the tragedy had slowly turned to dull acceptance. But anniversaries were always difficult. He had sanctioned the party date hoping that his duties as host would distract his thoughts. But all evening images of Nicolo had filled his mind, and the memories had evoked a pain inside him that felt like a knife through his heart.
A faint noise from behind him alerted Cesario to the fact that he was no longer alone. He swung round, his frown clearing when he saw his butler.
‘What is it, Teodoro?’
‘A young woman has arrived at the castle and has asked to see you, signor.’
Cesario glanced at his watch. ‘A guest has arrived this late?’
‘She is not a party guest. But she is most insistent that she must speak with you.’ Teodoro could not hide his disapproval as he recalled the bedraggled-looking woman shrouded in an enormous grey coat whom he had reluctantly admitted to the castle. She had been soaking wet from the storm raging outside, and was no doubt dripping water onto the silk carpet in the drawing room where he had instructed her to wait.
Cesario cursed beneath his breath. The only person he could think of who would dare to turn up at the Castello del Falco uninvited was the journalist who had been hounding him recently and wanted to interview him about the accident which had claimed the lives of his wife and child. His jaw hardened. Perhaps it was to be expected that the press were fascinated by the reclusive billionaire owner of one of Italy’s largest banks, but he resented any intrusion on his privacy and never spoke to journalists.
‘The signorina introduced herself as Beth Granger.’
Teodoro’s voice broke into Cesario’s thoughts. It was not the name the journalist had given when she’d somehow managed to get hold of his private mobile phone number. But the name Beth Granger was familiar. He recalled that his PA had said an Englishwoman had phoned his office in Rome several times the previous week, asking to speak to him. ‘She said she needs to talk to you about something important, but refused to give any more details,’ Donata had informed him.
So maybe the journalist who had been badgering him was using a pseudonym? Or maybe Beth Granger was another member of the gutter press hoping to persuade him to drag up the past? Cesario was in no mood to find out.
‘Inform this Ms Granger that I never see uninvited visitors at my private residence. Suggest that she contact Piras-Cossu’s head office and explain her business to my secretary,’ he instructed Teodoro. ‘And then escort her from the castle.’
The butler hesitated. ‘Ms Granger arrived by taxi, which subsequently left,’ he explained, ‘and it is raining.’
Cesario gave an impatient shrug. He had experienced the underhand tactics used by certain journalists too often to feel any sympathy. ‘Then call another taxi. I want her off the premises immediately.’
With a stiff nod Teodoro turned and made his way back down the sweeping staircase. Cesario glanced over the balcony at the guests milling about the ballroom. He wished the evening was over, but he had yet to make a speech, after which he would present a retirement gift to one of his executives and give an award to the Employee of the Year.
Duty took precedence over his personal feelings, he reminded himself. It was a lesson ingrained in him by his father and reinforced by his position as master of the Castello del Falco. The castle had been built by his ancestors in the thirteenth century; its history ran deep in his bones and the ancient greystone fortress was his bastion away from the scrutiny of the rest of the world. Duty drove Cesario to push thoughts of his son to the innermost recesses of his mind, and he squared his shoulders before striding down the stairs to rejoin his guests.
Beth was glad to be inside the castle out of the torrential rain. Her wool coat was soaked through to the lining, and she wondered if she could take it off without disturbing Sophie. It would be impossible, she realised, without first laying the baby down on the sofa and thereby risking waking her. She carefully shifted Sophie into the crook of one arm and tried to unfasten the top button, so that she could at least push the coat’s hood back from her face. But after fumbling unsuccessfully for several minutes she gave up.
Surely Cesario Piras would not be much longer, she thought, feeling a flutter of trepidation at the prospect of meeting him. She glanced around the room to which the butler had escorted her before he had gone to inform the master of the Castello del Falco of her arrival. The plush jade-coloured carpet complemented the brocade curtains that were drawn across the windows. Two ornate lamps illuminated an exquisite tapestry hanging above the fireplace. But despite these decorations the room, with its bare stone walls, seemed as sombre and forbidding as the castle had looked from the outside when her taxi had pulled up in the courtyard.
Once again Beth cursed her fanciful imagination and tried to dismiss her unease. But as she stared down at the baby in her arms she prayed that Cesario Piras would be more welcoming than his home.
The door opened and she quickly looked up, her heart thudding with nervous expectation. But it was only the butler who walked back into the room.
Teodoro halted, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face when he saw that the visitor was holding a small baby. He had not noticed the child when he had admitted the woman into the castle. He was unaware that when Beth had climbed out of the taxi and hurried up the castle steps she had pulled her coat around Sophie to shield her from the rain.
Teodoro hesitated, and his gaze rested on the sleeping infant for a few seconds before he returned his attention to Beth. ‘I am afraid the master is busy and cannot see you, signorina. Signor Piras suggests that you telephone his office in Rome and speak to his personal assistant, who oversees his business diary.’
‘I have phoned his office—several times.’
Beth’s heart plummeted. She had been doubtful about bringing Sophie to Sardinia, but Cesario Piras had refused to take her calls, and in desperation she had decided that the only option left to her was to travel to his home and hope he would agree to see her. It appeared that she had wasted her time—not to mention the cost of a flight from England that she could ill afford.
‘I wish to talk to him about a personal matter,’ she explained. ‘Please … will you tell Mr Piras that I must see him urgently?’
The butler’s impassive features did not alter. ‘I am sorry, but the master has refused to see you.’
The pleading look in the young woman’s eyes evoked a degree of sympathy in Teodoro, but he knew better than to disturb Cesario for a second time. Ms Granger’s face was pale and tense beneath the hood of her coat. But he could not help her. The master of the Castello del Falco guarded his privacy as fiercely as his ancestors had guarded their mountain fortress, and Teodoro had no wish to incur Cesario’s anger by disobeying an order.
‘I will arrange for a taxi to come and collect you,’ he told her. ‘Please remain here until it arrives.’
‘Wait …’ Beth stared after the butler as he departed from the room, feeling a sense of helpless despair that her attempt to see Cesario Piras had failed. She had brought Sophie all this way for nothing. She bit her lip. Soon the baby would wake and need to be fed, but the journey back down to the hotel where she was staying in Oliena would take at least half an hour. She would have to give Sophie a bottle of milk in the taxi, Beth thought heavily, unless she could persuade the butler to allow her to feed her here at the castle.
She hurried out of the room after him, but found the entrance hall empty. As she stood wondering what to do
