Perfect (23 page)

F  O  R  T  Y  -  E  I  G  H  T

That evening, as Black Diamond trotted up the main drive to the porte cochère, I studied the carriage entrance to Schloss Constantin more carefully than I had when I’d been on foot. This was a new perspective. Before, Oscar had carried me in through the ground-floor service entrance. Tonight, a footman at the front door held my horse’s bridle while I dismounted.

“Where are you going to put her?” I asked, concerned. “I’ve grown so attached to this gorgeous beast, I’d like to take her inside with me. She is a very special girl.” I patted her shoulder.

“She’ll be right here at the front, madam. Did you bring her blanket?”

“It’s in the box.”

He lifted the top of the storage box that ran the width of the back of the sleigh and pulled out Black Diamond’s travel coat, a snappy black wool affair trimmed with red braid.

“What do you do when it’s a big party?”

“They go down into the stable yard. It’s covered and heated.” He smiled kindly. “Believe me, they are very comfortable.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Very sure. We should all be so well taken care of.”

Oscar greeted me—well, the words “greeted” and “Oscar” don’t really fit in the same phrase, except we were warming up to each other slightly. When he opened the door, I was practically knocked backward by a wave of music—Robert and a soprano singing some duet or other—that was so loud it was almost deafening. Evidently there were speakers hidden in all the walls of the house, and it was almost as though Robert were standing right next to me screaming in my ear at the top of his lungs. I love music, but this would give me a nervous breakdown.

“Good evening, Oscar,” I called over the noise. “Did you have a good day?”

“Okay.” He took my coat and I followed him toward the cloakroom but he caught the toe of his boot on the corner of the rug and tripped. He fell with such a thud, it sounded as though a bomb had gone off.

“Oscar!” I said, and helped him to his feet. “Are you all right?”

He frowned and nodded. “Why are you thinking about me? You’re the only one who’s thinking about me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. All of us need thinking about and looking after.”

“This way,” he said.

I followed him past the dining room—so Gothic, so packed with heavy, oppressive furniture I almost felt like crawling—and down the wide hallway into a library with dark wood paneling and bookshelves jammed with leather-bound volumes, an ornate carved stone fireplace and more overly large, overly carved, overly dark, dreary furniture. Thick, weighty brocade curtains were drawn across the windows. The drapes strained at their loops as though they, too, wanted to fall to their knees and collapse. A flat-screen television showed a performance of Constantin in Puccini’s
Tosca.

Sebastian pressed the mute when I entered the room and the house fell wonderfully silent. He smiled and stepped toward me.

“Princesse,” he said and kissed me on either cheek.

“Good evening, Sebastian.” Just knowing he was the Palace Thief and that the queen’s jewels were, hopefully, somewhere in this house, made shivers of excitement ripple up my spine.

He was a very worthy adversary. There was no way he would let my accusation about his entering my home, and my calling him a thief, run him out of town. After all, I’m sure he reasoned, they were just lucky guesses. Sebastian might have looked and acted like a nancy boy, but he was as intrepid and brazen as I was. His smile contained assurance and possibly even a challenge.

Robert put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me with gusto. “Welcome. You look magnificent tonight, like a movie star,” he said. “If your sapphires were just slightly darker, they would be the same color as your eyes.” In fact, if I hadn’t had the contact lenses in, they would have been the same color as my eyes.

He was dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket with satin lapels and looked every inch the grandest of grand tenors. “What can I offer you to drink? Red wine? White wine? Champagne?”

I looked at his vodka martini longingly.

“Champagne, please.” It couldn’t possibly be as bad as the sweet Riesling the night before.

Robert went to the drinks table and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon. “Will this do?”

“Perfectly.”

The three of us sat in front of the fire, each man in his own easy chair at either side and me on the sofa in the center. I don’t care how pretty sofas look, or how they complete furniture arrangements, they are pure hell to sit on, particularly if you’re wearing a tight corset or, more importantly, if you want to participate in a conversation with any energy or credibility. A slouching person cannot make a point. The only time a sofa is of any use is when you’re sick and have on soft, warm pajamas, a lush cashmere blanket, a stack of fashion magazines, and can lie down for a nap. I sat as far toward the front edge of Robert’s sofa as I could without sliding off onto the floor.

“Tell me about your painting,” Sebastian said. “How are you coming along?” There was that look again—humor and defiance all in one. “Making lots of progress?”

Oh, dear. Maybe he
was
the one who broke in and saw that I hadn’t cracked a single tube of oil paint. Or maybe I was just becoming paranoid, seeing a burglar around every corner.

“Some. Thank you for asking.”

“What exactly do you paint?” asked Robert.

“Landscapes are what I’m most known for. I do the occasional portrait. I’m rather stuck at the moment, rather uninspired. I think it’s all the snow. The snow is white. The canvas is white.” I shrugged. “I’m sure the sun will come out one of these days. You have such an interesting face, Sebastian, perhaps you’d consider sitting for me? Tinka’s study is a perfect studio for painting. Have you ever been there?” I kept my eyes on his. Touché.

“We’ve been to her house a number of times. Do you remember that fondue party, Robert? Cheese fondue for dinner and chocolate for dessert. I thought we would explode. But I’ve never been in her study or bedroom. Have you, Robert?”

Robert shook his head. “It’s not that I haven’t tried.”

We all laughed.

A maid came in and passed a tray with hot cheese puffs. I put one on my plate and considered a second.

“Please help yourself,” Robert said. “You can tell from looking at me, this house is nothing like Alma’s. And there are many, many more where those came from.”

“Thank you.” I added two more. “Tell me, how long have you lived here?”

“Since the club opened twenty years ago,” Constantin answered. “I was one of the first members. My residence of record is in Milan—I keep a big house there and that’s where the world thinks I live. There are photographers and fans outside the gates all the time. God knows what they think they’re going to see, all the cars have blacked-out windows. In reality, I haven’t been inside my Milan house in years, my mother and my sister live there. I live full-time here in Mont-St.-Anges. It’s the only place on the planet I’ve been able to find that allows me to live a somewhat normal life. It’s amazing that George has been able to keep it such a secret all these years. But then, that’s the power of Naxos.”

“He is amazing.” I bit into the cheese puff, one of my favorite hors d’oeuvre. Ubiquitous and so simple to make, just a little circle of buttered toast, topped with a mixture of mayonnaise, grated onion, and shredded cheese, either Parmesan or Gruyère, and a sprinkle of salt. Tonight it was Gruyère, of course. A little dusting of paprika and then put in the broiler until bubbling and golden.

“And now that Sebastian’s here,” Robert continued, “it’s made my time at home all the more relaxing and healthful—he’s taken a lot of the day-to-day business-management burdens off my shoulders. I used to have to spend hours on the phone with my agent and my business manager and now Sebastian does a lot of that for me. I don’t know what I did without you.”

The men smiled at each other. It would be easy to leap to the obvious conclusion that they were lovers. But frankly, I wasn’t so sure, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t care. I was fascinated at how Sebastian had insinuated himself into such an insider caretaker role. He was after more than jewelry. He clearly intended to gain—or possibly already had gained—control over Robert’s significant assets. I just hoped he wasn’t putting ground-up glass in Robert’s food. And I realized that was a major difference between Sebastian and me. He was a thief who had happened to steal jewels and had now moved on to a different target. I was a jewel thief. In my opinion, that put him at the bottom of the food chain, ethics-wise.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I can imagine what a help that is.” I wanted to say to Robert, Have you lost your mind? Don’t you read the papers. Don’t you know people like you are sitting ducks for rip-off artists like him? You read about actors and singers and dancers every day who’ve been duped by their managers.

As I regarded Sebastian, I recalled Bernard Lafferty, the obsequious butler who had insinuated himself into every aspect of Doris Duke’s sorry life and ended up by killing her through benign neglect and then inheriting her entire estate. Lots of people felt sorry for her because that’s what she wanted. Poor Doris, so unhappy and so taken advantage of because she was so rich. I’m sorry, but we all make choices and make our own lives and it’s just so much easier not to be accountable, blame our sorry mess on someone else. Well, Robert was a grown-up and if he wanted to hand over financial control of his portfolio and business, that was his business.

“What is your background, Sebastian?” I leaned forward in anticipation.

I knew whatever he was going to answer, it was going to be good.

F  O  R  T  Y  -  N  I  N  E

“Law and finance.”

If I’d had an olive in my mouth, I would have shot it across the room.

“I was director of international banking for Barclay’s for a number of years. And I read law at Oxford, years ago, of course. I retired from the bank, let me see, how long has it been, Robert? Almost two years now. But I consulted for them for a long time after that—I only retired completely a couple of weeks ago.”

His expression was so innocent and sincere, if I didn’t know his background was domestic service and thievery, I would have believed him, too.

“I imagine assisting Robert is much more exciting than banking.”

“Indeed.” He smiled.

“Do you travel a lot?” I asked Robert.

“Less and less these days,” he answered. “It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep my voice in shape. The older I get the more vulnerable I become to colds and sore throats. But I still do one or two major productions a year—always one at the Met and one at La Scala—and a number of concert dates. And I still record, of course. It’s extremely hard work. People don’t realize how heavy the performance burden is. They only know they’ve had their tickets for months and the tickets are extremely costly and hard to get. They aren’t interested that I’ve been on tour and I’m exhausted—and in fact, they shouldn’t have to be aware of that. They’ve paid for a show and I’m there to give it to them so every time I walk onto the stage, I am committed to giving the performance of my life. It’s just that sometimes it takes so much out of me, I think it may just be the last performance of my life.”

I smiled at him. “That’s why you are where you are.”

“You’re so very right. I’ve worked hard my entire career—I’ve always given a hundred and ten percent and I’ve made an effort not to be temperamental, although I don’t always succeed. But I love what I do. And no matter how exhausted I am, the second I fly over the ridge into this valley, it all falls away. I can put the whole world behind me and no one knows where I am. And more importantly, no one cares
who
I am.”

Oscar refreshed our drinks, and the girl with the cheese puffs returned. Robert and I each put three more on our plates. Sebastian took one.

“Robert,” he said, “you know what your doctor said.”

Robert waved him off. “
Basta.
You’re not my mother. I’ll eat what I want.”

Sebastian pursed his lips and looked away archly. I could tell he was biting his tongue not to give Robert a speech, or else he was working up to a big pout or throwing a big tantrum.

“I imagine that privacy is your greatest luxury,” I said, ignoring the little kerfuffle and putting another canapé in my own mouth.

“It is as underrated as fame is overrated. I’m grateful to my fans, God love them, but sometimes fame reaches a point where it takes on a life of its own. There are a few of us who draw crowds that need entire police forces to manage them. It’s ridiculous. I’m a
singer,
for heaven’s sake. I haven’t discovered a cure for cancer or performed any miracles. Do you ever watch golf on television?”

“Occasionally,” I lied. I’ve never watched golf on television or anywhere else in my life.

“When Tiger Woods is playing, if you look in the long shots, there are literally thousands of people around him. They’re perfectly well mannered but every single one of them wants to get close, to touch him, get a little piece. My fans are the same, they press in. It’s unnerving. I don’t mean to sound sacrilegious, but sometimes I know how Jesus must have felt. One of Him and millions of them following Him everywhere He went—the man could get no rest.”

“Robert!” Sebastian said. “That is just over the line.”

I burst out laughing.

“Forgive me.” He looked at the ceiling and crossed himself and his cheeks colored. “But you know what I mean.”

“I think I understand.”

“I’m always so relieved to get home and let my hair down. There are a number of us here in Mont-St.-Anges who are victims of our success.”

Oscar appeared in the door.

“Ah,” Robert said. “Dinner’s ready.”

The dinner was in a small dining room, not the large one I’d passed on the way in, and the decor wasn’t quite as heavy-handed. The meal itself was quintessentially Swiss and perfectly prepared. The first course was
capuns,
which are cubes of sausage in
spätzli
batter, wrapped in Swiss chard leaves, tossed in butter, simmered, and served with a cream sauce; and the entree was a gorgeous, bubbling, gooey, pungent cheese fondue with cubes of crusty bread and a wonderful snappy Chablis. Dessert was classic apple strudel with pastry so feathery and light if you’d thrown it in the air, it would have floated away.

The three of us had a very harmonious time. We enjoyed each other’s company tremendously. Robert regaled us with stories of living on the road as an international superstar, and Sebastian added his own adventures as a fancy international financier. He had an unbelievable imagination.

“I had no idea banking could be so thrilling,” I said.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he answered straight-faced.

I asked him a few pertinent questions and could tell by his answers, he knew what he was talking about.

I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

“Let’s have one more glass of wine. I want to show you my house. Would you like a tour?”

“I’d love one.”

We took the elevator to the second floor and I saw everything I needed to see. Robert’s room was predictably Robert, a completely overdone, messy affair with a huge bed with old-fashioned bed curtains. A painting of him, in a smoking jacket similar to tonight’s with a pipe in his hand, leaning on a mantel and looking regal, hung over the fireplace. His bathroom had a large Jacuzzi and an old-fashioned exercise bike that had a tall stack of magazines piled on its seat, giving the impression it was little used.

Sebastian’s bedroom was a little slice of English countryside—loaded with bright yellow-and-green chintz, comfortable chairs, and piles of books. Off his bath was a serious gym with weights, a treadmill, a StairMaster, and a rowing machine.

Their bedrooms connected through a large central study with an oversized antique partners’ desk that the two men shared. Flat computer screens sat on credenzas that extended out from the desk on either side in the shape of an L. On the wall above Sebastian’s credenza was a Richard Jack painting of Buckingham Palace in the rain, the red jackets and black bear hats of the Coldstream Guards fuzzy in the mist. The painting stood fractionally away from the wall—so slightly that no one would ever notice, unless that someone were a thief looking for a wall safe. Tucked neatly in the darkness of the cubby hole under Sebastian’s desk, I spotted the black briefcase. Ready to hand at the drop of a hat. I realized he must have his emergency exit strategies as well, and I wondered what they were. Like the Naxos apartment in Paris, there was no easy way out of Mont-St.-Anges.

“We’ll see you tomorrow evening,” Robert said when we were back downstairs.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I’d already told Sebastian good night and Robert walked me to my sleigh. “Let me take you home,” he said. “It’s no trouble.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

He kissed me on either cheek. His beard felt silky against my skin. “You are so calming for me to be with, Margaret. So down-to-earth and peaceful. I could spend the rest of my life with someone like you.”

I smiled at him. “Robert. Are you proposing to me?”

“Not yet. But I’m considering it.”

“Keep me informed.” I climbed into the sleigh and shook the reins. “See you tomorrow.”

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hugely flattered by Robert’s affections, but I had a feeling he said basically the same thing to everyone he was fond of—men and women alike. He needed more attention than anyone I’d ever met.

Before I went to bed, I double-checked all the doors and windows and cross-checked my security system.

Something wakened me at three-thirty. I checked the video screens and nothing was out of order. It must have been the wind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was vulnerable. I went back to bed but wasn’t able to sleep, so finally, at about five, I gave up, got up and made myself a cup of hot chocolate, and sat in the dark living room and ran through my plan for the dinner dance.

That was where I’d make the switch. Just smooth and easy during dinner, and Thomas would show up at some point, make a discreet arrest, recover the (fake) jewels—the real ones would be in my pocket by then—and once Sebastian was securely on his way back to London, escorted by Thomas’s adjutant, Thomas and I would spend a few more days here in Mont-St.-Anges, eating fondue and drinking wine and having a little winter holiday. Maybe I’d even get those monkey gland shots. And I would have the queen’s jewels in my possession and I would give them to Thomas once we were safely out of the valley.

That was somewhat the plan. I would make the switch during dinner, but the part with Thomas and me relaxing in Mont-St.-Anges? Pure fantasy.

I sorted through my câche of one-time-use identifications and then, a little after eight, picked up the phone.

“Heliport. Jurgen speaking.”

“This is Mrs. Rogers calling and I’d like to book a helicopter to take me to Geneva later this evening.”

“Very good, Mrs. Rogers. Approximately what time, do you know?”

“I’m not sure. If it could be ready to go from nine on, that would be fine.”

“Nine o’clock it is. Your crew will be ready at that time and on-duty for you for twelve hours, until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Come whenever it’s convenient.”

“What if it’s snowing?”

“We use heavy cargo craft when the weather’s bad—no need to worry.”

I gritted my teeth.

I called the Hôtel d’Angleterre in Geneva and reserved a suite.