Lucie stared at George wide-eyed, as he went on with his story.

“While I was doing CPR on him, the doctor arrived. He was this young guy in board shorts carrying a black leather case, and he had a defibrillator inside. He gave the man a shock with the machine, and he started to breathe again.”

Lucie didn’t know what was happening to her. She began hyperventilating uncontrollably, and then her entire body started to heave with sobs. She leaned on George, weeping into his shoulder in relief.

George put his arm around her and continued to speak in a soft, steady voice: “The old man was British, and his wife arrived at the piazzetta right as we revived him. She had been down the street shopping at Ferragamo. By the time I left, he was sitting up in a chair, getting treated by the doctor while his wife scolded him for running off …”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Marina Grande

Capri, Italy

Charlotte was the first to arrive at the designated meeting place by the cathedral steps, where she found a man with a flamboyant, Daliesque mustache pacing impatiently. Baron Mordecai von Ephrussí (Wetherby / Dragon / Harrow / Magdalen College, Oxford), as he introduced himself, was an acclaimed author, art historian, antiquities consultant, and, currently, fellow at the American Academy in Rome, where he was—as he told anyone who mattered—working on “the definitive biography of Luchino Visconti.” The Baron claimed to descend from a long line of Franco-Prussian Jewish aristocrats, even though he was born and raised in England. He had a grand title, but was living off an even grander overdraft, and depended on the good graces of his friends, usually grand ladies of a certain age and status who enjoyed his wit, title, gossip, and expertise on pre-Napoleonic Limoges, not necessarily in that order.

Sizing up his outfit of white-and-blue-striped seersucker trousers, crisp white button-down shirt conspicuously monogrammed with the initials MVE just above his left midriff, navy polka-dot cravat tied around his throat, and Cleverley wing-tips, Charlotte knew exactly how to engage with him. After a quick greeting and exchanging polite chitchat about the gorgeous weather, they did what everyone else in their crowd did and segued into the name game, with Mordecai launching the first volley:

“And what do you do, Ms. Barclay?”

“I’m an editor at Amuse Bouche.”

“Ah, Amuse Bouche. Superb magazine, superb.” Not as good as Bon Appétit, but perhaps I can sell her on my idea of writing about Empress Josephine’s obsession with îles flottante.

“Thank you,” Charlotte responded. I’m not going to ask him what he does. It’ll drive him nuts, and he’ll tell me within two minutes.

“You must live in New York then. Tell me, are you by any chance related to Theodore and Annafred Barclay?” Mordecai asked.

Charlotte smiled. There it was. It only took him thirty seconds to ask. “Yes, Teddy’s my cousin.”

Mordecai smiled back. “What a small world! Such a lovely couple. When I’m not slaving away on my book at the American Academy in Rome, I’m the historical consultant for the Prince’s Trust International.” She’s a Barclay. Of course, only a Barclay can afford to look this unfashionable in Capri.

So I’m wrong. He told me what he does in under a minute. “The Prince’s Trust. Yes, Teddy’s been so involved with helping Charles, and of course Camilla and Annafred go way back.”

“I saw them at a dinner just last month at the Serpentine Gallery.” How dare you call their royal highnesses by their first names!

“Did you? I spent a lovely weekend at Highgrove with Teddy and their royal highnesses earlier this summer.” Eat your heart out, Mordecai.

“Highgrove is lovely in the summertime, isn’t it? Now, even lovelier is Pemberley. My cousins, the D’Arcys, keep it up rather well.” Try to top that, Ms. Barclay!

“So I’ve heard. How do you know Isabel and Dolfi?” He was probably their decorator.

“I have been great friends of her parents for ages. Many years ago, I had the pleasure of working with Geoffrey Bennison on the Chius’ first house on the Bishops Avenue.”

I’m too good at this. “I loved Bennison’s work. He redid some rooms for my grandmother back in the late seventies.”

“He did?” Who the fuck is her grandmother and why don’t I know about those rooms?

At this point, Lucie arrived at the church steps, rescuing Charlotte from further interrogation.

“Thank you so much for going back and getting my sunblock, Lucie. I would have looked like a Maine lobster without it. Mordecai, this is my cousin, Lucie Churchill.”

“Hello,” Lucie said.

“Enchanted.” Hmm. What a pretty Eurasian. “Tell me, how exactly are you two related?”

Before Lucie could answer, Charlotte jumped in. “Lucie is the daughter of Reggie Churchill, my mother’s brother.” Try that on for size.

“Ah yes, Reginald Churchill.” How intriguing. And good lord, this means Charlotte’s a Churchill and a Barclay. Must be swimming in pots of money.

Lucie couldn’t help but frown. She knew Charlotte dropped her father’s name only when she was trying to impress people. She was wondering what the story was with this Mordecai fellow, and she soon understood.

“Now, I think we are just waiting for Mr. Beebe, Ms. Lavistock, and the Ortiz sisters, and then I can call ahead to let the Sultanah know we are ready. She will meet us down at Marina Grande, and then we will all proceed together to Positano to tour the villa.”

“The Sultanah?”

“Yes! Today, we have the honor of my great friend the Sultanah of Penang joining us on our little outing.”

“What is a sultanah?” Lucie asked.

“My dear, she is Malay royalty of the highest order. She is the royal consort to the Sultan of Penang. She is the queen! Now, we are already in breach of royal protocol by keeping her waiting, but if Mr. Beebe had the decency to be more punctual …”

At that moment, Auden Beebe appeared at the foot of the steps with Olivia and the Ortiz sisters, holding an umbrella over the ladies so gallantly that Mordecai could no longer complain.

“So sorry we’re late. It’s all my fault—I forgot my Leica and had to rush back to my room,” Olivia said breathlessly.

The party made its way to the funicolare for the short journey down the mountain, and then Mordecai led them to the pier where they were to be picked up for their excursion. They stood along the empty dock for a few minutes, and Olivia, tiring of the sweltering sun, glared at Mordecai. “I thought you said the royal Shahtoosh was meeting us here?”

“I sent the Sultanah a text as soon as we arrived at Marina Grande. She’ll be along in a few minutes. Her majesty must always be the last to arrive, you understand,” Mordecai officiously explained.

“Should I call her ‘Your Majesty’ too?” Lucie asked.

“First of all, protocol dictates that you should never speak to the Sultanah unless she speaks to you first. You may address her as ‘Your Majesty’ the first time you greet her and, subsequently, ‘ma’am.’”

Olivia looked at Auden and Charlotte, rolling her eyes.

“I take it you have a history with Monsieur le Baron?” Charlotte whispered to Olivia.