Chapter 3
The waiter approached, paused at the edge of our table, and sensed the coldness radiating from us like winter from a cracked door.
“Would madam care to order?”
I did not look up from the paperwork. “The duck confit. And another glass of champagne.”
Julian gave a short laugh. “You’re staying for dinner?”
I signed the final page and placed the pen down beside my knife.
“It’s Bellacourt,” I said. “I used to love it.”
Something passed over his face then. Not guilt. Julian had trained guilt out of himself the way some men train softness out of their voices. It was annoyance. I was not performing according to the script, and my wrong lines were ruining his scene.
I lifted the stack of papers, tapped the edges neatly against the table, and slid them back to him.
“There,” I said. “Happy anniversary.”
Penelope gave a small, incredulous laugh. “That’s it?”
I turned my head toward her. She was very beautiful. Younger than I was by seven years, but it was not youth that made her glow. It was victory. She was wearing it like perfume.
“No,” I said. “That is not it.”
At exactly that moment, the doors of Bellacourt opened.
A man stepped inside with rain on the shoulders of his coat.
He was tall, silver-haired, and severe in the way old money sometimes looks less like wealth than weathered stone. Behind him came two women in dark suits and a uniformed officer whose presence changed the temperature of the room. Conversations thinned. Forks paused halfway to mouths. The hostess hurried toward the entrance and then stopped, uncertain whether to greet them or retreat.
Julian looked over my shoulder.
His face emptied.
It was subtle. A slight loosening around the eyes. A pause in the breath. The smallest slip of the mask.
But I saw it.
“Sadie,” he said quietly. “What did you do?”
I smiled then.
Not widely. Not cruelly. Just enough for him to understand that he had mistaken the evening’s stage manager.
The silver-haired man removed his gloves.
“Julian Whitmore?” he asked.
Julian stood, knocking his knee against the table. Champagne trembled in every glass.
“I’m Julian Whitmore.”
“My name is Arthur Bell,” the man said. “I represent the estate of Eleanor Hartwell.”
My grandmother’s name moved through the air like a match struck in darkness.
Penelope’s smile vanished.
Arthur Bell’s eyes shifted to her throat.
“And I believe,” he continued, “that the necklace currently in Miss Morrison’s possession is the Hartwell diamond necklace, listed as a protected family heirloom under the estate covenant dated March 3, 1989.”
Julian’s face hardened. “This is a private dinner.”
“So I gathered,” Arthur said. “Mrs. Whitmore asked me to attend because she suspected stolen estate property would be present.”
The word stolen landed harder than any shout could have.
Penelope’s hand clamped over the necklace. “It wasn’t stolen. Julian gave it to me.”
Arthur did not look impressed. “Mr. Whitmore had no legal authority to give it to anyone.”
Julian turned on me. “You called a lawyer?”
“No,” I said. “I called my grandmother’s lawyer.”
A murmur traveled through nearby tables. Marcus lowered his phone for the first time.
Victoria whispered, “Oh my God.”
Derek looked as if he wanted to crawl beneath the table and live among the chair legs.
Julian tried to smile, but his mouth failed him. “This is absurd. Sadie gave me permission to have it cleaned.”
“Yes,” I said. “Cleaned. Not transferred. Not appraised under false pretenses. Not insured under another woman’s name. Not worn to a restaurant by your assistant.”
Penelope’s eyes flicked to Julian. Something ugly passed between them, quick and panicked.
The officer stepped forward. “Miss Morrison, I’m going to ask you to remove the necklace.”
Penelope recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Penelope,” Julian said sharply.
She stared at him. “You said it was yours.”
Julian did not answer quickly enough.
That silence did more damage than confession.
I leaned back as my champagne arrived. The waiter, pale but steady, set the glass down with the delicacy of a man placing flowers on a grave.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded and fled.
Arthur opened a leather folder. “There is more. Mrs. Whitmore also retained an independent auditor three weeks ago. The preliminary findings were delivered this evening.”
Marcus went still.
Julian’s head turned slowly toward his business partner.
“No,” Marcus said immediately. “No, don’t look at me.”
I took a sip of champagne. It was cold and bright and perfect.
Arthur continued, “Hartwell Capital Seed Fund. Established by Eleanor Hartwell. Sole beneficiary after her death: Sadie Hartwell Whitmore. Managing signatory by marriage: Julian Whitmore.”
Penelope looked confused.
May you like
Marcus did not.
Derek did.
