Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Three
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Four
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Five
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Part Six
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Part Seven
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Part Eight
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Part Nine
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Acknowledgements
Teaser chapter
About the Author
Raves for A Rather Lovely Inheritance
“A spirited heroine.” —Publishers Weekly
“An entertaining yarn with family drama and intrigue aplenty.”
—Booklist
“Utterly charming . . . excellent characterization and dialogue [with] a sweet touch of romance. If a novel can be both gentle and lively, surely this is one . . . A Rather Lovely Inheritance tantalizes and entertains with its mystery and skullduggery . . . Penny [is] a perfectly lovable heroine. It’s a rare gem of a book that leaves behind a feeling of pure pleasure. I’m awarding it a Perfect Ten!” —Romance Reviews Today
“I haven’t read anything like it in quite a while, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself . . . Penny is a delightful heroine . . . Who wouldn’t enjoy the unexpected chance to rattle around London and then fly off to the sunny Côte d’Azur?” —DearAuthor.com
“Combines suspense, romance, and crafty wit. The protagonist is a character to cheer for, and the mystery subplot will keep readers turning the pages.” —Romantic Times
“[Penny] hooks everyone . . . with her klutzy optimism . . . Fans will enjoy the lighthearted breezy storyline as the Yank takes England, France, and Italy.” —Midwest Book Review
“[Has] everything—mystery, romance, [and] a whirlwind tour of Europe’s hot spots.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A return to the golden age of romantic suspense! A Rather Lovely Inheritance weds old-style glamour to chick-lit flair. You just want to move into the novel yourself—on a long-term lease, with hero and snazzy sports car included (villains sold separately).”
—Lauren Willig, author of The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
ALSO BY C.A. BELMOND
A Rather Lovely Inheritance
New American Library
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, July 2008
Copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2008
Readers Guide copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Belmond, C.A.
A rather curious engagement/C.A. Belmond.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-451-22405-7
1. Americans—Europe—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602. E46R36 2008
813’.6 —dc22 2007052514
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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Pour mon copain
Part One
Chapter One
The auctioneer raised his gavel in a practiced arc that crested like a wave and then began its inevitable descent.
"Fair warning!” he cried in his crisp French-accented English. “Going for five hundred thousand to the man in the last row. Five hundred twice—”
But the gavel didn’t come down. The auctioneer caught it in mid-swing on its descent, and held it aloft as he cocked his head to one side like an insect whose fine antennae had picked up a subtle vibe, a tremor of hope. Then, very dramatically, he swiveled his gaze attentively toward a young woman standing at one of the phone banks on the right side of the audience. He leaned toward her, peering over the tops of his metal-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Five-fifty?” he asked.
The slim young woman was dressed in a narrow black suit, with flame-red lipstick on her thin mouth, her hair pulled tightly into a very severe bun which somehow implied that she worked only
for clients with serious money. She gave a brief but vigorous nod.
“I have five-fifty!” the auctioneer cried triumphantly. “Five-fifty against the room.”
It wasn’t a room, exactly. We were all sitting under an enormous blue-and-white-striped tent, specially pitched just for this occasion in the front courtyard of a chic Art Deco hotel situated right on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, smack-dab on the glorious French Riviera.
Directly across the street was the sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea. To our left was the half-moon shaped “indoor/outdoor” swimming pool, where guests could actually swim from outside to indoors via a pass-through draped with strips of heavy waterproofed fabric which reminded me of—well, the dangling fingers in a car-wash. But that’s the kind of mind I have. One thing invariably leads to another, no matter how incongruous.
Some of the world’s wealthiest jet-setters had converged here, occupying fifteen rows of white folding chairs, divided by a center aisle. Every seat was taken, and there wasn’t even any space available in the standing-room zone at the back, where onlookers were restlessly jockeying to get close enough to hear the results. Since this auction had been organized for an English charity, the audience was comprised mostly of Brits, with a good representation of Germans, Russians, Chinese, Indian, but not as many French as you’d think. Lots of Americans, too.
There was no apparent dress code: some women wore formal Chanel suits with white gloves and pumps; other very tanned ladies wore expensively casual white linen shirts and matching white pants; and a few daring souls wore long diaphanous flowered dresses with pashmina shawls and gold sandals. As for the men, they were mostly divided up between those dapper blades who wore navy-blue blazers with light-colored trousers; or the touristy type in leisure suits, or golf jackets and pale blue pants.
The only people dressed in formal plain dark business suits were the auction-house “reps” who stood behind long, very narrow tables on either side of the tent, facing the crowd, manning the banks of telephones to accept bids from anonymous buyers who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—show up. The “reps” all knew one another, like members of a mysterious college fraternity, and the auctioneer called on them by first name. Martin. Sophie. Gemma. Nick. Some, seated in the front rows, were working with computers instead of telephones.
I had an aisle seat, so I found myself eavesdropping on the phone reps whenever there was a lull in the crowd. They were very discreet, but now, for instance, I could hear one young man murmuring, “We’d have to go to six. What do you want to do?” followed by a long pause.
“Six hundred,” said another young man in the first row, looking up from his computer.
“Six from the Internet,” purred the auctioneer, pouncing on the number.
“This one’s going to hit a million,” Jeremy muttered to me now, as he eyed the other auction reps who were frantically speaking into their telephones or clicking their computers to warn the anonymous collectors that they worked for.
We’d been keenly watching the auctioneer deftly manipulate the audience. He was a consummate actor with expert timing— switching seamlessly from joy to sorrow, sympathy to contempt—and he was part-magician, too, for he could bend a moment so that it lasted longer than it should, or he could snap it back like a rubber band. He had only stepped up to the platform about ten items ago, replacing the previous auctioneer just as the crowd was getting used to her, effectively changing horses in midstream, as casinos do with blackjack dealers.
Was this to make sure that no one was cheating? Well, antiques can at times come accompanied by a fair share of shady goings-on. Paintings that aren’t entirely authenticated but “thought to be” a master’s work. Golden goblets being auctioned on behalf of an anonymous collector who’d “found” them in an attic. Cases of venerable old wines that may or may not have been cellared properly; golf clubs studded with emeralds thought to have once belonged to an English earl (what caddy would you trust with that?); and even a baby horse whose lineage was purportedly of good racehorse stock. At the moment, people were bidding on a garish pearl and yellow-diamond brooch set in gold, shaped like a giant bug. After that, there were about ten more items to go—before we got to the big one that Jeremy and I had come here for.
“One million euros!” someone shouted, leapfrogging ahead of the other bidders to make sure nobody beat him to it. I gasped at how high the stakes could easily become.
“One million, going once . . . ?” said the auctioneer. This time, the bidding reps shook their heads in defeat. “Going twice . . . going three times . . .” moaned the auctioneer in ecstasy. Bang! The gavel finally came down with such finality that some people physically jumped in their seats. “SOLD to the man in the third row! Please pay the cashier on your way out.”
I glanced apprehensively at Jeremy, who was waiting patiently, with his usual calm English poise. When we’d first arrived, I had seen more than a few women, both old and young, glance up speculatively at his handsome face with his blue eyes and dark, wavy brown hair; and some of these women actually gave him a wide, inviting smile, which, in his usual preoccupied way, Jeremy failed to notice. He sat quietly, his auction catalog all rolled up in one hand. His bidding paddle—which looked like a table-tennis paddle except that it had a three-digit number on it, indicating that he’d pre-registered to be a bidder—was lying in his lap. Nothing in his manner betrayed his feelings; unless you were in love with him and were learning, day by day, to read the subtle signals in his expressions.
You know you really love a guy when you suddenly feel a little sorry for him for loving you so much that he’s now doing something he might not ordinarily do. I felt a bit guilty; I’d pestered and badgered him until I finally got him to tell me the one item in the world he’d actually care to splurge a chunk of his inheritance on.
Jeremy must have felt me looking at him, because he glanced at me and gave me a reassuring smile. The sweet guy. I fervently made a wish that, whatever happened—whether we won or lost—it would turn out to be a good thing, and not a bad thing. I felt a clutch of excitement in my stomach, and my mouth was dry. After all, I’d soon have a dog in this race.
But to understand how a couple of dogs like us ended up on the Riviera ready to bet a flock of euros on a dream, you’d have to know about a few things that happened to us, not so very long ago.
Chapter Two
AMERICAN HEIRESS TRACKS DOWN
PRICELESS ENGLISH LEGACY
An American girl has become the recipient of an English inheritance that amounts to a windfall of European real estate, a classic 1930s auto, and vintage couture ball gowns. But it was the digging up by the intrepid American heiress of an extremely rare work of Renaissance art (in the garage of a French villa) which made up the lion’s share of the legacy claimed by Miss Nichols, bringing the honeypot to a total of, insiders say, at least fifty million euros . . .
You get a rather odd feeling when you spot something in the newspaper about yourself. The news was always about other people in the world-at-large; now suddenly it’s you that they’re dissecting. Then you actually read the darned thing, and it’s not entirely wrong but it’s definitely not right. It’s a small shock, this aura of unreality, so your mind does something weird, thinking that it must be someone else they’re talking about. You peer at the accompanying photograph. There you are, all right. But if that’s really you in there, well, since you can’t be in two places at once, then maybe you aren’t really here, right? That’s how my mind dealt with it, at first.
This article appeared months ago, as a feature profile in the Money section of a big London newspaper, and it got picked up all around the world, even on some TV news. To this day, it still pops up in a magazine or news bit. And people believe it, too, because if it weren’t true then they wouldn’t print it, right? Humph. Life isn’t all black-and-white.
Let’s start with that headline, for instance. I think it makes me sound like a St. Bernard dog who sniffed out a pot of gold under an aval
anche in the Alps, especially with that business about my “digging up” some extremely rare Renaissance art. Yes, I had to do considerable research to find that little painting. Great-Aunt Penelope didn’t leave it out in plain sight. Actually, she hid it in the door of her antique car, and smuggled it out of Italy in the 1940s, so the Nazis wouldn’t get it. But she had all the proper paperwork of ownership. And then, just before she died, fearing that the family “vultures” would get their talons on it, she put it back in its hiding place in her old auto, which was housed in a dilapidated garage at her villa in Antibes; and she wrote a letter which the judge deemed an airtight will, leaving it to me.
You’d never know it, to read the newspaper story. You’d think I’d pulled a fast one and nabbed it away from the French and the English, who think all works of antiquity are best kept in their hands. The English especially harbor the dire expectation that American girls come to London specifically to carry out their dastardly gold-digging, outrageously buccaneering, socially interloping schemes to get their mitts on helpless English bigwigs and their money.Penny Nichols—her real name—is a former television movie actress. She received this bequest from her English Great-Aunt, one Penelope Laidley, a grand 1920s flapper, dance-hall artist and consort to some of the biggest names in finance, politics and entertainment.
Yes, I work in TV movies, but not as an actress, even with my ridiculously theatrical name. My French/American father couldn’t help giving me that last name, and my English mother blithely named me after her eccentric Aunt Pen. When I was a kid I actually met Great-Aunt Penelope, and she seemed like a marvellous old lady; but it wasn’t until after her death that I found out astonishing things about her. She was indeed a fabulous flapper, although I do believe that Aunt Pen would have objected to the words “consort to some of the biggest names.” She was, er, a mistress to one financier, but that was before she met the great love of her life, who died in the second World War, so she never married.
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 1
