A Rather Curious Engagement

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A spirited heroine.” —
Publishers Weekly

“An entertaining yarn with family drama and intrigue aplenty.”

—
Booklist

“Utterly charming . . . excellent characterization and dialogue [with] a sweet touch of romance. If a novel can be both gentle and lively, surely this is one . . .
A Rather Lovely Inheritance
tantalizes and entertains with its mystery and skullduggery . . . Penny [is] a perfectly lovable heroine. It’s a rare gem of a book that leaves behind a feeling of pure pleasure. I’m awarding it a Perfect Ten!” —
Romance Reviews Today

“I haven’t read anything like it in quite a while, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself . . . Penny is a delightful heroine . . . Who wouldn’t enjoy the unexpected chance to rattle around London and then fly off to the sunny Côte d’Azur?” —
DearAuthor.com

“Combines suspense, romance, and crafty wit. The protagonist is a character to cheer for, and the mystery subplot will keep readers turning the pages.” —
Romantic Times

“[Penny] hooks everyone . . . with her klutzy optimism . . . Fans will enjoy the lighthearted breezy storyline as the Yank takes England, France, and Italy.” —
Midwest Book Review

“[Has] everything—mystery, romance, [and] a whirlwind tour of Europe’s hot spots.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“A return to the golden age of romantic suspense!
A Rather Lovely Inheritance
weds old-style glamour to chick-lit flair. You just want to move into the novel yourself—on a long-term lease, with hero and snazzy sports car included (villains sold separately).”

—Lauren Willig, author of
The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

ALSO BY C.A. BELMOND

New American Library
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, July 2008

Copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2008

Readers Guide copyright © C.A. Belmond, 2008
All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Belmond, C.A.
A rather curious engagement/C.A. Belmond.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-451-22405-7

1. Americans—Europe—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602. E46R36 2008
813’.6 —dc22 2007052514

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

The auctioneer raised his gavel in a practiced arc that crested like a wave and then began its inevitable descent.

"Fair warning!” he cried in his crisp French-accented English. “Going for five hundred thousand to the man in the last row. Five hundred twice—”

But the gavel didn’t come down. The auctioneer caught it in mid-swing on its descent, and held it aloft as he cocked his head to one side like an insect whose fine antennae had picked up a subtle vibe, a tremor of hope. Then, very dramatically, he swiveled his gaze attentively toward a young woman standing at one of the phone banks on the right side of the audience. He leaned toward her, peering over the tops of his metal-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Five-fifty?” he asked.

The slim young woman was dressed in a narrow black suit, with flame-red lipstick on her thin mouth, her hair pulled tightly into a very severe bun which somehow implied that she worked only for clients with serious money. She gave a brief but vigorous nod.

“I have five-fifty!” the auctioneer cried triumphantly. “Five-fifty against the room.”

It wasn’t a room, exactly. We were all sitting under an enormous blue-and-white-striped tent, specially pitched just for this occasion in the front courtyard of a chic Art Deco hotel situated right on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, smack-dab on the glorious French Riviera.

Directly across the street was the sparkling blue Mediterranean Sea. To our left was the half-moon shaped “indoor/outdoor” swimming pool, where guests could actually swim from outside to indoors via a pass-through draped with strips of heavy waterproofed fabric which reminded me of—well, the dangling fingers in a car-wash. But that’s the kind of mind I have. One thing invariably leads to another, no matter how incongruous.

Some of the world’s wealthiest jet-setters had converged here, occupying fifteen rows of white folding chairs, divided by a center aisle. Every seat was taken, and there wasn’t even any space available in the standing-room zone at the back, where onlookers were restlessly jockeying to get close enough to hear the results. Since this auction had been organized for an English charity, the audience was comprised mostly of Brits, with a good representation of Germans, Russians, Chinese, Indian, but not as many French as you’d think. Lots of Americans, too.

There was no apparent dress code: some women wore formal Chanel suits with white gloves and pumps; other very tanned ladies wore expensively casual white linen shirts and matching white pants; and a few daring souls wore long diaphanous flowered dresses with pashmina shawls and gold sandals. As for the men, they were mostly divided up between those dapper blades who wore navy-blue blazers with light-colored trousers; or the touristy type in leisure suits, or golf jackets and pale blue pants.

The only people dressed in formal plain dark business suits were the auction-house “reps” who stood behind long, very narrow tables on either side of the tent, facing the crowd, manning the banks of telephones to accept bids from anonymous buyers who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—show up. The “reps” all knew one another, like members of a mysterious college fraternity, and the auctioneer called on them by first name. Martin. Sophie. Gemma. Nick. Some, seated in the front rows, were working with computers instead of telephones.

I had an aisle seat, so I found myself eavesdropping on the phone reps whenever there was a lull in the crowd. They were very discreet, but now, for instance, I could hear one young man murmuring, “We’d have to go to six. What do you want to do?” followed by a long pause.

“Six hundred,” said another young man in the first row, looking up from his computer.

“Six from the Internet,” purred the auctioneer, pouncing on the number.

“This one’s going to hit a million,” Jeremy muttered to me now, as he eyed the other auction reps who were frantically speaking into their telephones or clicking their computers to warn the anonymous collectors that they worked for.