Epilogue

A beautiful, dark-haired woman sat on a beach in a secluded cove in the South of France, not far from St Tropez, and waited for her husband to join her. She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and her all-covering cotton shirt, laughed as a child went past her and sprayed sand up onto her tanned legs. A couple of people turned to smile at her.

There were people everywhere, and she knew almost all of them, because it wasn’t quite the tourist season yet. They were locals, as she was fast becoming. It had been six months, almost seven, since the day she’d walked into a boardroom in a city office, delivered precisely sixty-two words from a script, and then watched as agents from four separate organisations stormed into the room and arrested everyone in a flurry of efficiency, furore and foreign invective.

André, one of the leaders of the operation, had been caught up in the follow-up for almost a month afterwards, travelling all over the country to tie up loose ends, working twenty-hour days to finish it off. He’d still made the time to ring her every day, always telling her to give the baby his love. She’d wanted to stay near him, but he’d convinced her that there was no point, and it had been he who had suggested the alternative she’d accepted.

There was no possibility of her agreeing to stay with her family. Her mother, once she heard the news, had rung her only to express horror and disbelief, and to make it clear that she was immensely disappointed in Caroline. Her brother David had rung and asked directly if any money had been put into Caroline’s name, and whether it had been protected. He’d been disappointed, too. James had called as well, to see if she was all right and to ask if she wanted him to come and stay with her.

“When you tell them about the baby, it will be different,” André suggested. Caroline laughed.

“Oh, it will be different, all right,” she agreed. “Mother will probably implode with shame. I think we’ll hold off on that piece of news at present, André.”
”Shame because she thinks you are carrying the child of a criminal?” André was having trouble understanding this. “You can tell her that it is not his baby. Won’t that make it better?”
”You don’t know my mother,” Caroline said. “I think knowing that my baby’s father is one of the law enforcement officials who actually caught Robert will make it even worse.”

”I will not be in Interpol for much longer,” he reminded her. It made no difference.

“My mother is a snob, André,” she said. “A Frenchman as the father of her grandchild is not going to please her, either. The only thing she has ever approved of that I’ve done was my ability to marry a man with a title and money.”
”Then she is a silly woman,” André said, tired and annoyed that he couldn’t be there to hold her and to take her mind off her inadequate parent.

“On that, we’re agreed,” Caroline said.

Three minutes after putting the phone down, André picked it up and dialled again, an international call. Glancing at the clock, he winced, and prepared for a tirade when the call was answered. He wasn’t disappointed.
”Grandmére,” he said, when he could get a word in edgewise. He continued in French. “I am sorry to wake you. Yes, it is André. I need your help with something.”

Caroline had one trip back to the estate, accompanied by police officers, to retrieve her paintings and her belongings. Because so many people were involved, there were bound to be some administrative glitches, and it should not have been a surprise that it coincided with the day they arrived to arrest Sir Robert, having finally put together sufficient evidence to convince a judge that he was implicated up to his aristocratic neck.

Handcuffed and looking bewildered, Robert was standing between two agents when Caroline walked in with her guard. She stopped, not knowing what to say.

“Carrie,” he said, for all the world as if she’d just been out for a walk. “I’m not sure what’s happening. Get Jon for me, will you? I haven’t been able to find him.” Caroline caught her breath. His eyes were vacant, his voice the plaintive tone of a child who wasn’t getting his own way. She looked to the policeman beside her, the question in her eyes.

“He knows he’s dead. He’s been told,” he said brutally. Sir Robert gave no sign of hearing.

“If you see him, just tell him I’ve popped out for a while, pet,” he said. And then he calmly let the agents lead him away. That had been one of the more unpleasant moments during the month.

Robert had been vague for as long as she’d known him, but he’d gone beyond that now. Either he was acting very, very well, or the loss of Jon had tipped him over the edge. He must have started out his career with a sharp mind and an eye for criminal possibilities, but there no longer seemed to be any doubt that it was Jon who had been the driving force behind most of the activities they were now known to be guilty of. André had admitted that there was a chance that they wouldn’t be able to pin too much on Sir Robert. Jon appeared to have been the brains and the power in the business. Still, having seen him as he was, Caroline suspected that one way or another, her “husband” was going to be spending a good deal of time in institutions.

Dara had welcomed her with open arms, shocked beyond belief at what had happened, and she and her husband had kept Caroline sheltered from the press. Delighted at Caroline’s pregnancy, Dara spoiled her relentlessly with tidbits of food and gifts of baby clothes and toys. There was one guest she couldn’t shield her from, eventually.

Madeleine Carter-Winehoff arrived in the family Rolls-Royce, considerably peeved that number 1. her daughter had been so unthinking as to involve the family in such a scandal, and number 2. that said daughter had chosen to stay with a friend rather than coming home to her family where she could have been locked away in a dark room and made to feel guilty for number 1.

Predictably, her first words, once she’d exchanged the obligatory air-kisses with her daughter and said a gracious hello to her daughter’s hostess, were of her elder son.

“You cannot imagine what this has done to David,” she said. “The complexity of his work is such that he really needs to be able to concentrate, Caroline, and this has just thrown him into a spin.” Not to mention the worry over the fact that all of Sir Robert’s assets had now been frozen, meaning that there was no money available to save him next time he hurled himself off an investment precipice.

“It hasn’t been pleasant for anyone, Mother,” Caroline responded.

“It certainly hasn’t,” Madeleine said. “I cannot believe that you did not have an inkling that something of this nature was going on. I mean, how can you have lived as the man’s wife for three years and not been aware of this? Did you have your eyes shut the whole time, Caroline?”

“I haven’t been his wife, Mother,” Caroline responded. “Not in any way. Not even legally, as you know.” Madeleine shuddered delicately. That was possibly the hardest thing for her to take. Having mentioned her daughter “Lady Caroline” in conversation for the last three years whenever possible, it was cripplingly humiliating to now have to put up with the insincere sympathies of her cohorts.

Dara breezed into the room carrying a tray. She was not big on using servants, something Madeleine didn’t approve of. But since Dara was married to a baron – truly married, as far as one knew, Madeleine was polite to her.

“Please, do have a cake, Mrs Carter-Winehoff,” Dara said, sitting down and sending her friend a sincere sympathetic glance. The mother was everything Caroline had warned her she would be. “The toast triangles are for you, Caro. I don’t want you throwing up on the Aubusson rug.” Caroline laughed, although she sent a quick sidelong look at her mother. Madeleine still didn’t know that little piece of news yet. It didn’t take her long to work it out.

“Why would she? Oh my heaven, no!” Madeleine said, putting the cake back down. “Tell me that you are not pregnant.”
”I’m pregnant, Mother,” Caroline went against her wishes.

“And you haven’t disposed of it yet?” her mother asked. “Well, there’s no time to waste. I have heard that there is a doctor who will look after these things discreetly. Winnie Farrell’s sister’s stepdaughter was caught out last year, and according to Winnie, the doctor was more than…”
”I’m not going to have an abortion,” Caroline interrupted her.

‘Well of course you are,” Madeleine, shook her head. Dara shook her head, too. Madeleine looked like an older version of Caroline, but there, the similarities stopped, it seemed. Her blue eyes were hard, her expression was sharp, and she obviously had a heart carved out of diamond. A diamond of the first water, no doubt.

“I do hope you don’t have any ideas that David will be supporting this child?” her mother asked tartly. “He is going to have quite enough on his plate dealing with the aftermath of this fuss of yours.”

“No, I have no illusions on that point, Mother,” Caroline assured her. She had no real idea how she and André were going to live in the future but found that she really didn’t care. If necessary, James could live with them – André had already expressed pleasure at the idea. And her mother and David? Well, they could find their own way in the world as far she was concerned. Something about the events of the last few months had made it clear to her that she was no longer responsible for their welfare. Now, she had André and the baby to think of.

“Are you able to stay overnight, Mrs Carter-Winehoff?” Dara asked, hoping she’d say no.

“I am,” Madeleine said. She helped herself to a small cake after all. “It’s too far to drive back today. Thank you for your hospitality.”
”My pleasure,” Dara lied. “I am always happy to welcome a relative of Caro’s. We are having a few friends over tonight, so you will have some company.”
”Surely you are not mingling at present?” Madeleine asked her daughter. Caroline nodded.
”I am,” she said. “I’m avoiding the press and I’m staying away from false friends who pretend to care when all they’re after is the gossip, but no, I’m not hiding away. Contrary to your opinion, Mother, I’ve done nothing wrong.” At that point, as Dara told her fond husband later, she almost applauded.

……….

Caroline didn’t really feel like being in company that night, but having put on that display of defiance for her mother, she knew she had to show up. She was late in going down, though, because she had napped that afternoon and stayed asleep for longer than she intended to.

“Be good tonight, little one,” she said to her still obstinately flat stomach. She turned side-on to the mirror in the lovely suite of rooms Dara had given her. It amazed her that André had been able to tell she was pregnant more than a month before. She still couldn’t see any bump at all.

“If Mummy throws up in the champagne tonight, your Grandmother will never recover,” she continued, smiling at the thought. Dara, however would probably cheer.

She walked downstairs, elegant in a slim white sheath with crystal beading on it. It was strappy, covering her bosom in a way that none of the evening dresses Jon had chosen for her ever had, and it flared around her ankles, swishing nicely as she walked.

“There you are!” Sir Reginald, Dara’s husband said, hurrying forward to meet her as she entered a room which seemed to be filled with people. ‘Just a few friends’, Dara had said. There appeared to be about fifty of them.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Sir Reginald asked. He was a rotund little man, shorter than Dara but with a friendly, open face, a smutty sense of humour and a keen business mind. Caroline was well on her way to loving him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t fuss, Reggie.”

“I’ll fuss if I want to,” he said, undeterred. “Dara is over there somewhere, talking scurrilous nonsense about some woman who runs some charities locally, and your appalling mother is out on the terrace with some European count.”
”Typical on both counts,” Caroline punned, laughing when he winced. “Mother can sniff a title at twenty paces. Tell me, is he middle-aged and eligible for her to marry?”
”I haven’t seen him,” Sir Reginald replied. “I think he came with one of those arty types over there in the corner, the long-haired ones with boots on.” Still laughing, Caroline turned away from him, snagged a glass of orange juice off a tray offered her by a waiter, and stood deciding for a minute. Should she give in to temptation and go join Dara, or go find her mother? She sighed. Duty called, obviously.

She made her way through a few people, smiling and talking to those she recognised from Dara’s earlier dinner parties, and then stepping out through French doors onto the terrace. There were a few people out sipping champagne and enjoying the night air and the scent of the jasmine that grew all over the supports and trellises that surrounded the flagstones. Caroline skimmed over them all, searching for her mother, her eyes slowing, then stopping as she saw someone she hadn’t expected to see at all. He saw her at the same moment, looking away from the group of people he was talking to, and turning to smile at her.

Mouth open, cheeks flushed with pleasure, she walked towards him, taking in just how wonderful he looked in an expensive tuxedo and crisp white shirt, his shoes as glossy as they had ever been when he was a chauffeur. Just as she neared him, almost within reach, her mother put one slim, elegant hand on her arm and stepped slightly away from the same group.

“Caroline,” Madeleine said, with obvious intent. “Let me introduce you to the most charming man, Le Comte André DuPre.”

The title had tripped off her tongue in a tangle of French pronunciation, and Caroline almost missed it. She looked at André. Le Comte? Surely that was French for “the Count?”

“You’re a count?” she asked him. He shrugged and nodded.

“Just a title?” she asked. He shrugged again.
”A few houses and a bit of property, well, a lot of property,” he admitted.

“So - the vineyard you talked about? The one my painting reminded you of? Yours, I take it.”

“And the seaside village I talked about,” he nodded. “It’s all a bit feudal. It’s been in the family for centuries. Somehow we survived the revolution and Napoleon and the Germans.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she said. His smile broadened.

Madeleine looked confused and not a little annoyed.

“Caroline?” she asked querulously. “Have you met Le Comte DuPre before?”

“Yes, Mother,” Caroline said. “In fact, allow me to introduce you to the father of your first grandchild.”

It probably wasn’t the best way to break the news, but the timing was too good to resist. And it was made better by the fact that André burst into laughter and then pulled her into his arms to kiss her passionately, right there in front of her mother and everyone.

………

“How did you show up here?” she asked, sitting nestled in the curve of his arm on one of the sofas scattered around Dara’s living room. Madeleine had retired to bed, mortified beyond belief at her daughter’s behaviour, but secretly fortified (Caroline believed) by the knowledge that she was now going to be able to talk about her daughter “the Comtesse”. Knowing André as she did, she suspected that, however wealthy he turned out to be, he was not going to be offering financial carte blanche to David. And even if he was prepared to do so, she knew she would argue with him. Her mother was likely to be less than happy about that.

“I rang Dara,” André answered her. “And she told me that your mother was coming and that she was planning a dinner party that night. The timing was perfect, because the case is finished. Dara thought it was hilarious, I might add, particularly when I had my grandmother ring her to confirm who I am - just to be sure that she would know that I was not putting on silly airs about a silly title that really doesn’t matter anyway. And please, please, don’t ever tell Grandmére that I said the title didn’t matter, because she will try to smack me and I will have to let her. There - satisfied?”

“On that point,” she said, stroking her finger down his nose. “Now tell me how a French Count becomes a policeman and an Interpol Director?” she asked.

“Boredom,” he said. “There are scores of people, almost a hundred and eighty people to administer my properties and my family’s interests. All I’m needed for is to approve things occasionally, and only the ones that cost over a certain level, which I forget, but I know is astronomical. I always had an interest in justice and in mysteries. So, much against my family’s wishes, I became a policeman.”

“Just like that,” she said.

“Well no, I had to go to the Academie first and pass lots of tests, intellectual and physical, and then I had to wear a truly awful uniform until I was able to get myself promoted to the Detective ranks,” he said. She ignored that.

“Do the people you work with know about your title?” she asked. He nodded.
”But they know that if they call me Comte I will shoot them on the spot,” he said. “And I am generally reckoned to be a very good shot.”

“And now?” she asked. “Won’t boredom hit again?” He shook his head.

“I have had enough of dealing with the world’s low-life,” he said. “Now, I am ready to go back to beautiful, clean vineyards, and beautiful, warm beaches. And my beautiful, warm, soon-to-be wife.”

“Well, I can’t argue with any of that,” she said, snuggling closer.

…………..

“You look very comfortable there,” André said, startling her out of her reverie. She looked up to see him standing behind her, wearing a pair of black swimming trunks.

“I’m not comfortable angling my head back like this,” she pointed out. “Sit down immediately.”
”Yes Madame,” he said, grinning. He sounded just like he had when he was opening and closing car doors for her. He’d told her that he’d copied the behaviour of his Grandmother’s chauffeur in that role – well, in that regard at least. He was fairly certain that his Grandmother’s chauffeur hadn’t ever gone skinny-dipping with her or made love to her on the floor of her limousine, and if he had, André said that he didn’t want to know about it.

He sat down and stretched out on the sand beside her, nodding hello to several people around him.

“That’s my shirt,” he commented, looking over at her.
”It’s the only thing that covers me properly now,” she said. “HE’s getting very big.”
”SHE certainly is,” he responded, playing the game that had lasted all through her pregnancy. “Do you have a bikini top on?”
”Of course I do,” she said. “If you think I’m bouncing around all over the place just because half the beach is topless, you can think ag….no, André. Don’t even think it.” He was grinning wickedly.

“You wander in the village a lot, but you don’t come to the beach very often, chérie,” he said. “There has not been an opportunity before now.”

“There isn’t an opportunity now,” she corrected, smacking at his fingers as he began undoing the buttons on the shirt she was wearing. “Andre, I’m almost eight months pregnant!”
”And even more beautiful than you were the first time I saw you,” he said, continuing to unbutton. He drew the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms. She tried to catch it, but she didn’t want to put up too much of a fight for fear of drawing attention.

“Oh good grief,” she said, crossing her arms over her huge belly. “I’m sure this isn’t good for the baby.”
”It is,” the baby’s father assured her, mischief in his eyes. “Sunshine is very good for the baby. And it is good for nipples, too – to prepare for breastfeeding.” His hand had snaked up her back and was tugging at her bikini tie.

“André, no!” she said quietly, but heatedly. “I mean it.”
”So do I,” he assured her. “I read it. The doctors recommend some sunshine for nipples, both before and during breastfeeding.”

“But not in public,” she hissed, sparing one arm to reach back and clasp at the bikini he’d untied at the bottom. His hand was at the back of her neck.

“Ssssh,” he said, laughing into her eyes as he drew the bikini top away. “Lie down, my darling. Think about how good this is for the baby.”

“Everyone is looking at me,” she protested, her hands fluttering up to cover her breasts. She gave in and lay down, her arms uncomfortably at her sides.

“They’re all looking at my beautiful wife, the Comtesse DuPre,” he whispered in her ear.

“Who’s flashing her tits on the beach,” she muttered. He laughed.
”Who’s demonstrating her pride in her body,” he modified. “And her husband’s pride in it, too.” He put his hand on her bulging belly, beaming when the baby kicked him.

“Don’t handle me in front of everyone,” she said through tight lips. Mischief in his eyes again, he immediately leaned over and kissed her belly. Some people around them laughed, and two of them applauded.

“André!” she hissed in protest. “Stop it at once, or I’m going home.”
”Stop giving orders, or I’ll kiss your breasts next,” he threatened. Her eyes opened wide.
”You wouldn’t,” she said. “Not here, not on a public beach. You… André, no!”

The End