Count Valieri's Prisoner - By Sara Craven Page 0,1

older man began, but was stopped by a raised hand.

‘I am grateful but I believe that from here it is better for your involvement to cease. What happens should be my responsibility, and I would not wish you to have to answer any awkward questions, so the less you know the better.’

His tone became brisker. ‘Leaving just the matter of your fee to be dealt with.’ He opened a drawer in the desk, extracted a bulky envelope and handed it over. ‘For the same reasons, we agreed this transaction should be on a cash basis. You may of course count it.’

‘I would not dream of such a thing.’

‘As you please.’ The other paused. ‘Which means I have only to thank you once more and wish you a peaceful night. We shall meet tomorrow at breakfast.’

Guido Massimo rose, made a slight bow and walked to the door where he hesitated. ‘I must ask this. You are—determined? Quite sure there is no other course? The girl, after all, is an innocent party in all this. Does she deserve to be treated in such a way? I only enquire, you understand.’

‘I comprehend perfectly. But you must not distress yourself, my friend. Once I have what I want, your bella ragazza will be returned as good as new to her future husband.’ He added unsmilingly, ‘That is, of course, if she still wants him.’ He rose too, tall and lithe, his hands resting on his lean hips. ‘There is no necessity to pity her, I assure you.’

But I shall do so, just the same, Guido Massimo thought as he left the room. And I shall also pity the boy I once knew, and remember him in my prayers.

* * *

‘Darling,’ said Jeremy. ‘Please tell me this is some sort of joke.’

Madeleine Lang put down her glass and stared at him across the table in the wine bar in genuine perplexity. ‘A joke?’ she repeated. ‘I’m talking about work here and perfectly serious. Why on earth would I be joking?’

Jeremy gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, just a small matter of a wedding for over two hundred guests to arrange. Or will that be put on hold while you roam round Italy on some wild goose chase?’

Madeleine bit her lip. ‘Hardly on hold, with your stepmother so firmly in control. I doubt if my absence will even be noticed.’

There was an edgy pause, then Jeremy reached across and took her hand, his expression rueful. ‘Sweetheart, I know Esme can be rather managing...’

Madeleine sighed. ‘Jeremy, that’s putting it mildly, and you know it. Everything I want and suggest is just—brushed aside. I don’t even feel that it is our wedding any more.’

‘I’m sorry, Maddie.’ Jeremy’s tone was coaxing. ‘But—it’s a really big deal for the family, and Dad wants everything to be perfect. Times may be hard but Sylvester and Co is still riding high. That kind of thing.’

‘If it only was a family affair,’ Madeleine muttered. She sat back, reaching for her glass. ‘For one thing, where have all those guests come from? I’ve never even heard of two thirds of them.’

‘Clients of the bank, business associates, old friends of my father.’ Jeremy sounded rueful. ‘But believe me it could have been very much worse. What we have now is the shortlist.’

‘I don’t find that particularly reassuring,’ Madeleine told him candidly.

‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.’ Jeremy paused awkwardly. ‘But it could be if you persist with this Italian nonsense.’

She said slowly, ‘I can’t believe you just said that. First it was a joke, now it’s nonsense. Jeremy, we’re talking about my work here...’

‘It used to be your work.’ His tone was defensive. ‘But very soon now it won’t be, so what is the point in your shooting off across Europe in pursuit of some musician no-one’s ever heard of?’

‘But people have heard of her,’ Madeleine fired back. ‘Floria Bartrando was said to be the most wonderful young soprano of her generation. It was predicted she was going to be another Maria Callas, and then suddenly, with no explanation, she dropped off the edge of the world. It’s been a major mystery for thirty years and now I have the chance to solve it.’

‘But why you?’ Frowning, he refilled their glasses. ‘You’re not the only researcher on the team.’

‘Apparently the Italian contacts saw the programme on Hadley Cunningham’s last symphony,’ Madeleine said levelly. ‘The one no-one knew he’d written. I did most of the research on that. So Todd offered me this.’

Jeremy’s frown deepened. ‘Frankly,