Chapter Eight
Eight
For a few hours, a stillness settled over Villa Sérénité as the guests took to their rooms for postprandial siestas. As Baxter and Miriam were folding napkins into intricate lily pads, a rhythmic thudding came from the direction of the bedrooms.
Miriam giggled. “Alec and Kaitlyn?” She looked at Baxter and Thierry. “Or Carter and Jade?”
“No gossiping about the guests, please,” Baxter said sternly.
Miriam paid no heed. “That poor girl.”
“Which one?” Thierry was peeling carrots into long thin ribbons for tonight’s salad. Waiting beside him was a pottery jug in which he had mixed the orange-and-honey dressing.
“Kaitlyn,” Miriam said. “She could have her choice of young, good-looking men, but instead she is with that salaud.”
Thierry gave a derisive snort. “No sympathy from me. She’s with him for his money, clearly.”
“If that is true, she will be disappointed.” Miriam leaned forward, eyes sparkling with the information she was about to impart.
“I heard him on the telephone this afternoon, talking about paying back a loan.” She picked up another napkin.
“I got the impression that Monsieur Prescott doesn’t have as much money as he makes out. ”
“So much for a good tip, then,” Thierry said gloomily.
Baxter stopped mid-fold. “What exactly did he say?”
“What happened to no gossiping?” Miriam said, her brows raised in surprise. It was a fair point, and one to which Baxter had no retort. Fortunately, Miriam was incapable of keeping anything to herself. “He said he needed more time—that he didn’t have the cash.” She shrugged. “That’s all I heard.”
Interesting. Baxter would add it to the email he was drafting for Anya.
He felt marginally less guilty about the underhand nature of his task, now that Alec had proved himself to be so thoroughly unlikeable.
Baxter thought about Alec’s threat to cut off Carter’s allowance, and wondered if cash flow was the real reason behind it.
And what of today’s contretemps? Alec had cited Francesca’s age as a reason for not funding Damian’s film, but perhaps he simply didn’t have the means …
Baxter chided himself. They had three hours in which to finish the napkins, reset the rooms, and create a new tablescape for dinner.
He pushed back his chair decisively, putting a full stop to Miriam’s gossip.
It was the curse of the service industry that when a job was done badly, clients were extremely vocal about it, yet when it was done well, no one passed comment.
Baxter had thus learned to take silence as its own form of positive feedback.
He felt a tug of nostalgia for Lord Ashcombe, who would interrupt his own dinner parties to ensure his guests had sufficiently admired the beautifully decorated table.
“It’s all down to Baxter, of course,” he’d say. “I couldn’t be without him.”
Baxter stood still for a moment by the long table at Villa Sérénité, a tapered candle in one hand. It was impossible to think of the Ashcombes without thinking of how things had ended, and Baxter was suddenly flooded with shame. He had let his heart rule his head, and look what happened.
He swallowed hard, then he trimmed the wick on the candle and placed it in a silver holder.
There were five of them in a row down the center of the table, each encircled in loose rings of jasmine and soft pink roses.
He adjusted a sprig of olive foliage. Tablescapes were far less complicated than relationships.
As the guests gathered for predinner drinks, Baxter was pleased to see that—ostensibly, at least—everyone had set aside their differences.
Francesca and Damian were chatting animatedly to Jade and Carter, and Sylvie had joined Alec and Kaitlyn on the terrace.
Baxter took a bottle of champagne out to refresh their glasses.
He didn’t covet what the Prescott entourage had, but he envied them for their in-jokes, for the familiarity of decades-old friendships.
A butler’s life was rarely compatible with a social life, and Baxter had missed more family Christmases and Easter celebrations than he could count.
It was one of the reasons he had taken a permanent position with the Ashcombes—there was comfort in working with the same domestic team day in, day out. A family, of sorts.
“The temperature really drops in the evening, doesn’t it?” Sylvie addressed Kaitlyn with uncharacteristic warmth. “Darling, you’ll catch your death. Here, take this.” She took off the cream wrap draped around her shoulders.
“But then you’ll be cold,” Kaitlyn protested.
“I insist.” Sylvie put down her glass and swept the wrap over the younger woman’s strappy dress. There was a moment of confusion in Kaitlyn’s expression, until Sylvie tied the scarf beneath the younger woman’s chin and knotted it tightly. “There!”
Kaitlyn’s eyes narrowed. Her revealing outfit had been transformed into something more befitting of a nun. “But—”
Sylvie smirked. “No arguments, darling, I promise you—I really don’t feel the cold.”
“The menopause has its benefits, then?” Alec said sardonically.
Sylvie’s nostrils flared. “My gynecologist says I have the ovaries of a twenty-five-year-old, actually.”
“That’s how old I am!” Kaitlyn said, brightening.
Baxter stepped in before Sylvie could respond. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
As the evening progressed, laughter and clinking glasses filled the air.
Thierry’s salad was followed by Provencal lamb, rosemary potatoes, and ratatouille made with juicy tomatoes Baxter had picked up from the market.
Afterward, the guests repaired to the poolside terrace, where Baxter had laid out blankets, and heaters took the chill off the night air.
Carter, his cheeks flushed with wine, leaped to his feet. “We should play a drinking game! Baxter, what shots can you rustle up?”
Francesca groaned. “If I drink any more, I’ll never get up tomorrow.”
“Truth or dare, then,” Carter said.
“No.” Alec drained his whiskey and held out his glass for another. Baxter was curious to see if anyone else had noticed how quickly their host had rejected the suggestion—was Alec concerned he might be quizzed on his finances?—but Carter had already moved on.
“Boules?” Carter was still on his feet, bouncing about like an excited puppy. Baxter had noted the numerous trips Carter had made back to his room during dinner, and he wondered now if this exuberance was chemically assisted.
“We played earlier,” Jade said. “Can’t we just sit and enjoy the view?”
It was indeed a spectacular sight. Beneath them, Cannes was alive with twinkling lights, the curve of the shore traced with a ribbon of golden light.
Yachts moored in the bay cast a soft glow over the inky sea.
Far beyond, the faint silhouette of the Estérel mountains rose against the horizon, sharpened by the moon’s pale glow.
Carter gave up and flopped into a chair. “It’s the same view we spent all day looking at.”
Baxter continued scanning the hillside, remembering the glint of binoculars he’d seen earlier that day. A villa less than a mile away had been burgled recently while all the guests were out for dinner, and Baxter had decided he would ensure Villa Sérénité would be occupied at all times.
“I’m surprised you noticed,” Sylvie said to Carter. “You were glued to your phone all day.”
“It was work.”
“Ah …” Alec laughed. “Work.”
“Gentlemen, please …” Francesca held up her hands. “Not this again.”
“I know what we can do.” Damian sat up, an impish expression on his face. “Skinny-dipping.”
“Damian!” Francesca gave an outraged laugh.
“I’m serious!” He kicked off his shoes. “Prescott?”
Alec put down his glass and, somewhat unsteadily, got to his feet. “Last one in has to buy dinner at La Palme d’Or!”
“Alec!” Sylvie admonished. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You’re right.” He hiccupped. “We’ll never get a reservation at such short notice. It’ll have to be Fouquet’s.”
“No, I mean you’re wasted! You’ll drown.”
“Good thing I know someone to give me mouth-to-mouth, then.” Alec grinned. He pulled Kaitlyn to her feet and kissed her, his tongue roaming over her mouth and onto her neck.
“On second thought,” Sylvie said coldly, “dive right in. In fact, I’ll join you.”
“You’re not serious?” Carter’s face was aghast.
Sylvie shrugged the straps of her dress down over her shoulders, and the silk puddled at her feet. Her lace underwear was forest green, her bra barely containing her suspiciously firm breasts.
“Mum!” Carter clapped a hand over his eyes. “Do not—and I cannot stress this enough—take off anything else.” His own shirt was already unbuttoned, his belt unbuckled.
“How did I raise such a prude?” Sylvie laughed. “It must be the British in you. I blame your father.”
Alec snorted. “Nothing new there.”
Carter turned to Jade. “You up for a spot of skinny-dipping, babe?”
“No, I’m bloody well not. I’ve literally just met these people!” She glanced around. “No offense, guys.”
Francesca patted her hand. “None taken, sweetheart. You’re very sensible.”
“Sensible girls don’t get lead roles,” Damian said. He was down to a pair of charcoal silk boxer shorts now.
“Oh please!” Jade laughed. “I think we’re a bit over the whole casting couch thing now. Ever heard of Me Too?”
Damian shrugged. “All I’m saying is show us you’re not as uptight as you look, and I’ll find a part for you.” He smiled wolfishly at her as he over-emphasized his closing shot. “Quid. Pro. Quo.”
Jade held his gaze, her chin lifting a fraction. “No. Means. No.”
“It never stopped you before,” Alec muttered. Sylvie looked at him sharply, and Francesca raised a questioning eyebrow. An uneasy silence fell over the terrace.
Carter stared at his father. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Alec swallowed. He reached for his glass and took a deep slug of whiskey. “I mean … Jade’s had her fair share of drunken exploits, I’m sure. Law school, right? I’ve heard tales!” His laugh was forced.
“Babe?” Carter sounded uneasy.
“Yeah.” Jade didn’t look at him. “Law school was wild.”
“Are we going in, or what?” Kaitlyn seemed oblivious to the tension between Alec, Jade, and Carter. She giggled, peeling off her dress to reveal a G-string and a simple white bra.
“Sweetheart,” Francesca stood up. “You don’t have to—”
But the men’s cheers drowned out the rest of her words.
Kaitlyn gave a little shimmy, but Baxter caught a flash of uncertainty behind the bravado.
She was trying to fit in. To show Alec she was every bit of the good-time-girl his ex-wife was.
Kaitlyn would regret this in the morning, Baxter felt sure.
“Let’s get this party started!” Damian raised his glass, a lecherous glint in his eyes.
Baxter made a decision. As Kaitlyn whipped off her bra, he stepped in and draped a towel around her shoulders.
“Regrettably, I was not aware anyone would wish to use the pool this evening. I added chemicals to the water just before dinner; it won’t be safe until the morning, I’m afraid.
” He picked up Kaitlyn’s dress, discreetly wrapping her bra up in it as he did so, and handed her the bundle.
“Thanks,” Kaitlyn said, and from the flicker of relief in her expression, Baxter knew he had done the right thing.
“For God’s sake, man!” Damian snapped. “Check with us next time!”
“Of course.” Baxter dipped his head in acknowledgment. “My apologies, sir.”
“I think some strong coffee might be in order,” Francesca said. “Would that be okay, Baxter?”
“As you wish,” Baxter said. But as he went to the kitchen to prepare a tray, he couldn’t help but feel it would take a lot more than coffee to make everything all right at Villa Sérénité.