“Go to Matteo,” Margot says. “I’m still too dizzy to walk.”

  “You can lean on me while I take you to your bed.”

  “No.” She inhales and exhales slowly. “I just need another minute. I’ll be fine.”

  I eye her with concern.

  She leans on the wall and presses her cheek to it. “Goodbye, Jonas.”

  Will she be there in the morning?

  “Goodbye, Margot.” I hang my head and run downstairs.

  CHAPTER 28

  JONAS

  After breakfast, I see Celeste and Matteo off and join the theater gang in the Sky Hall. It has been transformed. The props and scenery are gone, probably shipped away with the trucks I heard outside while the three of us were having breakfast. The lights, mics, and other technical gadgets have disappeared, too. The hall is a set no more, having been returned to its ordinary function as a reception room.

  I survey the small crowd with their coats and bags. Margot is nowhere to be seen. She’s gone. She must’ve snuck out early in the morning before breakfast.

  Sandra marches up to me and gives me a bear hug. “Thank you again, Jonas!”

  “You,”—I sweep a hand around the room—“all of you have already thanked me more times than I can keep track of. Have mercy!”

  The hall reverberates with giggles.

  In a more serious tone, I add, “If anyone should thank anyone, then it is me who should thank you. You made my dream of playing a part as a professional actor come true. And not just any part, but the incomparable, irresistible, one and only Mr. Darcy!”

  More laughs and cheers.

  “This immersive show was an experiment nobody believed in,” Sandra says. “I couldn’t find a single producer, so my husband and I ended up producing it ourselves, and a week was all we could afford. Nobody expected it to be such a success.”

  Liam jumps in, “The next Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience will last six weeks over the summer! We have a coproducer now, and we just signed with a theater in Bath.” Bubbling with excitement, he adds, “The show will be coupled with a guided tour of the Jane Austen locations across the town.”

  “You should extend your Bloomsbury Tour to the public the next time you produce the show in London,” I encourage Liam.

  “And you,” Sandra says to me, “should play Darcy again. Will you join us for the Bath season?”

  “I’m flattered, but my summer is already locked in, as is the rest of my year.”

  “Bummer.” She pulls a face. “But I understand.”

  Liam extends his hand. “It was a pleasure and an honor to work with you, Count d’Alenq!”

  “We’re on first-name terms forever now.” I shake his hand. “The pleasure was mine.”

  After that, I receive an avalanche of handshakes, shoulder taps and hugs.

  When the thespians begin to file out of the room, I catch Sandra by the sleeve. “If you ever decide to direct for the screen, give me a call.”

  “It won’t be anytime soon.” Grinning, she gives me a wink. “But you’ll be the first film producer I’ll notify the day that happens.”

  “Good.”

  “I hope you can make it to the party at my house next Saturday,” she says. “But if you can’t, I wish you all the best, and I’ll keep an eye out for Royal Riviera’s productions.”

  Just as the last of them walks out the door, I receive a call. It’s Louis.

  “No rest for the wicked!” he teases. “I’m in London outside of your house.”

  “Come on in, then. But I have plans for later today.”

  “I know.”

  He does?

  Then again, given who he is, and what he did only a month ago, I should’ve expected he’d be read in. I’m glad he was. I’m even gladder that my day is now looking so full there’ll be no time to think about Margot.

  Ten minutes later, Louis and I are in the basement “dungeon.”

  He looks around the stark room. “Charming. Not even a chair, huh?”

  “You’ll be allowed to sit down in the chimney room or in the library. And if you’re good, you can grab a quick lunch with me.”

  “I’m afraid there won’t be time for that today,” he says. “I have a meeting with the British PM, and then I fly home.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “British PM? That’s rather high-level for a tiny hidden-from-general-public principality’s envoy to France.”

  “It looks like I won’t be occupying that post much longer.”

  “But they just appointed you! Like, in late November or something.”

  “Correct.” He shoots me a triumphant glance. “Our own PM tapped me to be Mount Evor’s next foreign minister.”

  My jaw falls. “Congrats, cousin! I’m so proud of you!”

  I love Louis. He’s more than a cousin to me. He’s my second-best friend after Leo, and my business associate. There isn’t a shade of envy in the emotion I’m feeling right now. I am not at all covetous that he is, by all accounts, a worthier descendant of Isidore Pox-Face than I am. Louis’s dad—my maternal uncle—is a permanently inebriated douche, but Louis proved himself as the real deal, a strong man who was able to restore the honor of the dukes of Arrago. My joy about that fact doesn’t have a bitter tang.

  Naturally, the news of his upcoming nomination does not jack up my fear that I might fail where he succeeded and that the d’Alenq name will remain forever marred.

  He grins. “Thank you, bro!”

  “Did you say yes?” I have no doubt he did, so the question is a pure formality.

  “A career diplomat can’t really say no when offered a post like that.”

  “Sounds like an ‘accept the honor or quit’ kind of offer.”

  He nods. “I’m looking forward to the challenge, though.”

  “Of course, you are.”

  “And to living in Mount Evor again, after years of diplomatic service abroad!” His eyes sparkle. “I’ll be able to oversee the duchy and Falcon’s Nest much better from Pombrio than from Paris, or from Lisbon before that.”

  “What about Cannes?” He knows I don’t mean the town.

  “Our studio means the world to me, you know that, don’t you?”

  I nod. “It’s Grandfather Louis’s legacy. It means the world to all three of us.”

  “I’ll remain as involved as I can possibly manage.”

  “Good,” I say. “How does Camille feel about your return to Pombrio? I know she was happy in the French capital.”

  “Mount Evor has been growing on her lately.”

  We exchange a meaningful look. Louis’s betrothed used to be the most hated person in the country through no fault of her own. It was because of the long shadow cast by her traitor of a sister, Jeannette.

  From there, the conversation moves on to various Royal Riviera matters, the movie we’re making, and how we need to look into hiring a manager. Celeste hates administration, Louis has no time for it, and I am much better at raising money and running the artistic side of things than the day-to-day business of running a studio. Not to mention that bookkeeping fills me with dread.

  Half an hour later, Louis cuts to the chase. “Adam Von Dietz briefed me late last night about your upcoming museum visit. Well done, Jonas!”

  “I don’t have the key yet,” I point out. “But what gives me heart is that Kurt doesn’t seem to have caught on this time.”

  “Don’t underestimate him.”

  “I don’t. I’ve been extra circumspect.”

  He shoots me a narrow look. “Including with Leo?”

  “Including with Leo.” I let out an impatient sigh. “Adam is wrong to suspect him. Leo can’t be the mole.”

  A tiny smile touches my cousin’s lips. “Why? Because he’s a great guy, and we all love him? That makes for a perfect mole in my book.”

  “You don’t know him as well as I do.”

  Louis humphs, unconvinced.

  I begin to pace. My legs are achy from not moving… or maybe they’re strained from the sex Margot and I had on the staircase.

  “You know what I think?” I ask. “I think the mole in the palace panicked and got out after Camille and you uncovered what you did.”

  “It’s possible,” Louis admits.

  “It’s also possible that Kurt is too busy chasing the decoys you guys set up for him, or working on some other nefarious scheme of his. Don’t forget, we need six more keys to open the impenetrable vault, but he needs to get his hands on only one to stop us.”

  “How can I forget?”

  Did I manage to change his mind about Leo?

  I can’t be sure. What I am sure of is that they’ll all be groveling to him—the royals, the PM, Louis, Von Dietz—when it becomes clear he wasn’t the mole.

  After I send Louis on his way, Oli and I move the computer and some boxes from my bedroom back to my liberated office. I sink into my swivel chair. According to the clock on the wall, I still have three hours until my visit to Giselle’s museum.

  I feel drained. Not thinking about Margot is hard work.

  A woman shrieks somewhere in the house. I run out the door. The scream is coming from the kitchen on the ground floor. I race downstairs, skipping steps. When I erupt into the kitchen, I find Mrs. Everly standing on a chair.

  Her face is contorted with disgust as she points at a corner of the room. “It scurried under the cupboard! I’m so sorry, my lord, but the rodents, I just can’t…”

  “Was it a rat or a mouse?”

  “A mouse.”

  Oli arrives, panting, and nods to me, “I’ll deal it with, my lord.”

  I thank him and return to my office.

  But it’s too late. A memory is rushing at me, unstoppable, until it swallows me up.

  A woman shrieks somewhere in the house, rousing me from sleep. It’s seven in the morning. The shrieking continues, so I leap to my feet and run toward the voice. As I draw nearer, I realize the voice belongs to my sister-in-law, Donna. Her screams come from Dad’s office.

  I stop at the door and turn the handle. It’s locked.

  Donna keeps screaming and calling, “Help! Someone, help!”

  I step away from the door and kick it hard. It swings open. By now, I’m no longer alone. Celeste and Mom are standing behind me. The three of us rush into Dad’s office.

  The curtains are drawn to keep the morning light out, so it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. When they do, my mind struggles to comprehend what I’m seeing.

  Donna is lying on her back on the leather sofa, one leg folded over the back, the other hanging down. Dad is on top of her, heavy and perfectly still, with his bare butt in the air.

  Dear God. What happened here? Was he raping her?!

  “Stop staring and do something!” Donna yells at us, wild-eyed. “I think he had a heart attack!”

  Hunkering down, I hook my hands under Dad’s left arm and shoulder and tilt him to his side to free Donna. She crawls from under him, as stark naked as he is. With a quick glance at Mom, she ducks and crawls around the floor, fumbling for her clothes.

  Celeste helps me roll Dad onto his back. He isn’t breathing.

  I check for a pulse. Nothing. Leaning over him, I press my hands into his sternum and push rhythmically, willing the air back into his lungs. Mom covers his groin with the biggest cushion, and then collapses in an armchair, stunned. Celeste grabs the phone on Dad’s desk and punches in the three-digit number for emergency services.

  Outside, not too far away, a child cries. Matteo has been sick and very cranky for the past few days. Stephen has been the one to check on him multiple times during the night. He makes up for it by sleeping late in the morning when Donna takes over the watch.

  “Go to Matteo!” I bark at Mom. “Keep him out! If you see Stephen, keep him out, too!”

  Celeste and I will take turns performing the CPR until medics arrive. We don’t need Mom here. I don’t want her to be in the same room with her husband and daughter-in-law who just cuckolded her in her own house. And I sure as hell don’t want Stephen here, either.

  But Mom doesn’t budge. Her gaze is glassy, vacant. I don’t think she heard me through her shock. Matteo’s crying grows louder.

  I glance at Celeste who’s on the phone with the medics, giving them instructions on how to access the estate.

  “Shut the door!” I yell at Mom.

  I don’t dare to interrupt the CPR, even though it doesn’t seem to be working. My command snaps Mom out of her torpor, making her heave herself up and head to the door. But it’s too late.

  Stephen crosses the threshold with his five-year-old son in his arms. He takes in the scene in its entirety. Terrified, I watch his gaze travel from Dad’s stiff body—naked but for the cushion over his privates—to Donna who’s scrambling into her lacy nightgown.

  “I can explain,” Donna says to him. “We didn’t mean to…” She shuts up, seeing his face.

  Pale as death and wild-eyed, he lets go of Matteo to turn around and punch the wall. The boy lands on his butt on the fluffy rug. Without looking at him or a word to any of us, my brother staggers out the door, swaying once or twice as he walks down the hallway. It’s the last time I see him alive.

  CHAPTER 29

  JONAS

  I try to remain as inconspicuous as possible and reduce the risk of being followed by taking the Tube from Tottenham Court Road to Bankside. My destination is the Giselle Fisher Regency Museum off Southwark Bridge Road. It’s closed today, but I’m getting VIP treatment and a private tour from the owner and curator, Giselle.

  I disembark at Borough, walk the short distance to the address she gave me, and text her. Her reply is immediate.

  Opening! Building on your left.

  She buzzes me in. As I cross the courtyard garden, I rehearse in my head the different scenarios for how the next few hours could go. I’m fairly certain the fourth key is in there. The prophecy has never been wrong. Besides, Giselle mentioned she had many antique keys in her collection, including some not on public display. The ideal, easiest scenario is that she’ll sell me the key. I will then ping the undercover MESS agents on standby in the neighborhood. They’ll ensure my safety on the way to the London City Airport, where we’ll jet to Mount Evor.

  I enter the building where Giselle waits. Dolled up in a formfitting red dress with her blond mane cascading down her back, she greets me with a delighted smile.

  “It’s funny to see you dressed like this in contemporary clothes,” she says, blushing prettily.

  “I bet you prefer me spruced as Mr. Darcy!”

  She doesn’t deny it. “It’s not because you don’t look smashing now—you absolutely do—but I’ve been in love with Mr. Darcy for so long, you see…”

  I know what I should say at this point. “And you, Madam, you are just as ravishing in this modern dress as you were in your Regency gown.” It won’t be untrue. Giselle is a beauty. But, for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to utter those words.

  She fidgets with her wristwatch. “Do you mind if I keep calling you Mr. Darcy?”

  Oh, uh.

  She realizes I’m cringing at her request before I do. “Oh, forget what I said! It was silly.”

  “Shall we begin the tour?”

  We visit the furniture and tapestry showroom first, gazing at various pieces and breathing in the quintessential museum air—old wood, paper, and fabric spritzed with freshener. Our longest stop is before a square piano with a varnished surface that gleams with a golden hue. It’s angled toward the room with the lid open. It didn’t belong to Jane Austen, I’m informed, but it’s very similar to the ones she owned and played over the course of her life.

  Next, we wander through a spacious hallway converted into an art gallery. None of the landscapes and portraits hanging here are by the likes of Gainsborough, Reynolds or Constable, or any other gifted Georgian-era artist. Objectively, they suck. But Giselle is very proud of them, and so I make befittingly appreciative sounds before each of her favorites.

  An hour later, I can barely contain my agitation when we finally get to the third room dedicated to smaller objects. Giselle tells me about each significant artifact and how it came to be part of her collection. Dutifully, I stop at regular intervals to admire tea sets, books, boxes, figurines, letters, stationery, walking canes, and so on. Not to mention the highlight of the collection—Regency costumes.

  We halt before an impressive display case with a sheet music book.

  Giselle’s smile is so wide I fear her mouth might tear when she announces, “These scores were copied by Jane Austen herself! It’s her handwriting!”

  “Unbelievable!” I gush. “You must be very proud to have this in your museum.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Her enthusiasm would’ve been infectious if I weren’t so consumed by my quest for the key.

  At last, we get to a display case with a couple dozen antique keys in it. I know the vault key isn’t among them, but my heart ratchets, anyway.

  “Ta-da!” Giselle points at them, winking. “Your fetish objects.”

  I smile back, snap a few pics with my phone and then take the time to scrutinize each key. Some have intricate shapes while others are plain and simple in design, each unique. Unfortunately, they’re all too big and cut in a style that’s too different from the other three keys to the impenetrable vault. None could be a match.

  Giselle goes into detail about some of the keys—what kind of locks they opened, how they were used, and why they are so valuable today.

  When she’s done, I ask if I could take a look at the uncatalogued keys she had mentioned.

  “Sure,” she says, “just bear in mind that they aren’t as spectacular or valuable as these.”

  “That’s all right.”

  She beckons me to follow her, “Which is why they’re in a box in the reserve room rather than here, on display.”

  “I’ll adjust my expectations.”