“And these jewels are all you have left of her,” one of them said at last.
“That and my house. And my memories.”
“One could say that your mother died saving the jewels.”
“Yes,” Jules said. It was what her father had told her numerous times.
Hudson picked up one of the velvet boxes and passed the sapphire and yellow diamond necklace before them. “But you gentlemen haven’t even seen the rest…”
So effortlessly they didn’t seem to notice, he steered their attention away from Jules and back to the gems, detailing each of the pieces, telling them the carat weight of the rubies, informing them that the emeralds had once belonged to the Maharaja of Rajasthan. Holding up a thirty-six inch strand of three-carat diamonds strung together like pearls, Jules felt a rush of gratitude. She could always count on Hudson.
As the photographers took their pictures, a reporter said, “There has been such interest in these pieces, and yet this is the first time you have ever cooperated with the press to show them. Why now?”
“As you know, the Clews are holding a charity masked ball tomorrow night at the Chateau de la Napoule to benefit wounded war veterans who have been forgotten. The public isn’t invited, but donations would be most appreciated. It’s my intention to raise interest in such a worthy cause by wearing some of the jewels publicly for the first time.”
“Which will you wear?”
She considered. “You have a picture of me in the pearls, so perhaps I’ll wear them.”
“But Madame DeRohan, are you not apprehensive to put these irreplaceable stones at risk when this Panther criminal is plundering the villas of the coast?”
“Oui, oui, the Panther. Do you not quake to wear them while the beast still prowls?”
Jules waved a dismissive hand. “The Panther, from all accounts, sneaks into homes when all are asleep and there’s virtually no chance of detection. I daresay a man as cautious of his liberty would hardly be so foolhardy as to risk exposure in such a public setting. No, gentlemen, for all his reported bravado, I wager this Panther is in reality a cowardly creature of the night. He’s not going to come anywhere near my pearls.”
One of the reporters gulped. “May we quote you?”
Jules lowered her lashes so they couldn’t read the triumphant gleam in her eyes. “By all means.”
With Hudson at the wheel, the white Rolls Royce convertible eased through the gothic arched stone entry of the front wall of the Chateau de la Napoule, an estate that had once served as a fortress in the fourteenth century. An eccentric American couple, Henry and Marie Clews, had rescued the crumbling edifice destroyed during the French Revolution, and had lovingly restored it to its original medieval splendor, complete with turrets and towers, creating a fantasy world of their own where peacocks, swans, ibis, and cranes pecked freely about the grounds. To visit the chateau was to take a journey back to the time of Sir Walter Scott, where troubadours sang and knights jousted to impress the ladies of the court.
The perfect setting for a masquerade ball.
As they pulled up to the front courtyard with its cloistered façade, Jules took a gulp for courage. She’d decided to dress as Marie Antoinette with a heavy white powdered wig. But instead of costuming herself as the queen holding court, she’d chosen instead to replicate her ancestor’s more playful disposition by wearing the flouncy eighteenth-century shepherdess attire the queen had favored while cavorting at Versailles. The white dress had a voluminous skirt with a low décolletage and frilly peasant sleeves that bared her chest and shoulders and afforded a blank canvas for the showcasing of the Antoinette pearls.
“It’s peculiar, Hudson,” she said, putting her hand over her pounding heart. “We’ve played our game so many times, imagining all sorts of adventures where I was a woman of intrigue, much bolder and more courageous than I could ever really be. Harmless stuff and fancy. Yet here we are, about to embark on an adventure that has the potential to be far more daring than anything we ever concocted. Never once in all our imaginings did I foresee how nervous I would be. I swear my heart is about to take flight.”
“We could always call it off, Highness.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s my only chance of contacting the man. I think I’m more nervous for him than I am for myself. It’s only just occurred to me the risk I’ve asked him to take. Of course, there’s no guarantee that he’s even seen my challenge, or that he’ll take the bait if he has, but if he should come, and should be caught because of me—”
“I hope Her Highness knows what she’s doing. It’s not my place to approve or disapprove, but I can’t help worrying that—”
“Please don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m doing what I must. He’s the only man I can think of who is capable of standing up to DeRohan. I have to take the chance.”
“Very well. Your Highness knows best.”
She didn’t notice the tautness in his voice as he pulled to a stop. She was already gathering her skirts as the doorman opened the car door. She looked up at the façade of the castle, wondering again if the Panther would dare brave such a risky venture. It was thrilling to think of him finding a clever way to sneak—costumed—into this private party and cheekily mingle with the people he was bent on robbing.
Now that it was upon her, she began to feel all shivery inside at the thought of seeing him again.
The Clews met her at the front door over which was carved the phrase “Once Upon a Time…” They were dressed as usual in rich medieval velvets, Marie attempting to resemble the Virgin Saint. A steady stream of costumed guests flowed into the house and mingled with drinks in hand in the cold stone rooms that, with their vaulted ceilings, beehive fireplaces, stained glass windows, and heavy carved doors from Spain, resembled the interior of an antiquated church more than it did a home.
She followed the sounds of music into the long hall with its high arched windows and red stone floor that tonight served as a ballroom. As she roamed through the crowd, some dancing, some conversing in small groups about the perimeter, she noted the eclectic mix of the guests. It seemed that the entire history of the region was represented here tonight.
The Côte d’Azur—Blue Coast—had once been a sleepy, barren stretch along the Mediterranean inhabited by a few local fishermen. All that had changed when Lord Brougham, former Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, had been stranded in Cannes in 1834, and had fallen under its spell of unspoiled beauty and luminous climate. His wealthy English friends quickly followed, building fabulous villas and chateaux in the hills that resembled their palaces back home, or fanciful replicas of structures they’d seen on their travels to exotic corners of the globe. They transported plants and flowers and transformed the rocky shores into lush green gardens. The Russian aristocracy turned up in their wake, and soon all the crowned heads of Europe had brought their great fortunes and settled the area. Emperors, tsarinas, kings, queens, princes, grand dukes, lords, and wealthy bourgeoisie all flocked to the Côte in winter months to take advantage of the sunshine beneath their parasols and partake of the festival atmosphere of parties, dances, and casinos. But they’d always left in April, when the sun grew blinding and the heat became oppressive to their Victorian sensibilities.
All that changed in 1922 when Erich von Stroheim directed the first million dollar moving picture and set it in Monte Carlo. Foolish Wives created the legend of the reckless decadence of the moneyed classes, idling away their days amidst the palms and sunshine of a golden coast, gambling with abandon through the long, sultry nights. Americans began drifting into the area, lured by their fascination with the film, a favorable exchange rate that allowed them to live beyond their means, and the refreshing absence of Prohibition. With that, the summer season was invented. They called the area “the Riviera,” and brought with them a new fresh informality, introducing such novelties