by Rhys Bowen
I felt a little trepidation as I made my way to Sir Toby’s place, attired in my new ensemble. I had never been a thief before. If I found the snuffbox, would I dare to take it? Another thought crossed my mind as I approached the tall wrought-iron gates. I had heard and seen enough to know about Sir Toby’s ruthlessness and recklessness. If he had dared to pocket a snuffbox from Buckingham Palace, was it possible that he had known the necklace I would be wearing belonged to the queen? Was it also possible that his son was in league with him and together they had managed to steal it? I would have to tread very carefully. Frankly, I almost lost my nerve when I spotted the villa, nestled among umbrella pines.
It was a low, dazzling white building with an impressive portico of Roman columns. The thought of a vestal virgin going to the sacrifice did cross my mind. I knocked and the door was opened by the young man I had seen that morning. He was now fully clothed—remarkably formally for the Riviera in a dark jacket and striped pants. I tried to put the image of his naked body from my mind.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound bright and jaunty. “I’ve come to see Sir Toby.”
“Whom may I say is calling, miss?” he asked.
“La—” I started to give my full name, then swallowed it back. “My name’s Georgie. I’m staying at the villa next door and Sir Toby invited me for a swim in his pool or maybe a sail on his yacht.”
“Please come in and wait while I inform Sir Toby of your arrival,” the young man said formally, giving a little bow.
It suddenly dawned on me that he was not a guest, but one of Sir Toby’s servants. I wondered if his master had given him permission to swim in the pool. I tried to imagine one of our servants daring to swim nude—not that we had a pool, and the loch was too cold for nude bathing—but I’m sure they would never have considered such unseemly behavior. The words “Not quite one of us,” a sentiment expressed one way or another several times to describe Sir Toby, passed through my head. Perhaps servants of the old school didn’t want to work for him, in spite of his money.
I waited in a circular entrance hall with a white marble floor. Around the walls were Roman or Greek busts—and I was pretty sure they were not copies. From a room beyond a voice boomed, echoing unnaturally loudly, “Yes, Johnson, what is it now? A visitor? Well, you can see I’m in the bath, damn it. If it’s that slimy little toad Schumann again, tell him he’s wasting his time. He’ll get nothing out of me and if he tries to pursue this, he’ll be sorry.”
There was a pause. Then I heard him say, “What? Who? Well, that’s different. Show her into the drawing room, get her something to drink. I’ll be along in a jiffy.”
Johnson appeared, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Sir Toby suggests you wait for him in the drawing room, miss,” he said.
“I heard.” I shared a grin with him.
“This way.” He led me through the entrance hall into a sumptuous room. The walls were lined with what even I, with my lack of knowledge, recognized as paintings of masters old and new. Wasn’t that a Renoir, and that a Van Gogh? And on various shelves and tables there were beautiful objects—cabinets of fine porcelain, silver bowls and, in a glass-topped table, I thought I recognized his collection of snuffboxes. I inched closer.
“What may I bring you to drink?” Johnson asked.
“What? Oh, a citron presse would be very nice,” I replied.
“A what, miss?”
“Fresh lemonade, you know.”
I moved toward the table. What a lot of snuffboxes there were—silver ones, gold ones, boxes carved out of jade . . . and surely that was the queen’s box in the middle? I tried to remember the exact description. I’d only know the truth if I could open the lid and see the picture of Marie Antoinette in a frame of diamonds. I wondered how easily the lid of the table would lift up—oh so casually I put my hand on it and started to raise it gently until—
“Ah, there you are,” boomed the voice behind me. “Delighted you came, my dear.”
I let the lid fall and spun around, red faced. Sir Toby was wearing white trousers and a striped fisherman’s jersey, rather like mine. Only his was a little tight and stretched over a large paunch. He bore down on me, holding out his hand. “Absolutely delighted. Nothing like a bright young face around the place to cheer me up. Has that man of mine brought you a drink yet? No? The boy is hopeless. Came with good references but he’ll have to go. My last manservant could read my mind, you know. I never had to ask for a thing.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Had to let him go. Found he’d been helping himself to my good Scotch. The really good stuff. Couldn’t tolerate that. This young chap doesn’t drink.” We looked up at the light tap of feet on the marble. “Ah, there you are, Johnson. Oh, and you’ve brought my whiskey. You may just be all right after all.”
Johnson placed my drink on a low table, bowed then retreated.
Sir Toby poured himself a generous amount of Scotch and raised his glass to me. “Down the hatch.” He drained the glass. “So why on earth are you staying with the old hens next door? I’d have thought a bright young thing like you would have more fun somewhere in town.”
I thought carefully before I answered. “I’ve been doing a spot of modeling for Chanel. She wanted me to stay with her so that she could work with me.” Which was the truth. I’ve always found it easier not to lie whenever possible.
“Ah, so you’re a model. That explains it. Do you do your modeling in London or Paris?”
“I don’t really model professionally,” I said. “I just do it occasionally to help out friends.”
“Of course. Of course. Well-brought-up girl like you—it wouldn’t be seemly to work for your living, would it?” He laughed heartily. “So how do you like my humble abode?”
“It’s magnificent,” I said. “You have so many lovely things.”
“I’m a bit of a collector,” Sir Toby said smugly. “I like to have beautiful things around me. You see that painting? It’s a Turner—one of my favorites. And the sunflowers? Van Gogh. And that picture of a chair beside it. Another Van Gogh, painted in Arles. He’s going to be worth a mint one day, take my word for it.”
“So you prefer recent masterpieces, do you?” I asked innocently.
“I collect the best of every century,” he said. “Those busts in the hall—from ancient Rome. That silver? Georgian. And that little table in the corner—Louis XIV. I don’t specialize in any particular country or period—anything rare and valuable. That’s what I collect. The art in this villa alone is worth a mint. And I’ve even more in my country house in England.”
Before I could come up with any kind of sensible question to bring the subject to snuffboxes, he clapped his hands. “So what are we waiting for? I promised you a sail, didn’t I? The yacht’s out there and ready to go, so let’s go down to the dock. Johnson!” he yelled.
Johnson appeared.
“You’ve got the list of things I want done in town, haven’t you? You can take the car. And take the rest of the afternoon off if you like. I’ll be dining out.”
With that he ushered me out through some French doors, then down a flight of steps cut into the cliff, to a jetty at which the sleek teak launch I’d seen before was tied. He jumped down into it with surprising agility for a man of his age and build, then held out his hand to me. I thought he held it rather overlong and squeezed it a little hard. Then he was all business, starting the motor, untying the ropes and steering us out into the blue water. When he was clear of the dock he opened the throttle and the boat shot forward, heading to the great blue and white yacht anchored a few hundred yards offshore. Uniformed crew lowered a ladder and came down to assist us. I was helped on board and heard the sound of the anchor being raised.
“I thought we’d go down the coast to Monte.” Sir Toby took my elbow and propelled me forward to a canopied area at the bow as the yacht began to move. “Lovely stretch of coast all the way. Splendid place, Monte. Ever been there?”
“Never,” I said, my eyes feasting on that magnificent coastline—the steep cliffs plunging into the ocean with villas perched on apparently sheer slopes. It was breathtaking. I also noticed clouds building over the mountains and felt the stiff wind in my face as the yacht came out of the bay.
Sir Toby pointed out another, even bigger, white yacht that was steaming further out to sea. “See that? Duke of West-minster’s bloody great monstrosity. Pretentious, wouldn’t you say? He has the casino at Cannes fire a twenty-one–gun salute to him when he comes into the harbor. He’s got the Prince of Wales on board at the moment, did you know? And I rather fancy a certain American woman may have joined the party by now.” He gave me a nudge. “Let’s see if we can race them to Monte, shall we?” He turned to one of the young men standing at attention behind us. “Full steam ahead, Roberts.” Then he took my arm again. “Come and make yourself comfortable, my dear.”
“Oh, can’t we stay here and look at the view? It’s simply lovely.”
“Plenty of time for the view later. I’ve got a bottle of champagne on ice inside.”
He opened a door into a saloon as large and impressive as most drawing rooms, with windows almost all around. There were leather sofas and great bowls of flowers on the tables and a well-stocked bar in one corner. He motioned me to sit, then barked out orders to a crew member who hovered behind us. “You can open the champagne now and tell the chef we’ll be wanting something to eat soon. And none of that mamby-pamby French stuff either. Good hearty English food, tell him.”
I could hear the deep throb of the engine and the boat started to rise and fall as it cut through waves. Champagne was opened and a glass handed to me.
“Drink up,” Sir Toby said, draining his own glass. “Plenty more bottles where that came from.”
“It’s rather early yet,” I said cautiously.
“Nonsense. I know you bright young things—knocking back the booze at nightclubs, and a spot of snorting as well, what?”
“Not me,” I said. “I rarely drink or go to nightclubs. Too expensive and money’s tight these days.”
“Ah, so that’s the attraction, is it?” Sir Toby laughed. “I thought it had to be. I didn’t think you fancied me for my looks.”
Fancied him? Perhaps I had gushed a little too much the night before. “I really just admired your swimming pool and your yacht.”
He patted my knee. “That’s all right. I understand. It’s not easy trying to survive in the big world these days. You young models need what the Yanks call a sugar daddy. Well, I’m as sugary as they come.”
I stood up. “Oh, no, I really didn’t mean . . .”
“What’s the matter? Getting cold feet now we’re alone?” He laughed. “Too late for that, my dear. We’re out at sea and the only people within shouting distance are crew members trained by me to look the other way, no matter what.” And he grabbed my arm, pulling me down onto him. Then he tried to kiss me with big wet lips. I squirmed and wriggled. “Let go of me. You’ve got the wrong idea.” (Yes, I know a lady never says “got” but this was a stressful moment.)
“But I have a very good idea,” Sir Toby said. “I like ’em young and virginal and believe me, my dear, you’ll like what I can offer.” And his large, meaty hands were fumbling to remove my fisherman’s shirt.
“Stop it, please,” I said, grabbing one of his hands.
“A touch of modesty. I can understand that,” he said. “Well, we’ve a good selection of bedrooms. Young ladies often like the pink one. Lovely bouncy bed in there. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and started to drag me across the saloon, then down a long wood-paneled corridor. My heart was beating so loudly that I was sure it must have echoed back from those walls.
“Let go of me,” I shouted, as anger overtook fear. “I am not going to bed with you and that is that.”
“Frankly, you don’t have much choice, my dear.” He continued to propel me forward.
“When we get back I’ll go to the police and report you for rape.”
He gave a great guffaw of laughter at this. “To the police? For rape? A young girl who begs Sir Toby to take her out on his lovely yacht? Flutters her eyes at him? The police would understand that you got what you were asking for. They are men of the world. Now, shut up and be a good girl.”
“I want to be a good girl,” I said, “and that doesn’t include making love to a complete stranger.”
“Oh, come on. You bright young things . . .”
“And another thing—I’m not a bright young thing. I’m a”—I was about to say “member of the royal family”; I only swallowed it down at the last second—“respectable girl from a good family,” I finished lamely. It only made him laugh all the more as he tried to shove me down a steep staircase ahead of him. I turned and kicked him hard on the shin, then pushed past him back onto the deck. Then I ran. I don’t know where I thought I was running to. It was a big yacht, but I couldn’t play catch-me-if-you-can forever, could I?
The breeze had turned into a strong wind and met me full in the face as I came out onto the deck. Also there was now a big swell. I thought about diving off and swimming but the land looked awfully far away. Good swimmer that I was, I didn’t think I could make it. Besides, great storm clouds were now moving in closer. I wondered hopefully if this would make us return to port.
“You can’t escape, you know, you silly girl,” came Sir Toby’s voice after me.
I ran to the other end of the deck and ducked behind a life raft. Then, over the throb of our engine I heard the higher whine of a speedboat. I stepped out and waved desperately as the boat came racing toward us, sending up a sheet of spray. The speedboat driver waved back and approached the yacht. When he was close enough I saw that it was Jean-Paul de Ronchard.
“Jean-Paul!” I shouted.
He slowed the speedboat to a crawl.
“Help me. I want to get off!” I shouted.
“Come on then. Jump!” he shouted back.
It was a long way down to the water and the boat was rising and falling with the swell of the waves. I hesitated.
“You do know how to swim, don’t you?” Jean-Paul shouted.
“Of course, but . . .”
“Then jump. I won’t let you drown.” He had cut the motor and bobbed alongside.
“Ah, there you are, you minx,” Sir Toby boomed, coming around the corner toward me.
I took a deep breath, climbed over the railing and jumped. I hit cold water, went under, then came up to see the speedboat a few yards away.
“Here.” Jean-Paul threw me a life belt. I grabbed it. He reeled me in and hoisted me on board.
“Thank you. You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” I gasped as he revved up the motor and we sped away. “How lucky that you happened to come this way.”
“Nothing to do with luck, ma chérie,” Jean-Paul said, reaching for a large fluffy towel and handing it to me. “I was sitting on my own terrace, just across the cove, reading the morning newspapers—where you and I both feature nicely, I might add—when I heard a boat’s motor start up. I looked up and saw you going out to Sir Toby’s yacht. Knowing his less-than-honorable reputation with young women, I decided to give chase. I jumped into my speedboat and came to the rescue.”
“I’m so glad you did. He was trying to—you know.”
“Get you into his bed. Naturally. He has that reputation.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “But you are safe now. I will take you home and dry you off and all will be well.”
His arm was warm and comforting around my shoulder as we made for the shore.
It did cross my mind that I might have leaped from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Jean-Paul also had a reputation, didn’t he? But I didn’t exactly find him repugnant. Besides, he was a true gentleman—a marquis, not a trumpedup arms dealer from the lower classes. Somehow I felt safe with him. He confirmed this by saying, “The English—I will never understand. They think it is manly and bold to force a woman into bed. The F
renchman, he would never do that. If a woman says no to him, he sees this as a challenge. He tries to seduce her little by little, with charming gestures, presents, flowers, plenty of attention, until one day, she comes to his bed willingly and with anticipation. And if she still says no, then there are plenty more fish in the sea, as you say.”
And he laughed.
Chapter 19
January 26, 1933
At the villa of Jean-Paul de Ronchard—imagine! If only
Belinda could see me now—oh, and Darcy.
The coastline neared with its fabulous villas dotting the rugged shoreline. Jean-Paul slowed the motor as he steered his boat into a little cove. I could see the gleaming white of Sir Toby’s villa just across the cove. Ahead of us was a jetty, to one side of it a small crescent of beach and, above it, a lovely Tuscan-style villa with red-tiled roof and green-painted shutters.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jean-Paul said. Before we reached the dock, a manservant in a white jacket appeared and made fast our boat. Jean-Paul jumped out and helped me ashore.
“A slight calamity, Pierre,” he said. “Run and fetch a towel and one of my dressing gowns for milady. The light blue to go with her eyes, I think.” He took my hand and led me toward the house. “Go to the bathroom. Take off your things and Pierre will make them as good as new in an instant,” he said.
“Oh, no, really, that’s not necessary,” I protested. “I’ll drip all over your lovely floor. I’m really not far to the villa where I’m staying. I could just walk home.”
“Absolutely not,” Jean-Paul said firmly. “You cannot return home in that state. If you do, there will be questions asked. You will tell them the truth and instantly there will be three tigresses trying to get at Sir Toby’s throat. This is not wise. Sir Toby is not a nice person. You do not wish to make an enemy of him. My advice is to let Pierre repair your clothing and pretend that nothing has happened. And as for my floor—marble can withstand any number of drips. So this way to the nearest bathroom.”