School of Fortune (31 page)

“At your service.” The way he said it made her blush.

In two hours all traces of Titian's party were expunged from Casa Bowes. Pippa found Kerry in the bowling alley, sleeping off the river of beer she had consumed with the bodyguards. They set to work dismantling the gift table. Moss maintained an enormous wine cellar, Pippa discovered as she carted case after case downstairs. Kerry kept note of all incoming stock in her BlackBerry. “Are you the somme-lier?” Pippa asked.

“The what, Mo?”

“Wine steward. My name's Cosmo. Two syllables. What are you writing there?”

“I just like to keep records. For my own protection.”

“Let me guess. That's your diary. You're working on an expose.”

Kerry nearly dropped a case of Viognier. “Are you spying on me? I'll break your faggot jaw.”

“Get a life. There's one of you in every house. In case you're screwing Signor Bowes, be aware that the market's already flooded with kiss-and-tell memoirs. Written by nannies who majored in English.” Encouraged by Kerry's dismay, Pippa took a long shot. “Signora Bowes already knows about you and Samson. I'd worry about my own jaw if I were you.”

“Holy Mother of God! Does she know about Rudi, too?”

“Can I give you a piece of advice? If you're going to hit on everything that moves, get a job with Howard Stern.”

Pippa went to the kitchen. She hadn't eaten all day and had a thrashing headache. Rudi was tautening Saran Wrap over every container in the refrigerator, muttering about escaping odors. Seeing Pippa slumped at the table, he brought over a crock of shrimp salad. “You did a great job today, Rudi.”

“Zose ladies zink I am zat
Schweinehund
Wolfgang Puck!”

“They loved you.” Pippa watched Rudi stack leftover cookies in a tin. His devotion to his art reminded her of Slava Slootski, the greatest clown on earth. How was that poor man doing? And Pushkin? Suddenly she missed them terribly.

“My shrimp salad iss bad?”

“It's wonderful.” Pippa stood up. “I'm just really tired. Good night.” She went to her room, kicked off her leaden nubucks, and unpeeled her mustache. She hung up her uniform and moved on to the high point of her day, unzipping the jogging bra. Pippa checked in the mirror to see that neither breast had gangrened. She flopped on her bed and dialed Olivia. “The party was a huge success.”

“Yes, yes, I heard. Leigh was on the phone with me for an hour.” Dead drunk but coherent enough. “She adores you.”

“She's a nice person. May I have my diploma now?”

“Now?” Olivia repeated with exaggerated surprise. “I don't understand.”

“That was the deal, wasn't it? Get Leigh through the party?”

“I believe the arrangement was that you would get her through the
week,
Lotus. Perhaps more.” Olivia had just wheedled an extra twenty grand out of Leigh if Cosmo stayed on until Labor Day. “Have some pity. You know I desperately need the money.”

The answer would have been no were it not for the beguiling presence of Cole. Pippa had had another naked dream about him last night. “Okay. One more week.”

“You're a dear girl. If I had a daughter like you, I'd be the happiest woman alive.”

Olivia's comment nudged her into melancholy. Pippa fell blankly asleep, only to be wakened by another altercation in the Jacuzzi. She couldn't believe that Leigh and Moss could hurl such crippling words at each other and still live under the same roof. Even her parents in their vilest moments had the good sense to keep their mouths shut, get into separate cars, and hit the golf course or Neiman Marcus. It always blew over because silence expressed both everything and nothing and, at the end of the day, most arguments were about nothing. Nothing that could be fixed, anyhow. Pippa winced as the fight escalated to four-letter words containing
u's.

A
soft knock on her door around midnight: Cole. “Cosmo? May I use the bathroom?”

“Of course,” Pippa called from the bed.

“Did I wake you?”

“Hardly.”

“Have you had dinner?”

Pippa crept to the door. “You haven't eaten?”

“We just got back from a meeting with a snakeskin exporter.”

“That sounds gross.”

“It was. Come on, let's raid the kitchen. I'm starving.”

Now that he mentioned it, so was she. “Why don't you bring some food back here? I don't want to run into Leigh or Moss in their present state.”

Pippa made her bed. She squished back into the sports bra and glued her mustache on. She had just finished buttoning her jacket when Cole returned with two of Rudi's salads, a bottle of wine, and a huge crock of pickles. “Gee, Cosmo, you didn't have to get all dressed up for me.”

“All I brought were uniforms. I hadn't planned on staying longer than the birthday party. Now it seems I'm stuck here another whole week.”

That news made his day. Cole handed her the bowl of shrimp salad. She looked cuter than ever with the mustache on upside down. Beneath the mousy-brown dye job, he suspected she was a blonde. “Are we that bad?”

“It's a long story.” Pippa realized she was sweating profusely: she hadn't sat on a bed with a heterosexual male since Prague. Cole hadn't exactly placed himself in the far-off corner, either. “How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“You worked on a yacht before then?” “That's right.”
Thanks for reminding me.

Pippa waited for further details: none forthcoming. “How'd you end up here?”

“I answered an ad. It went something like ‘International businessman seeks valet. Must be discreet and fond of birds.' I thought ‘birds' meant ‘girls' so I sent my resume.”

“There must have been a million applicants,” Pippa frowned.

“I actually do know something about birds. My mother belongs to the Audubon Society.”

“I'm sure she'd be delighted to know what Moss is doing to the worldwide avian population.”

Cole didn't answer. She wore a Patek Philippe watch: that was a lot of buttered toast. Settling on the pillow, he dug into a bowl of chicken salad. “Tell me about yourself, Cosmo.”

“What would you like to know?”

Why are you pretending to be a guy, for one. What were you doing at the Phoenix Ritz-Carlton, two. Do you have a boyfriend, three, four, and five. “Where'd you get the Maserati?”

“Oh, that,” Pippa laughed, cursing the day its paint dried. “It's a gift from my—” Oh, boy. “Previous employer.”

“For services rendered?”

Pippa blushed fiercely enough to ripple the wallpaper. “I got him over a little hump. Actually a big hump.” That sounded worse. “It's not the sort of hump you're thinking of.”

“Sounds illegal.”

“No, just impulsive and stupid.”

As Cole poured her a glass of cabernet, he caught her looking at his watch. “A gift from my previous employer. No humps involved. Cheers.”

She tried not to stare too blatantly at Cole's throat as he sipped his wine. “Is this from the cellar? It's excellent.”

“Moss told me to help myself. He doesn't drink and Leigh prefers Gallo in gallons.”

“Is he a nicer guy when he's not around her?”

Cole tore his eyes away from her mouth. He was already fantasizing about peeling the mustache off. “You've got to understand where Moss is coming from, Cosmo. He grew up in a tenement in Buffalo. He doesn't like to see his money evaporate.”

“Then he should join the Masons, not the country club.” One of Thayne's favorite lines. “So what do you do all day? Sit in the car and wait for Signor Bowes to need a ride?”

“Something like that.”

“That sounds pretty boring.”

“It beats organizing birthday parties for dogs.” Winking, Cole refilled her glass. “Where'd you get the idea to call the Westminster Kennel Club?”

“My previous employer was a party girl. She thought big and just picked up the phone. You'd be amazed at the insane things people would do for her.”

Odd that Cosmo never mentioned who these previous employers might be. Majordomos were normally the crassest name-droppers. “So she had private dog shows and swim meets?”

“No, those were my idea.” Pippa sighed. “Signor Bowes is going to hit the roof when he gets the bills tomorrow.” “Maybe he'll just hit Leigh instead.”

“You think those fights are funny? I couldn't imagine treating my husband like that.” Aghast, Pippa realized her mistake. Damn wine! “I mean my wife.”

Cole couldn't resist teasing her a bit. “Which is it, Cosmo?”

Pippa tried to think. If she said “husband,” Cole would think Cosmo was gay. If she said “wife,” he'd think Cosmo was a guy. “Whatever,” she mumbled. How lame! Pippa crashed the bowl of shrimp salad onto her night table. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll say good night before I make a complete fool of myself.”

“No pickles?” Cole chomped the tip off the largest of them. “They're delicious.”

“I hate pickles.” Pippa sprang off the mattress, caught her foot in the bed skirt, and fell flat on her face. Yves Saint Laurent's eyeglasses shot under the chair. “Whoa!” Cole picked her up. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried like that. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Actually Pippa felt much worse after he let go of her.

Cole swished his hand under the chair, trawling for her eyeglasses. To Pippa's horror he found not only the glasses but her jewelry roll. “What's this?” As she stood petrified, he untied the ribbon and emptied the contents into his hand.

They both stared at Pippa's magnificent diamond necklace from her grandfather, her diamond earrings from Lance, and her diamond bar-rette from Rosimund. Pippa knew that he knew the rocks were real. “A going-away gift from my previous employer,” she explained. Sadly, that was very close to the truth. “When I get a chance I'll sell them on eBay.”

Cole quietly replaced everything in the jewelry roll. “That must have been one hell of a hump, Cosmo.” He gathered the empty bowls from the night table. “Would you like to keep the wine?”

“I've drunk enough for one evening, thank you.”

At the door he paused. She looked so pale and deflated that he felt like reading her a bedtime story. “I'm glad you're here. Hope you stay awhile.”

She didn't move for quite a while after the door shut behind him. Cole was no ordinary chauffeur.

F
ollowing Titian's birthday party, Dusi Damon had to admit that Leigh, Casa Bowes, and Cosmo were the talk of the town. That house! Those games! Door prizes! The tuna! Millions of cell phone minutes were expended regarding Leigh's baseball cap, sequined belt, and hand-sewn Italian shirt. Was she making a fashion statement or was she just a clueless tramp? Consensus was finally reached: perhaps jeans, and not a prim designer suit,
had
been the correct attire for a dog's birthday fete. Cosmo had obviously dressed his mistress and, as anyone could see, Cosmo was in a sartorial class of his own. Only a pioneer would wear a purple sombrero and matching silk pantaloons in public. Gray socks and nubucks: revolutionary. Half the Las Vegas fashionistas swore his jacket and eyeglasses were Saint Laurent. The other half swore they were Versace. Try as she might, Dusi could not refocus the spotlight on herself. It was an ugly, helpless feeling.

Following Leigh's lead, she fired her bodyguard Giorgio. Instead of a haute couture suit, Dusi dressed in tennis clothes and a baseball cap for her luncheon the next day. She was chagrined to see Leigh show up in an apple-green Dolce & Gabbana suit, Prada shoes, and not one sequin. Cosmo wore his customary uniform, which already felt classic, like Tom Wolfe's white suits. “Welcome to Castilio Damonia,” Dusi effused, feeling ridiculous in her ruffly panties. “I hope you don't mind that I will be going straight from lunch to a croquet lesson.” “Obviously,” Cosmo answered dryly.

Ignoring Leigh, Dusi took Cosmo's arm and proceeded down a long, dark foyer lined with thirty-six full coats of armor. “Castilio Da-monia is modeled on Blusterwell, the seat of the Marquess of Ashberry in County Durham. It has four ballrooms, thirty guest rooms, and fifty large fireplaces.”

“Winters must be brutal in Las Vegas.”

“I'll tell you a little secret, Cosmo: we turn the air-conditioning to fifty-five, then light the fires.” Dusi paused to admire a stuffed horse, in full armor, at the end of the hallway. “My husband Caleb's armor collection is one of the finest in the northern hemisphere. In fact, he's in Normandy as we speak, negotiating for a suit worn by Ethelred the Unready. I just don't know where we're going to put it!”

“How about the kitchen? You can hang pasta over the spear.”

“What a splendid idea. I will consider that.”

Leigh had never been invited to Dusi's forty-thousand-square-foot castle before. Her head was spinning. “Wow! This so reminds me of Harry Potter.”

Dusi glanced backward with disdain. “I presume that was a compliment, Leigh.”

“Signora Bowes is comparing your home with the Bodleian Library and Lacock Abbey.” Pippa was a big Harry Potter fan. “I would consider it a huge compliment.”

“In that case, thank you.” Dusi detested suits of armor. However, since they were flashy, unique, and appallingly expensive, she allowed Caleb to gallivant all over the planet augmenting his collection. “Let me show you a modest hobby of my own.”

They entered an enormous room crammed with dolls in glass cases. The place looked like a cross between a preemie ward and a midget mortuary. Dusi meandered from case to case, reciting how much she had paid for each doll and where she had bought it.

“Do you ever play with them?” Leigh asked.

“My dear girl! Would you ‘play' with the Shroud of Turin?” Dusi stopped at a large glass case. “This doll belonged to Tsarevna Anastasia.

I bought it in Istanbul for four hundred thousand dollars. It is now worth three times that.”

The doll bore an unpleasant resemblance to Chucky. As she stared at its harsh green eyes, Pippa recalled that several years ago Thayne had gone with Dusi on a trip to Istanbul in search of a doll that had purportedly belonged to Tsarevna Anastasia. Thayne had raved for months about the doll's green garnet eyes. After a worldwide search, she had finally managed to find herself an outstanding specimen of the gemstone and had it mounted in a brooch. Fortunately, the name was easy to remember.

Pippa leaned over the case. “Is that demantoid?”

“My God, Cosmo! How did you know?”

“Mined in the Urals. Very rare horsetail inclusions. A favorite of Faberge.”
Thank you, Mama.
“My previous employer had a dozen in the knob of his walking stick.”

Rattled by the condescension in Cosmo's voice, Dusi said, “Well! Who's ready for a drink?”

Horatio, her ancient butler, brought three room-temperature martinis to the library. “The bar is so far away and he's so slow,” she apologized. Dusi didn't apologize for the cheap gin. “Light me please, Horatio.”

“That's a stunning holder,” Leigh said as the poor man hobbled across the room to hold a flame to his mistress's cigarette.

“Thank you. It belonged to Lola Montez.” Dusi had spent years and another fortune collecting the cigarette holders of immortal
femmes fatales.
She wasn't about to let a little lung cancer prevent her from showing them off. “It was a gift from her lover, Ludwig the First of Bavaria.”

As Leigh listened in awe to a disquisition on mad King Ludwig, Horatio brought another round of warm martinis containing both olives and twists of lemon. “He's been with us forever,” Dusi sighed by way of a second apology. “Would you consider trading Cosmo for Horatio, Leigh?”

Pippa immediately cut in. “I'm sorry. I have an exclusive contract with Casa Bowes.” She glared at Leigh to discourage any waffling. “And I'm very happy there.” “Too bad! May I be the first to know if the situation changes?” “Absolutely,” Leigh smiled.

Pippa leaned meaningfully forward. “How are you progressing with Signora Bowes's membership to the country club?”

Dusi needed a moment to recover. She had thought Cosmo was about to inspect the emerald pendant lost in her cleavage. “It is progressing more slowly than I had hoped.”

“And why is that?”

Dusi exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Leigh, may I be frank? Your background is not aristocratic. Nor is that of your husband. Despite your admirable qualities, you are still first-generation plutocrats.”

“So are you, if I'm not mistaken,” Pippa said.

“Who told you such a thing?” Dusi gasped. For years she had been repeating the canard that she was a descendant of Jay Gould.

“It is common knowledge.” Pippa removed the olive from her martini and placed it in a lapis lazuli ashtray. “Please continue.”

“There is incredible competition for the two open memberships. The least blunder could be fatal. Floridia Ventura was a shoo-in until someone wrote to the committee that she was seen wearing the same Badgley Mischka dress two years in a row. Tori Batterson was a sure thing until her chef reported that he had been instructed to purchase store-brand groceries.”

“You've got to be kidding,” Pippa muttered in disgust.

“It's the truth.” Dusi looked toward the doorway. “Yes, Horatio?”

Dusi's butler entered with an ornately framed diploma. “Madam, you requested to see this the moment it arrived.”

“Oh, that thing. Yes, yes, show it to the guests.”

“You've been inducted into the Frequent Bentley Society.” Leigh excitedly read the fine print. “Ten Bentleys in eight years! That's fantastic.”

Dusi was in the habit of having a few martinis and driving into the moat surrounding their castle. “Please hang that in the hallway outside your room, Horatio,” she said, waving him off. “As I was saying, Leigh, one tiny misstep and you're finished. I will protect you as far as humanly possible but remember, you are nothing but a tap dancer.” Dusi was gratified to see Leigh's lips tremble. “From Buffalo!”

“May I ask how
you
gained entrance into the Las Vegas Country

Club?” Pippa interrupted. Via Thayne she already knew that Dusi, after hiring six private detectives, had finally found enough dirt to blackmail two philanderers on the membership committee.

“My qualifications spoke for themselves,” Dusi replied with a straight face. “I must congratulate you on that party yesterday, Leigh. It generated a lot of positive feedback from people who were—how do I say this?—previously unenthusiastic about your pedigree.”

Horatio reentered. With white-gloved hands he presented Dusi with a little silver tray. On the tray was a little card. Dusi took the card. “Lunch is served,” she read aloud.

They repaired to the dining hall, a masterpiece of English Gothic architecture. One hundred heraldic flags hung from the rafters. In the dark corners Caleb had managed to stash another stuffed horse and a quartet of fully armored knights, their lances all pointing at the long refectory table. Horatio had lit the two candelabra closest to the end where the ladies were seated. Sixteen candles didn't go far toward dispelling the gloom; however, Dusi considered the effect sensationally dramatic. She noticed Cosmo staring at her candlesticks.

“Are you admiring my regency silver, Cosmo?”

“No, I'm wondering whether I should allow Signora Bowes to lunch at a table lit by candles in daytime. I would never allow such a lapse at Casa Bowes.”

Mortified, Dusi could only twitter, “Bravo, Cosmo! I was testing you.” Nevertheless, she kept the candles lit rather than risk Cosmo noticing her filthy chandeliers.

Discussion of the Bowes's chances of joining the Las Vegas Country Club continued over congealing beef Wellington. In Dusi's opinion, dinosaurs had a better chance of roaming the earth than had Leigh of getting six yes votes from the membership committee. One abstention, one tiny anonymous letter of objection, and Leigh was out. The last forty candidates had not passed muster, and they were all people of stellar merit. Ten were billionaires. “Wealth was not enough,” Dusi warned. She could not go into further detail because she had taken an oath of secrecy. “Unfortunately, Leigh, some people think Cosmo is the classiest item of furniture in your house.”

“You know how important this membership is for Moss and me,” Leigh whispered, again on the verge of tears.

“Furthermore, the club frowns on unstable couples. You two are definitely unstable.”

“My employers are sublimely happy, Madam Damon. Who gave you such poor information?”

“I have my sources. And I have eyes in my head. Moss was definitely
not
staring at my neckline yesterday afternoon as I left Casa Bowes.”

Pippa needed a moment to process how not ogling Dusi's boobs made Moss's marriage unstable. “Must everyone stare at those two bazookas you acquired in Rangoon?”

“My God, Cosmo!” Dusi nearly choked on her Yorkshire pudding. “Who told you such an outrageous lie?”

“Again, common knowledge.” Pippa folded her napkin. “Thank you for lunch, Madam Damon. I believe Signora Bowes and I have heard, and eaten, enough.” She headed for the door.

“Wait! I did say the situation was difficult, but it's far from hopeless. Yesterday's party was a good start. Leigh needs to follow up with a knockout punch.”

Pippa turned. To her irritation Leigh was still seated at the table, fork in hand, paralyzed. “What do you suggest? We have no more pets with upcoming birthdays.”

Leigh sprang to life. “We could celebrate Dusi's induction into the Frequent Bentley Society.”

“An excellent idea!” Dusi agreed at once. “Leigh, you have more imagination than I thought. I'll send a guest list tomorrow. This could clinch it for you if you do it right.” She beamed as Horatio entered with a dark, gummy mound on a silver platter. “Ah, the figgy pudding.”

Pippa's digestive tract was spared by the entrance of a thirtysome-thing man in white pants and polo sweater. He had the tanned, even looks of an Abercrombie model now given over to full-time freeload-ing. “Pardon me,” he cried in surprise. “I didn't know you were having company, Dusi.” He looked quizzically at Pippa, whose gender was open to question. “I'm Harlan Scott.”

“Cosmo du Piche,” she replied, limply offering her hand.

Harlan instantly concluded that Cosmo was not his type. Leigh was another story. “Good afternoon to you,” he leered.

Dusi took immediate preemptive action. “Harlan is croquet instructor at the club,” she said, rising. “And my chaperone when Caleb is out of town.” Translation: hands off. “Now if you'll excuse us, I believe we're late for my lesson.” Fusing herself to his forearm, Dusi marched Harlan toward the door. “Think about my offer of a trade, Leigh.”

“What was that all about?” Leigh whispered after the front door had slammed.

“That means Harlan is more than her croquet teacher.” “What trade is she talking about?”

“Me for Horatio. Don't even think about it. Are you interested in that figgy pudding?” No way. “Then let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.” Pippa cupped her hands over her mouth. “Thank you, Horatio,” she called to the butler standing discreetly at a side table. “Everything was exquisite.”

“My pleasure, sir.” He showed them to the front door. “Good day.”

Leigh's apricot Duesenberg was parked in the stable beside Caleb's collection of royal horse-drawn carriages. Pippa slowly drove over the moat bridge separating Dusi's castle from the real world. “She's got some nerve calling Casa Bowes gaudy.”

“I think Dusi's home is magnificent.”

“Will you stop defending her? Anyone who lives with two stuffed horses is not sane.”

“I think she has a crush on you, Cosmo.”

“That just proves my point. Please don't encourage her.”

“I can't believe Floridia Ventura was rejected! She's a descendant of the first governor of Rhode Island.” Leigh's mood deteriorated with each mile Pippa put between them and Castilio Damonia. “Maybe Dusi's right. There's no hope. I'm just a social-climbing ex-Rockette with an unstable marriage.”

“She's playing mind games with you. She needs to keep you in a state of perpetual insecurity. It's the way she is.”