by Alix Nichols
“To Nepal?” she asks.
“You’re well informed.”
She arches an eyebrow. “As your significant other and soon-to-be better half, it’s my duty to be informed.”
I guess she has a point. “The first year, she took an apartment in Versailles in Paris, and a year later, she moved to Nepal.”
“What’s she doing there, by the way?”
“Running a charitable foundation. She hasn’t set foot in Paris in years.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I was nineteen when she announced she was leaving the country, Raphael fifteen, and Noah only eleven. Raph and I chose to stay here with Papa. Noah went to Nepal with her.”
“What happened?”
“Papa… he just… lost his way. Half the time he was depressed, and the other half he tried to have fun, often with the help of drugs. Ten years ago, he was found dead.”
She nods sympathetically. “Suicide?”
“Overdose, more likely.” I shrug. “The report was inconclusive.”
“That’s a very sad story.”
I set my empty glass on the table next to Diane’s.
She refills both. “So you believe someone orchestrated the affair that led to his downfall and will now try to do the same to you? Isn’t that a bit farfetched?”
I can see how it would seem so.
“A year ago, I met a woman. I really liked her. She came from one of the country’s most respectable and wealthiest families, and she was a rare beauty, to boot. We started dating, and things were going in the right direction. She moved in with me. I was thinking of proposing.”
She nods as if she already knew this. Well, I guess she might if she reads gossip magazines.
I gulp down half the liquid in my glass and point at Diane’s. “You have some catching up to do.”
“Oh.” She smiles and takes a good swig. “So what happened?”
“I suddenly became terribly popular with gorgeous women.”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean by suddenly? You’re rich, you’re handsome—”
“Wait, did you just call me handsome?”
Diane brings her glass to her face, tips it toward her mouth, and mutters into it, “Did I?”
“I’m positive.”
She sets her glass down and puts her chin up in defiance. “So what if I did? You are handsome. It doesn’t make you a good person.”
I suppress a smile, not sure why Diane’s admission pleases me so much. “Fair enough.”
“Finish your tale,” she says.
“Where was I?”
“The Siege of Darcy by Hot Chicks.”
“Right. So, all of a sudden, exquisite creatures were wooing me left and right. Naturally, I became suspicious. It was like somebody was trying to stage a remake of my dad’s story.”
“Or maybe you were just reading too much into someone’s flirtation,” she says with a wink.
I smirk. “You’re right. I’m paranoid. Who would want to hurt me, the harmless do-gooder that I am?”
She doesn’t look so amused anymore. I’m sure she’s thinking of her father now and what I did to him. It bothers me. I wonder… Does she still hate me as much as she did before I hired her? Or have our conversations and kisses, no matter how fake, mellowed her? Is there a chance she actually enjoys my company?
And my kisses?
She stares at her hands, visibly peeved.
I shouldn’t care. She’s not my girlfriend, not even a friend. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. It doesn’t matter if she likes talking to me or kissing me. It’s strictly business between us, and it’ll stay that way.
“My gut feeling is very trustworthy,” I say to break the silence. “And it tells me someone was pulling the strings behind both affairs, Papa’s and mine.”
“So how did the Siege end?”
“Ingrid grew jealous, and no matter how many assurances of my loyalty I gave her, her trust was broken. She kept saying there’s no smoke without fire. It drove me mad.”
“You should’ve told her about your suspicions.”
“I did. But she was too far gone. She said I was grasping at straws and inventing ridiculous conspiracy theories to justify my frolicking.”
“Because you didn’t frolic at all, did you?”
“Of course not! I was merely being polite with the ladies.” I give her a pointed look. “Anyway, Ingrid and I broke up a few weeks later.”
“Who dumped whom?”
I shrug. “She told me she was leaving. I did nothing to stop her.”
“I see.”
“Miraculously, the lustful supermodels disappeared shortly afterward. Don’t you find that strange?”
“Maybe…”
“Anyway, I got over the whole thing more easily than I’d expected. I just plunged into work and moved on.”
She smiles. “Your imaginary nemesis must have been disappointed.”
“I assure you he or she is very real. But yes, I believe, that person regretted putting things in motion too soon. I’m sure this time he’ll wait until I’m married to launch the attack.”
“Uh-huh.” She looks like she’s trying not to smile.
I rub my forehead. “Diane. I know how it sounds. Even Raphael, who witnessed Papa’s debacle, isn’t fully convinced… But I know I’m on to something.”
Her expression becomes less amused and more sympathetic.
“Put yourself in my shoes,” I continue, eager to capitalize on that seed of sympathy. “Can you imagine how hard it is to suspect everyone around you? And I mean everyone—family, friends, relations, help, competitors, subordinates… the whole damn world!”
She nods. “Must be tough.”
“I’ve ruled out a bunch of people, but only Raphael—and now you—knows about my suspicions and my plan. Everyone else must remain in the dark to avoid leaks.”
“Makes sense.”
Opening up to Diane is a huge relief. Her natural intelligence and inquisitiveness were making it hard for her to play her part without having read the full script. Not that she didn’t do a good job, but… let’s just say I’m looking forward to having her hundred percent onboard with this.
“There’s someone very dear to me,” Diane says, “who’s been… troubled for a long time—in a different way than you, but still. She’s doing much better now.”
Oh, great.
She thinks I’m crazy. Hundred percent onboard, my foot. Why did I tell her all this? Why didn’t I keep my motives secret, as I’d intended? The gin and tonic must have loosened my tongue.
“I’m not troubled,” I grate.
“OK.” She stares into my eyes. “Whatever you say. I’m just here to do a job and collect my paycheck.”
“That’s right.”
“When do you think your nemesis will make his move?”
“During our honeymoon.”
“Why?”
“To be sure to strike while the iron is hot and to maximize the devastating effect it would produce on me.”
“What if he decides to wait?”
“He—or she or they—won’t. He’s running out of time and out of options. With my previous girlfriend, he didn’t even wait for us to get engaged.”
“And you’re sure you’ll catch him this time?”
“Oh, yeah. As soon as my new admirer makes an entrance, I’ll have a private eye tail her 24-7. I’ll be prepared.”
She nods.
We finish our drinks in silence.
“You should go home now,” Diane says.
She’s right.
I pull out my phone and call a cab. I should get some shut-eye. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be up at six thirty, as usual. I’ll work out for an hour and head to the office. Sleeping in isn’t an option. Even on weekends. There are simply too many things to take care of—new markets to conquer, old competitors to decimate, and a backstabbing Judas to unmask.
ELEVEN
I gasp and forget to shut my mout
h.
The view that opens up before me as Greg turns the car from the sinuous countryside road onto a gravel driveway lined with tall oak trees blows my mind. It’s early April, and the ancient oaks have fully woken from their winter sleep, their branches spawning clusters of buds and pale green baby leaves. I scoot to the door and peep out the window. On either side of the driveway, green lawns stretch far and wide, smelling of freshly cut grass.
God, I love that smell!
We don’t have nearly enough of it in Paris.
But it isn’t the majestic oak trees or the vast expanses of grass that take my breath away. Set back at the end of the driveway is the Chateau d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars. A mixture of medieval and Renaissance, the castle reminds me of the Chateau des Milandes in Perigord that I visited with Mom, Dad, Lionel, and Chloe back when Lionel was still in good health. It’s smaller, but just as elegant and romantic. As for its grand staircase leading up the main entrance, it totally deserves a red carpet sprinkled with movie stars.
I’m half aware I’m having a most ridiculous Elizabeth-at-the-sight-of-Pemberley moment, but I can’t help it. The view is just too damn gorgeous.
And, yes, I’m still a convinced socialist.
And no, I don’t think privilege is something people should be born into—it should be obtained based on merit.
And yes, again, I still think that aristocracy with their archaic titles, pompous names, and unwarranted sense of entitlement should be a thing of the past.
But right now, all those righteous thoughts scatter away into the deepest recesses of my brain, letting fascination and awe take center stage.
“What do you think of the castle, mademoiselle?” Greg asks, smiling in the rearview mirror.
I realize my mouth is gaping and quickly shut it, cheeks aflame.
He shifts his gaze to the chateau. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.”
“Monsieur Darcy landed at the Auxerre airport an hour ago. I’m not sure he’s at the castle yet.”
“He is,” I say. “He just texted me. Raphael has been here since last night, and a few other people, too.”
“You’ll love it here,” Greg says.
I’m not so sure.
Darcy insisted we spend a long weekend at his ancestral chateau in Burgundy, arguing it would be strange if he didn’t bring his soon-to-be fiancée here. Incredible as it may seem, I’ve never visited this region. Well, now I’m going to get an insider tour of it.
Aren’t I lucky?
On the program for the weekend is a tour of the castle, its surrounding English-style park, and its wine cellars. We’ll also drive through some of the nearby villages and towns and sample their best restaurants. But the highlight of our weekend will be the main local tourist attraction—the Darcy Grotto and its Ice Age rock art.
As soon as Greg stops the car, a youth with a shy smile opens the door for me, mumbling, “Hello, and welcome to the chateau.”
Before I can introduce myself, he grabs my overnight bag and rushes inside.
I stare after him, blinking.
“Thank you, Roger,” Darcy says to him as the two men pass each other on the staircase, one running up and the other down.
I take in my boyfriend’s casual look—and quickly avert my gaze. His jeans and fine wool sweater hug his lean, muscular frame in a loose-fitting, conservatively masculine way.
I’m sure he hadn’t meant it to be sexy.
Except it is.
He gives me a mild kiss. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s just two hours’ drive from Paris.”
“Could’ve been an unpleasant two hours,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
Did he just make a joke? I study his face. His mouth is unsmiling, and there are no laugh lines around his eyes or any other noticeable signs of humor.
Hmm… Hard to tell.
He’s been doing this more and more lately—saying things which, coming from any other man, I would immediately recognize as jokes. But from Darcy… he’s just not that kind of guy.
Can a man develop a sense of humor after thirty like some develop arthritis or a bald patch?
“Your chateau is awesome,” I say.
“It’s nothing special, really. There are dozens of similar castles here in Burgundy, and a few are more awesome this one. But there’s one aspect of it that’s unique.”
“Which is?”
Darcy lifts a hand, palm up, as if to say, hang on. He turns to Greg, who has just parked the Prius between Raphael’s flashy red Ferrari and another sports car and now bounds toward us.
“Madame Bruel will show you to your room,” he says to Greg. “You’re free until Sunday evening.”
“Merci, Sebastian. I have some friends in Auxerre. It’ll be great to see them.”
“Take the Prius—I’ll be driving the Lamborghini.” Darcy turns back to me. “What’s unique about this castle is that it’s never changed hands. It was built by Chevalier Henri d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars at the end of the sixteenth century.”
“Oh, my God!” I clap my hand to my mouth. “And he still owns it? Is he a ghost? Does he have chains? Can I meet him?”
Darcy’s lips twitch and form that crooked, unpracticed smile of his that I hate because of what it does to my insides.
“What I meant,” he says, “is that the castle has remained in the family. Its current owner is my brother Noah.”
“Is he here? Am I finally going to meet him?”
“No. He—”
“Couldn’t make it,” I finish for Darcy.
Noah never makes it to any party or event organized by his older brothers—not even when said event is held at his own castle. Neither does Darcy’s mother, by the way. But she, at least, has the excuse of living in Nepal.
Darcy’s expression hardens.
“Let me get this straight,” I say to lighten things up. “You don’t own the island, you only co-own the jet and the club, and now you tell me the castle isn’t yours, either.”
“That’s correct.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was snatching a real billionaire.”
“You are.” He smiles again. “I inherited Parfums d’Arcy, which is worth well over a billion. It’s one of Europe’s largest individually owned businesses. Not to mention the trinkets such as the Paris town house and apartments in London and New York.”
The expression of genuine pride on his face is the same as the one I saw on Liviu—Jeanne’s friend’s nine-year-old—last Wednesday. He’d dragged his mom to La Bohème so he could show everyone his new remote control toy drone.
As the saying goes, the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys.
“Oh, good.” I exhale in feigned relief. “I was almost about to call the whole marriage thingy off.”
As we reach the top of the stairs and step inside, a skinny woman in her fifties holds her hand out. “I’m Jacqueline Bruel, the housekeeper.”
I shake her hand. “Diane. Very pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she says with a sincere smile before pointing to a wide wooden staircase across the foyer. “My office is on the first floor, second door on the left. Knock if you need anything. Or give me a call.”
She turns to Darcy, raising an eyebrow in half question.
“I’ll make sure Diane has your number, Jacqueline,” he says, leading me upstairs.
Unlike the sleek villa on Ninossos and the impeccably kept town house, the castle looks as if it has seen better days. Everything in here is authentic and beautiful—but also threatening to collapse at any moment.
The antique ceiling fixtures will be the first, I’m sure, followed by the creaky floorboards under our feet.
“Needs work, huh?” Darcy says, following my gaze.
I nod.
“I almost approached Chloe a month ago, seeing how tastefully and respectfully she rehabbed La Bohème, but…” He s
ighs. “This chateau is Noah’s. He needs to at least confirm he wants it restored.”
When we reach the second floor, Darcy opens a door, which groans and nearly unhinges itself in protest, to a spacious room.
“The lord and lady’s chamber,” he says. “Aka our bedroom. The bathroom is two doors to the right.”
I step inside and take in the large four-poster, the exquisite Art Nouveau wardrobes and chests of drawers, and the mildew stains on the walls. The wood floor is covered with beautiful rugs, their blue flower patterns in perfect harmony with the rest of the decor.
I look around for the couch area like the one in the town house, but don’t find one.
Darcy points to a small door between the wardrobes. “There’s an adjacent room right there. Grandpapa Bernard and Grandmaman Colette, who were the last ones to refurbish the castle, slept in separate bedrooms.”
“How clever of them,” I say, my shoulders slacking with relief. “So, who’s around? I saw Raphael’s car outside. Anyone else I know?”
“Genevieve—you met her at his birthday party. We’re also hosting Dr. Muller, the archeologist who manages the Grotto, and the mayor of the village with his spouse. You’ll meet everyone at dinner tonight.”
Ah, I see. The cream of the local society.
What a shame Elorie couldn’t be here today! She had to stay in Paris for her dad’s fiftieth birthday party. But she’s coming over tomorrow morning, and Darcy and I will fetch her from the train station.
I can’t wait.
“The dinner will be served at eight in the great hall, but at four, we all meet in the front yard to visit the cave.” Darcy heads for the little door. “I’ll let you freshen up.”
“What’s the dress code?”
The dos and don’ts of high society go over my head, so I always prefer to ask.
“Casual.” He hesitates for a second and adds, “My casual.”
Ha!
This is Darcy’s way of admitting that what passes for casual in his circles, normal people call dolled up. My casual for midseason consists of well-worn baggy jeans and a roomy sweater. I wore the combo to a couple of informal outings with Darcy’s friends. Only everyone else looked as if they’d read the wrong memo and had dressed for a job interview at Vogue.
When Darcy raised the matter of buying me clothes again a couple of weeks ago, I promised I’d make an effort. And I did. I bought a pair of jeans and two sweaters from a low-cost supermarket.
