‘I’ll get the bill,’ said Matt, tipping back his chair and waving to a waitress. Then suddenly — Imogen could never remember exactly how it happened — the bustling, noisy street went absolutely quiet. Waiters stopped in their tracks with trays held aloft, a man carrying a basket of fish up from the quay dropped it with a crash on the ground and stood motionless as though hypnotised, conversations all along the front slithered to a halt, a poodle barked and was angrily hushed, a child cried and was clouted. Everyone had turned towards the end of the street. Somehow the fear and anticipation had infected even the rowdiest holidaymaker. The only sound was the swish of the waves, and faint complaining of the seagulls. It was like High Noon. And then Imogen saw him, strolling lazily down the street towards them chewing on a cigar, a little bald man wearing dark glasses, a black shirt and ill-fitting white trousers, and apparently in no hurry. But even in his leisureliness there was tension.
‘Braganzi,’ hissed Matt.
‘Christ, I wish I had a camera,’ muttered Larry.
He was only a couple of tables away now, everyone smiling sycophantically. The same poodle growled and was kicked again.
‘He’s making for this table,’ said Cable, shaking back her hair and licking her lips in anticipation. ‘Perhaps he’s coming to say you can do a piece on him.’
‘More likely to warn us off,’ said Matt.
Imogen watched him, mesmerised. It wasn’t often you saw a legend that close.
He reached their table now, and paused, taking them all in. Then he took out his cigar and ground it into the pavement.
‘Good evening,’ he said in a very strong Italian accent. ‘I look for Mees Brocklehurst.’
Imogen gasped in terror and threw a supplicating glance in Matt’s direction.
‘What d’you want her for,’ said Matt sharply.
‘May I present myself,’ said the little man softly. ‘My name is Enrico Braganzi.’
‘We know that,’ said Matt.
‘I would simply like to talk to Miss Brocklehurst.’ He smiled, showing several gold stoppings.
Nicky put a protecting hand on Imogen’s arm.
‘This is her,’ he said.
Braganzi removed his dark glasses. His eyes were hooded, watchful, very, very dark. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he asked, ‘were you by any chance swimming round the rocks to the Petite Plage today?’
Imogen gazed down, hoping the ground might swallow her up.
‘Were you, lovie?’ said Matt gently.
She knew the whole beach was watching her.
‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It was so pretty. I just wanted to be on my own for a bit. I didn’t realise it was private.’
‘Please, Mademoiselle.’ Braganzi held up a beautifully manicured hand, heavy with gold rings. ‘I have only come to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my little boy’s life.’
‘I what?’ said Imogen, bewildered.
‘You saved him from drowning, and then bring him back to life.’
‘He was your child?’ whispered Imogen. ‘But I thought he belonged to that couple.’
‘That couple,’ said Braganzi in a voice that sent shivers down Imogen’s spine, ‘were the child’s nanny and one of my guards.’
So that was why the girl was sobbing so hysterically, even after the child was revived — from terror of Braganzi.
‘The girl came back to the house and tried to pretend nothing had happened. Fortunately another of my men had seen everything through binoculars from the house. You were too far away for him to help. When he arrived you had gone. He said you display amazing courage and presence of mind for one so young.’
‘Oh gosh, it was nothing,’ muttered Imogen. ‘Anyone would have done it.’
‘But they did not,’ he went on. ‘The child would have died if it had not been for you, Mademoiselle. I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude.’
‘It was nothing,’ she muttered once again, scuffing the ground with her foot. ‘Is he all right now?’
‘Yes, thank God. The doctor’s been, and a specialist. The Duchess was frantic, but they reassured her that all was well. Ricky is sleeping now. The Duchess is naturally still very shaken, but she would very much like to meet you.’
‘Oh, really, she doesn’t have to. I mean. .’ Imogen stammered, terrified at the prospect.
‘Please, Mademoiselle. It will mean so much to her. She wishes to thank you personally. I have my car here. May I drive you up to the house?’
Imogen looked at Matt beseechingly, but he was shaking with laughter.
‘You are a dark horse, darling.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ said Nicky.
‘We probably didn’t ask her,’ said Matt.
Imogen turned to Braganzi. ‘All right, I’d like to come.’
‘Wonderful.’ Braganzi turned and raised a hand. It was the first time Imogen had noticed the tattoos on his thick, muscular arms. Next moment a black car that seemed as long as the beach glided up to them.
A chauffeur got out and opened the door for them. As she climbed inside Imogen felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She wondered if she’d ever see the others again.
‘Where did you learn your first aid?’ asked Braganzi as the car climbed the hill. ‘Are you nurse?’
Imogen told him about working in a library, and someone having to do a first aid course. ‘I grumbled like mad at the time, and I was awfully bored, but I’m very glad I did now.’
‘So indeed are we, Mademoiselle. Can I please tell you something, now we are alone a few minutes? You know perhaps a little about the Duchess and me?’
Imogen nodded.
‘When she leave England to come to me, she had to leave her children too. I am not considered suitable stepfather, you understand. Nor are the children allowed to visit us, although we are fighting court battle. Camilla misses the children, although she doesn’t show it, so all her love has gone into little Ricky. She had him late in life. We both did. He is — how you say it? — an autumn crocus. She is forty-three now. When she had Ricky she nearly died and the doctors later insisted on a hysterectomy; so it’s no more children for either of us. Now you can appreciate how important Ricky is to both of us, and what you have done by saving his life.’
Imogen glanced up and saw that his dark eyes were full of tears, and knew that she was no longer afraid of him.
‘How did you track me down?’
‘I have, how you say, impeccable spy system.’
Imogen was very nervous about meeting the Duchess. But one glance at that lovely ravished face, with its brilliant grey eyes which were still red from crying, and all her fears vanished.
The Duchess walked forward quickly and took both Imogen’s hands, and then kissed her on both cheeks, saying in a choked voice,
‘I can never begin to thank you. I really don’t know how to start.’ But she was so friendly and natural and incredibly grateful that, after a few minutes, armed with a large glass of whisky, Imogen began to feel she really had done something rather good after all. They sat on the terrace, chatting twenty to the dozen together, and breathing in the heavy scent of the tobacco plants and the night-scented stock and later they went up and looked at little Ricky asleep in his cot in his pale blue bedroom, a Basil Brush on the pillow beside him. His cheeks were pinker now, his black hair flopped over his forehead. The Duchess moved round the room on tiptoe, straightening his bedclothes, adjusting the pillow, arranging toys, and checking the heat of his forehead with her hand.
‘He looks much better,’ said Imogen.
‘He does, doesn’t he? The doctor says there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to keep checking.’
As they went downstairs Imogen noticed a Picasso, a Modigliani and a Matisse on the wall. Braganzi was waiting for them.