“Merde. Who is it? Do you know him?” He was beginning to fear it was some mafioso.

“Sure do. He’s here all the time, or at least a couple of times a year, working on some woman. Old women sometimes, young ones other times.”

“Do I know him?”

“Maybe. He bounces checks at least twice a trip, and never tips anyone unless someone else is looking.”

“He sounds charming.” Julian groaned.

“He’s poor as dirt. And I think he’s looking for money.”

“Great. Just what we needed. What’s his name?”

“You’ll love it. The Principe di Venezia e San Tebaldi. He says he’s one of the Princes of Venice. He probably is. There are about ten thousand of them over there.” Not like the British, or even the French. The Italians had more princes than dentists. “He’s a real jerk, but he looks good, and she’s young. She doesn’t know the difference. I think his first name is Lorenzo.”

“How distinguished.” Julian was anything but encouraged by what he had just heard.

“Just don’t expect a tip,” his friend reminded him, and Julian thanked him again, and sauntered into the bar, looking distracted and very / businesslike, and incredibly aristocratic. He was the Real Thing, Renaud always said, and he knew. He was right, of course, and Julian looked it. Not like the Prince of Pasta, as he called him.

“Oh, there you are … sorry…” Julian said as he pretended to bump into her with a huge grin. “I just wanted to kiss you good-bye.” He glanced over at the man she was with, and smiled broadly, pretending to be absolutely thrilled to meet him. “Hello… terribly sorry to interrupt … I’m Isabelle’s brother, Julian Whitfield,” he said easily, extending a hand, looking comfortable and relaxed, as his sister squirmed slightly. But the prince wasn’t bothered at all. He was charming and unctuous and oily.

“Piacere … Lorenzo di San Tebaldi. … I’m so happy to meet you. You have a most charming sister.”

“Thank you. I completely agree.” He kissed her lightly then, and apologized for leaving, but he had to get back to the shop for a meeting. He left without ever looking back, and despite his brilliant performance, Isabelle knew instantly that she was in big trouble.

Julian winked at the concierge on his way out and then he hurried back to the office. He called his mother as soon as he got in, but the conversation was not reassuring.

“Maman, I think we may have a bit of a problem.”

“What is it? Or should I say who?”

“She was with a gentleman, of I’d say about fifty years, whom according to the concierge at the Ritz, is well known to him, and a fortune hunter of sorts. He’s very pretty, but he ain’t much, as they say.”

“Merde,” Sarah said bluntly at the other end. “Now what do I do with her? Lock her up again?”

“She’s getting a little old for that. It won’t be easy this time.”

“I know.” She gave an exasperated sigh. Isabelle had been home for all of two days and she was already in trouble. “I really don’t know what to do with her.”

“Neither do I. But I don’t like the looks of this guy.”

“What’s his name?” As though that mattered.

“Principe Lorenzo di San Tebaldi. I think he’s from Venice.”

“Christ. Just what we need. An Italian prince. My God, she’s such a fool.”

“I can’t disagree with you there. But she sure is a knockout.”

“More’s the pity,” her mother exclaimed in despair.

“What do you want me to do? Go back and drag her out of there by the hair?”

“I probably should ask you to do that. But I think you should leave her alone. She’ll come home eventually, and I’ll try to reason with her.”

“You’re a good sport.”

“No.” Sarah confessed. “I’m just tired.”

“Well, don’t be discouraged. I think you’re terrific.”

“Shows what you know.” But she was touched by the kind words, she needed them to fuel herself for the battle she knew would come when Isabelle came home, which she did, with the Rolls at midnight. It meant she had left Paris at ten o’clock, which was pretty reasonable for her. But still, her mother was far from pleased as Isabelle walked across the main floor of the château, and Sarah came downstairs to meet her. She had heard her come in, and she had been waiting.

“Good evening, Isabelle. Did you have a nice time?”

“Very, thank you very much.” She was nervous, but cool, as she faced her mother.

“How’s my car?”

“Very nice … I … sorry, I meant to ask. I hope you didn’t need it.”

“Actually,” Sarah said calmly, “I didn’t. Why don’t you come into the kitchen for a cup of tea. You must be tired after all that driving.” All of which scared Isabelle even more. This was fatal. Her mother wasn’t screaming, but her tone was frigid.

They sat down at the kitchen table, and Sarah made her an infusion of mint, but Isabelle didn’t give a damn about it, as she sat there. “Your brother Julian called me this afternoon,” Sarah said after a moment, and then looked into her daughter’s eyes.

“I thought he would,” Isabelle said nervously, playing with the cup with her fingers. “I was just meeting an old friend from Italy… one of the teachers.”

“Really?” Her mother said. “What an interesting story. I checked the guest list, and he was here the other night, as someone’s guest. The Principe di San Tebaldi. I saw you dancing with him, didn’t I? He’s very handsome.” Isabelle nodded, not sure what to say to her. She didn’t dare argue with her this time, she just waited to hear what her punishment was, but her mother had more to say to her, which was agony for Isabelle as she waited.

“Unfortunately,” Sarah went on, “he has a rather unattractive reputation…. He comes to Paris from time to time … looking for ladies with a bit of a fortune. Sometimes he does very well, and sometimes not so well. But in any case, my dear, he is not someone you want to go out with.” She didn’t complain about his age or the fact that Isabelle had gone to town without permission, she tried to talk to her reasonably and point out that her friend was a fortune hunter, and Sarah thought that might impress her, but it didn’t.

“People always say things like that about princes, because they’re jealous,” she said innocently, but still too frightened to enter into armed combat with her mother. Besides, she knew instinctively that she would lose this one.

“What makes you think so?”

“He told me.”

“He told you that?” Sarah looked horrified. “Doesn’t it occur to you that he is saying that to you to cover himself, in case people say things about him? That’s a smoke screen, Isabelle. For God’s sake, you’re not stupid.” But she was about men, she always had been, and particularly this one.

Julian had made several more phone calls that afternoon, and everyone said the same thing about Isabelle’s new friend. He was trouble.

“This is not a nice man, Isabelle. You have to trust me this time. He’s using you.”

“You’re jealous.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You are!” She shouted at her, “Ever since Daddy died you don’t have anyone in your life, and it makes you feel old and ugly and you are … and you just want him for yourself!…” It was a torrent of words, and Sarah stared at her in amazement, but she spoke to her calmly.

“I hope you don’t believe that. Because we both know it’s not true. I miss your father terribly, every moment, at every hour of the day”—tears filled her eyes at the thought of it—“but not for a moment would I replace him with a fortune hunter from Venice.”

“He lives in Rome now,” Isabelle corrected, as though it mattered, as her mother pondered the overwhelming stupidity of youth. Sometimes it absolutely staggered her what a mess they made of their lives. But on the other hand, at the same age, she hadn’t done much better with Freddie, she reminded herself, trying to be reasonable with her daughter.

“I don’t care where he lives.” Sarah was beginning to lose her temper. “You will not see him again. Do you understand me?” Isabelle did not answer. “And if you take my car again. I’ll call the police next time to bring you back. Isabelle, behave yourself, or it won’t go well with you! Do you hear me?”

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m eighteen.”

“And a fool. That man is after your money, Isabelle, and your name, which is much more powerful than his. Protect yourself. Stay away from him.”

“And if I don’t?” she taunted her. But Sarah had no answer. Maybe she should send her to stay with Phillip at Whitfield for a while, with his incredibly boring wife and children. But Phillip would be no better an influence on his sister, with his secretaries, and his tarts, and his little games. What was wrong with all of them? Phillip was married to a woman he didn’t care about, and probably never had, except that she was respectable, and Julian slept with absolutely every woman and her mother, if possible, and now Isabelle was half crazy over this four-flusher from Venice. What had she and William done, she asked herself, to create such unreasonable children?

“Don’t do it again,” she warned Isabelle. And then she went upstairs to her room, and a little while later she heard Isabelle’s door slam.

Isabelle behaved herself for a week, and then she disappeared again, but this time in the Peugeot. She insisted she went to see a friend in Garches, and Sarah couldn’t prove otherwise, but she didn’t believe her. The atmosphere was tense until she left for Cap Ferrat, and after she did, Sarah heaved a sigh of relief, though she didn’t know why. The Côte d’Azur was hardly on another planet. But at least she was staying with friends, and not with that cretin from Venice.

And then Julian sent her the newspapers from Nice and Cannes and Monte Carlo when he was there for a weekend. They were full of stories about the prince of San Tebaldi and Lady Isabelle Whitfield.