The Devil You Know Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Teaser

  Also by Louise Bagshawe

  Outstanding praise for Louise Bagshawe’s previous novel

  Copyright

  The book is dedicated to Michael Sissons.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editors on this book, particularly Kate Mills, who along with Kirsty Fowkes gave me invaluable advice and shaped the finished product from a very different and much worse first draft. My thanks as ever go to the wonderful team at Orion, especially Susan Lamb and Jane Wood, along with Juliet Ewers, Malcolm Edwards and the whole company.

  In the U.S. I must thank the whole team at St. Martin’s Press, especially my editor, Jennifer Weis, who has guided me expertly through the publishing process over here—I’m very grateful to her.

  Prologue

  The sun beat down on the hills. Count Cosimo Parigi wiped his brow as he stood looking down on the town of San Stefano in Umbria. The familiar gray stone turrets, left by the Normans, and the red terracotta-tile roofs shimmered in the haze of the baking glare. It was August, and anyone with any sense had left town. The cool water of the azure Mediterranean Sea and the light breeze on the lakes to the North called the Italians to their annual vacanze. This year, more than ever, most people had left. The war had just ground to a halt and a defeated (or “liberated,” depending on which propaganda you bought) Italy was picking itself up from the dust. It was time to recoup, to snatch at the strands of a normal life.

  For most people, that was, but not for him.

  Cosimo felt no lethargy, no exhaustion. He was driven, and he had a vision. He looked out at the rolling hills and forests and he wanted to ride through them. Brand new railway tracks that would glitter under the burning sun. An engine for Italy, to bring it out from the ashes of war.

  He was a second son, which meant he was an irrelevance. The faded old palazzo of the Parigi family, mounted on the crest of a hill overlooking San Stefano, was going to pass to his brother Giuseppe, il Principe Giuseppe Parigi. Giuseppe was the heir, and that was set in stone. He would inherit the farmland that no longer offered riches, the meager rents of the cottages they owned, the crumbling palace. Cosimo was expected to live in a small house somewhere on the estate, to assist with the farming, and generally to keep his head down.

  But he had no interest in being forgotten, like other second and third sons before him. Cosimo wanted more, and he had an idea how to get it.

  His parents and brother had not approved when he told them. Here he was, dressed in the overalls of a peasant, working with his hands in the August sun. He was surveying the land, taking samples of the soil, imagining a new, better route for the railway that had been smashed into useless smithereens by the Royal Air Force. When construction of the railway was done, he, Cosimo, would turn to the roads. All across Italy people still traveled by horse, or donkey and cart.

  This was unacceptable in 1946. It was a new world, and Italy had to be fit for it. Cosimo was already talking to bankers in the ravaged city of Milano. He was drawing up his plans, he was going to do his part.

  His future was as glorious as the landscape before him.

  * * *

  Cosimo Parigi had drive and intelligence. He also had a good idea. Railway executives and state bureaucrats called him “il typhoon”—the hurricane. He blew through meetings, objections, and regulations. By 1950, Parigi Railways had been established, and it was thriving.

  His parents died in 1951. They had never approved of what their younger son was doing. Trade! For a Conte di Parigi! It was unthinkable. But their natural laziness, and their desire to enjoy la dolce vita in their last years, had kept them silent. The old Prince wanted only to tend to his vines and taste the first pressings from his olive trees. Young people like his son did crazy things, Madonn’. But he would grow up and get over it.

  Cosimo wept for his mother when she died, and again for his father when, unwilling to endure life without her, he followed her to the family crypt in less than a month. His sorrow was lessened, though, because of his parents’ advanced years, because his company was racing ahead, and because he had a new bride on whom to bestow his sudden wealth. Donna Lucia di Parenti was the daughter of another noble family, and marrying her was the one thing Cosimo did that Giuseppe, the new Principe, approved of.

  “Congratulations, my dear brother,” he said to Cosimo in the rich, plummy tones he affected when speaking as the head of the family. Archbishop Fanti had just united Cosimo with his new Contessa in the chapel of the Palazzo, beneath the gaze of the busts of his ancestors, and the angels and saints carved in glorious Renaissance marble. Cosimo actually would have preferred another venue, a church in Rome, perhaps even St. Peter’s—nothing was good enough for his Lucia—but Giuseppe had insisted they be married from the Palazzo, and Cosimo had given way. In a matter like this one, it did not hurt. Family tradition, and all that.

  “Thank you, Giuseppe,” Cosimo said. He smiled at Maria, Giuseppe’s meek little wife, who was cradling Roberto, the new heir, in her arms. “The little one is quie
t today, it must be a good omen.”

  Giuseppe looked at his sleeping son. “You also will have children.”

  “We hope so.”

  “And may your first child be a boy,” Giuseppe said solemnly.

  “Thank you,” Cosimo acknowledged, trying to suppress the thought that Giuseppe really could sound like a pompous ass sometimes.

  “When the honeymoon is over, call upon me at the Palazzo. We have much to discuss,” Giuseppe told his brother.

  “I will,” Cosimo promised, although he had no intention of keeping his word. Parigi Railways was about to become Parigi Transportation. He was taking over a cement-mixing and laying company. New autostrade were planned across the peninsula, and Cosimo was going to be a part of it. After the honeymoon, he would be flying to Switzerland for discussions with a consortium of investors …

  * * *

  Giuseppe sat brooding in the dusty halls of his once-spectacular home. The years rolled by pretty much as they had always done; some years the wine harvest was excellent, and he could repair a roof or two, other years it had blight or drought and he was out firing workers and raising rents. The Parigi estate was, under his stewardship, much as it had been for generations beforehand.

  He resented it bitterly.

  Cosimo, the little upstart, had founded a firm using his family name. He was making billions of lire a year. He had modern cars, an estate, an old, but beautifully restored villa outside of Rome. But was he, Giuseppe, not the elder brother? That money should be his.

  He spoke of it incessantly to the Principessa.

  “What belongs to the House of Parigi belongs to the Principe, cara,” Giuseppe told her. And Maria nodded her head and continued to embroider, for that was her hobby, and she had long since got out of the habit of listening to her husband.

  But he had an audience. Four-year-old Roberto was playing with his toy wooden train while his father spoke, and the words sunk in. Consequently he grew up loathing his upstart uncle Cosimo. Over and over, his father would lift the boy on to his knee and tell him of his inheritance.

  “You are to be Prince of the Parigi,” Giuseppe told his son. “All this is yours. You must never lose the rights of the family.”

  Roberto nodded gravely. He worshipped his father. That is, until that spring day, when he was six years old …

  * * *

  “Is the Count prepared?” Giuseppe asked of the nanny. She bobbed a curtsey.

  “Si, Principe.”

  “Very good,” Giuseppe said, regarding his son as she placed him on the backseat of the Bugatti. The little Count Roberto was bundled up against the slight March wind; a true Italian, he was ultra-sensitive to cold. Maria was in the hospital with suspected tuberculosis, and Giuseppe had bills mounting. He did not trust his son to be alone with peasants, and he had decided to take him with him on this vital errand.

  Roberto bounced up and down with pleasure as his father slid the car into gear and out of the courtyard of the Palazzo, down the ancient, windy road that led into San Stefano. From there, they would take a new road, one Parigi Enterprises, as the company was now called, had helped build, to their destination.

  “Where are we going, Papa?” he asked.

  “To see your uncle Cosimo,” Giuseppe said.

  “Why, Papa?”

  “I have very important business, Roberto. Now you will be a good boy when we arrive, won’t you? You will go and play with some toys.”

  “I will,” Roberto lied. He had no intention of missing this. His beloved father was about to set Uncle Cosimo straight, and Roberto couldn’t wait to hear him do it.

  * * *

  Little Roberto stepped out of the car and regarded his uncle’s house as his father took his hand.

  “What do you think, Roberto? It is very pretty, no?” Giuseppe asked him. “Of course, it is not as fine as the Palazzo.”

  “No, Papa,” Roberto agreed solemnly, even though he was lying. He was taking in Uncle Cosimo’s villa, and he thought he had never seen anything so fine. The building was old, with glorious ocher walls and sprays of climbing roses, white and yellow, but it was not crumbling like their palace; the tiled roof was new and perfect, the drive was graveled, the stables perfect, like something out of the magazines his mother read. Roberto saw new and better cars in the garage; fountains which were working, not lined with moss; gardens which were professionally tended, lawns which were neatly clipped.

  Roberto was a young boy, but he knew instinctively that the villa was worth five times as much as the wreck they lived in. How fine that his father was here to demand their family rights! His father was the elder brother. Roberto examined the house with a covetous eye. He would like to play here. One day, his father said, the whole estate would be his.

  “Come along,” his father said, tugging Roberto out of his reverie.

  They walked toward the door, which was opened by a butler in uniform, but before he could say anything Cosimo had run out to meet them.

  “Giuseppe! Caro.” He kissed his brother warmly on both cheeks, hugging him. “And Roberto. How big you have grown.” Roberto hung close to his father, but Uncle Cosimo bent down and gave him a solemn handshake, which he liked. “Are you thirsty? Would you like a lemonade? We have Coca-Cola and chocolate biscuits.”

  Roberto’s mouth watered. They never had American Coca-Cola at the Palazzo. But already he was starting to feel resentful toward his uncle. He wanted to wait until Uncle Cosimo had given his father his due as head of the family, then he would drink his Coca-Cola.

  “No thank you, I am not thirsty.”

  “Maybe later, then. But come in, come in.”

  Cosimo led them through a wide corridor hung with artwork and lined with antique Roman busts into a large kitchen filled with modern appliances.

  “We can talk here, Giuseppe. Roberto, would you like to go and play in the nursery?”

  Roberto looked at Papa, who nodded.

  “Yes, Uncle Cosimo.”

  “I will send for the nurse,” Cosimo said. “Our Luigi is only two, and he’s napping right now, but we have many toys for bigger boys.”

  “I do not want the nurse, Uncle Cosimo,” said Roberto. “I like to play by myself without my nurse.”

  Cosimo laughed and ruffled Roberto’s hair. “He’s independent, Giuseppe! Very well, she will just show you to the playroom.”

  A nanny in a blue pinafore materialized and whisked Roberto away. He saw his uncle Cosimo close the kitchen door behind him.

  * * *

  The nursery was splendid, Roberto thought jealously. His infant cousin Luigi, who was sleeping—good, because Roberto had no interest in seeing him—was lying in a bedroom several rooms away and the nurse told him to play freely, because he would not wake his cousin up.

  “Thank you,” Roberto said gravely, “you may go.”

  The nurse stared at him but left without saying anything, closing the door. Roberto wanted to run back down the corridor and listen at the kitchen door, but he decided to wait a few minutes, to be sure the servant woman was not hovering …

  * * *

  “But, Giuseppe!” Cosimo struggled with his amazement. His brother was stuffy and pompous and stuck in the ways that had kept the Parigi fortune declining for the last two hundred years, but he loved him and did not want to hurt him. Laughing at him would be the absolute worst thing he could do. “I have made this money, myself, and you and Father did not approve.”

  The Prince shrugged. “We were wrong, and I see that now. But the fact remains, you must cede control of the majority of the company to me, as is only right and proper. I am the—”

  * * *

  Outside the door, Roberto smiled fiercely. He pressed his little ear to the keyhole, keeping the other open for the nanny or other intruders. Now his papa was telling Uncle Cosimo!

  * * *

  “—head of the family?” Cosimo’s patience snapped. “Madonna!” He shook his head and crossed himself, regretting the outburst. “You have
a title, dear brother, one I care nothing for and never wanted. The world is changing. I am not a feudal vassal! I owe you nothing, nothing! You amaze me. You do no stroke of work, then arrive and demand … demand my estate, the estate of my son? You live in the twentieth century! Are you insane?”

  Giuseppe scowled. “You refuse to do your duty, then?”

  “By not finding work, selling off the dead wood, revitalizing the Palazzo, perhaps you have failed to do yours.” That hit home, and Cosimo saw the hurt on his big brother’s face. He clasped him by the shoulder. “Ah, come now. We must not fight. You have your way and I have mine. You need money?”

  “I need nothing. I am owed…”

  Cosimo cut him off. “Let us end this now. You have no legal recourse, or you would already be in the courts.”

  This was true; they both knew it, and Giuseppe’s face clouded with frustration. “I have a duty to you, of course,” Cosimo went on, “one of love … tell me what you need, and I will provide you with an allowance.”

  Giuseppe hesitated, surprised. “You will?”

  “I will. Do you think I would let my brother and nephew want for anything? Let us fix the Palazzo together. But I will draw up the budget,” he added hastily, “and I will take a look at your books, and send you an allowance for your family.”

  Giuseppe struggled now. He wanted that money so badly he could taste it. But his pride was still there.

  “I cannot have some stranger look at the fortunes of the Parigi,” he said stiffly.

  Cosimo sighed. “I will do it myself, brother. I am a Parigi too.”

  Giuseppe weakened and fell. His brother was disarming him. He had expected blackmail and shame to work; he had not expected this kindness. For all his arrogant hauteur, Giuseppe Parigi was fundamentally lazy. He wanted an independent income, preferably one he controlled … but he would take one somebody else controlled if need be. Unexpectedly, a blissful future arose before him; he would live as should an Italian nobleman, and he would not work, and the Palazzo would be heated, restored, warm like this place, with no more rain leaking through the rotting roof beams …

  “Cosimo.” He moved forward and embraced his upstart brother. “You have a good heart, fratello. I accept…”