Chapter Twelve

Audible gasps rippled through the gathering as those in the know registered the ramifications and darted uneasy glances toward Mason. A film of perspiration made Vienna's dress cling. She felt nauseous. Apparently mistaking the horrified tenterhooks of his audience for delighted thrall, Pederson embarked on a potted history of the stone.

"As many of you know, the diamond necklace you see tonight was made famous by Nancy Cavender, who had it created by Cartier. She was a glittering figure in her time, a true icon. The necklace was, of course, her signature look at all the big events and she was wearing it the night she was tragically killed."

An elderly woman a few feet away murmured, "Decapitated, you know. They found the necklace hanging in a tree."

Vienna felt close to fainting. She stepped back and leaned against one of the pillars decorating the dais. It was made of cardboard and wobbled more than her legs did. In her worst nightmare the necklace was Nazi loot. She hadn't even considered the possibility that its grim past was one her family had a role in.

"The necklace came from a huge diamond discovered in South Africa in 1867." Pederson's narrative was in full swing. "Mr. Isaac Asscher of Amsterdam cleaved the rough into two pieces from which he cut the Aphrodite, a round now owned by Sheikh Ahmed Fitaihi, and the magnificent flawless pear you see before you, which Mr. Hugo Cavender purchased for his bride. As the story goes, Mr. Cavender wanted the larger round, but had to settle for a mere thirty-six carats, plus, of course, several hundred carats of smaller stones eventually used to create the necklace."

A tinkle of laughter greeted this final comment.

"Are you saying that diamond is Le Fantôme de l'Amour?" Mason's question ricocheted across the room like a stray bullet. She stared accusingly at Vienna.

"Yes, that's the name originally given to the pear. The Ghost of Love," the buyer translated from the French. "But the spelling was doubtless too much for our esteemed friends in the press and when Nancy Cavender allowed it to go on display, the necklace simply became known as the Cavender Diamonds."

"How did the Blakes get hold of it?" Mason asked bluntly.

The buyer looked nonplussed. "Unfortunately, we cannot disclose details of client transactions, so I really can't say, Ms. er..."

"Cavender."

Every head in the room swiveled. Buffy, anticipating trouble, rushed to the fore. "What a fascinating story. Don't we all adore the idea of a diamond with a past, especially one that connects two of the most prominent families among us."

The guests clapped and craned to see Vienna's reaction. Buffy signaled the pianist and he began to play softly. She thanked Pederson, reminded everyone about the Whitney benefit in two weeks' time, and steered Mason away. Vienna decided to make her apologies and leave the party early, but before she could excuse herself, the De Beers representative cornered her.

"Ms. Blake, I was just speaking with our North American vice president. He wonders if your family would be willing to allow us to exhibit the necklace."

Agitated, Vienna glanced toward the door again. Her father had never said a word about the necklace once belonging to their neighbors. Vienna was surprised by that, she would have expected him to gloat.

"I don't see any problem with that," she told Pederson quickly, wanting to make her getaway before any more awkward questions from Mason. "Assuming we can agree on security arrangements."

"And with the authentic Le Fantôme, of course, rather than the replica."

"The replica?" Vienna kept her tone very even, screening her confusion.

"Don't worry." Pederson adopted a conspiratorial air. "Naturally I didn't want to mention it. We encourage all our clients to keep their important diamonds secured and wear replicas." He studied his BlackBerry again and announced with a triumphant smile, "I thought so. The CZ is one of our own custom stones. Made to order for your father, in fact."

"My father?" Vienna felt like a simpleton, echoing every pronouncement. It had never occurred to her that the center stone in her ostentatious necklace was not the real thing. And since Marjorie had been bothering her to sell it, offended that she never wore the costly gift, it seemed she had no idea either.

"Yes, I gather the previous copy was damaged in the car accident." Pederson ran a finger across his throat. "Ghastly neck injuries."

Embarrassed to be asking questions to which she should probably know the answers, Vienna said, "There was another fake?"

"Yes, the one provided when we first auctioned Le Fantôme in the nineteenth century."

"Well, I'm afraid I have bad news," Vienna said without expression. "As far as I know, we don't own Le Fantôme."

"Are you saying it's been sold?" Pederson looked dismayed.

"Not that I know of."

"Oh, good God. It's missing?"

"I have no idea. Don't you keep records of stones like this?"

"If they pass through our hands or are sold through the usual channels, we can trace the provenance." He lifted his BlackBerry to his ear. "Let me make a call, Ms. Blake."

Vienna accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped it as she tried to eavesdrop. The Blakes were methodical about their record-keeping. She could easily find out much the household had spent on butter a hundred years ago and which mantua maker had created the party dresses for the Famous Four. If a priceless diamond was locked away in a bank box in Boston, her father would have mentioned it in his will. And there would be a receipt.

Pederson turned back toward her wearing a frown. "Our records date back to the 1869 auction when Mr. Truman Blake sold Le Fantôme. He would have been your..."

"Great-great grandfather," Vienna said in bewilderment. "I don't understand. I thought you said the Cavenders bought the stone."

"Yes, Hugo Cavender purchased it at the auction."

"From Truman?" Nothing in this tale made any sense at all.

The buyer consulted his BlackBerry. "According to the provenance, Mr. Blake was the first owner of both the round Aphrodite and Le Fantôme. It was actually he who named the stones. Quite the Victorian romantic, it would seem."

Ghost of Love. It was hard to imagine a Blake male so giddy with passion he would throw a fortune away on a couple of huge diamonds, let alone bestow a name that would forever brand him a soppy sentimentalist. But Vienna had read the letters between Truman and Estelle. He was obviously infatuated and seemed to expect that he and Estelle would be married. He must have bought the diamonds in anticipation, then auctioned them when Estelle became engaged to Hugo.

"Le Fantôme remained in the possession of the Cavender family until it was sold privately to your father in 1985. Our records include the valuation made at the time for insurance purposes."

Vienna tried to comprehend what she was hearing. Her father had bought the necklace when she was just a little girl, then held on to it for years, waiting for her to grow up? Even more astonishing was the fact that Henry Cavender had sold it to him-turning over a prized heirloom to the Blakes. It was unbelievable.

"Well, Mr. Pederson, I regret to say, I can only assume my father decided not to leave his capital tied up in Le Fantôme. He must have resold the stone but retained the necklace to give to me."

The theory had something going for it. Vienna could imagine her father impressing everyone with his extravagant gift, then selling the single pear to reimburse himself for the cost of the whole necklace. She recalled the startled envy of her aunts and their speculation over the price he must have paid for the gems. Millions. Such was his devotion to his only child. She laughed inwardly. Norris must have been very pleased with himself to create all that buzz over a gift that ended up costing him next to nothing.

Pederson's expression was politely skeptical. "May I ask a great favor?" he inquired. "If you have any family papers, would you mind checking them just in case there's a record of your father selling Le Fantôme? It would be marvelous if we could trace the new owner and arrange to borrow the genuine stone."

"I'll do what I can," Vienna promised, taking the business card he offered.

They shook hands and she wandered toward the windows, her mind sifting through memory and fact. Truman Blake was the ancestor who had declared war on the Cavenders. In his shoes, Vienna would have done the same thing. His father, Benedict, was murdered in cold blood, and knowing justice would never be done in the courts, Truman had set out to avenge the crime. He'd devoted himself to severing the business ties that bound the two families and to bringing down the Cavenders.

Back then, the Cavender name was more powerful than the Blakes', and even now, despite their declining fortunes, the mystique remained. Wealth, glamour, and tragedy were a heady combination, and the Cavenders had always served up gratifying doses of each. Their women were gorgeous and their men were dangerous. There was even a movie based on the most public tragedy that had plagued the dynasty, the sordid tale of Alexander Cavender's failed presidential bid and his wife's dreadful accident. The story could have been written by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Like Daisy Buchanan, the shallow beauty in The Great Gatsby, Nancy Cavender was a pampered socialite who seemed to have little interest in being a mother or even a supportive wife. How her car had ended up on the railway tracks, with her unconscious at the wheel conveniently waiting to be hit by a train, was a mystery.

Most men didn't want their infidelities, or those of their wives, to be common knowledge, and men running for president had even more reason to shrink from scrutiny. But Nancy hadn't concerned herself with her husband's political ambitions. Heiress to a fortune, reckless and beautiful, she appeared to live under the spell of her own charm, certain of her invulnerability. If there was a line not to be crossed, she only noticed after the fact and if there were consequences. For Nancy, there seldom were. Until that night.

Intense speculation had swirled around the accident at the time, but the Cavenders had so much influence that they controlled both the police investigation and the newspaper coverage. The story was hushed up, only to find new life when Alexander Cavender blew his brains out four years later. His suicide would normally have been big news, but as if he was trying to fly beneath the radar, he'd picked his moment. In the same year that Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated, a dead Cavender would only make the inside section and the society pages.

The Blakes considered Alexander's demise an almighty coup and believed the rumor that had circulated ever since, that the police had finally assembled enough evidence to arrest him for Nancy's murder. Rather than have his family's name dragged through the mud, he'd ended the matter like a gentleman. The story might have died down, but Hollywood moviemakers, always adept at picking the low-hanging fruit, had decided to capitalize on public fascination with the Cavender name. But instead of making a cheesy starlet vehicle, they produced a dark meditation on the American Dream, posing disturbing questions about ambition and greed, and inviting the audience to weigh moral ambiguities.

To the chagrin of the Blakes, the movie was an Oscar-winning box office hit, and their family wasn't presented in a particularly positive light. One of the main characters in the film was Vienna's grandfather, Clarence Blake. According to the plot, he'd had a fling with Nancy early in her marriage, after she discovered that her husband had a mistress with whom he'd fathered a child. The encounter with her husband's archenemy was Nancy's version of revenge, and in pillow talk she'd admitted her reasons, telling Clarence that she even suspected Alexander had made a bigamous marriage. Worse yet, the mistress was a mixed-race woman.

Once the presidential primaries began heating up, Clarence had leaked the information to the press, ending Alexander's bid for the Oval Office. The film implied that Nancy's death was an act of revenge on her husband's part. Alexander had never told anyone except her about his indiscretion, and even though their marriage had been on the rocks for years, he thought her self-interest and desire to be first lady would guarantee her silence. He knew nothing about the one-night stand with Clarence and had concluded that Nancy must have told the press herself, a betrayal he couldn't forgive. The rest was history, adding another sordid chapter to the Cavender myth.

Vienna slid her fingers over Nancy's necklace. She felt strangled by the weight of its past as much as the platinum setting. She liberated a martini from a passing platter and edged her way through the crowd, heading for the door. She wanted to escape before the guests were summoned to dinner. The thought of having to sit through a five-course meal made her stomach turn. All she could think about was getting to Penwraithe so she could dismantle the library and find out how her father had obtained the Cavender Diamonds and who had Le Fantôme de l'Amour.

She began moving toward the door, but it wasn't easy to remain unobtrusive when she was constantly stopped by acquaintances who wanted a closer look at the famous necklace. She was going to have it broken up and sold, she decided angrily, as yet another guest bemoaned the ironic twist of fate that saw Nancy Cavender's diamonds worn by the granddaughter of Clarence Blake, the man whose actions had almost certainly led to her death. One thing jumped out at Vienna. If Pederson's account of the damaged paste replica was correct, Nancy had not been wearing Le Fantôme the night she was killed. Vienna found that puzzling. Why would a woman who seemed so careless in every aspect of her life, but who was incredibly vain about her image, wear the fake when she could flaunt the real thing? Nancy didn't seem like the type who would worry about possible theft. And why would she take pains to safeguard an heirloom that belonged to her husband's family, when she despised him?

There was one person who might be able to answer those questions, but Vienna didn't feel confident approaching her. For some reason Mason's attitude toward her had hardened, and Vienna didn't know why. She spotted her deep in conversation with Sergei Ivanov and couldn't help staring with helpless fascination. The Russian's beady gaze was equally intent. Mason placed something in his pudgy hand and he reacted by patting his face with a white handkerchief, a mannerism he seemed self-conscious of, because he immediately stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.

Vienna took a step toward them, then stopped as if she'd slammed into an invisible wall. Mason's eyes blazed at her and she pushed a dark unruly strand back off her forehead. Vienna's mouth watered with the sense memory of their last kiss, and her body instantly followed suit, reminding her that it was desperate to be rejoined with Mason's. No one had ever looked at her the way Mason did. No one had ever laid claim to her with such resolve, leaving her no place to hide, no safe retreat into passivity. Her nipples refused to settle. The dull, wet throb grew stronger between her legs. Her heart thudded so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear the conversation around her.

Off balance, she averted her eyes and joined the nearest discussion, only to realize the topic was the late, lamented Lynden Cavender.

"So personable," gushed a middle-aged matron wearing classic Chanel. "Not at all what one is accustomed to these days."

"Humble," someone noted. "A throwback, really."

"Oh, yes. The complete gentleman. An aristocrat."

Lynden had never had to make his way by paying attention to mature women, but he'd made an effort to woo every one of them regardless. As a result he had a devoted following among the society queens of New York and Boston. No one had left his name off her party lists. Even Buffy, a staunch Blake ally, had been so smitten with him she'd intimated more than once that it was time for bygones to be bygones. Vienna supposed it was some consolation that Mason had no hope of taking his place. While her brother had used the Cavender mystique to full advantage, she could never do so. She made everyone too uncomfortable.

The Chanel devotee touched Vienna's arm, "My dear, you must have known him quite well."

"Not really."

"Even with that...atmosphere between your families, aren't your country estates adjoining?"

Vienna smiled vaguely. "We spent very little time there when I was growing up, so I never really got to know him."

"That's not what I've been told." A woman with pearls weighing down her neck coyly added, "We'd positively kill to hear your side of the story, wouldn't we, girls?"

An eager hush descended on the small clique. Obviously no one could believe that Vienna was immune to Lynden's metrosexual charm, and the tired old story about a romance between them was still circulating.

"I thought that particular rumor had died a natural death a long time ago," Vienna said.

The woman in the pearls sighed archly. "Your discretion is admirable, darling, but you're among friends here."

This sentiment was echoed by the Chanel-wearer, who also offered a few consoling words. "It can't have been easy, the situation being what it was. No one was really surprised when you called it off."

"There was never an engagement," Vienna issued her customary denial. "We never even dated."

She knew how the ludicrous story had begun. Guests at her parents' anniversary ball had invented explanations for her disappearance from the celebration and the subsequent drama when she was found unconscious in the grounds of Laudes Absalom. When Vienna couldn't explain what she was doing there in the first place, some people had added two and two and decided she was concealing the truth-she and Lynden were starcrossed lovers trying to hide their romance from parents who hated each other.

Even the police found the story credible. It made no difference that both she and Lynden denied any involvement; the events of that night became another installment in the Cavender's never-ending soap opera. Even Vienna's parents drew the wrong conclusions, overlooking the fact that she was a lesbian, which they both viewed as an unfortunate phase. They almost seemed happy to persuade themselves that she'd crept away for an assignation with their neighbor's handsome son. Lynden was not the true villain of the piece, in their eyes. Their theory was that Vienna had been waylaid by Henry Cavender, who forced an admission of the affair, then turned his fury on her, beating her unconscious.

The Blakes wanted him arrested, but the trouble was he had an alibi, one the detectives weren't willing to discount. The witness who stood between him and a prison cell was none other than his loyal housekeeper, Mrs. Danville. Her story had never wavered over the years. She was out that evening playing bridge and had a car breakdown on her way home. She'd walked back to the village to telephone her employer, who picked her up, then spent at least an hour trying to fix the problem. In the end, Henry had towed her car back to Laudes Absalom.

Remarkably, the motor fired up without a problem the next morning when the police checked. They'd verified Mrs. Danville's story, interviewing the ladies who played bridge with her and someone who claimed to have seen her at a public phone. But even if that part of the story was true, no one but Mrs. Danville could swear that the man who came to her rescue was Henry Cavender. The Blakes thought it was actually Mr. Pettibone and that Henry had never left Laudes Absalom. Yet again, a Cavender had gotten away with murder, or an attempt at it. They were outraged.

Apart from Mrs. Danville, there was only one other person who knew the truth. Mason wasn't there that night, but Vienna had a hard time believing she was as ignorant of the circumstances as she'd always claimed. The Cavenders had simply closed ranks. The case was left open with Vienna's assault ascribed to an "unknown assailant who may have been interrupted in the course of a separate crime." As if any self-respecting burglar would break into the Cavender's run-down old mansion. What was there to steal?

After her conversation with Mrs. Danville, Vienna had asked her mother about that evening once again, this time mentioning the meeting between her father and Henry. After a stony silence and some crocodile tears, the conversation hit the usual dead end, and Vienna was so frustrated she went to the police and demanded to see the files for herself. She was fobbed off there as well, sent on a wild goose chase to the DA's office where some twelve-year-old told her the cold case files were housed elsewhere and she would have to wait until a detective had time to look into the matter.

Irritated, Vienna let her gaze roam. Maybe it was time she confronted Mason directly about that evening. She was owed the truth, and no one could be hurt by it now. Buffy caught her eye and made some kind of gesture, probably a signal that she should reattach herself to Stefan in time for the impending meal. The party organizers were folding back the screens that separated the cocktail area from the dining tables. Mason was nowhere to be seen.

Vienna moved through the crowd looking for her. There were only a hundred guests. A hefty man with a shock of platinum hair and a woman in black tie couldn't be hard to single out. She looked around again, but couldn't even spot Oxana. There wasn't a chance that the Ivanovs would leave before the meal, so they had to be holed up in the restrooms, fixing their hair and refreshing their fragrances. But Mason? Had she gone?

The thought made her spirits sink, a response that appalled her. Disgusted with herself, she drained the rest of her martini, turned around sharply, and almost smacked into a white shirt-front. "Oh, I'm sorry. I..."

Mason didn't apologize or step back politely. Her nightshade eyes swept Vienna slowly up and down before settling on her mouth.

"Looking for me?" she asked.