The French Connection. Tracy Kelleher

unavailable for rent starting July first, which means we will have to return the Remingtons’ money. And without that, our cash on hand is just too low—meaning they could start to seize business and personal assets imme-e-diately.” He sniffed loudly.

      “What about the money we’ll get from the Nosenbergers? They’re renting the place for two weeks at the beginning of June, and their contract is still valid before the leasing agreement runs out.”

      Lionel shook his head. “It’s better than nothing but not nearly enough. June is shoulder-season rates, and their stay is wa-ay too short.”

      Shelley swallowed pensively. “Next Tuesday, huh?” She rapped her fingers on the table. “Even with flying out tonight, that only gives me six days.” Less than a week to bail out the business, keep her job and pay off her student loans. And stop her belongings from becoming government property. Not that her valuables would bring much: a coral necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother, a small etching that she’d bought upon joining the ranks of the employed, a spotty collection of mostly used art-history books and her Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls.

      “So now you understand why you must not fail in your dealings with the Montforts, for your sake and for Dream Villas’,” Lionel implored dramatically.

      “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She was beyond giving him support. As far as she was concerned, he was the one who had gotten them into this mess. She was of half a mind to follow in her father’s footsteps and run away to the circus.

      Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way that she could imagine herself in tights and spangles. Oh, well, she had wanted to spread her wings and take new risks—all by herself.

      Unfortunately, it seemed as if the risks were being thrust upon her instead.

      Maybe wearing tight blue cashmere hadn’t been such a good choice after all.

      THE FATE OF DREAM VILLAS and her own personal solvency resting heavily on her shoulders, Shelley slammed the door to her tiny Renault rental car and stared at the massive entryway of the Montfort chateau. For the first time in her life, Shelley had come across a situation where neither chocolate nor red wine provided a measure of comfort. Just as long as she could hold off the panic, she figured she had a chance—maybe.

      She let her eyes drift above the heavy wooden doors to a carved stone tympanum. The ravages of time and intermittent Provençal rains had nearly obliterated the bas-relief, and she had to squint to make out what was left of it. At first glance, it looked like a lumpy pancake on a circular platter, but Shelley soon realized it actually depicted a squat-shaped animal surrounded by a raised medallion. A porcupine in full profile, to be exact.

      “Just great,” Shelley muttered. “A family that prides itself on its prickliness.” Still, she had a job to do—and fast—even if it meant facing aristocrats who fashioned themselves after a spiny woodland creature. “I suppose it could have been worse. They could have chosen a skunk.”

      She reached for the heavy iron ring that hung at eye level and knocked. And waited.

      And waited some more.

      Tapping the tip of her black slide shoes on the pebbly gravel, she looked around. Enormous terra-cotta urns overflowing with red geraniums, blue lobelia and something yellow and vaguely daisylike edged the circular drive. To the side, an allée of stately cypresses led to a fountain, which splashed amidst mounds of lady’s mantle. A low stone wall defined the garden’s perimeter, and beyond, almond trees covered with loose bunches of white flowers marched in neat rows across the rolling hills. It was A Year in Provence come to life, only without the workmen in desperate need of a shave and long-lasting deodorant.

      Shelley glanced at her watch. It was several minutes past the appointment time that she’d arranged over the phone. She raised her hand to knock again when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. An elderly woman walking briskly from around the back of the house came into view.

      “Mademoiselle McCleery, by chance, is that you?” The woman’s English had a sibilant French accent with a distinct oddity. The r of McCleery trilled off her tongue, reminding Shelley of an extra—a most unlikely one—from Braveheart.

      “Yes, I’m Shelley McCleery.” Shelley walked over and held out her hand and then realized she was holding flowers. “You’re very kind to receive me. These are for you and your family.” She handed over a bouquet of red and purple anemones de Caen.

      “How thoughtful, and how delightful to have something colorful in the house. Unfortunately, we have been deluged with white lilies. One would think it was still Good Friday.” She paused. “But perhaps that is appropriate after all—Madame la Comtesse always did fancy herself God’s gift to creation.” Her voice contained an hauteur matched only by the artful upsweep of her silver-gray hair. Massive, yellowing opera-length pearls like something out of a portrait by Rembrandt rested atop her black silk shantung dress.

      “I am Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. I am sorry I was not here to meet you immediately, but you see, it is only the clients who inhabit the chateau when they are here. We—that is, the family—live in the cottage behind the chateau. It saves on heating and staff costs.”

      “Yes, of course.” Shelley nodded, trying her best to follow the accented and somewhat convoluted syntax. One thing was certain; she recognized the name Marie-Jeanne de Montfort. The former count, who’d predeceased his late wife by a good fifteen years, had two female cousins who also lived on the estate, and it was one of them who invariably attended to business.

      Marie-Jeanne guided Shelley around the main house to the cottage, which was nestled between twin apricot trees. Its multipaned glass doors were open to the warmth of the midday sun and white curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was picture-postcard perfect—and also, by the looks of it, easily large enough to accommodate a family of six. The Montforts may have come down in the world, but one family’s descent was another’s dream come true.

      “Isabelle, Mademoiselle McCleery is here.” The Cuban heels of Marie-Jeanne’s black pumps tapped on the cool tile floors as they entered the kitchen, where another elderly woman was waiting. She was practically a double for Marie-Jeanne except that she was dressed in a black wool suit instead of a dress. Her sole piece of jewelry was a moonstone ring as large as the average quail egg, which years of etiquette and an excessively large knuckle kept poised on her tapered finger.

      “This is my sister, Isabelle de Montfort, Mademoiselle McCleery,” Marie-Jeanne made the introductions.

      “Please call me Shelley, Lady de Montfort,” Shelley insisted. “And let me say I was so sorry about your recent loss. My employer, Mr. Toynbee, especially wanted me to convey his sympathies regarding the comtesse.”

      “Why am I not surprised at Monsieur Toynbee’s sympathies?” Isabelle pursed her lips.

      Marie-Jeanne passed the flowers to her sister. “Isabelle and I continue to take solace in that fact that la comtesse was merely a relative by marriage.” She reached for a Sèvres vase and removed a cache of wooden spoons and a folded sheet of paper with typed names. Shelley recognized the list of repairmen that she regularly updated for each property owner.

      Isabelle smelled the flowers. “Are they not lovely?” She placed them in the vase, filled it with water and set the arrangement in a place of honor on the table. “Though to give the late comtesse credit, you must admit, ma soeur, that she did have rather shapely calves.”

      Marie-Jeanne wiped her hands on a dish towel that was embroidered with a row of bumblebees—there seemed no end to the prickliness of the Montforts. “It is true, Isabelle, and something clearly not lost on Bertrand.” She looked at Shelley. “Our cousin, the late count, was—how do you say?—a leg man. He once raised livestock, you see.”

      Shelley nodded. “I see.” She didn’t at all. “Your English, both of your English, rather, is—” she searched for the appropriate word “—remarkable.”

      The two women beamed.

      “Mademoiselle Bruce would have been so delighted