still smelled faintly of highly expensive Paris perfume informed her at once whom the letter was from. She knew that she would find the signature, Il se de Fonteira, scrawled inside, and still looking upon the latter as her employer she asked permission to open the envelope and read the contents.
“Of course.” Dom Vasco walked to the magnificent tall window that looked out over the garden, and while his back was turned and Richard studied the portraits on the white walls with childlike curiosity, Caroline digested the brief message his mother had written—in haste, judging by the poor quality of the writing.
“Who is the man who took you and Richard off the ship? The old Marques could never look like that, unless I’ve been deceived about his age! Write to me at my London address, and be sure and give me as many details as possible .
Yours,
Ils e de Fonteira
Dom Vasco turned from the window.
“Well, I will leave you now, Miss Worth.” He watched Caroline fold her letter and put it away in her handbag. “Spend the rest of the day getting accustomed to the house, and Ricardo can run in the garden.” He lightly rumpled the boy’s hair in passing. “In the morning I shall be here to conduct my usual business, and will see you both again. Anything you require will be provided by the housekeeper.”
“Thank you, senhor .”
She returned his stiff little bow with a slight inclination of her fair head, and took Richard’s hand as he left the room. But she was not thinking of Richard or Dom Vasco as she stood there in the dimness of the great drawing-room, while outside the sunlight made a splendour of the surrounding garden.
She was wondering how Il se had managed to see Dom Vasco, and she realised that having seen him she was impressed by him. And Il se was the type of woman who liked to follow up her interests, and keep tabs on them.
Even although she was planning to marry she could still not overlook an attractive—in this case intensely attractive, in an extremely masculine way—member of the opposite sex.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR the next few days Caroline found that she and Richard were to be allowed a degree of freedom that surprised her considering her early encounters with Dom Vasco, and the views he had not hesitated to express about the bringing up of children, and small boys in particular.
There was to be no feminine interference, and no weakness. Certainly, if he had been depending on the housekeeper at the Quinta de Fonteira to take charge of Richard, there would have been no weakness. She was a woman who went about her duties with that tight-lipped look on her face that had caused Caroline’s heart to sink a little when she first met her, but otherwise she was a model of efficiency and almost certainly had her employer’s interests at heart above everything else. The de Fonteira family, as—she once or twice observed to Caroline when she condescended to open her mouth to her, had lived in that part of the world for generations. They were great landowners. The present Marques still held almost as much land as his forebears had owned, and he was a great gentleman. It was a pleasure to serve him, and every other surviving member of the family.
She drew herself up to her elongated height, handled the keys at her waist as if they were weapons to defend the family honour, and condescendingly added that Master Richard—as the next in line for the Marquisate—could command her at all times, and trust her with his life if need be.
But when it came to creating a playroom for him she was not so helpful. Every piece of furniture in every beautifully cared-for room had a history which demanded it be left where it was; the paintwork gleamed to such an extent that she plainly shuddered at the thought of small fingers marking it, and as to train-sets careering over the polished tiles—lovely aubergine tiles that melted and merged into the surrounding colour-schemes—and chinoiserie screens cleared out
“Of course.” Dom Vasco walked to the magnificent tall window that looked out over the garden, and while his back was turned and Richard studied the portraits on the white walls with childlike curiosity, Caroline digested the brief message his mother had written—in haste, judging by the poor quality of the writing.
“Who is the man who took you and Richard off the ship? The old Marques could never look like that, unless I’ve been deceived about his age! Write to me at my London address, and be sure and give me as many details as possible .
Yours,
Ils e de Fonteira
Dom Vasco turned from the window.
“Well, I will leave you now, Miss Worth.” He watched Caroline fold her letter and put it away in her handbag. “Spend the rest of the day getting accustomed to the house, and Ricardo can run in the garden.” He lightly rumpled the boy’s hair in passing. “In the morning I shall be here to conduct my usual business, and will see you both again. Anything you require will be provided by the housekeeper.”
“Thank you, senhor .”
She returned his stiff little bow with a slight inclination of her fair head, and took Richard’s hand as he left the room. But she was not thinking of Richard or Dom Vasco as she stood there in the dimness of the great drawing-room, while outside the sunlight made a splendour of the surrounding garden.
She was wondering how Il se had managed to see Dom Vasco, and she realised that having seen him she was impressed by him. And Il se was the type of woman who liked to follow up her interests, and keep tabs on them.
Even although she was planning to marry she could still not overlook an attractive—in this case intensely attractive, in an extremely masculine way—member of the opposite sex.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR the next few days Caroline found that she and Richard were to be allowed a degree of freedom that surprised her considering her early encounters with Dom Vasco, and the views he had not hesitated to express about the bringing up of children, and small boys in particular.
There was to be no feminine interference, and no weakness. Certainly, if he had been depending on the housekeeper at the Quinta de Fonteira to take charge of Richard, there would have been no weakness. She was a woman who went about her duties with that tight-lipped look on her face that had caused Caroline’s heart to sink a little when she first met her, but otherwise she was a model of efficiency and almost certainly had her employer’s interests at heart above everything else. The de Fonteira family, as—she once or twice observed to Caroline when she condescended to open her mouth to her, had lived in that part of the world for generations. They were great landowners. The present Marques still held almost as much land as his forebears had owned, and he was a great gentleman. It was a pleasure to serve him, and every other surviving member of the family.
She drew herself up to her elongated height, handled the keys at her waist as if they were weapons to defend the family honour, and condescendingly added that Master Richard—as the next in line for the Marquisate—could command her at all times, and trust her with his life if need be.
But when it came to creating a playroom for him she was not so helpful. Every piece of furniture in every beautifully cared-for room had a history which demanded it be left where it was; the paintwork gleamed to such an extent that she plainly shuddered at the thought of small fingers marking it, and as to train-sets careering over the polished tiles—lovely aubergine tiles that melted and merged into the surrounding colour-schemes—and chinoiserie screens cleared out
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