Perfect (24 page)

F  I  F  T  Y

I fixed breakfast, sipped my chocolate, read the morning papers, and watched the news—there wasn’t a sign of Thomas—called the spa and made a number of appointments. This would be a day of total relaxation—I was ready. I didn’t even care if I saw Lucy, because I was set. I wasn’t so immature or naive to think I was invincible, but at this point I was impermeable. On cruise control, as though I were watching events unroll from some point in the sky.

The morning was a sybaritic extravaganza—steam, massage, facial, shampoo, nails. I even had the low-calorie, spa fitness lunch and when I bundled myself back into my outdoor gear, I was relaxed and focused.

The doorman had Black Diamond harnessed and ready to go when I emerged.

“We have a little bit of sun, maybe, Princesse,” he said, indicating the dark blue sky showing through broken clouds.

In fact, it was so bright I had to put on my dark glasses. I felt as though I hadn’t seen the sun in months. I needed to satisfy my curiosity about something before I went back to Schloss Alexander. Black Diamond seemed happy for the exercise as we sailed through the valley at top speed. We went from one end to the other, all the way to where I’d watched the horse-drawn sledge disappear around a distant corner alongside the train tracks. The road ended with a solid metal gate. There was a small security camera in the trees and the gate was controlled by a high-end remote-operated electronic system, similar to an upgraded electric garage door. The area was cold and remote, tree branches drooped with their burdens of snow and it was totally silent. I couldn’t help but shiver.

Much as I loathed the thought of getting back on a helicopter, this was not a valid means of egress. I didn’t know what was on the other side of the gate and the area was avalanche prone. Between the trees, rocky, ice-clogged chutes plunged straight down a thousand feet from the high peak.

I turned the horse around as efficiently as possible and we got out of there and went home.

Barnhardt was occupied huffing and puffing as he shoveled the porches, so I drove straight into the barn, just as I’d watched him do so many times, unharnessed Black Diamond from the sleigh, led her into her box stall, and poured a scoop of molasses-oats into the small wooden tray attached to the wall. Then I went into the house—waved at Barnhardt through the living room windows, he still had a long way to go to get that porch done—and grabbed some carrots and apples and my Hermès travel bags. The little stable was warm and cozy and Black Diamond eagerly gobbled up the treats. She watched over the door of her stall with interest as I lifted the top of the storage box on the back of the sleigh and dropped my travel bags into the compartment and covered them with her blanket.

It was time to contact Thomas.

His voice mail picked up immediately. “This is Special Chief Inspector Thomas Curtis, New Scotland Yard,” his voice intoned on the recording. “You’ve reached my voice mail. Please leave your name and phone number and I’ll return your call as quickly as possible.”

Wasn’t that just like Thomas to leave a long message, giving his esteemed title and stating the obvious?

“Thomas,” I said. “It’s me. I have things ready to go and am just checking in to see where you are. Will you be at Robert Constantin’s dinner dance? Call me at this number.”

Moments later, my phone beeped.

“Kick.” Thomas said. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“Where have you been? What number is this? Where are you?”

“I’ve been taking my horse for a drive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m in Mont-St.-Anges where they don’t allow cars, so I’m taking my horse, Black Diamond, for a drive.”

“Mont-Saint-What? Where’s that?”

“You don’t know where it is?”

“No.”

“It’s in Switzerland.”

“Where in Switzerland?”

“I don’t know, Thomas. Where are you?”

“Milan,” he said. “At Robert Constantin’s estate.”

“Oh, dear. You mean you really don’t know about Mont-St.-Anges?”

“No.” He sounded testy. “I really don’t.”

I explained to him about George and Alma Naxos and their super-private hideaway for the superelite. I told him I’d known about Mont-St.-Anges for a long time and that Robert Constantin lived there and not in Milan.

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?” he asked angrily.

“I’m sorry but I honestly thought that since you’re a detective, you’d find out fairly easily.”

“Well, that’s fine, Kick. Do you intend to arrest Sebastian Tremaine and return him to England? Should I just go on back home?”

“Of course not. I thought you’d be here by now. I know where the jewelry is—it’s in a wall safe behind the Richard Jack in Tremaine’s and Constantin’s shared study at Constantin’s chalet.”

“Are you positive?”

“Ninety percent.”

“And exactly where is this town?”

“That’s the thing, Thomas. I’m not sure.”

“Where do you
think
it is?”

I told him how long I thought I’d flown from Sion in the helicopter and approximately what direction we’d gone, “But frankly, that’s a guess, I was so scared out of my wits the whole time. My God, Thomas, I feel like this is Shangri-La or something. I can’t believe you don’t know about it.”

“What else don’t I know?”

“Nothing.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was pretending to be a Scotland Yard inspector pretending to be a Romanian princess—that would have sent him straight off the roof.

“Call George Naxos.” I gave him the phone number at the Naxos castle. “And tell him you have it on good authority that there is a world-famous jewel thief in Mont-St.-Anges and you’re expecting him to make a move at a party at Robert Constantin’s tonight. He’ll tell you how to get here.”

“All right. I don’t want you to make any sort of a move in any direction until I’m on the scene.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m telling you, Kick. Stay where you are. You’ve done what I asked you to do, now let me take it from here.”

“We’ll see,” I said, and hung up.

This was good. Thomas would get here, just not quite in time.

I put on the artist’s smock and messed around with the paints, but it really wasn’t my field. I hung the smock back on the edge of the canvas and took a nap.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  O  N  E

At six-thirty, I poured a glass of Champagne, and filled the big tub with steaming water and carnation-scented bubbles. I lay in the warm bath—the room was so quiet, the only sound was the buzz of silence—and reviewed my plan. The
Pasha
flashed prisms of light on the ceiling. I went over and over every step until the bath cooled, and then, wrapped up in one of my silk robes, I settled myself at the dressing table and set about preparing for my evening.

The machine in me had taken over, as though I were a general preparing for battle, a surgeon preparing for a major operation, or a soprano for an important aria. I smoothed back my hair with unusual art deco combs that had four rows of baguettes in a herringbone pattern and tucked a white gardenia and a small spray of shamrocks behind one ear. I took particular care with my makeup.

As soon as I looked just right, I laid the black corset on the dressing table and opened each of the pockets and removed the queen’s replicated jewels and laid them out, side by side. Then I began to dress.

The corset, without its secret booty, gave me a very lovely, almost sinfully voluptuous hourglass figure. I hooked my black stockings to the garters and stepped into my dress, a black satin strapless ball gown with a skirt so voluminous it looked as though it would weigh a ton but was actually as light as a cloud. I clipped on white diamond earrings, and around my neck, I hung my pièce de resistance—originally intended to flush out Sebastian, if need be, but no longer necessary, of course—my own very good necklace made of sixty five-carat, emerald-cut diamonds. It made my neck look as though it were circled by a ring of fire. I’d bought the piece at auction in Geneva several years ago and was glad for the opportunity to wear it, since there are very few private white-tie dinner dances in Provence. From the necklace, I suspended the synthetic forty-carat teardrop-shaped pink diamond I’d gotten in Zurich. It sparkled on my décolletage like a frozen drop of pink Champagne. I clasped a wide diamond cuff over my black satin full-length gloves and arranged my satin evening shawl.

I looked in the mirror—I was positively majestic. Queen Mary would have been proud.

Finally, I scooped the queen’s jewelry off the counter and dropped it into the deep pocket on the right side of my gown. I turned off my cell phone and dropped it in the left.

Drop into the left, take out of the right.

Time to go. I slipped the full-length black mink cape from its hanger and it whirled around me so it rippled like wings and settled gently on my shoulders. I buzzed Barnhardt to let him know I was ready.

“Your Highness,” he said. “If I may tell you—you look magnificent.”

I inclined my head. “Thank you, Barnhardt.” I held my hand out with sugar cubes for Black Diamond, whose bright ribbons had been replaced with elegant black satin tassels. I kissed her cheek and then accepted Barnhardt’s arm as he assisted me into the red-and-gold sleigh. I felt rather like Catherine the Great or the dowager empress of Russia as I set out through the frigid, snowy night to the ball.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  T  W  O

I wasn’t sure what to expect at Robert Constantin’s dinner dance. I’ve been to a number of very grand gala charity affairs where the guests are garbed and gowned in glorious dresses and wearing sensational jewelry—most of it borrowed from jewelers in exchange for publicity—and the men have on obligatory black-tie evening attire. The opening nights of our semiannual Magnificent Jewelry Auctions at Ballantine’s were always filled with such people.

But this was different—this was a private white-tie ball, the sort of affair only found in private homes, and most certainly hidden from the eyes of the paparazzi. I was dazzled from the moment my sleigh turned into the drive. Torchères lit the way and when Black Diamond stopped under the porte cochère, two formally dressed footmen helped me to the ground.

Inside the front door, a maid in a black uniform and white lacy apron lifted the cape from my shoulders and helped me rearrange my shawl.

“Mr. Constantin and his guests are in the salon.” She indicated with her hand. I watched her take the cape to the same cloakroom Oscar had used the night before, the one opposite the elevator, around the corner in the hall leading to the kitchen.

Electrified torchères jutted dramatically out from the walls about ten feet above the floor and illuminated the corridor to the salon with golden light. It reflected off the gilt frames and mirrors. Mammoth, well-polished black walnut sideboards seemed to sag beneath the weight of gigantic Della Robbia-like arrangements of fruit and dried flowers. Everything was larger than life, just the way Robert saw it. The setting was grand opera at its grandest.

“Princesse.” Robert took my hands. “You are so beautiful.” He kissed my cheeks. “I was getting worried about you.”

“I’m sorry to be late—don’t tell me I’m the last to arrive.”

“Not a problem at all. Here, let me get you a glass of Champagne.” He removed one from a tray.

I felt Sebastian’s eyes on me from across the room. He was visiting with Alma and Lucy Richardson. He was too far away for me to read his expression, but at that moment, I wondered if he sensed the threat, if he knew it was now all-out war, and I was going to win. He smiled at me affectionately, as did I at him. I don’t think he had a clue.

I looked around. It was a small group of only forty or fifty. I’ve never seen more beautiful women in more beautiful gowns or with more stunning jewelry—gorgeous, enormous new designs as well as estate pieces that had been around in family vaults for decades, even centuries—only brought out for family weddings or occasions such as tonight’s. It reminded me of a documentary I saw of a private dinner held by the queen and all the guests had on their best things. Jewels far too opulent and valuable to wear in public. Jewels that only a handful of insiders—royalty, old money and discreet superrich—were ever permitted to see. It was an inside look few get to take.

A small chamber orchestra played in the background. Oscar was nowhere in sight, which was probably a good thing—he would be a wet blanket at such a gala occasion.

“Margaret.” George appeared, looking very distinguished in his white tie. The silver cross of the Order of the British Empire hung around his neck from its distinctive dark pink ribbon. A number of men had on such official awards and decorations, sashes and medals. If George had had a monocle around his neck, he would have looked like a nineteenth-century diplomat. “You must have one of these.” He handed me a twist of crispy bacon. “The girl told me it’s brushed with maple syrup and then baked until all the fat is out of it. Have you ever had anything so delicious?”

I took a bite. “Never. But believe me, George, all the fat isn’t out of it.”

He laughed. “You’re my partner in crime. Let’s have one more and then go see Alma. She was asking about you.”

Alma looked much stronger than she had two days ago and I wondered if she’d gone to the hospital and had those monkey gland shots herself. Her skin had good color, her nails shone with bright red polish, and her eyes were clear and sparkling. She had diamond combs in her hair and a necklace of diamond, sapphire, and emerald beads that was so extravagant it was outrageous. It almost could make the Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure in my pocket look like trinkets from a toy box. She and I greeted each other warmly. Her eyes fell on the pink diamond pendant. “Is that real?” she whispered, holding up a cigarette for her little butler aide-de-camp, Cookson, to light.

“I think so,” I said. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Sensational.”

Sebastian kissed my hand. “Princesse. So glad you could make it—we were about to call.”

“I’ve got it!” Lucy said. “I just remembered where we met.”

“Give it a rest, Lucy,” Al said sharply. “You’ve never met her, all right? Don’t bring it up again.”

I almost burst out laughing at the expression on Lucy’s face. It seemed the honeymoon might be nearing its conclusion.

At the far end of the room, tall double doors opened and a footman in a red satin waistcoat appeared. He rang a small chime. Dinner was served.

“Shall we?” Robert said, and offered me his arm.

The ballroom was too small to be called a ballroom and too large to be called a music room. It was the perfect size for this group. The walls were mirrored and blazed with the light from multitiered crystal chandeliers. Six round tables of eight covered with cloth of gold, votive candles in golden orbs, gleaming silver and crystal, and low arrangements of dark red roses were in a horseshoe around one end of the dance floor. A fifteen-piece orchestra was on a low stage at the other.

I sat with our gin rummy group—except for Sebastian, who was hosting a table of his own—between Al Richardson, who also wore an OBE medal, and George. I ignored Lucy. Whether or not she’d been the one to break in to my house, she had no role in this evening’s caper. She flirted with every man who got anywhere near our table, presumably in an effort to make Al jealous or get him back for his reprimand.

The first course was served, and no sooner had I taken a bite than Robert asked me to dance. Then George. Then Al. Then Robert again. And so it went. Our wineglasses were never empty and there were constant smiles on all our faces. It was a fairy tale evening and if I didn’t have a duty before me, it was the sort of night one would wish would never end. I kept checking for a sign of Thomas, but there was none.

Before dessert was served, I joined the exodus of ladies going to powder our noses. The small powder room under the stairs was in use with two women waiting, so I went up. Lights were on in the guest rooms, and I could hear ladies in both of them chatting, repairing their lipstick and waiting their turn. The opposite end of the hall where Robert and Sebastian’s rooms were located was in darkness and their doors were closed. I lifted my black satin shawl fully around my shoulders and neck so from the back I had no skin showing at all, making myself as close to invisible as I could, and disappeared into the shadows.

I went to the door of their shared study, put my hand on the knob, took a deep breath and turned. The door opened soundlessly. I closed and locked it behind me. The room was in deep shadows except for dim light that glowed from a green shaded lamp on top of the desk and from the picture light above the painting that covered the safe.

I stepped quickly to the painting and gave it a little pull. It didn’t budge. I ran my fingers up the sides—a long hinge ran along the left. A small spring latch at the top right kept it closed. I pushed the latch and the painting swung away, revealing the safe. I was surprised it wasn’t more sophisticated. It was a simple electronic lock—simple if you had the proper equipment, which I did, but impossible if you didn’t. I pulled my cell phone/scanner out of my left pocket, keyed in a series of commands, and within seconds, the safe was open. Navy blue leather cases with the queen’s jewelry were stacked neatly inside. I ripped each one open and thrust the pieces into my left pocket as fast as I could, then I pulled the fake suite out of my right and began replacing them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice said behind me.

I spun around. It was Alma.

She was holding a gun.