion to Lady Beneventi for the next twelve months, but I am still the daughter of an earl!”
He pursed his lips and looked dubious. “I wouldn’t set your heart on being treated as nobility by anyone in the household. You’ll be lucky if the servants count you as their equal.”
I turned in my seat to glare at him. “I? Lucky to be counted equal to a servant? Why, my sister is married to a—”
“Your sister’s marital state has nothing to do with your position at the villa. You’d better start adjusting your expectations now. It won’t get easier later.”
“Why, you—” I could think of no insult dreadful enough.
“Call me whatever you like if it makes you feel better.”
“A lady restrains her tongue.”
“That’s news to me,” he said with what sounded like droll humor. “Sit back. You’re blocking my view of traffic.”
I flounced into my seat and fumed in silence for several seconds, trying to think up a crushing response. “Well, I certainly hope I don’t see you often at the villa!” was the best I could do.
Manny smiled slightly, tilted his head, and said, “Another hope crushed. I’m likely to be around most weekends for a while yet.”
I slumped back and brooded, my heart beating fast. Why waste words on such a man?
He turned off one winding road onto another, and we drove up and down and around curves so many times that I quite lost track of direction. I saw vineyards, forests, fields covered in golden bales of hay, and pastures with cattle and horses and other farm animals. It was pretty country, for sure . . . but it felt like the middle of nowhere. I took a few pictures on my phone and sent them to Raquel and my parents. They queued for a time but eventually sent.
Then he turned the car in at a gate, and we drove up a long drive that curved around and kept branching off until we reached the summit of a hill. “This is Torre Santa Lucia, your home for the next year,” Manny said.
As the main house came into view, I s
tudied its classic lines with a sense of relief. It didn’t look terribly antiquated, although the plaster fascia was stained and largely draped in ivy. A pair of stone lions guarded the front door, a flying horse reared in the fountain at the center of the circular drive, an eagle posed with wings outstretched on a peak above an upper window, and what looked like gargoyles decorated corners on the roof. Tall, slender trees lined the roads and framed the house. Gates led to gardens, and another drive wound behind the house, probably to a garage and other outbuildings.
Manny parked, climbed out, and opened my door. “Go on in. I’ll bring your luggage up shortly.” With that, he walked around the corner of the house.
Some escort he was! I stepped out of the car into blessed warmth. While staring about at my new home, I folded the lap robe and replaced it behind the seat. I disliked the idea of entering the house alone, but Manny had disappeared, so I walked between the lions, climbed the eight broad steps, and opened one of the double doors. I stepped into a sparsely furnished hall with a coffered ceiling of dark wood. The only light fell through the tall windows on the front of the house. As my eyes adjusted, I realized the walls were beautifully frescoed with what appeared to be scenes of the countryside surrounding the villa. Buttons beside one door indicated the location of the newly installed elevator.
“Hello?” I was already quite used to speaking Vetrician, a language I had always loved.
No servant appeared. Hearing what sounded like dance music from upstairs, I approached the grand staircase at the far end of the room and climbed its curving steps to find a seating area between halls that apparently extended to the house’s wings. The music, laughter, and murmur of many voices came from an arched doorway opposite the landing. I paused on its threshold to stare in surprise.
A gallery stretched before me beneath a barrel ceiling painted with more gorgeous frescoes. Tall windows lined the walls, and afternoon sunlight splashed the tile floor. Dozens of people either flocked in chattering groups, flailed in strange contortions on a dance floor, or sat at small tables to sip drinks or eat refreshments from the wet bar and the long buffet tables. A live band played on a platform between two of the high windows. Despite the sunlight and music, the scene had a strange, other-worldly aspect.
