"Mary Stewart - Wildfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

"OтАФoh!" She relaxed and sent me a vivid smile. "You too? My dear, so'm I." "I know."

"Three times, honey. Too utterly exhausting, I may tell you. Aren't they stinkers?" "I beg your pardon?"
"Men, darling. Stinkers." "Oh, I see."

"Don't tell me yours wasn't a stinker too?" "He was," I said. "Definitely."

"I knew it," said Marcia happily. I thought I had never seen two pink gins go further. "What was his name?"
"Nicholas."

"The beast," she said generously. The old crusading instinct was rising again, I could see. "Have another
drink, Jeanette darling, and tell me all about it."

"This one's on me," I said firmly, and pressed the bell. "And my name is Gianetta. Gee-ann-etta. Of
Italian origin, like sorbo."

"It's pretty," said she, diverted. "How come you've an Italian name?"

"Oh, it's old history " I ordered the drinks, glad to

steer the conversation in a new direction. "My great-grandmother was called Gianetta. She's the kind of
ancestress one wants to keep in the family cupboard, tightly locked away, only my great-grandmamma
never let herself be locked away anywhere, for a moment."

"What did she do?" asked Marcia, intrigued.

"Oh, she took the usual road to ruin. Artists' model, artists' mistress, then married a baronet, andтАФ"

"So did 1 once," said Marcia cheerfully. "I left him, though. Did she?"

"Of course. She bolted with a very advanced young artist to Paris, where she made a handsome
fortuneтАФdon't ask me howтАФthen died in a nunnery at the happy old age of eighty-seven."

"Those were the days." Marcia's voice was more than a little wistful. "Not the nunnery bit, but the rest. . .
. What a thoroughly worthy great-grandmother to haveтАФ especially the bit about the fortune and the title."

I laughed. "They didn't survive. Mother was the only grandchild, and Gianetta left all her money to the
convent тАФas fire insurance, I suppose." I put down my empty glass. "SoтАФunlike my
great-grandmammaтАФI wear clothes for a living."
 Through the glass door I could see the Cowdray-Simpsons coming down the stairs. A maid bustled across
the hall towards the dining room. Outside, behind the steep crest of Sgurr na Stri, the red of the sky was
deepening to copper, its brightness throwing the jagged rock into towering relief. I saw three young
menтАФthe campers, no doubtтАФcoming along from the river; they skirted the windows of the lounge, and a
moment later I heard the porch door swing open and shut.

Somewhere, a clock struck seven.

"I'm hungry," I said. "Thank heaven it's dinnertime."

I got out of my chair, and moved to the window that faced east. Away in front of the hotel stretched the