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
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Three
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Four
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part Five
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Part Six
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Part Seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Part Eight
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Part Nine
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Part Ten
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Part Eleven
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
READERS GUIDE
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Praise for the Novels of C.A. Belmond
A Rather Curious Engagement
“Lilting . . . it’s fluffy and fun, even if you don’t have your own yacht.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bound to charm romantic suspense fans.”
—Booklist
“What’s not to like about C.A. Belmond’s new novel? I was hooked by the end of the first page . . . A Rather Curious Engagement is delightful . . . something you can pass through the generations.”
—Story Circle Book Review
“An entertaining and witty story, A Rather Curious Engagement displays the author’s flair for keeping the reader attached to the spell-binding story and adventurous, enchanting characters.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A Rather Curious Engagement is narrated by Penny from her own insightful perspective . . . and is as well crafted as its predecessor. I highly recommend them both and look forward to any sequels to come starring this likable couple.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A Rather Curious Engagement is a high-seas adventure with a wonderful little mystery and some nice laughs as Penny and Jeremy try to outwit some thieves . . . I found Penny and Jeremy to be a very endearing and sweet couple that I wouldn’t mind reading more about in future books to come.”
—Ramblings on Romance
“Five stars! Excellent writing . . . I look forward to more books with these wonderful characters.”
—Night Owl Review
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.”
—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 story line 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 Temptation of the Night Jasmine
OTHER NOVELS BY C.A. BELMOND
A Rather Lovely Inheritance
A Rather Curious Engagement
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First published by New American Library,
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First Printing, February 2010
Copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2010
Readers Guide copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2010
All rights reserved
REGISTRED TRADEMARK–MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Belmond, C.A.
A rather charming invitation / C.A. Belmond.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-19666-3
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For my hero
Part One
Chapter One
I must admit that my life—and my wedding day—might have been completely different, if, months earlier, I hadn’t answered that telephone call. It was late spring, and the London days were warmer than anyone dared hope, but the nights still had a damp chill. We’d just lit a fire in the fireplace of the first-floor study at the back of the townhouse. One door in the study opened into Jeremy’s office, and, on the opposite side of the room, another door opened into mine, so it was the ideal place to meet at the end of a busy workday.
Jeremy and I had finally arranged our schedules so that we could do something we’d always wistfully dreamed of: take time out to just sit there together, relaxing over a glass of wine before dinner; he in his favorite chair of caramel-colored leather, and me in my paisley wing chair. His leather ottoman was between us so that we could both put our feet up, and a low table stood beside us, with two glasses of burgundy.
“Bit more wine, old girl?” Jeremy said waggishly.
We were playing at being an old English couple. We kept grinning at each other like two happy fools. It was the first time in two years that we were actually sitting still, without being on some mad chase. It was quiet, very quiet. If I had a clock, you’d have heard it tick. As it was, the only sound was the rustle of The Yachting Gazette (Jeremy), the scratch of a pencil (me, with the final sketches for my wedding dress), the crackle of the fire, and the occasional sudden slump of a log. And just as I looked up surreptitiously at Jeremy to see if I could imagine him agreeing to wear a grey morning coat at our wedding, with perhaps a maroon silk scarf in his pocket to match the roses I would carry . . . Bri-i-i-ing! The telephone at my elbow broke the spell.
“I’m not expecting any calls,” I said, hoping he’d get it.
“Nor I,” said Jeremy firmly. “Let’s toss a coin. Call it.”
“Heads,” I said. He flipped the coin. I lost. I sighed, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Bonjour, chère Penn-ee,” said the voice on the other end—female, light, slightly high-pitched, and a bit agitated. “I am Honorine, your cousine from Mougins. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I need your help. I think I’m under arrest!”
“Who—what—?” I stammered. The one thing I didn’t ask was, where? But that’s what she chose to tell me.
“I am calling from my mobile phone and I am in ze police car!” she cried. “We are coming soon. The policeman, he does not comprend that I am innocent!”
“Good God,” I said involuntarily, flabbergasted. This girl knew my name, but, after all, it had been printed recently in all the newspapers: American Heiress Uncovers Another Priceless Treasure. So, we’d had our share of strangers skulking on our doorstep—usually looking to engage us on some far-fetched quest for dubious fortune. I’d never heard of a cousin Honorine. Yet there was something authentic in her attitude that made me pause.
“Who is it?” Jeremy asked, startled by the comical look on my face.
“Er, well,” I said, covering the mouthpiece, “she says she’s my cousin, and she’s under arrest.”
Jeremy gave me a reproachful nod. “It’s because of that brass plaque you put next to the front door. Nichols and Laidley, Ltd. Discretion guaranteed. Inquire within. You will keep pretending we live in a 1930s movie!” he chided affectionately.
“I hardly think you can lay the blame for this on my whimsical little sign,” I objected. “Our new agency is bound to attract eccentric clients. This only proves that we’ve got to hire someone to field all the phone calls and letters.” Just then, I heard a car pull up in front of the house.
“I think we are here now,” said the girl on the phone. I repeated this to Jeremy.
“Oh, hell,” he said resignedly, lifting his feet off the ottoman, rising from his chair, and going down the hallway to the little reception room at the front of the house. I followed him, and we peered out the window. Sure enough, a police car was parked at the curb. No siren, thankfully, but a few flashing lights. Jeremy studied the driver, who was getting out of the car.
“Hey,” Jeremy said, “that’s Danny.”
Danny is the cop who keeps an eye on our corner of Belgravia, and he helped us out when this townhouse was burgled by cousin Rollo. Which gives you an idea of the kind of relatives I already have. So I think I can be forgiven for not having “the more, the merrier” as a family motto.
“I’d better see what this is all about,” Jeremy said, going to the front door.
I remained at the window, transfixed. “Allô, allô?” said the voice in my ear, still on the phone, as the girl got out of the passenger side of the police car, her mobile phone clapped to her ear, while Danny escorted her toward our steps.
“Yes, we’re coming to meet you at the door,” I said hastily. The girl clicked off. I figured I’d better talk to my folks tout de suite, so I quickly made a long-distance call to the States. As soon as I heard my father’s rich Burgundian drawl, I blurted out quite unceremoniously, “Hey, Dad, there’s a French girl on my doorstep who says she’s a cousin. Do we know somebody named Honorine?”
There was a brief pause as my father absorbed this.
“Honorine,” I repeated helpfully. “Cousin. Do we know her? Is she for real?”
“Bien sûr!” he said. “She’s actually the daughter of ma cousine Leonora. Is some-zing wrong? What’s she doing in London?”
“Getting herself arrested,” I cried. “She showed up here with a cop. What am I to do with her?”
“Let her in,” my father advised quickly. “Help her if you can. Find out what’s the trouble and call me back. Meanwhile, I’ll phone Leonora to see what she can tell us.”
I hung up, and now heard voices at the front door, so I went out to face the music. Jeremy was standing in the vestibule, holding the door open, talking to our visitors, but not inviting them in. Danny, with his policeman’s expression of I’ve-seen-everything, stood on the front stoop, with the girl beside him.
Now I got a closer look at her. She was pretty in a schoolgirl kind of way, with shiny chestnut brown hair smoothed back from a clear, pale complexion and wide, bright dark eyes. I guessed her to be in her early twenties; she was wearing torn jeans and a chic jacket, with a student-style backpack slung behind her. She seemed frightened and affronted, but when she saw me peer around Jeremy, her face lit up with touching relief and trust.
Danny was in the midst of explaining to Jeremy that Honorine had been picked up with a bunch of drunken kids outside a bar not far from here. “She doesn’t appear to have been drinking, and she insists she didn’t even know the other kids on the street who were causing a ruckus—says she just happened to be there when the trouble broke out,” Danny was saying in a low voice.
“Why’d you bring her here?” Jeremy asked, eyeing Honorine to see if she was conning us.
“She hasn’t got an address in London, so I asked if she had any family in town, and she says you’re it,” Danny replied.
“She does. I mean, we are,” I said. Jeremy gave me an astonished look. “I just spoke to my folks,” I said hurriedly.
“When I heard this address, I knew it was you guys, so I thought I’d run her over here, but I’m sticking my neck out,” Danny warned. “Can you vouch for her?”
I looked at Honorine. I realized we’d all been talking about her as if she were deaf, dumb, and blind . . . instead of merely Fr
ench. “What happened?” I asked her gently.
With injured dignity, Honorine explained that she never meant to inconvenience us; she had planned to “crash” with some of her older ex-pat university chums who’d been working and living in London. Her pals had left her a standing invitation to join them whenever she could. But when she arrived, she discovered that her friends’ group in London had recently split up, some married and some transferred to far-flung places like America and Japan.
So Honorine was left stranded. The landlord told her that only one of her friends was still in town, but had moved with no forwarding address. He gave her the name of the pub that her crowd favored. But when Honorine went there, the bartender told her she’d just missed her friend. And while she was out on the street trying to figure out her next move, she got swept up with that rowdy crowd outside the pub. Her voice went up in a slight wail at the mention of the pub, and she glanced apprehensively at Danny.
“How did you get my address?” I asked her.
“My mother sent you an invitation, weeks ago,” Honorine said matter-of-factly. “She made me write out the address on the envelope for her. Did you not receive it?” she asked curiously, without recrimination.
“We’ve been just swamped with mail,” I said apologetically, stepping back so that they could enter the vestibule. “We’re only now catching up. . . .”
I glanced guiltily at the floor, where today’s multitude of letters and courier envelopes were scattered in a corner, having been slipped through the slot. Neither of us had picked up the day’s haul, because it would require carrying it into the adjacent reception room, and thereby facing up to the great big bin of unopened, unsolicited mail that just keeps stacking up with alarming regularity. When your inheritance is written up in the press, you start to feel like someone who won the lottery, because suddenly, everyone’s your “best friend” and wants a piece of the action, including people you barely knew in school . . . or, relatives you never even knew you had.
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