A Proposal From The Italian Count. Lucy Gordon

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      ‘This is a practical place, full of practical items,’ he’d once told her sternly. ‘You’re too fanciful, Jackie. That’s your trouble. You want life to be fun, and it isn’t designed that way.’

      ‘Not always fun,’ she’d protested. ‘Just a little bit of excitement now and then. I remember Daddy felt the same.’

      ‘You father spent too much time looking for fun. It was his ruin.’

      ‘Something ruined him...’ She’d sighed. ‘But I don’t think it was that.’

      ‘Get on with your work and stop wasting time.’

      * * *

      On the flight from Rome to London, Vittorio sat sunk in thought, wondering where the search for George Benton would finally lead him. Common sense told him he need not search at all. If he simply refused, who would ever know?

      But his conscience would know. His promise had brought his father peace in his final moments. If he broke his word the knowledge would be with him for ever. And somewhere in his heart he sensed that his father’s reproaches would always haunt him.

      Everything had changed with Franco’s death. He’d spoken of the pleasures of being Count Martelli, and Vittorio had soon discovered that it was true. The first time someone addressed him as ‘Signor Conte’ he had hardly been able to believe he’d heard correctly. His employees now treated him with deference, almost awe.

      But his father had also spoken of other things—of the hidden problems behind the glamour, that the rest of the world knew nothing about. And here, too, he had been right.

      Vittorio had gone through Franco’s things, seeking clues about his father’s past life and George Benton. He’d found a photograph of the two men together, which must have been taken during their meeting in England many years before.

      How old would Benton be now? Middle-aged? At the height of his powers? Ready to take revenge on the family that had cheated him out of a fortune? He wasn’t looking forward to their meeting, but there was no choice.

      Franco’s papers had also included a newspaper cutting, mentioning a shop called Benton’s Market. There was a picture of a small, shabby-looking shop, and one of George Benton, looking older than in the other picture.

      That was Vittorio’s clue. He had a lead.

      At the airport he hired a taxi and spent the journey studying a map of London. The area he sought was just north of the River Thames in the east of the city. As they approached the area Vittorio asked the driver, ‘Is there a hotel near here?’

      ‘There’s one just around the corner. Mind you, it costs a lot.’

      ‘Fine. Take me there.’

      The hotel was pleasantly luxurious. He booked a room for the night, then went out to explore.

      Almost at once he saw a corner shop with its sign proclaiming ‘Benton’s Market’. He took a deep breath, clenching his fists, vowing not to lose his nerve now.

      Nearby was a small café, with tables outside. He found a seat, ordered some coffee and took out the photograph of Benton. From this angle he could see through the shop windows clearly enough to know if the man was there.

      But time passed and there was no sign of him—only a young woman arranging stock in the main window. Much of it was already in place, but she was intent on reorganising it, giving it all her concentration.

      He admired the woman’s dedication and artistic flair. He would value such an employee himself, to work in the department store he owned and managed in Rome.

      Suddenly he tensed as a man appeared from the rear of the shop. Could this be Benton? But he looked nothing like the picture. His face was thin and severe. His manner to the woman suggested ill temper. When he spoke Vittorio could just make out the words through the open door.

      ‘Must you waste time faffing about over this? There’s a pile of stuff at the back needs unpacking.’

      ‘But I thought we agreed—’ she began to say.

      ‘Don’t argue. Just do as I tell you. Get going.’

      Looking exasperated, she retreated to the back of the shop.

      Vittorio approached the shop, entering with the air of an eager customer.

      ‘I’d like to buy some apples,’ he said.

      ‘We’ve got some here,’ the man said. ‘No—wait. They were over there. What has that stupid woman done with them?’

      ‘I’d also like to talk to Mr Benton, please.’

      The man glanced up, scowling. ‘What do you want with him?’ His tone became suspicious. ‘You’re not another debt collector, are you?’

      ‘No, it’s a personal matter.’

      ‘Well, you can’t see him. He’s dead.’

      ‘Dead?’ Vittorio froze, feeling as though he’d heard a thunderclap. ‘When?’

      ‘A year ago. But his daughter still works here.’

      ‘Was that her I saw? Can I talk to her?’

      ‘You can, but not just yet. She’s got work to do. You’ll have to wait until she’s finished for the day.’

      Feeling depressed, Vittorio departed. Returning to the café he settled again to watch the shop, trying to get his thoughts in order. Everything he’d planned was in a shambles. He must talk to Benton’s daughter and just hope that she was a sensible woman who would accept financial compensation and let the matter end.

      Throughout the afternoon he saw many customers go into the shop. The young woman dealt with them efficiently, always smiling and friendly. Every one of them bought something from her.

      Benton’s daughter was a natural saleswoman, it seemed.

      He stayed there for four hours. He read the paper and then busied himself sending and receiving emails from his smartphone. The frustration of waiting was hard to endure but he forced himself. So much depended on this.

      * * *

      Inside the shop Jackie was working hard. Often she glanced out of the window, puzzled to see that the strange man was still there, sitting outside the café. She concluded that he must be a tourist, albeit a very well dressed one!

      At last it was closing time. As she was preparing to leave, Rik arrived.

      ‘Don’t go yet,’ he said, scowling. ‘We need to have a talk about making new orders.’

      ‘But I can’t stay,’ she protested. She gave him a wry smile, saying, ‘And, let’s face it, you don’t pay me enough to make me want to do overtime.’

      ‘Don’t be impertinent. I pay you a fair wage. If you did better I might pay you more.’

      ‘It’s not my fault СКАЧАТЬ