Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

of masterpieces from all over Europe. She built the Hermitage to house them you know … a marvellous legacy to leave.’ He smiled and added, ‘Catherine has always intrigued me, I must admit. An unscrupulous but fascinating woman. She was involved with one of my ancestors when she was in her twenties, and perhaps that’s why she has always piqued my interest.’

      ‘That must have been Count Stanislaus Poniatowski, who later became King of Poland. Am I right?’

      ‘You are indeed, Francesca,’ Vladmir told her, obviously surprised at this display of historical knowledge. He launched into a long story about his ancestor’s love affair with the Empress of all the Russias, and in a most amusing manner. So much so, Francesca was instantly caught up in what he had to say, and the time passed swiftly.

      It was suddenly the end of the dinner. Clara carried in a large birthday cake, ablaze with candles. Manfred served champagne, and Diana was the recipient of more toasts and congratulations.

      Francesca said, as the toasts came to an end, ‘Diana darling, now you must blow out all the candles and make a wish. A secret wish. Don’t tell us!’

      Victor, surveying the cake, leaned towards Diana and teased, ‘Twenty-seven candles. That’s pretty brave of you, honey, letting everyone know how old you are today.’

      ‘A woman who can’t tell her age doesn’t know who she is,’ Diana retorted pithily. ‘I like to think I do.’

      It was turned midnight when the last of the guests finally departed. Christian and Diana accompanied them to the front door to say their goodbyes, and Victor and Francesca were left alone in the sitting room.

      Victor, nursing a brandy and smoking a cigar, looked across at her seated on the opposite sofa and began to chuckle.

      ‘What is it?’ she asked.

      He said, his eyes twinkling, ‘Do you realize I was the only person present tonight without a title?’

      ‘Then we have to find one for you immediately,’ Francesca pronounced, smiling with him. ‘I have it! How about King … of the Silver Screen?’

      Victor shook his head emphatically. ‘Not possible, kid. Gable’s the King, and he always will be, even after he’s gone. Nobody, but nobody, will ever inherit that title. I doubt they’d want to. Clark’s a very special guy, much loved, and revered, too, these days. No, there’ll only be one King of Hollywood in everyone’s minds.’

      ‘Will you settle for Prince of the Silver Screen then?’ she ventured, leaning back against the sofa, her eyes soft and loving as she regarded him.

      He smiled, said nothing, stood up and took her glass from the coffee table. He moved across the room to the console. ‘What is this stuff you’re drinking, kid?’

      ‘Pear William, please.’

      Lifting the bottle he poured a generous measure, then held the bottle up, staring at it. ‘How the hell did this pear get in here?’ he asked, swinging to face her.

      ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

      ‘Well, let me see. A glass blower formed the bottle around the pear. I can see from the disgusted look on your face that the answer’s no. Mmmmm. I have it! It’s a collapsible pear, like one of those ships on a string that goes into the bottle flat, and is then pulled up straight,’ he said, obviously teasing her now.

      ‘Only one more guess, Vic, then you have to pay a penalty.’

      ‘That sounds interesting. What did you have in mind?’

      Observing his face as he came back to the fireplace, she started to laugh. She exclaimed, ‘Not what you think, you wretch.’

      He sat down next to her and handed her the glass. ‘Too bad. In that case, I’d better ’fess up that I’ve known all along that the pear started out very small, and just growed and growed in the bottle. Down the hatch, kid.’ He took a sip of his brandy, retrieved his cigar from the ashtray and puffed on it for a few seconds, then he reached out and touched her face with one finger. ‘It’s nice to have you to myself, Ches. It seems as if I ain’t seen you all evening.’

      ‘Yes, I know. But it was fun, wasn’t it? You did enjoy the dinner party?’

      ‘Sure did.’ He settled back, feeling relaxed and contented and comfortable with her. His eyes roved around the room, and fell on the photographs arranged on the library table behind the sofa facing them. He allowed his gaze to linger, and after a short while, he said, ‘I haven’t wanted to pry, but I gotta admit I’m riddled with curiosity. Ever since I arrived here, I’ve sensed a sort of, well, a kind of mystery, I guess. About your aunt and uncle. Where are they?’

      He got no further. Francesca had stiffened and he felt her sudden tenseness. He saw that the laughter had fled out of her, and seriousness mingled with sadness had crept onto her face. He waited, uncertain whether he ought to continue.

      At last Francesca said, ‘My Aunt Arabella lives in West Berlin.’

      ‘And your uncle? Where is he?’

      She returned his concentrated look, bit her lip and glanced down at her hands. ‘I’d rather not … not talk about it, Vic,’ she said softly.

      ‘We’re not sure where my father is, if indeed he’s alive.’ Christian’s voice rang out clearly as he propelled himself to the fireplace.

      Victor went cold and he held himself very still. He shook his head slowly and lifted his hand, as if telling Christian to say no more. He was acutely embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he apologized, ‘I’m sorry. I’m blundering in again – into something that’s none of my business. Please, let’s forget I ever asked the question.’

      ‘No, no, Victor, that’s all right. And don’t be upset,’ Christian replied. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. And, as I said, Father’s whereabouts are unknown. We don’t talk about him very often, especially with friends, because – well, because Diana and I have come to realize it’s easier to ignore the situation whenever we can. Naturally, it’s always there, at the back of our minds, although we do try not to dwell on it, for our own sanity.’

      ‘He’s dead!’ Diana’s pronouncement startled them all, and three pairs of eyes followed her movements. She entered the room purposefully, her face uncommonly pale. She took up her position in her favourite spot on the hearth, and continued firmly, ‘At any rate, I believe he’s dead. Originally, when the rumours started about two years ago, I thought there was a possibility of his being alive. But now I can’t give credence to the stories …’ Her voice trailed off, and then she said, ‘Victor, would you mind getting me another drink, please? White mint over ice.’

      ‘Sure.’ He sprang up. ‘What about you, Christian?’

      ‘Thanks. I’ll have a cognac.’

      There was a silence whilst Victor fixed the drinks. Francesca, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked apprehensively from Diana to Christian, and wished Victor had not opened this particular Pandora’s box. On the other hand, in all fairness to him, his inquisitiveness was only natural. Perhaps it would have been simpler if she had told a white lie a moment ago, and said her uncle also lived in West Berlin. Yet the family were so aware of Kurt von Wittingen’s uncertain fate, it was always there in the background, hanging over them like the sword of Damocles.

      Victor passed the drinks around without a word, said finally, in a subdued tone, ‘Look, let’s forget I ever –’

      ‘Just a minute, Victor,’ Christian interrupted and turned his gaze on Diana. ‘I really think we owe Victor an explanation, darling, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Good. You’d better make yourself comfortable,’ Christian suggested, addressing Victor, all of his attention now focused on him. ‘The story I have to tell you is complex, one I have partially pieced together myself over the years, from bits of information from my mother, my