The reviews of the party in the press were extraordinary the next day. Everyone agreed that it was the party of the century, and wished Whitfield’s another hundred years, as long as they were invited to the next anniversary party. And for the next few days, Sarah basked in the glory of the party. She saw very little of Isabelle during those days, who was catching up with old friends At eighteen she could drive, and enjoy greater freedom than she had in earlier years. But Sarah still wanted to keep an eye on her, and she was worried one afternoon when she couldn’t find her.
“She went out in the Rolls,” Xavier explained when she saw him.
“She did?” Sarah looked surprised. She was supposed to drive the Peugeot station wagon they kept for her, and other people at the château. “Do you know where she went, sweetheart?” Sarah asked him, thinking probably just to the village
“I think she was going to Paris,” he said, and sauntered off. There was a new horse in the stables and he wanted to see it. He still liked to pretend he was a cowboy sometimes, when he felt like it. The rest of the time he was an explorer.
She called Julian at the store and asked him to keep an eye out for her in case she came in. And sure enough, an hour later, she walked in, looking like a customer, in a very pretty emerald-green dress, and dark glasses.
Julian saw her on the camera in his office upstairs, and came downstairs to the shop as soon as he saw her.
“May I help you, Mademoiselle?” He asked in his most charming voice, and she laughed. “A diamond bracelet perhaps? An engagement ring? A little tiara?”
“A crown would be very nice.”
“But of course.” He continued to play the game with her. “Emerald, to match your dress, or diamond?”
“Actually, I’ll take both.” She beamed at him, and he asked her casually then what she was doing in town.
“Just meeting a friend for a drink.”
“You drove two hours and ten minutes for a drink?” he asked. “You must be very thirsty.”
“Very funny. I had nothing to do at home, so I thought I’d come up to town. In Italy, we used to do it all the time. You know, go to Cortina for lunch, or to go shopping.” She looked extremely sophisticated and very beautiful. She was truly a knockout.
“How chic,” he teased. “It’s a shame people aren’t as amusing here.” But he knew she was going to the South of France in a few weeks, and stay with one of her friends from school, in Cap Ferrat. She was still very spoiled, but undeniably very grown-up now. “Where are you meeting your friend?”
“The Ritz, for a drink.”
“Come on,” he said, coming around the counter. “I’ll drop you off. I have to take a diamond necklace to a viscountess.”
“I have my car,” she said coldly, “well, actually, Mother’s.” And he didn’t ask any questions.
“Then you can drop me off. I don’t. Mine is sick. I was going to take a taxi,” he lied, but he wanted to see who she was meeting. He went to the wrapping desk and picked up a very impressive box and put it in an envelope and followed Isabelle outside, and got in her car before she could object. He chatted as though it were perfectly normal for her to come to town to see a friend, and he kissed her when he left her at the front desk, and pretended to talk to the concierge, who knew him well and went along with the pretense.
“Can you pretend to take this box from me, Renaud? Just throw it away after I leave, but don’t let anyone see you.”
“I should give it to my wife,” he whispered back, “but maybe she’d expect more than the box. What are you doing today?”
“Following my sister,” he confided, still pretending to give his instructions. “She’s meeting someone at the bar, and I want to make sure it’s okay. She’s a very pretty girl.”
“So I saw. How old is she?”
“Just eighteen.”
“Oooh laaaa …” Renaud whistled sympathetically, “I’m glad she’s not my daughter … sorry …” he apologized quickly.
“Do you suppose you could go in and check if she’s sitting with anyone yet? And then I can go in and pretend to run into them by mistake. But I don’t want to waste it before he gets there.” He assumed she was meeting a man, it was unlikely she would drive two hours each way to meet a girlfriend.
“Sure,” Renaud agreed readily, just as a large bill slipped into his palm for good measure, but he was happy to help this time. Lord Whitfield was a nice guy, and a great tipper.
Julian pretended to write an extensive note at the concierge’s desk, and Renaud was back in a minute. “She’s there, and my friend, you got trouble.”
“Merde. Who is it? Do you know him?” He was beginning to fear it was some mafioso.
“Sure do. He’s here all the time, or at least a couple of times a year, working on some woman. Old women sometimes, young ones other times.”
“Do I know him?”
“Maybe. He bounces checks at least twice a trip, and never tips anyone unless someone else is looking.”
“He sounds charming.” Julian groaned.
“He’s poor as dirt. And I think he’s looking for money.”
“Great. Just what we needed. What’s his name?”
“You’ll love it. The Principe di Venezia e San Tebaldi. He says he’s one of the Princes of Venice. He probably is. There are about ten thousand of them over there.” Not like the British, or even the French. The Italians had more princes than dentists. “He’s a real jerk, but he looks good, and she’s young. She doesn’t know the difference. I think his first name is Lorenzo.”
“How distinguished.” Julian was anything but encouraged by what he had just heard.
“Just don’t expect a tip,” his friend reminded him, and Julian thanked him again, and sauntered into the bar, looking distracted and very / businesslike, and incredibly aristocratic. He was the Real Thing, Renaud always said, and he knew. He was right, of course, and Julian looked it. Not like the Prince of Pasta, as he called him.
“Oh, there you are … sorry…” Julian said as he pretended to bump into her with a huge grin. “I just wanted to kiss you good-bye.” He glanced over at the man she was with, and smiled broadly, pretending to be absolutely thrilled to meet him. “Hello… terribly sorry to interrupt … I’m Isabelle’s brother, Julian Whitfield,” he said easily, extending a hand, looking comfortable and relaxed, as his sister squirmed slightly. But the prince wasn’t bothered at all. He was charming and unctuous and oily.
“Piacere … Lorenzo di San Tebaldi. … I’m so happy to meet you. You have a most charming sister.”
“Thank you. I completely agree.” He kissed her lightly then, and apologized for leaving, but he had to get back to the shop for a meeting. He left without ever looking back, and despite his brilliant performance, Isabelle knew instantly that she was in big trouble.
Julian winked at the concierge on his way out and then he hurried back to the office. He called his mother as soon as he got in, but the conversation was not reassuring.