shook his head. ‘No, I like New York, but Portugal is home.’ Turning, he nodded towards the house. ‘And this is where I live when I’m here—with my grandfather and my cousin.’
Turning with him, Tiffany lifted her head to look at the palácio. It was so ornate, so beautiful. Two deep wings stood on either side of a magnificent entrance topped by the Brodey coat of arms, reached by fairytale staircases that branched on both sides. The walls were stark white but were relieved by the many windows topped with ornate stone pediments. There were statues on the gable-ends and huge pepper-pot chimneys on the roof, and next to the left wing a chapel that looked too delicate to hold the mass of columns and baroque stonework that covered it. And everything was so beautifully maintained, the gravel free of weeds, the box hedges of the parterres clipped to uniformity, the cherubs on the fountain in the lake sparkling in the sunlight.
‘It’s quite a place,’ Tiffany said unsteadily, then added quickly, in case he guessed that she was overawed, ‘But a perfect setting to celebrate a bicentennial, of course. Is yours the oldest port company in the area?’ she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to keep him talking.
‘No, there are others that are much older. We’re comparative newcomers. But you haven’t got a drink.’ He looked round, saw a waiter, clicked his fingers, and the man immediately came over. Chris took one too, and sipped it as he said, ‘How come you got invited to the party?’
‘Ah, well…’ Tiffany gave him a mischievous smile and put a delicately fingered hand on his sleeve as she leaned nearer to him. ‘You promise you won’t give me away?’
An amused look came into Chris’s grey eyes. ‘I’m renowned for my discretion.’
Tiffany didn’t believe that for a minute, but she said confidingly, ‘I wasn’t really invited. A colleague couldn’t come and passed on the invitation,’ she told him, borrowing Sam Gallagher’s excuse. ‘And as I hardly know anyone in Oporto I thought it would be nice to come along and perhaps meet some people who speak English.’ She smiled up at him. ‘And you see, it worked; I’ve met you for a start.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you came. And where do you work in Oporto?’
‘Down in the commercial district,’ Tiffany said airily, adding quickly, ‘I suppose you know everyone here. Will you introduce me to a few people who speak English? Your family, perhaps?’
Chris’s mouth twisted a little wryly, as if he saw through her, but he said, ‘Of course. Now, let’s see who’s near.’ He looked round. Tall, but not exceptionally so, he was still able to see over the heads of the many Portuguese guests. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘This way.’ And, putting a hand under her elbow, he led her through the throng.
Tapping a shoulder, murmuring, ‘Com licença’ he came up to where his cousin stood. But it was the wrong cousin. He’d brought her to Francesca de Vieira, and Tiffany was angrily certain that he had done so deliberately. But even the wrong cousin was better than no cousin at all, Tiffany supposed, so she smiled as the two were introduced and looked at the other girl admiringly.
‘You’re so lucky to be tall, Princess.’
‘Please, call me Francesca. And I don’t consider it an advantage. Think what a choice of men you have compared to me.’
They both laughed and looked each other over. Tiffany guessed that they were about the same age—twenty-five—and they were both blonde, but there the similarity ended. Francesca was the willowy type, thin as a reed, and able to carry off expensive designer clothes with the elegance of a trained model. Her long hair was gathered on the top of her head in a style that looked casual with loose strands framing her face, but must have taken a hairdresser an hour to do. She wore chunky costume jewellery round her neck and wrists, along with some breathtaking rings that could only be real. She’d married one rich, aristocratic husband and had another lined up. She was sleek and pampered and, on top of everything else, beautiful.
With the great disadvantage of being short, Tiffany on the other hand had to be careful to wear clothes of soft shades, like the grey silk suit she’d hired for today; bright, jazzy colours made her look ridiculous. The same went for her hair; it had to be smooth and fairly short otherwise it looked plain untidy. And if she hadn’t already sold what jewellery she had, she could never have worn anything that wasn’t simple and small. And as for men—well, that was about par for the course where her life was concerned.
As Tiffany looked at Francesca she knew she ought to hate her, but she was disarmed by the rich girl’s warmth and friendliness.
‘Tiffany doesn’t speak Portuguese very well and doesn’t know anyone here,’ Chris explained. ‘So I’ve taken her under my wing.’
His cousin flicked him an amused, speculative look. ‘Didn’t you bring her?’
Chris returned the look, then glanced at the Count. ‘No, I hadn’t anyone I cared to invite. We met quite by chance.’
‘How fortunate for you.’ Francesca said with irony.
Tiffany realised they were sparring with one another, that they knew each other well enough to tease about their private lives. Francesca’s French Count realised it too, because he put a possessive hand on her arm.
‘The buffet is about to be served. Where do you wish to sit?’
He spoke in French and Francesca answered him in the same language. ‘If you’re hungry, then go and eat. I’ll come when I’m ready.’
And there, Tiffany thought sardonically, lies the greatest difference between us. She can dismiss a man, who obviously dotes on her, almost rudely, while I must scheme and flatter just to try to get an introduction to a man who might not even like me.
But it acted as a further goad, and Tiffany put herself out to be as warm and vivacious as Francesca, making conversation with them for the next ten minutes or so as if she were used to moving in such élite circles, being as witty as she knew how, and letting her personality make up for the inequalities between them. She told a couple of anecdotes in a droll way that made Chris and Francesca laugh in genuine amusement, Chris’s deep, masculine tones drawing the attention of several people around them. Tiffany hoped it would draw his other cousin over, because the lawn was starting to clear now as the guests moved towards the other side of the house where tables had been set out for lunch.
The Count had waited for Francesca despite her rebuff, but now she took pity on him. ‘I suppose we’d better go and eat. Tiffany, you will come and sit with us, won’t you?’ She looked round. ‘Now, where’s Calum?’
Thanking her stars that things seemed to be going right at last, Tiffany smiled an acceptance of the invitation and began to stroll along with them. Calum Brodey glanced round from the group he was with and crossed to join them. His eyes flicked to Tiffany, but then he looked at Francesca and said, ‘Remember Grandfather wants us to split up.’
Francesca pouted. ‘Do we have to? I haven’t seen you or Chris for simply ages. I’d much rather sit with you both.’
Calum gave her an indulgent look. ‘We can catch up on all our news over dinner tonight.’
‘But Grandfather will be there, and you can’t really talk when he’s listening. The dear old darling gets so upset sometimes if you tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Not to mention the parents,’ she added with feeling.
‘You
