“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.

“What are we going to do with her?” Sarah asked him in despair.

“I don’t know,” Julian answered her honestly. “But I think we’d better go down there.” They did the following week, when they both had time, and they tried to reason with her together. But she refused to listen, and she told them bluntly that she was in love with him, and he adored her.

“Of course he does, you little fool,” her brother tried to explain to her. “He can only guess at what you’re worth. With you in his hand, he can sit on his ass forever.”

“You make me sick!” she screamed. “Both of you!”

“Don’t be so stupid!” he shouted back. They took her to stay at the Hotel Miramar with them, and she ran away. She literally disappeared from the face of the earth for a week, and when she returned, Lorenzo was with her. He apologized profusely to both of them for being so thoughtless, for not calling them himself… as Sarah’s eyes shot daggers at him. She had been sick with worry, and didn’t dare call the police, for fear of the scandal. She knew Isabelle had to be with Lorenzo. …

“Isabelle was so upset …” He went on … and now he humbly begged their forgiveness…. But Isabelle interrupted him, and addressed her mother directly.

“We want to get married.”

“Never,” her mother said bluntly.

“Then I’ll run away again. And again. Until you let me.”

“You’re wasting your time. I never will.” And then she turned her attention to Lorenzo. “And what’s more, I will cut off every cent she has.” But Isabelle knew better.

“You can’t. Not all of it. You know that what Daddy left me comes to me when I’m twenty-one, no matter what.” Sarah was sorry she had ever told her, but Lorenzo looked extremely cheered by the news, and Julian looked sick. It was so obvious to everyone. Except Isabelle, who was too young to understand it. She was an eighteen-year-old girl with no experience about life, and hot pants, it was a hell of a combination. “I’m going to marry him,” she announced again, and Sarah was intrigued that Lorenzo said nothing. He was letting his bride-to-be fight her own battles and his, an omen of things to come, Sarah wanted to remind her.

“I will never let you marry him.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Sarah vowed, and Isabelle’s eyes blazed with anger and hatred.

“You don’t want me to be happy. You never did. You hate me.” But Julian deflated her balloon this time.

“Try that on someone else. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” And then he turned to his future brother-in-law, hoping to appeal to his reason, or his sense of decency, if he had either, but clearly he didn’t.

“Do you really want to marry her this way, Tebaldi? What’s the point?”

“Of course not. It tears at my soul to see you all like this.” He rolled his eyes, and looked ridiculous to everyone but Isabelle. “But what can I say … I adore her. She speaks for both of us … we will be married.” He looked as though he were about to break into song and Julian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Don’t you feel foolish? She’s eighteen years old. You could be her grandfather, or almost.”

“She is the woman of my life,” he announced. And actually the only remarkable thing about him was that he had never been married. It had always paid to keep moving until now. This time the profits were a lot bigger, if he could land little Lady Whitfield, whose family owned the biggest jewel business in Europe, as well as their lands, and tiles, and original holdings. It was quite a purse. No prize for an amateur. But Lorenzo wasn’t.

“Why don’t you wait, if you’re both so sure?” Julian tried again, but they both shook their heads.

“We can’t … and the disgrace …” Lorenzo looked as though he were about to cry. “I just spent a week with her. Her reputation… and what if she gets pregnant?”

“Oh, my God.” Sarah sat down heavily in a chair. The mere thought of it almost made her sick. A child of his in her family would be even worse than poor Cecily’s two colorless children. “Are you pregnant now?” she asked Isabelle directly.

“I don’t know. We didn’t take any precautions.”

“How wonderful. I can hardly wait to hear the result of that in a few weeks.” There was always abortion, of course, but that wasn’t the issue now. The issue was marriage.

“We want to get married this summer … or at the very latest, at Christmas. At the château,” she said, as though he had schooled her, and he had. He wanted a big lavish wedding, so they couldn’t get rid of him easily. And they couldn’t anyway. Once they were married, it was forever. He was Catholic, and he was going to marry Isabelle in the Catholic Church in Rome, after they were married at the château. He had already told her it was his only condition. The only thing that mattered to him, he said, was to be truly married in the eyes of God, and he had even cried when he said it. Fortunately, Sarah hadn’t had to hear him.

They had fought and discussed and argued and shouted well into the night, until Julian was hoarse, Sarah had a headache the size of the hotel, and Isabelle almost fainted, as Lorenzo called for ice and smelling salts and damp towels. And finally Sarah gave in. There was no choice. They would elope anyway, if she didn’t. She was sure of it. And Isabelle swore they would. She tried to get them to wait a year, but they wouldn’t do that either. And Lorenzo kept insisting that it was better to do it now, in case she really was pregnant.

“Why don’t we wait and find out?” Sarah suggested calmly. But they wouldn’t even agree to wait till Christmas, by the end of the evening. Lorenzo had accurately gauged the full measure of their hatred, and he knew that if he didn’t force the issue soon, they would find some way to get rid of him and it wouldn’t happen.

So before the night was out, they all agreed to late August, at the château, with a handful of close friends, no one else, and no press. Lorenzo was disappointed not to have the big wedding they deserved, but he promised her a fabulous party in Italy, which her mother assured her he wouldn’t pay for.