“Ah, there you are, you minx,” Sir Toby boomed, coming around the corner toward me.

I took a deep breath, climbed over the railing and jumped. I hit cold water, went under, then came up to see the speedboat a few yards away.

“Here.” Jean-Paul threw me a life belt. I grabbed it. He reeled me in and hoisted me on board.

“Thank you. You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” I gasped as he revved up the motor and we sped away. “How lucky that you happened to come this way.”

“Nothing to do with luck, ma chérie,” Jean-Paul said, reaching for a large fluffy towel and handing it to me. “I was sitting on my own terrace, just across the cove, reading the morning newspapers—where you and I both feature nicely, I might add—when I heard a boat’s motor start up. I looked up and saw you going out to Sir Toby’s yacht. Knowing his less-than-honorable reputation with young women, I decided to give chase. I jumped into my speedboat and came to the rescue.”

“I’m so glad you did. He was trying to—you know.”

“Get you into his bed. Naturally. He has that reputation.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “But you are safe now. I will take you home and dry you off and all will be well.”

His arm was warm and comforting around my shoulder as we made for the shore.

It did cross my mind that I might have leaped from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Jean-Paul also had a reputation, didn’t he? But I didn’t exactly find him repugnant. Besides, he was a true gentleman—a marquis, not a trumpedup arms dealer from the lower classes. Somehow I felt safe with him. He confirmed this by saying, “The English—I will never understand. They think it is manly and bold to force a woman into bed. The Frenchman, he would never do that. If a woman says no to him, he sees this as a challenge. He tries to seduce her little by little, with charming gestures, presents, flowers, plenty of attention, until one day, she comes to his bed willingly and with anticipation. And if she still says no, then there are plenty more fish in the sea, as you say.”

And he laughed.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

January 26, 1933
At the villa of Jean-Paul de Ronchard—imagine! If only
Belinda could see me now—oh, and Darcy.

The coastline neared with its fabulous villas dotting the rugged shoreline. Jean-Paul slowed the motor as he steered his boat into a little cove. I could see the gleaming white of Sir Toby’s villa just across the cove. Ahead of us was a jetty, to one side of it a small crescent of beach and, above it, a lovely Tuscan-style villa with red-tiled roof and green-painted shutters.