CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS weeks before the furore in the press died down. Just about every person who had ever had anything to do with Edoardo during his childhood came out of the woodwork to give an exclusive. The worst of it was that even though his stepfather was now dead, his new wife and family sprang to his defence as if he had been a plaster saint. No doubt having been assured that no one could prosecute a dead man, they made him out to be the victim of a smear campaign.
It totally disgusted Bella. She felt sick every time she saw another article. She felt to blame, even though all she had tried to do was make her mother understand how difficult his childhood had been for Edoardo.
Her mother was unrepentant, however. Bella had hoped Claudia might contact Edoardo and apologise, but her mother seemed to relish the fact that his tragic past was being talked about by every man and woman on the street.
Bella had thought about contacting him herself and explaining that it had been her mother who had given the tell-all interview to the press, but she knew he wouldn’t believe her. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust anyone.
The lawyer had contacted Bella and she now had full control of her finances. But it was a bittersweet victory. She had more money than she knew what to do with.
But she felt terribly, achingly lonely.
The nights were the worst. Her friends would try to get her to go out with them to party or for dinner but she preferred to stay at home, curl up on the sofa and mindlessly watch whatever was on television. Sometimes she didn’t even have the energy to switch it on; instead she would sit staring blankly into space, wondering how someone with so much wealth could be so miserably, desperately unhappy.
Julian had been gracious about her breaking off their relationship, which more or less confirmed that her decision to end it had been the right one. He had seemed more concerned that she would still donate a large sum to his mission. If he had truly loved her, wouldn’t he have fought just a little bit for her?
Which brought her thoughts right back to Edoardo. He hadn’t fought for her either. He hadn’t even given her the benefit of the doubt. He had evicted her from his life as if she meant nothing to him.
Bella blew out a breath and tossed the sofa cushion to the floor. There was no point thinking about Edoardo. She was going to be on the other side of the world this time next week. She had organised a trip to Thailand to visit the orphanage she was now the proud patron of. So far she had managed to keep that out of the press. She couldn’t wait to get away and put this whole dreadful episode behind her.
* * *
Edoardo was brooding over some plans for a big development he was working on in a nearby county when Mrs Baker came in with his coffee. He had a migraine starting at the backs of his eyes, the third one he’d had this week. It felt like dress-making pins were being drilled into each eyeball. ‘Thanks,’ he said, briefly glancing at her.
Mrs Baker stood with her arms folded across her ample chest, her lips pressed firmly together.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
‘Have you seen today’s papers?’
He kept his gaze trained on the plans in front of him. ‘I haven’t looked at the paper in weeks,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing of interest to me in them.’
Mrs Baker took a folded up paper out of her apron pocket and handed it to him. ‘I think you need to see this,’ she said. ‘It’s about our Bella.’
Edoardo looked at the folded newspaper without touching it. ‘Take it away,’ he said and returned to his plans. ‘I have no interest in what she’s up to. It has nothing to do with me any more.’
Mrs Baker unfolded the paper and started to read. ‘“Society heiress Arabella Haverton has been named as the much-speculated about, anonymous patron for an orphanage in Thailand. Miss Haverton has reputedly already spent hundreds of thousands of pounds on food, clothing and toys for the children. She refused to confirm or deny the rumour when she boarded a flight to Bangkok yesterday.”’ She lowered the paper and gave Edoardo a beady look. ‘Well, what do you think?’
He leaned back in his chair, rolling a pen between his finger and thumb. ‘Good for her,’ he said.
Mrs Baker frowned. ‘Is that all you can say?’
He tossed the pen to the desk. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked. ‘I don’t care what she spends her money on. I told you—it’s nothing to do with me any more.’