A Rather Charming Invitation

by C. A. Belmond

  He showed me his translation:

  Follow the man that you have wed, Your home behind, your path ahead.

  “That’s not so bad. It sounds like those Bible passages, about a woman leaving her family and her childhood village behind, to follow the man she marries,” I observed. “But, that can’t be all there is to it. Does it mean something more when you put it together with the bottom one?”

  We looked at the two of them, one under the other:

  Follow the man that you have wed,

  Your home behind, your path ahead.

  Drink deep from the well of life,

  And treasure a faithful wife.

  “Well, it would seem that the top cartouche of the tapestry is advice to the bride, and the bottom is advice to the groom,” Jeremy noted. “Makes sense, but it doesn’t shout ‘buried treasure’.”

  Hugely frustrated now, I exclaimed, “Somehow, in spite of all our pictures and notes, there must still be something in the actual tapestry that we’re missing in these photos, something we need in order to solve it. Oh, Jeremy, we’ve just got to get the tapestry back!”

  The telephone rang. It was Honorine, with one of her wedding-plan updates. She was happy to report that the decor for our wedding train carriages, and the donations to Women4Water, were, she said, “pouring in”. Even Margery and Amelia were quite pleased.

  “Great,” I said. “Anything else?”

  Honorine scanned her list. “Jeremy’s clothes are ready. Rupert will pick them up. I must hang up now, because your mother is scheduled to call me from America, so we can go over all the RSVPs.”

  We rang off, but a few minutes later a telephone shrilled again. I thought it was Honorine calling me back about the guest list. Then I saw that it was Jeremy’s mobile ringing. He picked it up.

  It was Drake’s P.R. man. Jeremy held the phone between the two of us so that I could hear. At first, it sounded like the usual business B.S., in which he smoothly explained that Parker Drake had been incredibly busy with his breakneck schedule, but he’s been really wanting to meet you and your lovely fiancée. I listened, barely breathing, as the guy invited the two of us to a “small party” on Drake’s yacht in Monte Carlo this weekend.

  “And Mr. Drake would personally like to invite you to join his regular card game,” the P.R. man said silkily, as if he were offering Jeremy a private audience with the Pope.

  I must say that Jeremy handled it beautifully, acting like a guy who was eager for a new client, and was properly impressed at the right moments. Then the call ended.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Jeremy grinned. “Looks like Drake bought our little performance in the jewelry shop! He must think we’ve got the only remaining Lunaire coins in existence. You know, for the first time, I really do believe that he stole that tapestry.”

  “But he’s not just going to just hand it over,” I objected.

  “No, which is why we have to keep up the bluff,” Jeremy said. “Until we can figure out for sure what his game is.”

  Part Ten

  Chapter Forty-two

  The principality of Monaco seems like an improbable little country that somehow managed to survive in the shadows of two powerhouses, Italy and France. You would never guess that, once upon a time, Monaco’s ruling dynasty was a formidable big noise along the Riviera coast, bossing around the nearby towns and collecting taxes on their prized lemon and olive harvests. The Grimaldi dynasty’s stronghold here began in the 1200s, when a family member who belonged to a political party from Genoa—and was known as Francesco the Spiteful—disguised himself as a monk, and, in the dead of night, simply knocked on the door of a fortress in Monaco. Having gained entrance, he started knifing the guards; then let in his lurking team of warriors, who stormed the place and took over—and Monaco has belonged to the Grimaldi dynasty ever since.

  However, by the 1800s they fell short of funds, until Monaco’s ruler at the time, one Prince Carlo III, decided to build a casino on a rocky promontory. In no time at all, it became a popular winter resort. They named it after the rock it stood on, and the prince who built it—Monte Carlo.

  Today, Monte Carlo is still a magnet for gamblers, but summer is the big season, and it kicks off with the Grand Prix. Top race car drivers go zipping around its streets, roaring past its hotels, shops, and the pricey apartments, which the world’s richest-of-the-rich claim as their primary residence, in a land that doesn’t charge income tax. About fifty banks do a bustling business sheltering hot-shot money, and security is so high that it’s said the whole town can be “locked down” at a moment’s notice.

  But Monsieur Felix had an investigator’s particular take on the place. “It is totally bugged,” he proclaimed. “Yes, everywhere you go, there is ze camera on the streets. And in ze restaurants, hidden in the floral arrangements, you find ze microphone.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not; he seemed serious, especially when he added, “Do not say or do anything in public in Monte Carlo that you would not want the whole world to see and hear.”

  Monsieur Felix apologetically informed us that he had a previous commitment, which required him to go to Paris on the night of Drake’s card party. But he assured us that he would be “on call”, and if we needed immediate help, he could alert the police and “other associates” on the Côte d’Azur. I felt a little uneasy at his absence, but Jeremy assured me it would be okay.

  Meanwhile, Rollo stopped by the villa to teach Jeremy how to spot a marked deck of cards. As we were leaving for the party, something compelled me to say, “Rollo, could you stay on call tonight?” I’m not sure whether I said this because I wanted him to keep out of trouble, or if I simply felt that we could use all hands on deck.

  “Be happy to, my dear,” Rollo said agreeably.

  Jeremy and I set off in his modern green Dragonetta, which our friend Denby, who restores and services “collectible” autos, had driven down here from London for us, so we’d have it available for the wedding. We took the Moyenne Corniche road, that runs along the middle level of the cliffs above the Mediterranean. Soon Monte Carlo appeared below, like a great enchanted rock sticking up out of the sea. As we wound our way down the curving road, I tried not to think of Princess Grace meeting her untimely end on these hairpin turns. Round and round we went, circling down in the seashellshaped spiral that took us finally to the harbor. There, at one side stood the famed Casino and the Hotel de Paris; and on the other side, a majestic castle, the official residence of the Prince of Monaco.

  We had reached the “Port of Hercules”, filled with yachts of all shapes and sizes, its quay dotted with trees and flower boxes. Old pastel-colored buildings with balustrades and balconies overlooked the boats. Behind the harbor were stacks of pricey apartment houses and, rising beyond them, the verdant green hills of Monaco, high and sheltering. We parked the car, and headed for Drake’s party.

  Now, the funny thing about people with money is that they never seem to think they’ve got enough. In fact, if you ask them how rich they are, they will object and say, “I’m not rich. But So-and-So, he’s rich.” And So-and-So obligingly proves it, by having the biggest yacht in the sea. Except that in this neck of the woods, there are about a dozen So-and-So’s, who are all competing to be the biggest Big Shot, as, over the years, the yachts keep getting bigger and bigger. In Monte Carlo’s harbor, gigantic yachts are allowed to dock right alongside their tinier counterparts, and the view from above makes them look like great big whales snuggled up with little minnows.

  Drake’s tub sat there dwarfing all the other yachts around it. He had named his monster The Jackpot. It was three hundred forty feet long, made of steel, with two diesel engines, and could run a speed of twenty knots. The lettering of the boat’s name and its escutcheon (shaped like a medieval shield with the letters “P.D.”) were carved in twenty-four-carat gold. There was an on-board helicopter, and I noticed that the boat was registered in the Bahamas. It was rumored that Drake had paid two h
undred million dollars for it.

  The steward who helped us aboard informed us that tonight’s cardplayers were a specially handpicked group of men from which the lesser players had been “winnowed out”. With that sort of announcement, I expected the whole place to smell of brandy, beer and cigars.

  But as we traversed The Jackpot’s gangway, the first and overriding smell to hit my nostrils was not cigars, nor cooking, nor the salty sea. It was a huge wave of perfume- mingled-with-shampoo, emanating from the Wives-and-Girlfriends who “belonged” to the cardplayers. All those gals had sprayed, spritzed and glazed themselves with cosmetics and fragrance, as if the men were great big honey bees buzzing around for the prettiest blossom.

  Even Jeremy noticed the cologne. “Wow,” he said, “that’s enough to knock out an entire city.”

  When my feet touched the deck, one of the serving crew looked at my soft white flats, and he hesitated, glancing at a neat, orderly row of high heels, which apparently the other female guests had deposited there. Then he gave me the go-ahead, so I didn’t have to remove my little boat slippers.

  We were escorted to the big aft deck, under the shade of a black-and-red canopy with a picture of a gold octopus on it. There was an enormous round table, the likes of which would have made King Arthur fierce with envy. Seated around the table were about a dozen men, all playing poker. They were dressed in deceptively casual attire—shorts, T-shirts, sunglasses and baseball hats—as they played their ferociously competitive card game while drinking beer.

  Despite their unassuming clothes, I could recognize a few celebrity guests. A champion race car driver here, an Irish politician there, a topnotch soccer player, a British TV host, a French rock star, a German car magnate. And, of course, Parker Drake himself, in white shorts, with his suntanned, muscular arms sticking out of a bright red T-shirt.

  There was a throng of other guests who were not cardplayers, but seemed happy to either watch or lie about in lounge chairs on other decks, drinks in hand. Startled by the scale of both the boat and the guest list, I glanced at Jeremy. He was accustomed to dealing with bigwig clients, so he took it all in stride. As we stood there, I noticed that in the center of the card table was a pile of chips, which the men were betting with. These were Drake’s own special gambling chips—black with red letters, “P.D.”

  In a flash, I knew that Jeremy had been right. Drake surely craved the Lunaire coins. That simply had to be the reason for this particular invitation.

  “Perhaps you’d care to join the ladies?” a steward asked me, and I allowed myself to be directed to the upper deck. I saw Jeremy watching to see where I landed, because he was appraising where he should sit at the card table, so that he’d always be in full view of me if I peered over the rail from above. We’d devised a signal of patting the top of one’s head if we wanted the other’s help.

  When I reached the upper deck, it looked to me, at first, as if it were covered in porpoises. But, as it turned out, these well-oiled creatures lolling about were not mermaids but simply sunbathing female guests, sprawled out on blankets—poolside—lying on their stomachs with their gleaming backs exposed to the sun. Only female crew members were allowed up here to tend them. I felt I’d entered a harem of some sort. I had a bathing suit tucked in my bag, but the sun was hot, and I’m a redhead. I was in no hurry to lie down and bake.

  Then I spotted Tina Drake, fully dressed, sitting on a lounge chair under a white awning, at a big table with other women, who were drinking chilled white wine, and nibbling on salmon and shrimp hors d’oeuvres. I realized that, even up here, the guests had been divided up further—the Wives congregated at the more prestigious seats, near Tina, from where they could assess how much trouble the sunbathing, unmarried Girlfriends might pose.

  So, where did a bride-to-be belong—with the Wives or Girlfriends? One foot here, one foot there? Tina resolved this for me, by waving to me to join her. I accepted a glass of wine, and sat down in the shade, where a nice sea breeze kept me cool.

  I would like to say that the conversation was absolutely scintillating, but it wasn’t. These fabulously rich women, with all the time and access that money can buy, spent the afternoon flipping through a nearby pile of the very same fashion and entertainment magazines that the whole rest of the world reads, and dishing about famous actresses, singers, models, and wives of powerful men—some they knew, and some they didn’t—as if the celebrities were schoolmates to be either enviously worshipped or jealously despised.

  The only time my shipboard companions appeared sympathetic with the subjects of their gossip was if the celeb had been through a terrible divorce. This was, apparently, a woman’s biggest gamble, and the sisterhood rose up in righteous indignation if they believed a woman had gotten shafted in an alimony settlement; but they chortled with appreciative glee if someone reported, “She took him for half of what he had, and honey, you know what that adds up to!” This apparently was a subject quite dear to the hearts of all the ladies on deck, transcending the rivalry of Wives versus Girlfriends.

  Such chatter made it easy for me to just sit there and cluck agreeably at the right moments. The other women, having initially sized me up, decided that, while Tina was friendly to me, and a few of them had vaguely heard of me, I was not yet what they would consider a Famous Wife. So their attitude was a slightly condescending tolerance.

  That was fine, because it allowed me to close my eyes and listen to the sea, as the boat ploughed out into deeper waters, reached a fairly private cove, and dropped anchor. The ladies’ voices drifted into the background, as they do when you’re at a beach, and an occasional phrase emerges from the blur of distant murmuring. As the sun began to slip down lower in the sky, some of the suntanning Girlfriends rose, pulled on a blouse or caftan, and went into a dressing room to shower and get ready for dinner.

  Periodically I got up and wandered about, casually peering down at the card game on the deck below, to see if Jeremy was trying to signal me. From what I could tell, he was doing rather well. Several men had “folded”, tossing in their cards, and they rose from the table, stretching, to wander off and sit at smaller tables, where they could indulge in the food and drink that was constantly being offered by various serving crew.

  “You guys are really in love, aren’t you?”

  It was Tina, who’d suddenly appeared alongside me at the deck railing. Up close, I saw that her beauty was like a beacon; the kind of dazzling good looks that can’t be ignored, which often invokes uninvited male fantasies, and female jealousy, thus isolating the beautiful one from the herd. She had that slightly wistful quality that beautiful women can have, when plain old friendship eludes them.

  Tina had come to check on me, in that good-hostess way of hers, but she was now smiling in amusement. I realized that she’d caught me gazing at Jeremy, and she probably thought I was pining away for my fiancé. I blushed.

  “I’ve heard that you two are a good team,” she continued, in a light, offhanded, but curious tone. “I guess you really must like each other’s company, if you work together all day long.”

  I smiled warily, wondering if she was somehow onto us. But then, after a moment’s hesitation, she divulged what was really on her mind. “What’s your secret?” she asked, attempting to sound casual.

  I felt momentary panic. I didn’t have a secret. I gazed down at the top of Jeremy’s head, and felt the usual surge of warmth and delight at the mere sight of him. I recalled all that we’d been through together, and the patience and good humor and thoughtfulness with which he’d handled it. But I couldn’t just say, as the song goes, that I’m “mad about the boy”.

  “I have no idea, Tina. It just happened,” I admitted.

  “You know what I mean,” Tina said a trifle impatiently, as if she suspected that I was deliberately holding out on her. “A guy is always great when he’s chasing you. But how do you know that this one’s the real thing?” she demanded. She was, after all, a very rich gal, quite used to getting what sh
e asked for, and being told what she wanted to hear. I wondered if, perhaps, she asked every woman what their secret recipe for love was; in which case I shouldn’t be so serious about it.

  But then she said in a low tone, so that the others wouldn’t overhear, “You guys seem different from a lot of couples I know.”

  There was something sincere here, beneath her offhanded veneer. So I thought about it carefully, wanting to be utterly honest with her. “I guess it’s down to trust, like knowing you can count on each other when the chips are down,” I said, feeling a bit shy.

  This seemed to satisfy her. “Right,” she said, nodding sagely, in a triumphant tone, as if I’d just validated her own wise opinion. “Trust is everything,” she agreed, more lightly now, brushing away a stray lock of blonde hair that the wind had blown across her cheek. Some of the other wives called out to her, and she waved back, excusing herself and rejoining them.

  There was a sudden roar of male voices from below. I peered over the railing again. Drake was aggressively upping the ante with bigger and bigger bets, effectively forcing the players to give up all their chips or quit. I watched as the number of players dwindled . . . smaller, smaller, smaller . . . until it was down to three players, and Jeremy was among them.

  The crowd of onlookers was growing bigger, as some of the Wives-and-Girlfriends went down to watch the men play; and now and then, one of the crew would pause in his duties, assessing the progress of the game. There were also some security-type men, looking a bit incongruous in dark suits and reflecting sunglasses, whom I hadn’t noticed earlier. As I watched, the third player dropped out.

  And then, a few moments later, I saw Jeremy, very casually, reach up and pat the top of his head. Or, he was just smoothing his hair. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I’d better get down there, just in case.

  When I reached the main deck, it was so quiet that whenever someone in the crowd made a distracting sound, they were very quickly silenced by glares from other onlookers. Meanwhile, the kind of people who can’t stand suspense now walked away to the fore-deck, for drinks and chatter. At the table, it was still just Drake and Jeremy, mano-a-mano, as Rollo had said. And the game was piquet.