The Rich Shall Inherit Read Free

of orange juice, a basket of fresh rolls, a dish of soft yellow butter, and another dish of the vivid scarlet jam made by Fiametta from the summer’s lavish crop of wild strawberries that grew up in the hills near the Villa d’Oro. A neatly folded newspaper lay by the side of the beautiful blue and white plate—one of the last remnants of the Haviland service that had been made for the Baronessa Marina Rinardi a hundred and fifty years ago.
    Fiametta’s hand was trembling as she picked up the newspaper. “Read it,
cara!”
she exclaimed. “Here, read it quickly.”
    Aria took the paper from her, surprised. “But what must I read … it’s just the paper, the same old news. Unless …
someone has died?”
She blushed, ashamed of the faint note of hope that had crept into her voice.
    “Not the person you mean. But yes … in a way.” Fiametta’s finger, distorted with arthritis, pointed shakily to the bottom of the page. The ad for the Mallory heiress, outlined in double rows of black, stood out from the rest of the page.
    “Well?” Aria asked, still puzzled.
    “But it’s
Poppy!”
exclaimed Fiametta.
“Poppy Mallory! …
Don’t you see?
You
must be the heiress, Aria.
It’s you!”
    Aria read the notice again, only now it looked like a beacon of hope. What if it was true? If she really was an heiress? It could resolve the fate that was hanging like the sword of Damocles over her head.
    It had been just six months ago that her mother had dropped the bolt from the blue, that the Rinardi family trust had finally dried up; there was no more money and now she expected Aria to do her duty and marry a rich man, a man she had chosen for her—Antony Carraldo.
    The name had sent a shiver down Aria’s spine and she’d stared at her mother in horror. She had heard the rumors about Carraldo—everyonehad, though no one had ever proven anything, or even tried. Her mother had told her she shouldn’t believe the rumors, that they were just stories put about by people who were jealous of his wealth and success. “Think, girl,” she’d said, “would your father have been his best friend if what they said was true?”
    It was strange, Aria had thought, bewildered, that Carraldo had been Papa’s best friend. Somehow he’d always been there, on the fringes of their lives, a shadowy figure, keeping his distance … she even remembered holding his hand at Papa’s funeral …
    “Don’t worry,” Francesca had said, “he promised he’ll take good care of you.
You
will have everything in the world a woman could ever want.”
    “Yes
—a woman like you!” Aria had retorted, tears stinging her eyes again.
    Her mother had just laughed, a light, tinkling, mirthless sound. “Somehow I always thought Carraldo was waiting for you to grow up,” she’d said.
    Of course, Aria had refused to do it; she’d stormed, she’d cried, she’d protested that it wasn’t the Middle Ages, that mothers didn’t marry off their daughters anymore … she would run away, she’d said, anywhere … a million miles from Carraldo. And then her mother had stopped all her raging with a simple quiet statement.
    “If you refuse,”
Francesca Rinardi had said icily,
“then I don’t know what I will do.”
    Aria had stared, terrified, into her clear blue eyes, and then Francesca had simply walked out and left her to think things over.
    Aria had understood Francesca’s threat, and she’d also known that she was capable of killing herself. To a woman like her mother, a world without the luxuries she considered to be the necessities of life was a world simply not worth living in. Frightened, she’d known then that Francesca had left her no choice.
    And now it was her eighteenth birthday, the day she was to become engaged to Antony Carraldo. She stared again at the black-banded advertisement for Poppy Mallory’s missing heiress.
    “Poppy …” she whispered hopefully. “Have you come to save me? I don’t even know who you are, only your