From the neck down, he was irreproachable. A pale-pink shirt, a navy-blue knitted silk tie, a blazer and gray flannels that Hayward had made for him in London long ago, when the money was coming in, and cordovan shoes from St. James’s. He had always bought the best clothes that he could afford, classic rather than fashionable, following the principle that a prosperous appearance was a business asset, particularly when business wasn’t going too well. Millionaires could afford to dress like their gardeners. Bennett didn’t have that luxury. In fact, he enjoyed the feeling of well-made, well-fitting clothes that seemed to improve with age.

  He chose a silk handkerchief from the drawer, and was tucking it into the top pocket of his blazer when he felt a small obstruction. Smiling to himself, he pulled out a sachet of dried lavender. Georgette had developed the habit of seasoning his clothes, and he was constantly finding sprigs of thyme and rosemary or small tablets of mimosa soap among his socks and underwear. The lavender sachets were new. He was grateful that she’d decided against garlic as the flavor of the month. With a final tweak of his pocket handkerchief, he left the house and headed for the Domaine des Rochers.

  ——

  The D36 twists south from Bonnieux, becoming the D943 as it continues down through the Lubéron toward the flatter, less savage country around Lourmarin. It is a narrow corkscrew of a road, cut through rock, the perfect setting by night for the twentieth-century highwayman. Rumors of armed robberies had been circulating recently in village cafés, and the story was always the same. A car, seemingly broken down, blocks the road, with a lone figure standing beside it. The unsuspecting motorist stops to offer help. Friends of the lone figure then jump out from their hiding place in the bushes, often with guns. The helpful motorist is left with a ten-mile walk to civilization, while his car is being processed for resale in a backstreet Marseille garage.

  But on a fine spring evening, with the sun still catching the high limestone peaks, the road offered some spectacular views, and Bennett was in the best of spirits as he slowed down to go through the iron gates that marked the entrance to Poe’s property. The coarse gravel track was smooth and well maintained, curving to follow the contours of the land, always rising. Poe had apologized over the phone for its length, which was nearly ten miles, but had said that the destination was worth the drive.

  And so it was. Bennett came around the final sweep of gravel, and stopped the car to look, astonished, at the view before him.

  It was as though the crest of the mountain had been sliced off to form an immense plateau level enough to build on. Immediately in front of Bennett’s car, a broad alley of stout old plane trees led, in two perfectly straight lines half a mile long, to a massive arch that pierced a high stone wall. Behind the wall, Bennett could see the slopes of roof tiles, a warm, faded terra-cotta in the evening sun, with the tower of a pigeonnier at one corner of what appeared to be a courtyard. In the distance beyond the buildings, the Grand Lubéron stretched away to the eastern horizon. To the north, the bald white cap of Mont Ventoux; to the south, the plains leading to Aix, Marseille, and the Mediterranean. Nowhere, in the entire sweep of the view, was there any sign of a power cable, a pylon, or another building. It was the most perfectly sited property Bennett had ever seen.

  He drove slowly down the alley of plane trees, wondering what the owner of such a place did if he ran out of milk or cigarettes on a rainy night, with the nearest village fifteen miles away. But then, of course, people like Poe didn’t run out. Servants made sure of that.

  With a heightening sense of anticipation, Bennett drove through the arch and pulled in next to the dark-green Range Rover and the long black Citroën that were parked to one side of the huge courtyard. He walked toward the house, past a fountain that would have done credit to a medium-sized village with its three great stone gargoyles spouting water into a circular bassin, and was searching for something as modern as a bell when the high carved double doors swung open. A man in a black suit, tall for a Japanese, bowed his head.

  “Monsieur Bennett?”

  Bennett bowed back.

  “Please follow.”

  They went down a long hallway, polished flagstones softened by the subdued gleam of Iranian rugs. Bennett ran a surreptitious finger along the top of an antique oak game table. Not a speck of dust. Georgette would have approved, he thought, and then whistled softly to himself as they entered a space that was big enough to have kept her busy until she qualified for her pension.

  The low ceiling of the classic Provençal farmhouse had been removed, probably at the cost of several upstairs rooms, and the traditional small windows replaced by high, wide slabs of plate glass set into the stone walls, which had the effect of bringing the view into the house. Beyond the rows of lavender and groups of olive trees, Bennett could see the post-and-rail fencing of a paddock, with a chestnut horse contemplating the sunset. The scene might have been arranged for a photographer, he thought, and turned to look at the equally photogenic interior.

  The flames of a log fire danced and sputtered in a cut-stone fireplace with a mantel the height of a standing man. Arranged on the putty-colored plaster walls around the room were dozens of paintings and vintage black-and-white photographs in a variety of frames and styles, Sisley next to Hockney, Hopper next to Lartigue. The furniture was large, soft, and covered in those artfully faded materials that make interior decorators giddy with delight. It was a comfortable, stylish room, and standing with his back to it, silhouetted against the plate glass with a portable phone held to his ear, was the figure of a man who Bennett assumed was Julian Poe.

  “Monsieur?”

  Bennett turned abruptly, and would have knocked the glass of champagne off the tray if the Japanese hadn’t swayed backward, smooth as a boxer avoiding a punch. He nodded at Bennett. “Perhaps you would like to sit.”

  Bennett took the champagne and smiled at him. “Thanks. No, I think I’ll stand, actually. Stretch the legs.”

  The Japanese inclined his head again, and retired on noiseless feet as Bennett went over to the fireplace for a closer look at the paintings. One or two of them, he was sure, he’d seen in museums in Paris. Had Poe lent them? Could they be fakes? They certainly didn’t look it, although you never knew nowadays. He was wondering if the subject was too delicate to raise, when he heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see the smiling face and outstretched hand of his host.

  “Box Eighty-four, I presume?”

  3

  BENNETT’S first impression was that he was meeting someone who had strayed from the pages of a magazine article about men of distinction. Julian Poe was glossy, from the top of his immaculately barbered graying head to the radiant toe caps of his dark-brown shoes, which had the deep, well-established glow that can only be achieved by years of diligent polishing. A black cashmere cardigan was slung around his shoulders, over a heavy silk shirt the color of clotted cream. The trousers were light-tan gabardine. Bennett was glad he’d dressed up for the occasion, and made a mental note to pay his tailor’s bill as soon as he was in funds again.

  “I see Shimo’s already given you a drink. I wonder if he’s got one for me.” Poe looked around as the Japanese glided toward him. “Ah, splendid.” He took the glass and handed his phone to Shimo. “Your health, Mr. Bennett.”

  Bennett raised his glass, watching as Poe took his first, reflective sip. Bennett put his age at a well-preserved fifty, the tanned face barely lined, the body upright and trim, the stomach flat.

  “That’s better.” Poe smiled at Bennett. “I find if I drink at lunchtime, the afternoon’s a blur; if I don’t, I’m gasping by six. I hope you had no trouble finding us?”

  Bennett shook his head. “I must say, you have a wonderful place here. I know the Lubéron pretty well, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “There isn’t anything like it. I spent five years looking for it, and almost as long licking it into shape.” He turned toward the window. “Why don’t we pop outside and see the last of the sun.” He took a small black wafer the size of a credit card from his pocket and aimed it at the plate glass, which slid back into the wall. The two men walked across the terrace and down toward the paddock.

  “On the way up the drive,” said Bennett, “I was wondering what you do about all those practical things—electricity, the odd loaf of bread. You’re not exactly next door to the supermarket.”

  “Oh, we muddle along,” said Poe. “There are two generators in that barn, half a dozen live-in staff, and we stock up once a week in Nice. It’s a forty-five-minute hop. Look over there, at the stand of cypresses. You can just see it.”

  Bennett followed the direction of Poe’s casual nod and saw the helicopter, squatting like a giant dark-green grasshopper behind the screen of the trees. He was starting to make polite helicopter conversation when the hurried thud of hoofbeats made them turn their heads. Two horses and their riders appeared from the trees below the paddock, galloping hard as they came out of a shallow depression in the meadow. Bennett heard a girl’s laughter, and then a shout as the horses changed direction and came up to them.

  The girl swung down from the saddle, easy and supple. Her companion, a heavyset man with a dark, Gypsy face, touched his cap to Poe and led both horses off toward the small block of stables beside the paddock.

  Poe was beaming, and Bennett could understand why. The girl must have been six feet tall, with tangled shoulder-length brown hair, a wide, full mouth, and a flush that set off high, prominent cheekbones. Her riding breeches were tight enough to show that she didn’t have a weight problem, and as she ran toward them it was delightfully apparent to Bennett that she didn’t believe in bras. He was sure he’d seen her before, and couldn’t imagine that he’d forgotten where.

  “Salut, chéri.” She offered Poe both cheekbones to be kissed, and turned to look at Bennett with feline, slightly slanted green eyes under raised eyebrows.

  “Chou-Chou, this is Mr. Bennett. He lives over in Saint-Martin.”

  Chou-Chou extended a gloved hand. Bennett would have preferred the cheekbones, and wondered if this was Poe’s daughter or another perfect accessory. “Enchanté.”

  Poe slipped an arm around Chou-Chou’s waist and let his hand rest on her hip. It was a possessive rather than a paternal gesture, Bennett thought, and regretfully dismissed the daughter theory.

  “It’s turning chilly,” Poe said. “Let’s go inside and have a chat.”

  Chou-Chou made her excuses, and went upstairs to bathe and change. The two men settled in front of the fire, their glasses refilled by the hovering Shimo, and Bennett noticed, with a certain wry amusement, that they had automatically adopted the rich man/poor man positions, Poe leaning back in his chair, Bennett leaning forward in his.

  “I was intrigued by something in your advertisement,” Poe said. “You remember? Anything considered except marriage. You don’t look like a man bearing the scars of matrimony.” He cocked his head. “Or have they healed now?”

  Bennett shrugged. “No. I’ve never tried it. My parents rather put me off.” And with occasional smiles and nods of encouragement from Poe, he described his abbreviated family tree. His mother was Italian, a competent soprano with a diva’s ego; his father was one of those eccentrics that England specializes in producing—part writer, part explorer, a misfit born in the wrong century. He was constantly away, bicycling through the Himalayas, studying flora in the Andes, living with nomads in the Hindu Kush. He was drawn to high, lonely places, returning to London as little as possible, but it was on one of these visits that he and Bennett’s mother, singing a minor role at Covent Garden, had met. Led astray by passion, and mistaking it for love, they had married. Bennett was the result, but domestic life had no appeal for either parent. The infant was farmed out to a distant relative in Dorset, then sent to boarding school. His father disappeared, clutching a rucksack and a Bantu phrase book. His mother absconded to Milan with a young tenor who had a good leg for tights. Bennett grew up in the company of other boys with wandering parents.

  Bennett paused for breath and champagne. Poe nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I can imagine that would give you a jaundiced view of the joys of family life. Do you ever see them—your mother and father?”

  Bennett thought back over the years. He wouldn’t know his mother if they passed in the street. The last time he’d seen his father, he’d been eighteen, and he had been bidden to lunch at his father’s London club to discuss his career. He remembered it well—nursery food, pallid and bland, excellent wine, his father’s gaunt, rutted face with the distant, mad eyes of a man addicted to hundred-mile views and uncomfortable in the proximity of people. Over coffee, he had delivered his career advice to Bennett: “Don’t care what you do really, as long as you’re not a ballet dancer.” This jewel of wisdom had been accompanied by a check for a thousand pounds and a glass of port. Since then, Bennett hadn’t seen his father, although he had received a postcard from Kashmir, wishing him a happy twenty-first birthday. He’d been twenty-four at the time.

  Poe was laughing. “Forgive me,” he said, “but it’s not without its funny side.” He looked at his watch. “I hope you can stay for dinner. I’d like to hear more, and we’re having the last winter menu tonight. I think you’ll find it’s one of the more enjoyable aspects of domestic life.”

  Bennett was happy to accept. He had obviously passed the first test, and he found himself liking Poe, as people always tend to like a good listener. He finished his champagne, and wondered if Chou-Chou was going to slip into a little décolleté number for the evening. Things were looking up.

  “If you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, it’s through there, just off the hall.” Bennett, by now a keen judge of bathrooms and lavatories, took the opportunity to pay a nonprofessional visit, and found himself in a room that resembled a miniature photographer’s gallery with plumbing. The walls were covered with souvenirs of the sporting life—Poe on skis, on boats, with guns and various dead creatures, presumably in Africa, or standing beside monstrous fish suspended from winches. Poe’s living companions were all men, all bronzed, all smiling in the perpetual sunlight that brightens the lives of the rich and privileged. Bennett, wondering what Poe did to pay for it all, dried his hands on a discreetly monogrammed towel, then went back to join his host.

  Poe was once again on the phone, and Bennett was about to resume his study of the pictures around the fireplace when Chou-Chou came into the room, moving with the swaying strut of a catwalk model. The dress was fashionably skimpy, the legs were long, the heels were high. Bennett instinctively straightened his tie.

  Chou-Chou smiled. “Julian’s always on the phone when I need him. Can you help me?” She handed Bennett a heavy chain of gold links. “It’s a very complicated fastening.” Turning her back on him, she swept up her hair. Bennett stood on tiptoe and inhaled the scent, musky and expensive, coming from the exposed nape of her neck as he fumbled with the catch.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t had much practice with necklaces. But if you ever need a hand with a bow tie, I’m an ace. There.” He stepped away, the curtain of hair came down, and his pulse rate returned to normal.

  “Thanks,” said Chou-Chou. “Julian usually takes much longer to do it.”

  Can’t say I blame him, Bennett thought. “Tell me something,” he said. “I know we haven’t met before, but I’m sure I’ve seen your face. Do you do any modeling?”

  She shrugged. “Not anymore. Julian—”

  “Let me hear nothing but good about Julian.” Poe had finished his call and was looking at them, a half-smile on his face. “You must forgive the phone calls. Those people on Wall Street have no respect for European hours. I often think they wait until they know I’m about to have dinner. Let’s go in, shall we? I’m famished.”

  Chou-Chou led the way, with Bennett, who counted walking behind pretty women as one of the small rewards of life, doing his best to keep his eyes off the undulant hips and the impressive length of her legs. She had to duck to go through the low doorway and into a smaller, vaulted room lit by candles, where Shimo ushered them to their seats and nodded to the young serving girl standing in the corner. Poe shook out his napkin and tucked it into the collar of his shirt, and Bennett, remembering Georgette’s comments on the English and their napkins, did the same.

  Poe rubbed his hands. “You’re in luck tonight, Mr. Bennett. We’re having the last of the truffles. They’re a weakness of mine. You know all about them, I’m sure.”

  “A bit. They’re a little beyond my budget at the moment.”

  Poe nodded in sympathy. “This past season, they were going at four thousand francs a kilo. My American friends find it hard to believe—four hundred dollars a pound. And that’s what the old rogue in Carpentras calls a friend’s price. Double that in Paris. The whole business is full of scoundrels. Fascinating. Ah, thank you, Shimo.” Poe lifted the wineglass, inspected the color, presented the glass to his nose and breathed in. Bennett imagined he was the sort of man who sent the wine back in his own house if it didn’t come up to expectations.

  “Now then. Where were we in the Bennett life story? I seem to remember you’d been put off the idea of becoming a ballet dancer, but I’m sure you managed to overcome the disappointment. What happened next?”

  What happened next had been an extended period of drifting, from job to job, from country to country. He had taught English literature with little satisfaction in a small private school in Connecticut, and then tried his hand at public relations in New York before taking a job with a film production company in London. That he had liked, and he’d been good enough at it to be sent to Paris as the head of the French office. He’d built the business up, acquired shares in it, and prospered.

  Poe held up his hand. “Let’s leave you there prospering while we deal with these. It wouldn’t do to let them get cold.”