And I’ll go to church wearing a pink tutu.
“Will she be awake anytime soon?” An’gel asked, trying to quell that cynical inner voice. “Lunch will be ready in the dining room in about fifteen minutes. It’s basically self-serve, with cold cuts and potato salad.”
“She ought to be up soon,” Juanita said. “I might just come down and have a bite myself, and then put together a plate for her. You don’t mind if she eats in her room?”
“Of course not,” An’gel said, feeling relieved. With Rosabelle absent from the dining room, there was less chance for more histrionics.
“Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Juanita smiled before she went back into the bedroom.
An’gel crossed the hall to the bedroom Maudine and Bernice shared. Bernice opened the door before she finished knocking.
“Good afternoon, Bernice,” An’gel said. “I came to let you and your sister know that lunch will be served in the dining room in about fifteen minutes.” Before she could share the menu with Bernice, Maudine appeared in the door.
“What are we having?” She frowned. “I have an upset stomach. Your cook must have put something in those eggs that didn’t agree with me. I’m not sure I can handle anything other than plain food.”
An’gel reckoned it was the four helpings of scrambled eggs and seven sausages and biscuits that were to blame for Maudine’s gastric problems. An’gel did not offer her opinion, however. Instead she said, “Plain food, for sure. Cold cuts for sandwiches, with some of my housekeeper’s potato salad. Nothing highly spiced to cause you further distress, I can assure you.”
“Cold cuts?” Maudine grimaced. “Well, if that’s the best you can do.” She turned away.
Bernice smiled timidly as she leaned toward An’gel and said in an undertone, “Don’t mind Maudie. She’s really upset over the things Mother said this morning. We’ll be perfectly happy with whatever you have.”
An’gel nodded. She pitied Bernice, having to trail around after her sister to make one apology after another for Maudine’s rudeness. An’gel suspected it might be a full-time occupation.
When she reached the bottom step, she heard the doorbell ring. She went to the door, expecting to see Kanesha or one of her officers on the other side. Instead there stood a tall, handsome, and distinguished-looking man of perhaps sixty. He was nattily dressed in white linen trousers, a pale blue silk shirt, and a navy blazer. His stylishly cut hair, black with gray streaks, was thick and luxuriant. An’gel caught a hint of a mellow cologne as the stranger proffered a hand.
Slightly bemused, she returned the gesture. He clasped her hand and bowed over it, then straightened.
“Good afternoon, signorina. You must be one of the charming Ducote sisters that my beloved Rosabella has spoken of to me so very often.”
CHAPTER 22
“Good afternoon.” An’gel wasn’t sure how she managed to get the words out, she was so surprised. Who could this courtly gentleman be?
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said with a smile that displayed beautiful, even teeth. “I am Antonio Mingione, the Conte di San Lorenzo, and husband of Rosabella, at your service.”
An’gel blurted out the first words that came into her head. “I thought you were dead.” Appalled by what she said, she felt her face flushing.
The conte smiled. “Ah, Rosabella mia, she is as mischievous as a child sometimes. I am very much alive, as you can see, Signorina Ducote.”
“Please, forgive my manners. Do come in.” An’gel stepped back and indicated that Rosabelle’s husband should enter. She was furious with her old sorority sister for lying about her husband’s death. Why on earth had she done it? She had also neglected to mention that the husband had a title. Did this mean Rosabelle was the Contessa di San Lorenzo? An’gel couldn’t imagine why Rosabelle wasn’t throwing that about.
Another question popped into her head. How had Rosabelle, who was eighty-two if she was a day, landed a man so handsome and so, well, Italian? Off the movie screen An’gel didn’t think she had ever encountered a man this attractive.
She still felt off-balance from the surprise but her instincts for hospitality kicked in. “I am An’gel Ducote, Signor Mingione, or should I say Conte?”
“Please, call me Antonio, if I may be so bold as to call you An’gel.” He smiled.
My, the way he said An’gel. His pleasant baritone washed over her like warm honey. “Please do,” she managed to say. “Let’s go into the parlor, shall we? Perhaps you would like something to drink?”
“That would be very kind, An’gel.” He followed her into the parlor but stopped a few paces inside. “Such a charming room. Rosabella has told me many times about your lovely home and your distinguished family.”
“An’gel, who was that at the door? Oh.” Dickce, on her way into the parlor, stopped suddenly when she realized there was a stranger present.
“Dickce, this is Rosabelle’s husband, Antonio Mingione, the Conte di San Lorenzo. Antonio, my sister, Dickce.”
An’gel watched as the man exerted his seemingly effortless charm on her sister. Dickce blushed when he took her hand and bowed over it. Did I look that foolish when he bowed over mine? An’gel wondered. She was thankful Dickce didn’t blurt out I thought you were dead like she had.
With the initial pleasantries complete, An’gel pointed their new guest to a sofa. “What can we offer you to drink, Antonio?”
“A glass of cold water would be perfetto, or as you say, perfect.” He flashed his beautiful smile.
“Dickce, would you mind seeing to that?” An’gel sat opposite him on the other sofa.
“It would be my pleasure.” Dickce hurried out. An’gel knew her sister would be burning with curiosity the whole time she was out of the room.
“Tell me, An’gel, my wife, she is well? I have been most anxious to see her, for in her last communication with me, she said she had been terribly ill.” His expression was the epitome of husbandly concern. “I came to her side as quickly as I could.”
“She is upstairs resting at the moment,” An’gel said. “Her granddaughter is with her. They will all be down soon. We’re about to serve lunch, and we would be delighted to have you join us.” She winced inwardly at the thought of serving cold cuts to a member of the Italian nobility. Then she chided herself for being a snob. Really, this man had her much too flustered. What is wrong with me?
“Yes, Juanita is most capable, and I would be delighted to join you for lunch,” he said. “Forgive me, but you said they will all be down. Who else is here?”
“All of the family,” An’gel said. “There is something I must tell you, I’m afraid. There has been a tragedy.”
“Has some harm come to my wife?” Antonio’s face darkened. “I did not take seriously these stories of hers that one of her children is trying to harm her. She exaggerates, you know. But perhaps I have been a fool.”
“Rosabelle is fine,” An’gel said. “I’m afraid the tragedy involved Marla Stephens. She fell down our stairs yesterday, and well, she died from the fall.”
“Maledizione! You tell me this. The one who looks like the unhappy bulldog, she is dead? Santo cielo.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief.
An’gel had a sudden urge to laugh at his description of Marla Stephens, but she suppressed it quickly. Stress sure was making her behave oddly, she thought.