Kenzie was with Mr. Wugsby at the end.
On his deathbed, he confessed that before she had come along, he had interviewed twenty-eight other applicants for her job.
"Do you realize," he warbled, his voice painfully thin and weak, "that of all of them, you were the only one who attributed the Mengs correctly?"
She hugged his frail, emaciated body to hers.
"But I'd have hired you even if you hadn't," he admitted, a bit of irrepressible slyness shining through. "When you first walked in, I could tell from the way you looked around that art was in your blood ... that it was your life!"
They both smiled at the memory, and then his eyelids fluttered and he was gone. She kissed his forehead solemnly, laid his head gently down on the pillow, and smoothed her fingers over his eyes to close them.
And that was how one chapter of her life ended, and another began.
Admiring her reflection, Kenzie struck a dramatic tango pose when the downstairs buzzer interrupted her fashion high. The tango forgotten, she quickly smoothed the gown, flung the long scarf around her throat, and hurried out through the living room and into the small foyer.
"Who is it?" she asked cautiously through the intercom.
"It's Mr. Spotts," replied a static-filled squawk.
"Come on up." Kenzie hit the buzzer which released the locked door downstairs; a few minutes later, when she let him in, Mr. Spotts inspected her in one sweeping head-to-toe-and-back-up stare. "Good heavens, Miss Turner!" he said.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Why, just look at you! I have never seen you quite so beautiful."
She was touched. "Nor have I seen you looking quite so handsome or debonair, Mr. Spotts. Black tie suits you. May I fix you a drink?"
"Goodness, no, my dear. There will be more than enough spirits to imbibe at the party. Besides, I have a cab waiting downstairs."
"Then we'd better not keep the meter running."
She grabbed her coat, he helped her slip into it, and she linked her arm through his.
"Cinderella's all set!" she said brightly. "Let's go have a ball!"
Chapter 12
At the Met, the cocktail party in the Blumenthal Patio was in full swing, the sea of rising voices drowning out the strains of the valiant Mozart ensemble. Hundreds of mingling guests created a perpetually shifting mosaic, birds of a feather flocking together.
Prince Karl-Heinz von und zu Engelwiesen was stationed at the entrance, where he greeted the constant stream of new arrivals, all of whom were announced by the master of ceremonies.
"... Her Royal Highness, the Infanta Dona Pilar, Duchess of Badajoz, and His Royal Highness, the Duke of Badajoz ... Mr. and Mrs. Carter Burden ... Mr. and Mrs. William F. Buckley, Jr. . . . Lady Dudley and the Earl of Warwick ... Governor and Mrs.—"
Prince Karl-Heinz acknowledged the women with a kiss on the hand, and the men with firm handshakes and a slight bow.
"... Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon D. Fairey," announced the master of ceremonies with stentorian gravity.
Sheldon D. Fairey came forward, squiring Nina, his ageless socialite wife who wore an artfully painted palette of a face and a voluminous cloud of emerald silk Oscar de la Renta.
"Heinzie, darling!" she dramatized as he kissed her hand, her smile as blinding as it was patently false. "I cannot believe you are already celebrating another birthday! To think that a year has passed since ... well, you are beginning to make me feel positively ancient!"
Karl-Heinz summoned the requisite laugh. "Then rest assured, my dear Nina, I am your very own picture of Dorian Gray. As I become older and more dissipated, you grow younger and lovelier with every passing year."
Expertly, he eased her past to make way for new arrivals.
"Liar!" And tinkling laughter over her shoulder, off Nina swept in a rustle of silk, her left arm linked through her husband's, and her right already waggling her fingers here, there, everywhere.
"I do hope I won't disgrace you," Kenzie fretted. She and Mr. Spotts were climbing out of the cab on Fifth Avenue, thus avoiding the traffic jam of limousines waiting to deposit their passengers at the red-carpeted stairs.
"But why in all heaven should you disgrace me?" Mr. Spotts, placing a hand under her elbow, inquired in a kindly voice.
"Well, in case you haven't noticed," she said nervously, "I'm not exactly society material."
"And what, pray tell," he asked, "is 'society material'?"
"Oh, you know . . . private schools, dance and deportment lessons, Swiss finishing schools, being an expert at clever repartee, knowing the right time to hoist the mainsail as opposed to the spinnaker, how much to tip the croupier ..."
"Ah." He nodded sagely. "In other words, Miss Turner, you are assuming that an upbringing like, er, Miss Parker's, for instance, would have given you all the requisite social skills and polish for an evening like tonight's? Is that not so?"
"Well, something like that," Kenzie admitted uneasily, "yes."
"Well then, I advise you to get that nonsense out of your head at once! I, personally, would not be caught dead with the likes of Miss Parker hanging onto my arm!" His voice gentled. "Look at it this way, my dear. If you're good enough for me, then I daresay you're good enough for anyone else who may be here. Now, I decree that we enjoy ourselves, and enjoy ourselves we shall!"
"Yes ... but ... but Mr. Spotts! A Serene Highness? What do I do? Kiss his ring?"
"That, Miss Turner, is reserved for the pope, a cardinal, or an archbishop, and then usually only if one is a practicing Roman Catholic."
He steered her unerringly through limousine row and flashed his invitation to a guard, who unhooked the velvet rope from its portable stanchion.
Climbing the red-carpeted steps, Kenzie stared up with growing trepidation. The Metropolitan Museum of Art hadn't earned its monikers, "Club Met," "The Party Palace," or "Rent-a-Palace," for nothing. She knew that it was the single most prestigious, if not the most expensive, location at which to throw a party—and that in a city chock full of prestigious and expensive places to choose from.
But despite the butterflies in her stomach, she couldn't help but admire the awesome facade, palatial in the wash of silver-green floodlights, the banners snapping briskly in the wind, the crashing fountains sending up plumes of cool white spray which almost, but not quite, masked the ever-present sounds of traffic whizzing by down Fifth Avenue.
It was, she thought, impossible not to imagine this floodlit temple of the arts as anything but the son-et-lumiere show of a three-dimensional architectural capriccio—huge, Corinthian-columned, and imposing—as if some giant had scooped it up from one of the capitals of Europe and set it down, intact, right here on the edge of Central Park in the very middle of the greatest, noisiest, and most electrifying city on earth.
At last they reached the top, where one of a pair of doormen in eighteenth-century livery, complete with powdered wig and silk breeches, inspected Mr. Spotts's invitation yet a second time before bowing and gracefully gesturing them inside.
Kenzie couldn't believe her eyes. The resplendent lobby with its grand main staircase had been transformed, for this single night, into a latter-day Versailles, right down to the planters of full-grown citrus trees and massive torcheres lit with hundreds of flickering beeswax tapers.
A liveried footman directed them to coat check; from a passing couple, Kenzie heard a silvery tinkle of laughter and the rustle of silk, caught, from around a thin patrician throat, the cold flash of diamonds and the rich, blood-red glow of rubies.
Heaven help me, she thought with a sinking feeling as the reality of the soiree sank in. I'm just a plain working girl. A simple office drone. What on God's earth ever possessed me to come here?
Well, here goes the lamb to the slaughter, Kenzie thought as Mr. Spotts gave their names to the master of ceremonies. Her palms were moist and slippery and she was terrified of making some terrible social gaffe. Squaring her shoulders, she glanced out at the roomful of guests in an ef
fort to shore up her eroding self-confidence.
A major mistake.
The extravaganza of beautifully gowned and bejeweled socialites only reinforced her feelings of inadequacy. How foolish, the notion that a thrift shop find was all it took to compete with these beings of the upper stratum!
"Mr. A. Dietrich Spotts and Ms. MacKenzie Turner," the master of ceremonies called out.
Stifling a little cry, Kenzie glanced anxiously at Mr. Spotts.
You'll do fine, his smile reassured, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself face-to-face with His Serene Highness.
To her amazement, before she could betray so much as the slightest awkwardness, Prince Karl-Heinz took her hand and raised it to his lips, his breath barely grazing her fingertips. "Ms. Turner ..." he said, his blue oval eyes meeting hers. He smiled charmingly. "A pleasure ..."
Then, letting go of her hand, he greeted Mr. Spotts. The two men exchanged pleasantries and then Mr. Spotts shepherded Kenzie on.
"I can't believe—you mean ... that's all there is to it?" Kenzie asked incredulously.
Mr. Spotts smiled. "I'm afraid so. You see, my dear, what did I tell you? There really was nothing to get all worked up about, was there?"
He stopped, expertly canvassing the crush of guests, and Kenzie did the same. Everyone seemed to be acquainted with one another, and social choreography was in high gear, the $942-a-case vintage Cristal priming sharp tongues and furtive whispers. Everywhere, false smiles worthy of Oscar nominations lit up perfect maquillage.
Now that the worst of her fears had proved groundless, Kenzie found herself mesmerized. The sheer profusion of so much haute couture under a single roof boggled the mind. It was, she thought, an opiate dream, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of felicitous grace, mesmeric colors, and intermingling textures which had to be of some other, more prodigal world. Ravenously, her eye for quality ate up the seemingly effortless, flawless tailoring; soaked up, above all, the infinitely prolific and bewildering flights of fancy which were the hallmarks of the couturier's art.
For that was what these garments were. Art. Art to wear. To flaunt. To frivol the night away in.
There were column gowns in Fortuny pleats; waltzing dresses embroidered with iridescent silk roses; rhinestone-encrusted crepe hourglass dresses; swirling tartan ballgowns; patchwork Gypsy ensembles no Romany tribe could ever have conceived, and more. Much, much more.
"Why don't we find ourselves a drink," Mr. Spotts suggested peremptorily. He smiled out at the crowd with knowing satisfaction. "After that, we can stand back and amuse ourselves ... perhaps watch the social climbers digging in their cleats and pitons?"
Kenzie raised her eyebrows. "Do I detect a note of cynicism?"
"Cynicism! From me?" Mr. Spotts pretended appropriate shock, but his eyes danced merrily. "Really, Miss Turner ... !"
"Mr. and Mrs. Robert A. Goldsmith," the master of ceremonies announced stentoriously.
On that cue, Dina swept grandly forward, her extended arm dangling a delicately limp wrist and her new diamond bracelet.
Karl-Heinz took her fingertips and raised them to his lips. "Exquisite," he murmured, whether to her sixty-six and a half carat solitaire, her twenty-eight carat bracelet, or to her—Dina couldn't quite ascertain which. Nevertheless, she preened visibly.
Letting go of her hand, Karl-Heinz turned to Robert. "My most sincere congratulations," he said, exchanging firm handshakes.
Robert A. Goldsmith blinked like a sleepy lizard. "Congratulations?" he repeated blankly.
Prince Karl-Heinz smiled. "For buying Burghley's, of course! I must admit I feel a twinge of jealousy. A company of that caliber is, how does one say it?" Karl-Heinz turned to Dina, a slight lift of his left eyebrow chiding her for having wangled a last-minute invitation. "A feather in one's cap?"
But Dina, now that she had become the Queen of Manhattan Island, accepted the gentle rebuke with regal graciousness.
"To show our appreciation for your kind invitation," she purred silkily, "we have brought Your Serene Highness a little surprise."
"Indeed?" The prince looked amused. "And what might that be?"
Dina smiled mysteriously and wagged an admonishing finger. "You'll see momentarily," she promised, and knowing an exit line when it presented itself, off she glided, her husband in tow.
Behind them, the master of ceremonies announced, "Her Grace, Zandra von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, Countess of Grafburg, and Mr. Lex Bugg."
Dina glanced over her shoulder to catch Karl-Heinz's reaction— which, like the proverbial picture worth a thousand words, turned out to be supremely gratifying.
"Zandra ... ? Zandra! It is you!" Karl-Heinz quickly got over his tongue-tied surprise. "But this is unbelievable!" he exclaimed, greeting her with a long warm hug and a kiss and then another hug.
Finally, holding her at arms' length, he studied her from head to toe.
"Is it possible? Can you have become more beautiful than ever?"
"Still the flatterer, I see," she laughed, unable to hide her delight at his delight to see her.
"That is because flattery gets me everywhere." He smiled and shook his head in wonder. "My God! How long has it been?"
"Too long, cousin. At least two years. No. Longer. The last time was ... let me see ... yes, that dreadful party at Aunt Annabel's."
He made a face. "Ah, yes. An excruciating occasion best left forgotten." Still holding her hands, he said, "I had no idea you were in town!"
"Flying over was a—a spur-of-the-moment lark," she improvised quickly. "Except for Dina, I don't believe anyone even knows I'm in town."
He smiled. "Well, now the entire city does." He gave her another hug. "I hate reception lines, but alas, they are an evil I must contend with. We will talk later?"
She nodded brightly. "I'll be on the lookout for you."
"And I shall be on the lookout for you. In fact, I shall have the place cards rearranged so we can sit together during dinner. That way we can catch up on all the latest."
"I'd like that," she said, flushed with pleasure.
"Me, too." He smiled and kissed her cheek. "Would you believe, your unexpected presence has made a dreadfully dull party totally worthwhile?"
Chapter 13
Look, Robert!" Dina squealed, hopping on tiptoe and waving excitedly. "There's Sheldon D. Fairey!"
"So?" grunted Robert, who since that morning had relegated Burghley's chairman to his multitudinous ranks of minions.
Dina turned to Zandra and Lex. "You two go circulate!" she stage- whispered, making shooing motions. "We'll meet up later."
Once she had Robert to herself, she said, "I think it would only be courteous if we went and said hello to Mr. Fairey."
Prudently, she neglected to mention her ulterior motive. The very least she owed Sheldon was a quick hello and a whispered thank-you—he had, after all, been instrumental in getting them the invitations for this party.
To her surprise, Robert put up no resistance whatsoever. "All right," he shrugged. "If that's what you want, why not?"
Prudently, he neglected to mention his ulterior motive. Namely, that this was the very opportunity he'd been waiting for—but who'd have thought that his wife, of all people, would drop it so fortuitously into his lap? For it was his express intention to take Sheldon D. Fairey aside and finalize Bambi Parker's promotion.
Dina, happily oblivious to that fact, clung to his arm and unerringly navigated him over to where Sheldon D. Fairey and two Social Register couples were standing around chatting.
"Now remember, Robert," she reminded him sternly, "you promised to find Zandra a job in the Old Masters department. This is the perfect opportunity to bring it up."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he scowled, once again cursing his idiocy in acquiescing to what amounted to playing Russian roulette. God, but how could he have been so stupid? Tossing Bambi and Zandra together was like lighting a stick of dynamite and waiting around for the explosion. Sooner or later, it was bound to come.<
br />
"Sweeties!" Dina, having descended upon their quarry, let go of Robert's arm.
There was a flurry of handshakes and cheek kisses, followed by another round of the same when Nina Fairey—possessed of a social antennae second to none—seemingly materialized out of nowhere.
"Wonderful jacket!" Nina cooed. "Yves St. Laurent?"
"The one and only." Dina, for the first time finding herself at the very epicenter of attention, took to the kowtowing like a duck to water.
"My God, that ring!" one of the Social Register wives exclaimed in shock. "I've never seen a rock that huge!"
"This?" Dina purred, sighing happily. "It's new. My sweetie is so generous."
Isn't he just? Robert thought darkly, unwrapping a genuine Havana—a Flor de F. Farach Extra—which he rattled next to his ear, then held under his nose for a whiff. Satisfied, he chomped off the puffing tip. Sucked on it to get it nice and moist. Hoped the ritual would help tune out all that female jabber.
No such luck.
"Now, darling," Nina was gushing, "you really must tell us! How does it feel to own Burghley's?"
Robert heard his wife's glissant scale of light laughter. "Ask me again once it's sunk in," Dina lied, eating up every last bit of fuss, flattery, and deference. "Right now it all seems so, well, so unreal."
"Like hell it does!" grumped Robert around his cigar. Glaring at his wife's gaggle of newfound sycophants, he had a good mind to tell them exactly where they could go—and why Dina didn't was entirely beyond him. Christ, those ass-kissers hadn't given her the time of day before; why should she bother with their brownnosing now?
As these thoughts crossed his mind, he sensed Dina giving him The Look—clearly a signal that he and Sheldon have their little powwow.
He shrugged to himself. Why not? It was as good a time as any, and would provide escape from the hens.
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