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Zusatztext "Ingeniously plotted . . . . Spiced with betrayal! revenge! lust and scandal! this is an intoxicating brew served with panache." -- Publishers Weekly "Maudie Molyneux [is] one of the most delightfully original narrators in recent memory." -- Chicago Tribune "In a narrative that purrs like a Rolls! Adler once again weaves and spins her story threads skillfully." -- Kirkus Reviews Informationen zum Autor Elizabeth Adler is the internationally acclaimed bestselling author of many novels, including Sooner or Later, Now or Never, The Secret of the Villa Mimosa , All or Nothing , and Fortune Is a Woman . Klappentext She was the incomparable Lily Molyneux! whose jet hair and sapphire eyes drove men to madness and revenge. Rich! reckless titles! her secrets would scar generations to come . . . . They could never have enough money or power to capture her elusive heart: three men who amassed fame and fortune in pursuit of the one woman they couldn't deny. And a fourth who dies for her sins . . . . Elizabeth Adler's enthralling novel of passion! privilege! and retribution sweeps from the castles of nineteenth-century Ireland to Boston bustling Back Bay! from Beacon Hill's mansions to Wall Street's towering heights: three generations haunted by buried passions that refuse to rest in peace . . . . Ardnavarna, Connemara SINCE THIS IS the story of the past as well as the present I finally have to admit to being an “old woman.” Though if any of you were to call me “old Maudie Molyneux” I’d probably set the dogs on you—the dalmatians, stuffed behind me in this big old chair like two spotted oversize cushions. Let’s get this subject of age out of the way so that we don’t have to consider it again. I never think of myself as “old,” but I’ve been lying about my age for so long I can’t really remember how old I am anymore, though Faithless Brigid in the kitchen refuses to let me forget. “How could you tell Georgie Putnam you were only seventy?” she demanded just the other day, “when he knows he’s ten years younger than yourself?” “It’s a woman’s privilege,” I told her haughtily, though I confess to a blush of shame. Now, Faithless Brigid is by way of being my good friend. We were born more or less around the same time, and when she was young she came to work at the Big House, and she’s been with me ever since. You want to know why she’s called “Faithless” Brigid? It was the name the villagers gave to her in her younger days. She was a handsome girl, big and buxom, and she flitted from man to man, one after another, and married nobody. I always tell her I suspect it was because she was a bit of a tart. “Will ye be shuttin’ yer mouth, madam,” she shouts at me when I tease her with this. “You’ll have the world believin’ yer slander. I was niver a tart, as you call it. More like the other way around, from what I recall.” And she may have a point there. As a girl, I could never have been called beautiful; even pretty would have been optimistic. I was like my mother, Ciel Molyneux, small, skinny, and redheaded, with a face like a mischievous cat and a laugh my pa always complained was too loud. My freckles were the bane of my life. Except when I was twenty and I met Archie, and he used to count ’em. Oh, and that can be a dangerous game, let me tell you. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Mammie always said I should learn the art of discretion, as well as to know when to stop talking, but I’ve never managed either and I’m not about to change my ways now. What do I look like now, you may ask? In truth, not that much different. Fragile, bony, piercing blue eyes, and red curls that are dyed and maybe a bit too girlish, but that’s the way I like it. I always wear my favorite broad-brimmed black “Jack Yeats” felt hat crammed on top, and since I’m horse-mad like m...
