Alex lifted her out of the coach now into the warm, sunlit air. A melody of scents played over her—roses baking in the sun, the salted sea air, the sweetness of honeysuckle, the fresh bite of citrus. Beneath these lay the faintest note of spice. She took a deep breath and tasted its sharpness, then glanced up the hill again, knowing now what to look for. Pepper trees hid amongst the oranges. At dusk, their smell would strengthen, overwhelming the flowers’ sweetness.
The inevitable effect caught her fancy. The gardens must create a shifting symphony of scents, dependent on the hour of the day. She did not spot any night-blooming jasmine, the presence of which would have made the advent of evening all the more noticeable. It was not a pretty plant, she supposed. Could one design a landscape organized by smell instead of sight but make it visually pleasing all the same?
The challenge was turning in her mind when Mr. Barrington bounded down the drive to greet them. In Paris he had looked a hair shy of bohemian; now, in a white linen suit with a straw boater crushed beneath his arm, his cheeks ruddy and his hair tossed by the wind, he looked more in the way of a yachtsman returned from a day at the races.
She wondered if Alex realized how much he had in common with this man. Both of them looked comfortable no matter where they popped up. It was not, perhaps, a trait to merit one’s trust.
Mr. Barrington seized her hand and carried it very dramatically to his mouth. “Your majesty!” he said. To Alex, he offered a cordial nod. “You’re the last to arrive; I’d begun to fear you lost.”
“But we came straightaway,” Gwen said with a frown.
“Perhaps the others departed before the invitations were issued,” Alex murmured.
Barrington laughed, as if this were a very funny joke. “Come,” he said, and turned on his heel to lead them into the house.
The front lobby of the villa was spacious and cool, a fountain splashing in the light cast by a domed glass cupola two floors above. Tile mosaics bordered the pink stone floors, which were uncarpeted save for silk runners that formed a narrow path down the hall through which they walked toward their rooms. On the walls hung Renaissance paintings from the Italian school, and bright murals that Barrington said had been painted by local artists—tableaus of Nice’s famous Battle of Flowers, its Mardi Gras revels, and sunset seen from the Promenade des Anglais.
Barrington drew them to a stop at the very end of the corridor, by a set of wooden doors carved in a rough, rustic style. “Drinks at five o’clock in the garden,” he said. “Dinner at seven; we keep very early hours, to allow guests to pop over to Monte Carlo and catch one last round of cards before bed. Carriage leaves promptly at nine o’clock; usually we keep another for the casinos in Nice—open all night, you know—but we had a broken axle last night, so it’s Monte Carlo for the time being or bust, as they say; which perhaps is how it always should be, don’t you think? If one’s going to gamble, might as well do it in style. Now.” He took a breath. “I expect you’ll want a bit of rest before joining the fun. Although I must say, Miss Goodrick, you look fresh as a daisy, positively ripe for the plucking.”
It had seemed a lovely compliment, until he’d reached the bit about ripeness. “Thank you,” Gwen said hesitantly.
“Alas that harvest season has concluded,” Alex said pleasantly.
Barrington chuckled. “So it has, so it has. Well, we’re out on the terrace right now, so do feel free to wander out if you feel up to it. The Rizzardis—you don’t know them, by any chance, do you? Giuseppe and Francesca? No? Well, they popped up yesterday, so I’ve put them in the room next to yours; they are great fans of Bizet, and over the moon at the prospect of a worthy delivery from Miss Goodrick. Oh—hold on there a moment.” Still clinging to the door handle, he leaned around the corner. “Moakes! Come back here, you rascal.”
A small, silver-haired man of advanced years stepped around the corner, a tray of champagne in hand. “Take one, do,” Barrington urged them. “Lafittes and Margaux, of course; I drink nothing but. Might as well start the holiday in style. Here, I’ll also lift a glass.”
Gwen slid a glance to Alex, who was studying Barrington as though the man’s face held the key to some riddle. Perhaps it did, at that: at odd intervals, the corners of Barrington’s mouth kicked up. It was the smile of a child struggling to keep some wonderful secret.
“Cheers,” said Alex. He took a drink, his lips smiling but his eyes deadly intent on their host.
Mr. Barrington seemed oblivious to the regard. He turned his boyish smile on Gwen. “I must confess,” he said in a low voice. “I noticed something alarming upon your arrival.”