heir first Christmas together at the château was blissful. Bernard was so obviously in love with her that it made people smile to watch them together. And being back in the château at Christmas again brought back a million memories for her, some of them beautiful, and some of them finally less painful, because he was with her. She talked to Billy in Iowa on Christmas Eve, and he was happy for her, but still worried that she didn’t know her husband well enough and had been too impulsive about getting married. And she reassured him as best she could. She had never been as happy in her life. “Who would have thought a year ago that I’d have been living in Marmouton again this Christmas,” she said dreamily to Billy on the phone, and he smiled wistfully, remembering the time they had spent together. He was still recovering from the shock of knowing that she was married now, and not coming back to Iowa, except maybe for a visit someday. He was seeing a lot of his girlfriend Debbi, but missing Marie-Ange. Nothing was the same anymore.

“Who would have thought a year ago that you’d turn out to be an heiress, and I’d be driving a new Porsche.” In some ways it seemed fitting even to him that she would be a countess. And he hoped for her that Bernard would turn out to be everything she thought he was. But Billy was still leery of him. It had all happened so quickly.

Life continued in the same fast pace for Bernard and Marie-Ange after the holidays. They traveled back and forth to Paris and stayed at his apartment. It was small but beautiful and filled with wonderful antiques. In January, she discovered she was pregnant, and Bernard was ecstatic. He kept talking about how old he was, how much he wanted a child with her, and that he hoped it would be an heir for his title. He desperately wanted a son.

And within days of her announcing to him that their first child was on the way, the renovation on Marmouton began, and within weeks the château was a shambles. Suddenly, they were redoing everything, the roof, the walls, the long French windows were being enlarged, the height of the doorways. He had a spectacular new kitchen planned, a brand-new master suite for them, a nursery that he promised her would look like a fairy tale, and a movie theater in the basement. The entire electrical system was being revamped, along with the plumbing. It was a massive undertaking that far exceeded Marie-Ange’s understanding of what he’d planned, and it was easy to figure out that it was going to be staggeringly expensive. He was even planting endless acres of new vineyards and orchards. But Bernard told Marie-Ange that he wanted her home to be perfect for her. The work was being designed by his architect friend from Paris. And there were dozens of workers everywhere.

And Bernard also promised her that much of the interior work would be done by the time she had the baby in September. And when she called Billy again, she told him she was pregnant.

“You sure didn’t waste any time, did you?” he said, still sounding worried about her. Everything seemed to be happening to her with the speed of sound, and she told him that Bernard was anxious to start a family with her, as he was so much older than she was, and had lost his only son.

She had also written to her Aunt Carole to tell her about the changes in her life, but she had had no answer. It was as though her great-aunt had closed the door on her and moved on.

By March, the château was covered with scaffolding, there were workmen everywhere, and they spent more time in Paris. And although Bernard’s apartment was small for both of them, it was a splendid pied-à-terre, with grand reception rooms, high ceilings, and beautiful old boiseries and wood paneling. It was filled with expensive antiques, paintings he had inherited from his family, and Aubusson carpets. It was indeed an apartment fit for a countess. But they both preferred Marmouton.

And in the summer, he told her that they needed to get away from the construction at the château, and their absence would allow the workmen to move faster. He had rented a villa in Sain t-Jean-Cap-Fer rat for them, and a two-hundred-foot motor yacht that went with it. And he had invited a number of his friends to visit them there.

“My God, Bernard, how you spoil me!” She laughed when she saw the house and yacht in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. They had them for the month of July, and by August they planned to be in Marmouton again, as by then, she would be eight months pregnant, and wanted to slow down. She was going to have the baby at the hospital in Poitiers.

The time they spent in the South of France seemed like magic to her. They went out, saw his friends, and the villa was constantly filled with houseguests from Rome, Munich, London, and Paris. And everyone who visited them saw how happy they were and was delighted for them.

Her time with Bernard had been the happiest nine months of her life, and they were both excited about the baby. The nursery was ready when they got back to Marmouton, and Bernard had hired a local girl as a nanny for her. And their sumptuous master suite was completed for them at the end of August, but the rest of the château was still a work in progress. But so far, despite the amount of work they’d done, there hadn’t been a single problem. Everything was going according to plan.

It was on the morning of September first, as she was folding tiny little shirts in the nursery, that the local contractor came to find her. He said he had some questions to ask her about the ongoing work on the plumbing. Bernard had put in fabulous new marble bathrooms, with Jacuzzis, enormous tubs, and even several saunas.

But she was startled when, at the end of his conversation with her, the contractor seemed reluctant to leave the room and looked awkward. There was obviously something on his mind, and when she asked him pointedly what it was, he told her.

His bills had not been paid since the work began, although the count had promised him a payment in March, and another larger one in August. And all of the other suppliers who were working for them were encountering the same problem. She wondered if Bernard simply hadn’t had time to get to it, or had forgotten while they were on the Riviera. But what she discovered, as she questioned the man, was that no one had been paid since the beginning of the project. And when she asked him if he had an idea of what was currently owed to them, he told her he wasn’t sure, but that it was well over a million dollars. She stared at him in astonishment as he told her the numbers. She had never thought to ask Bernard what he was paying to restore the château, and even improve it. When he was through, it was going to be impeccable outside, and state of the art inside. But it had never occurred to her what it would cost him to restore the château for her.

“Are you sure?” Marie-Ange asked the contractor in disbelief. “It can’t be that much.” How could it be? How could it possibly cost that much to redo the château? She was embarrassed that Bernard was planning to spend that much on it, and felt guilty for all the changes she had approved. And she promised the contractor to discuss it with her husband that night, when he got back from a brief business trip to Paris. He hadn’t actually worked in the past year, although he went to Paris for meetings several times a month, but she knew that they were to meet with his advisers on his own investments. He had told her he was loath to go back to working at the bank, he wanted to spend time with her, and concentrate on the construction they were doing. And in the fall, he wanted to spend more time with her and the baby, and she was flattered and pleased that he wanted to do that.

But that night, when he got home, she mentioned her meeting with the contractor, and was embarrassed to bother him about it. She said simply that some of the suppliers had not been paid, and she wondered if his Paris secretary had somehow forgotten to send the payments. And much to her relief, Bernard didn’t seem worried about it. She also told him how sorry she was that the renovation was costing him so dearly.

“It’s worth every penny of it, my love,” he said with a tenderness and ease that touched her deeply. He begrudged her nothing. In fact, he constantly spoiled her, with small gifts and large ones. He had bought a beautiful Jaguar for her in June, and himself a new Bentley. And he told her now that he had been waiting for some investments to clear before he paid the contractor a large balloon payment. He had told her he was heavily invested in oil in the Middle East, and he had other holdings in a variety of countries, and he didn’t want to lose money selling them while the various international markets fluctuated. It sounded perfectly sensible to her, as it would have to anyone, she assumed. In fact, he said, with a look of mild embarrassment, he had been thinking about asking her to use some of her funds temporarily, as everything she had was fairly liquid, and he would repay her when some of his investments matured, in early October. It was a matter of a month or six weeks, but would satisfy their creditors, and Marie-Ange saw no problem with it. She told him to do whatever he wanted to handle it, she trusted him completely. He said he’d handle it with her bank, and would have her sign whatever was needed to make the transfers. But she was still apologetic to him about what it would eventually cost him, and offered to alter some of what they’d planned so it would be less expensive.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my love. I want everything to be perfect for you. All you have to think about is having the baby.” Which was what she did for the next two weeks. She put the entire matter of the construction bills out of her mind, particularly after he had her sign the papers to make the transfer from her account to his. And the contractor assured her the following week that everyone was satisfied now. It didn’t even worry her that she had advanced a million and a half dollars to cover it, because Bernard was going to reimburse her shortly. It still amazed her to be talking about that kind of money, and she had assured the head of the trust department at her bank, when he questioned her, that it was only a temporary transfer.

She spent the next two weeks taking long walks with Bernard in the familiar woods she loved, and going out to dinner with him. Everything at the château was ready for their baby, although the rest of the work still continued.

The baby came on schedule, late one night, and Bernard drove her to Poitiers when the pains got strong enough. He took her to the hospital in style, like a queen, in his new Bentley. And he was pleased that the delivery was quick and easy, and the baby, a little girl, was beautiful and healthy. She was the portrait of her mother. And they named her Heloise. Heloise Françoise Hawkins de Beauchamp, and brought her home two days later.

Marie-Ange fell instantly in love with her, and Bernard made a huge fuss over both mother and baby. There was champagne and caviar when they got home, and a spectacular diamond bracelet for Marie-Ange for being so brave, he said, and because he was so proud of her. But he also let her know that he hoped that Heloise would have a little brother soon. He still desperately wanted a son and heir for his title, and although he never actually said it to her, Marie-Ange had a lingering suspicion that she had failed him.

And when Heloise was a month old, the contractor came to see Marie-Ange, and told her that the bills had not been paid for the past six weeks, and had mounted up again. This time they amounted to roughly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

His request reminded Marie-Ange that Bernard’s holdings were about to mature then, and she mentioned it to him, hesitantly, but with no doubt that he would pay for the continuing work at Marmouton, which was due to be complete by Christmas. And Bernard assured her that it was not a problem, although the maturity on his investments had been extended again, and he needed her to cover the bills just one more time, and he would pay her all of it in November. She explained it to her bank, as she had before, and the following day made the transfer. She had paid out nearly two million dollars by then, but the Château de Marmouton had never looked better.

And when Heloise was six weeks old, Marie-Ange surprised Bernard by visiting him in Paris. But when she got to the apartment, he was not there, and the woman who cleaned for them told her that he was at the rue de Varenne, overseeing the workers there.

“What workers? What is at the rue de Varenne?” Marie-Ange looked startled, and the woman looked worried. She said she thought it might be a surprise for Marie-Ange, and they had only begun construction the week before. She suggested that Marie-Ange not say anything to her husband about it, but Marie-Ange couldn’t resist the urge to drive by the address and see what was there. And what she saw when she drove by, with the baby in the car with her, was an enormous eighteenth-century hôtel particulier, with stables, a huge garden, and a courtyard. And Bernard was standing out front with the architect and an armload of blueprints, and before she could drive away again, they saw her.

“So you found it,” he beamed at her. “I was going to surprise you with the blueprints at Christmas.” He looked proud rather than disappointed that she had found him. And Marie-Ange looked baffled.

“What is this?” Marie-Ange asked, feeling confused, as the baby began to cry in the backseat. It was time to nurse her.

“Your house in Paris, my love,” he said tenderly to her, as he kissed her. “Come in and take a look, now that you’re here.” It was the most beautiful house she’d ever seen, and a very large one, but it was also obvious that it hadn’t been touched in years, and had been maintained very badly. “I got it for almost nothing.”

“Bernard,” she whispered in astonishment, “can we afford this?”

“I think so,” he said confidently. “Don’t you? I’d say it’s the appropriate city residence for the Count and Countess de Beauchamp.” To Marie-Ange, it looked as though Marie-Antoinette had lived there. And as Bernard walked her around, he said there was even some question that one of the earlier Comtes des Beauchamps might have owned it. It was pure kismet that they had found it.

“When did you buy it?”

“Just before you had the baby,” he admitted to her with a boyish smile. “I wanted to surprise you.” But what worried her was that the work at Marmouton wasn’t even finished, nor paid for. But Bernard seemed to have no fear of spending money. And she assumed that he had more than enough to back it, although none of his assets were liquid.

They spent the night in the apartment in Paris, and he was attentive and charming, and by the end of the evening he had almost convinced her that it would be a good place for him to work when he came to town, and to entertain friends who didn’t want to travel to Marmouton to see them.

“And now we can spend time in both places,” he said proudly. The house on the rue de Varenne was so elegant, he pointed out, that it even had a ballroom. But Marie-Ange was still uneasy when they drove back to the château the next morning.

“Can we really afford all that?” Marie-Ange asked, looking worried. For the first time she had the feeling that they were spending too much money.

“I think so. And our little system seems to work perfectly, with you advancing me small sums to juggle minor bills, and I have the time to handle our investments correctly.” The only problem was that the investments were his, and the “small sums” she had advanced to him were nearly two million dollars. But she could only assume that he knew what he was doing, and she trusted him completely.

By Christmas, the château was nearly complete, and the best gift she gave him that year was telling him on Christmas Eve that she was pregnant again, and she hoped it would be a boy this time so he wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Nothing you could ever do would disappoint me,” he said generously. But they both knew that he wanted a son desperately. Heloise was three and a half months old by then, and the new baby was due in August, there would be eleven months between the two children. As always, things were moving at lightning speed between them. And this time she didn’t call Billy to tell him the news, she sent him a letter with her Christmas card. She only called him every month or two now. She was so engrossed in her life with Bernard that she scarcely had time to think of anything else, except her baby.

But in January, when Marie-Ange made a large transfer from her bank to Bernard’s again, the head of the trust department called her.

“Is everything all right, Marie-Ange? You’re starting to go through your money like water.” There was certainly enough there not to worry about it excessively, but with the latest transfer to pay for work on the Paris house, she had spent just over two million dollars. She had nearly a million and a half left available to her, until she turned twenty-five and inherited the next installment, but the head of the trust department was concerned about her. And she explained to him the system she and Bernard had, of her advancing money for things, and his reimbursing her at the right time from his investments.

“And when will that be?” the head of the trust department asked primly.

“Very soon,” she assured him. “He is paying for all the work on both houses.” He had never said precisely that to her, but he had certainly implied it, and she felt confident in reassuring her banker.

But the following week, Bernard explained to her that there was an oil crisis in the Middle East and he would lose untold sums if he tried to cash out his investments. It was far wiser for him to continue to hold them, and in the end, it would make them a great deal of money. But that also meant that she needed to pay a million-dollar deposit immediately, for what they owed on the house in Paris. He assured her that they had bought it for a song, and had three years to pay the previous owner the remaining two million dollars, and she would have inherited the next installment of her trust by then.

“I don’t get the next installment of my inheritance until I turn twenty-five,” she told Bernard with a look of concern. It was a little frightening to her to be the up-front banker for him, particularly on the scale that he was used to. But he kissed her and smiled at her, and said one of the things he loved about her was her innocence.

“Trusts like yours, my love, can easily be broken. You’re a responsible married woman, with a child, and a second one on the way. What we are doing here is making a sensible investment, not gambling at Monte Carlo. And the officers of your trust will be reasonable about it. They can either invade the trust for you, or advance you money against the next installment you’re getting. In point of fact, directly or otherwise, the entire amount of the trust is available to you. How much is it, by the way?” He asked casually, and Marie-Ange didn’t hesitate to tell him.

“A little more than ten million dollars in total.”

“That’s a nice amount,” he said, seemingly unimpressed, and it was easy to deduce from that, that his own investments were far larger, but he was also twenty years older than she was, had had a successful career, and came from an illustrious family. He was not impressed by what she had, but he was satisfied for her that what her father had left her was respectable certainly, and he was pleased for her. “We’ll talk to your bankers about your access to it, whenever you want to.” He seemed to know a great deal about those matters, and Marie-Ange was intrigued by what he told her, and less worried.

By late spring, he had not repaid her yet, and she was embarrassed to ask him again, but at least she had paid off everything at Marmouton, and all she had to think about now was the work on the house in Paris. Although what Bernard had planned for it was certainly grandiose, he assured her that in the end, the house would be a historical monument, and a permanent legacy for their children. On that basis, it was hard to deny him, and she didn’t.

They spent July in the South of France again, with a larger yacht, and the usual army of visiting friends, but this time Marie-Ange felt less well before the birth of her baby. They were moving around a lot, between Paris and the château, overseeing the work of Herculean proportions they were doing in Paris, and Bernard had taken her to Venice for a party, the week before they left the South of France. And she was tired when they finally got back to Marmouton. The weather was hot, and she could hardly wait for the baby to come. This one was far larger than the first one.

It came, in the end, a week after it was due, and she and Bernard were spending a quiet weekend at the château. And this time she managed to fulfill his dreams. The baby was a boy, and although she didn’t say it to him, she hoped that he would make up for his lost son. Bernard was ecstatic over him, and even more so over her. They named the baby after her brother Robert.

Marie-Ange recovered more slowly this time, the birth had been difficult, because the baby was bigger than Heloise had been, but by mid-September she was back in Paris with Bernard, overseeing the work at the house on the rue de Varenne. She hadn’t said anything to Bernard about it, but he had never reimbursed her for a penny of the funds she had advanced to him, and she had given him every cent she had available to her through her trust, and the bills were continuing to roll in without mercy. She assumed Bernard would take care of them eventually, along with the funds he owed her.

She was in Paris, at the new house, and had both of her children with her, when the architect surprised her by what he said. Bernard had told her categorically that he wasn’t buying anything for the house, until they had paid their existing bills. And the architect mentioned to her that there was a storage room near Les Halles that Bernard was filling with the things he was continuing to buy for them, mostly paintings and priceless antiques. She asked Bernard about it that night, and he denied it, and said he couldn’t imagine why the architect had said a thing like that, but when she checked his files the next day when Bernard went out, she found a fat file full of bills from art galleries and antique stores. The file contained yet another million dollars’ worth of bills. And she still had the file in her hand, when the phone rang. Billy was calling her to congratulate her on the birth of Robert.

“How’s everything going over there?” he asked, sounding happy. “Is he still Prince Charming?” he inquired, and she insisted that he was, but she was distracted over the disturbing file of bills she was holding. What upset her most was that he had lied about it, and written right on the top of the file was the address of the storage facility he said they didn’t have. It was the first time she had ever caught him in a lie. And she said nothing to Billy about it. She didn’t want to be disloyal to Bernard.

Billy said he had heard that her Aunt Carole had been sick, and more important, he told Marie-Ange he was getting married. His fiancée was the same girl he had been going out with when Marie-Ange left, and she was happy for him. They were planning to be married the following summer.

“Well, since you wouldn’t marry me, Marie-Ange,” he teased her, “I had no choice but to go out and fend for myself.” His fiancée was finishing college herself that year, and they were hoping to get married after she graduated. He told Marie-Ange he hoped she’d come, and she said she’d try to. But she’d been so nervous about the pile of bills she’d found that for once she didn’t enjoy talking to Billy. She was still thinking about Billy when she hung up, and of how wonderful it would be to see him again. But as much as she loved him, she had her own life now, a husband and family. She had her hands full, and she was worried about their mountain of unpaid bills. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject to Bernard, and needed some time to think about it. She was sure that there was some explanation of why he had been less than honest with her about the things he had in storage. Maybe he wanted to surprise her. She wanted to believe that his motive had been a good one, and she didn’t want a confrontation with him.

She still hadn’t broached the subject to him when they went back to Marmouton the following week, when she made a discovery there that truly shocked her. A bill had come to him for an expensive ruby ring that had been delivered to someone at a Paris address. And the woman who bought it was using Bernard’s last name. It was the second time in a matter of a week that Marie-Ange began doubting him, and she was obsessed by her own terrors. She was so frightened of what it meant, thinking that he’d been unfaithful to her, that she decided to drive to Paris with her babies. Bernard was in London visiting friends and taking care of some of his investments, and she stayed at the apartment in Paris, while she pondered the problem.

Marie-Ange felt terribly guilty, but she called her bank and asked them to refer her to a private investigator. She felt like a traitor when she called, but she needed to know what Bernard was doing, and if he was cheating on her. He certainly had ample opportunity to do it, when he was in Paris, or elsewhere, but she had always been so convinced that he loved her. She wondered if this woman was a girlfriend of his, and had been brazen enough to use his name and pretend to be married to him. Or far more happily, maybe it was only a coincidence of last names, she was a distant relative, and her purchase had found its way onto Bernard’s bill entirely by mistake. She wasn’t sure what to believe or how it had happened, and she didn’t want to expose herself by asking the store for information. It broke her heart now to doubt him, but given the amount of money he was spending, and the ruby ring she couldn’t account for, she knew she needed some answers.

Marie-Ange still wanted to believe there was an acceptable explanation for it, perhaps the woman who had bought the ring was psychotic. But whatever the explanation for the ring, she was still worried about why he had lied to her about the items in storage. And none of it solved the problem of the unpaid bills that were accruing. They could be dealt with at least, but what she wanted to know most was that she could trust him. She didn’t want to discuss any of it with him until she knew more. If the matter of the ring was all an innocent mistake, and the things in the storage vault were a surprise for her, gifts he intended to pay for himself, then she didn’t want to accuse him. But if something different surfaced in her investigations, then she would have to face Bernard with it, and hear his side of the story.

In the meantime, she wanted to believe the best of him, but there was a gnawing fear in her heart. She had always trusted him, and thrown herself wholeheartedly into her life with him. They had had two babies in less than two years. But the fact was that she had ended up paying entirely for the renovations at the château, and now at the house on the rue de Varenne. All told, they had spent three million dollars of her money to do it, they owed another two on the house in Paris, and there were more than a million dollars currently in unpaid bills. It was a staggering amount of money to have spent in less than two years. And Bernard had not yet put the brakes on his spending.

As Marie-Ange walked into the investigator’s office, she felt her heart sink. It was small and seamy and dirty, and the investigator the bank had referred her to looked disheveled, and was unfriendly, as he jotted down some notes and asked her some very personal questions. And as she listened to herself reel off facts and houses and dollar amounts, it was easy to see why she was worried. But spending too much money did not make Bernard a liar. It was the bill for the ruby ring that most upset her, and that she wanted to question. Why was the woman who had received it using Bernard’s last name? Marie-Ange had been told by Bernard that none of his relatives were living. But as concerned as she was about it, she still believed that there was possibly a simple and innocent explanation. It was not impossible that there was another person in France, unrelated to him, who had the same last name.

“Do you want me to check for any other unpaid bills?” the investigator asked, assuming that she would, and she nodded. She had already expressed her concerns about the woman and the ring. But she just couldn’t imagine that Bernard would cheat on her, and buy an expensive gift for his mistress, and then expect Marie-Ange to pay the bill. No one could be that bold or that tasteless. Certainly not Bernard. He was sensitive and elegant and honest, Marie-Ange believed.

“I don’t really think there is a problem,” Marie-Ange apologized for her suspicions, “I just got worried when I found the file of unpaid bills, and the storage room he hadn’t told me about … and now the ring … I don’t know who the woman could be, or why the bill came to my husband. It’s probably a mistake.”

“I understand,” the investigator said, without judgment, and then he looked up and smiled at her.

“In your shoes, I’d be worried too. That’s an awful lot of money to pour out in under two years.” It was staggering, and he was amazed she’d let him do it. But she was young, and naive, and he correctly guessed that her husband was a master at it.

“Well, of course, it’s all been an investment,” Marie-Ange explained. “Our houses are wonderful, and they’re both historical.” She said the same things to him that her husband had said to her, to justify the expenses and the cost of the restorations. But she was afraid now that there might be more she didn’t know. He had never told her about the house in Paris, until after he bought it and had begun work on it, and she couldn’t help wondering now what else he had concealed from her.

But she was in no way prepared for what the investigator told her after he called her in Marmouton. He asked her if she wanted to meet with him in Paris, or if she would prefer that he come to the château. Bernard was in Paris, and Robert was only six weeks old, but had a bad cold, and she suggested that the investigator come to see her.

He arrived the following morning, and she led him into the office that Bernard used when he was there. She could read nothing from the man’s expression, and she offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined it. He wanted to get right down to business with her, and took a file from his briefcase, as he looked across the desk at Marie-Ange, and she suddenly had the odd feeling that she should brace herself for what he would say.

“You were right to be worried about the bills,” he told her without preamble. “There are another six hundred thousand dollars of unpaid bills, most of which he spent on paintings and clothes.”

“Clothes for whom?” she asked, looking puzzled and worried as she thought of the ruby ring again, but the investigator rapidly put that fear to rest.

“Himself. He has a very expensive tailor in London, and a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of outstanding bills at Hermes. The rest is all art objects, antiques, I assume for your houses. And the ruby ring was purchased by a woman called Louise de Beauchamp. In fact, the bill went to your husband in error,” he said simply, as Marie-Ange beamed at him from across the desk. The bills could be paid eventually, or if they had to, the art objects could be sold. But a mistress would have been a different problem, and Marie-Ange would have been heartbroken. She didn’t even care about the rest of what the investigator had to say to her, he had already acquitted Bernard, and she was ashamed of the suspicions that she’d had about him. “What was interesting about Louise de Beauchamp, when I found her,” the investigator went on, despite Marie-Ange’s broad smile and sudden lack of concern, “is that your husband married her seven years ago. I assume you didn’t know that or you’d have told me.”

“That’s impossible,” Marie-Ange said, looking at him strangely. “His wife and son died in a fire twelve years ago, and their son was four. This woman must be lying,” unless he’d had a brief marriage after he’d lost them, and never told Marie-Ange, but it was so unlike Bernard to lie to her, or so she thought.

“That’s not entirely correct,” the investigator continued, almost sorry for her. “Louise de Beauchamp’s son died in that fire, but it was five years ago. The boy was not your husband’s son, he was hers by a prior marriage. And she survived. It was only a fluke that she happened to buy that ring, and it was mistakenly charged to your husband’s account. She showed me documents to prove his marriage to her, and clippings about the fire. He collected insurance on the château that burned down. It was purchased with funds from her, but it was in his name. And I believe he used the insurance money to buy this one. But he had no funds to remodel it until you came along,” he said bluntly to Marie-Ange. “And he hasn’t had a job since he and Louise were married.”

“Does he know she’s alive?” she asked, looking utterly confused. It didn’t even occur to her that Bernard had lied to her, and that he had been for two years. Somewhere, somehow there had to be an enormous misunderstanding. Bernard would never lie to her.

“I assume he does know she’s alive. They were divorced.”

“That can’t be. We were married in the Catholic Church.”

“Maybe he paid off the priest,” the investigator said simply. He had far fewer illusions than Marie-Ange. “I went to speak to Madame de Beauchamp myself, and she would like to meet with you, if you’d like to. She asked me to warn you not to tell your husband if you do.” He handed Marie-Ange her phone number in Paris, and she saw that the address was on the Avenue Foch, at an excellent address. “She got badly burned in the fire, and she has scars. I’ve been told that she lives more or less as a recluse.” The odd thing was that none of Bernard’s friends had ever said anything to her about it, nor about the son he had lost. “I have the feeling that she never got over losing the boy.”

“Neither did he,” Marie-Ange said with eyes full of tears. Now that she had children, the thought of losing a child seemed like the ultimate nightmare to her, and her heart went out to this woman, whoever she was, and whatever her tie had been to Bernard. She still did not believe her story, and wanted to get to the bottom of it. Someone was lying, but surely not Bernard.

“I think you should see her, Countess. She has a lot to say about your husband, and perhaps they are things that you should know.”

“Like what?” Marie-Ange asked, looking increasingly disturbed.

“She thinks he set the fire that killed the boy.” He didn’t tell Marie-Ange that Louise de Beauchamp thought that Bernard had tried to kill her as well. She could tell Marie-Ange that herself, for whatever it was worth. But the investigator had been impressed by her.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Marie-Ange looked outraged. “Perhaps she feels she has to blame someone. Maybe she can’t accept the fact that it was an accident and her son died.” But that still didn’t explain the fact that she was alive, and that Bernard had never told her the boy wasn’t really his son, or that he’d been divorced from this woman. Her mind was suddenly reeling, filled with doubts and questions, and she didn’t know if she was grateful or sorry that the investigator had found Louise de Beauchamp. Odd as it seemed, she was relieved that at least she wasn’t his mistress. But it was hardly comforting to think she believed he had killed her son. And why was her story so different from Bernard’s? She wasn’t even sure she wanted to see her, and open that Pandora’s box, but after the investigator left her, Marie-Ange went for a long walk in the orchards, thinking about Louise de Beauchamp and her son.

It was difficult to sort it all out. And she was worried too about how they were going to pay for their bills, and despite Bernard’s advice to do it, she didn’t want to attempt to overturn her trust and access the rest of her funds. That sounded far too risky to her, particularly if they spent all her money. Leaving her trust intact was at least protection against that.

Her mind was still reeling when she came back from the orchard to feed the baby, and after she put him down in his crib, sated and happy, she stood for a long moment, staring at the phone. She had put the phone number the investigator had given her in her pocket, so Bernard wouldn’t find it, and she slowly pulled it out. She thought of calling Billy and talking to him about it, but even that was a disturbing thought. She didn’t really know the truth yet, and she didn’t want to accuse Bernard unfairly. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to admit that he was divorced, and had loved the boy as his own son. But whatever the truth was, she knew now that she had to know it, and with a shaking hand, picked up the phone to call Louise de Beauchamp.

A deep well-spoken woman’s voice answered on the second ring, and Marie-Ange asked for Madame de Beauchamp.

“This is she,” she said calmly, not recognizing the voice at the other end, and Marie-Ange hesitated for a fraction of an instant. It was like looking in the mirror, and being afraid of what you would find there.

“This is Marie-Ange de Beauchamp,” she said in almost a whisper, and there was a small sound at the other end, like a sigh of recognition and relief.

“I wondered if you would call me. I didn’t think you would,” she said honestly. “I’m not sure I would have in your place. But I’m glad you did. There are some things I feel you should know.” She already knew from the investigator that Bernard had never told his young wife about her, and that in itself was further condemnation of him, as far as Louise was concerned. “Would you like to come and see me? I don’t go out,” she said softly. The investigator had told Marie-Ange about the scars on her face. She had had plastic surgery for them, but she had been burned very badly, and there had only been so much the plastic surgeons could repair. The burns had occurred, the investigator told Marie-Ange, while she was trying to save her son.

“I will come to Paris to see you,” Marie-Ange said, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, deathly afraid of what she would be told. Her instincts told her that her faith in her husband was at risk, and part of her wanted to run away and hide, and do anything but meet with Louise de Beauchamp. But she knew she had to. She had no choice. If not, she would always harbor doubts, and she felt she owed it to Bernard to free herself of them. “When would you like me to come?”

“Is tomorrow too soon for you?” Louise asked gently. She meant her no harm. All she wanted to do for her was save her life. From everything the investigator had told her, she believed that Marie-Ange was in danger, and perhaps her children as well. “Or the day after tomorrow?” the woman offered, and Marie-Ange answered with a sigh.

“I can drive up tomorrow, and meet you at the end of the day.”

“Is five o’clock too early?”

“No, I can be there. Is it all right if I bring the baby? I’m nursing, and I’ll bring him with me from Marmouton.” She was going to leave Heloise with the nanny at the château.

“I’d love to see him,” Louise said kindly, and Marie-Ange thought she could hear a catch in her voice.

“I’ll see you at five then,” Marie-Ange promised, wishing she didn’t feel she had to go. But there was no choice. She had started out now on this long, lonely road, and she just hoped she would come back safely, with her faith in Bernard restored.

And as she hung up the phone in Paris, Louise looked sadly at a photograph of her little boy, and he was smiling at her. So much had happened since then.