Too Damn Rich (50 page)

Karl-Heinz nodded and followed him, glad to
turn his back on the stinging whirlwind of snow. Behind him, the
boarding stairs were retracted, the hinged door pulled shut, and
the helicopter rose, banked sharply, and climbed, like some giant
metallic insect recalled by the now- purpling sky, its roar
lessening until it soon faded altogether.

Upon reaching the mansion, the imposing front
door was opened from inside.

"Prince Karl-Heinz?" It was a second Secret
Service agent.

Karl-Heinz nodded and the agent stepped aside
to let them enter the oval, pilastered foyer with its grand
sweeping staircase.

"Sorry, sir. A mere formality." The agent
waited for Karl-Heinz to put down his suitcase. A swift,
professional frisk followed.

"
Mon dieu!"
rang out Becky's rich,
opulent voice from the landing above. "Really!" she said with
amusement. "I hardly think that's necessary."

The three men looked up.

Becky, clad in black turtleneck, one hand in
the pocket of her loose, pleated tan Garbo pants, the other on the
ebonized banister, was coming down the stairs. Making as casual and
devastating an entrance as Marlene Dietrich, or Garbo herself.

Upon reaching Karl-Heinz, she placed her
hands on his shoulders, hopped on tiptoe, and pecked his lips.

"
Cher ami
. You must forgive my
watchdogs their enthusiasm! They do mean well, you know."

She stepped back while the butler relieved
him of his cashmere coat and silk, cut-velvet scarf. At a signal
from her, both Secret Service agents made themselves scarce.

"They are most remarkable, you know," Becky
continued. "The way the Service trains them! Such fierce loyalty.
Can you believe, they will fling themselves directly into the line
of fire?"

She regarded Karl-Heinz with her incredible
violet eyes.

"I think, my dear Becky, that we would all
gladly do that, were it your life which was at stake."

"Surely you jest." But she smiled with
pleasure. "
D'accord
. Just leave your suitcase there. Someone
will see to it. Now come. Let us go into the sitting room. You will
have plenty of time to freshen up later."

She slid an arm through his and walked him
into the enormous room, where flaming logs fluttered in both marble
fireplaces.

Despite its crystal-chandeliered grandeur,
the yellow-lacquered room was comfortable with cigar smoke,
paintings, bookcases, and rich carpets. One entire wall of latticed
windows, framed by garnet velvet, looked out upon the cobalt blue
night beginning to fall.

But here inside, everything glowed with
warmth.

All around, in pools of soft lamplight, were
voluptuous couches upholstered in cognac suede and heaped with
petit point cushions. Deep comfortable armchairs of varying styles
which invited gossip, just as draped round tables, piled high with
books, encouraged reading and contemplation. And here, there, and
everywhere, bushes of rare orchids, branches bent under the weight
of heavy, brown-speckled blooms, had been placed in giant,
turquoise-glazed Sung dynasty bowls and amber Tang vessels.

Lord Rosenkrantz, rimless half glasses
perched on the tip of his nose, was ensconced in a scuffed, brown
leather club chair. He had a folded newspaper on his lap and a
glass of red wine, glowing like rubies, at his elbow. Expensive
cigar smoke swirled from a scintillating rectangle of crystal.

"Ah!" he boomed. "The guest of honor!" And
with a rye-crisp smile, he quoted: " 'Plots, true or false, are
necessary things, to raise up commonwealths—' "

" '—and ruin kings'?" Karl-Heinz finished for
him, arching an eyebrow in amusement.

"Let us fervently hope not, dear boy!" Lord
Rosenkrantz's cherubic features were rosy with a Boucher-like glow,
whether from the reading lamp at his side or the wine he'd
consumed, it was difficult to tell.

Becky waved a dismissive hand. "Don't listen
to his rubbish,
cheri
. Whatever this weekend portends, one
thing is for certain. At least it won't be boring." She slid
Karl-Heinz a sly sidelong smile. "
N'est-ce pas?
"

And with a swirl of her wide-legged trousers,
she kicked off her gold- buckled slippers, sank into the sofa
nearest the fire, and tucked her legs under her.

She gave the spot beside her an imperious
pat.

"Alors. You shall sit right here, Heinzie.
With me. Now, do you have a
preference
? Coffee? Tea? Or
perhaps something a bit stronger?"

He smiled. "Why? Do you think I shall be
needing it?"

"Take my advice, dear boy," Lord Rosenkrantz
called out, amid the crackling of newspaper. "Opt for
fortification. Remember, 'One can drink too much, but one never
drinks enough!' As for this weekend, I believe the latter, rather
than the former, shall hold true."

The Goldsmiths occupied Cedar Hill's "best
guest room"—Nina Fairey's term—a large north-facing room on the
second floor. Despite its size and period furnishings, it was by no
means luxurious. Rather, Dina thought to herself with mental
lip-pursing as Mrs. Pruitt, having lit a fire in the fireplace, now
marched briskly back out, heels clacking sharply on bare
floorboards, it was decidedly awfr'-luxury: puritanical, prudish,
and penitential as only authentic Colonial can be.

Dina, huddled in her ranch mink, glanced
around with growing despair. Everywhere, her luxury-seeking eyes
met nothing but relentless sobriety.

It was evident in the rectitude of the
four-poster, skeletal, without bedhangings, and covered with a
patchwork quilt. In the no-nonsense, three-paneled oak chest at the
foot of the bed. In the primness of the unadorned, free-standing
wardrobe. In the kneehole bureau which, thanks to a plain,
mahogany-framed mirror, doubled as a dressing table. Even in the
two very early Early American armchairs which flanked a chest of
drawers.

The only concession to decoration was on the
wall: a dour pair of naive portraits—husband and wife—both of whom
projected silent disapproval, she in a stiff lace bonnet and
holding a prayer book, he in what appeared to be clerical garb.

Turning her back on them, Dina drew close to
the fire and stood, hands extended, soaking up whatever warmth it
gave off while waiting— she prayed not in vain!—for the heat to
come on, but not daring to go so far as to tempt fate by actually
looking around for evidence of radiators or heating vents. Since
none had caught her eye thus far, she was afraid that—

She squashed the thought.

Surely the Faireys could not be such radical
purists that their passion for authenticity precluded them from
having installed central heating.

Could it?

Mr. Pruitt trod in and set down the last two
of Dina's six Vuitton cases. "That's it, then," he said, leaving
before she could pluck up her courage to inquire about the
heat.

Crossing her arms, she tucked her hands into
the armpits of her fur sleeves and glanced through the arch to the
adjoining sitting room.

Robert, who couldn't give a damn about his
surroundings so long as he had a roof over his head, was right at
home. Seated on a stiff camel- back sofa, cellular phone in hand,
the Pembroke table in front of him littered with the usual
detritus—ashtray, cigars, pens, calculator, laptop computer, and
the inevitable sheafs of reports and printouts. No doubt making
money in some far-off time zone where the business day was just
beginning.

Dina tightened her lips in annoyance.
Obviously, no sympathy would be offered from that quarter. Not that
she'd expected any. In truth, she had never understood how her
husband could go through life oblivious to everything but business
and sex. And not necessarily in that order.

Abruptly disgusted with him, she paced the
bedroom. She had to find something to do to keep her mind off the
cold. If she didn't, she would go stark raving mad.

But what?

She eyed her suitcases malevolently.

No, keeping herself occupied did not extend
to unpacking, especially considering that she had brought at least
six times as many clothes as that single dreary wardrobe could
hold.

"What did I do to deserve this?" she wailed.
"Oh, why can't I be back home? Or at least someplace nice and
warm?"

But of course, she knew why.

How could she forget how quickly she'd jumped
at the chance to play matchmaker. Now here she was, regretting it
already!

Talk about learning the hard way, she
thought. This will teach me. From now on, I'll find out exactly
what I'm getting into before I commit to something!

She became aware of knuckles rapping on the
door.

Now what! she wanted to scream. I'm miserable
enough! Can't I be left in peace?

The knocks continued.

Narrowing her eyes, she scraped her chair
around. "What?" she shouted.

The door opened just enough for an
inappropriately cheerful face to peer around the jamb. "Getting
settled, are you?" Zandra asked brightly.

And suddenly the door burst wide open. The
two huge dogs, tails wagging furiously, forced their way past and
headed straight for Dina— nearly knocking her over as they leaped
up on her and bestowed ecstatic licks.

"Help! Help! Ugh!" Dina covered her face with
mink-sheathed arms to avoid the slobbering tongues. "Sweetie!" she
cried desperately. "Get these brutes off me! I'm going to get
bitten!"

"Oh, honestly," Zandra drawled. "Don't you
know anything? They're retrievers. Absolute marvels. Don't make
good watchdogs, though ... would hold a flashlight for a
burglar."

"I don't care! They're smelly and disgusting!
I hate animals! I—"

"Nonsense. Never met anyone could hate a
retriever. They're the absolute greatest. Aw, will you look at
that? Darling, they adore you!"

As if to prove it, the male tightened his
forelegs around Dina's knees and started humping her legs.

"Zandra!" Dina screamed. "Do something! I'm
being raped by a dog!"

"But, darling, you really can't blame him. I
mean, look at yourself. You're one big frightfully furry thing.
Teach you to stop wearing poor slaughtered little minks!"

"Zandra! If you don't get these monsters off
me right this very minute, so help me God, I'm ... I'm going to
call the ASPCA!"

"No reason to get your nose out of joint. I'm
getting them off you. Might take me a minute."

Zandra grabbed hold of both dogs' collars and
tugged.

"George!" She tried for an assertive tone.
"Get down. Down, I say. Martha. Sit. Sit!"

"Zandra?" Dina peeked out from between her
arms. "Did I hear you call them ... George? And Martha?"

"As in Washington. Yes. Aren't they splendid,
though? How ever could you not like them?"

Easily, Dina thought. Now that the dogs were
obediently seated, tails thumping on pegged pine, drooly jaws
panting like bellows, she cautiously lowered her arms.

"Oh, no!" she wailed in distress.

"Darling, what is it now?"

Dina gestured at herself. "Just look at me! I
have dog hair ... and ... what's this? Slime! Slime—all over me!
And this is my very best Maximilian natural Red Glow mink—"

"God's sake, darling. It's hardly the end of
the world. Chill out."

"Chill out?" Dina, quivering with rage,
stared at Zandra incredulously. "Chill out, did you say? What do
you think I've been doing? Sitting in a sauna? Enjoying this
blistering heat?"

"Granted, it's rather on the cool side. So?
Doesn't mean you can't wash up and change."

"Wash up?" Dina's voice dripped sarcasm. "Am
I being led to understand that there's running water in this house?
Hot running water?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Well, forget it. I'm not about to get
undressed in this cold. Do you have any idea what the temperature
must be?"

"Higher, I suspect, than in most stately
homes in England. Anyway, why do you think I advised you to buy
sweaters?"

"There." Dina pointed an offending finger at
the row of Vuittons. "In whichever one Darlene packed them."

"Darling, you mean ... you haven't even begun
to unpack?"

"How could I? There aren't any closets."

Zandra took a quick visual inventory.
"There's this chest ..." She pointed at the foot of the bed. "...
that dresser ... and that's surely a wardrobe ..."

"I know," Dina gloomed. "I just can't bring
myself to do it!"

"Tell you what, darling." Zandra grabbed the
nearest Vuitton case, swung it effortlessly up on the bed, and
sprang the brass latches. "You see about getting cleaned up, and
I'll do your unpacking. How's that for a deal."

Dina looked at her blearily. "Sweetie?" she
whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You'd really do that? For
me?"

"Especially for you, pain in the arse though
you may be!"

"You're too wonderful, sweetie. Too, too!"
For the first time since setting foot in the house, Dina glowed
with radiance. "Yes. I think I will get cleaned up after all. Mmmm
..."

She tapped her lips with a peppermint-nailed
finger.

"But first I have to use the phone." She
glanced through the connecting arch. "And Robert's glued to the
cellular."

"So? What's wrong with this one?" Zandra
gestured at an old black rotary phone on one of the
nightstands.

"No," Dina said quickly. She was terrified
that Zandra, overhearing the conversation, would put two and two
together. And that had to be avoided. Zandra must never discover
the scheme Becky and I hatched, Dina thought. If she finds out
about it, she might well be furious.

It could also, she realized, put a severe
strain on their friendship, something which hadn't even occurred to
her before.

Although it's a little late to get cold feet
now. I should have thought of the consequences earlier.