§ § § -- December 23, 2004

Christian, who considered Christmas Eve a holiday just as much as Christmas Day itself, had closed his office at noon and wished his employees a merry Christmas; they would all be off till the following Monday. So he was at the main house when Roarke noted the time and asked Leslie to meet the two-o'clock charter. "As I mentioned yesterday," he told her, "I want you to bring Solange and LeNoir directly here. The attendants can take care of their luggage, but you must impress upon them that I wish to see them immediately."

Christian frowned as his wife nodded understanding, and stood up. "I think I'd better go along with you, my Rose," he said. "I've heard enough from the children about this LeNoir that I don't like the thought of you going alone."

Roarke smiled. "Perhaps that's wise," he said. "More than once I've seen people grow meek in the presence of His Royal Highness, Prince Christian. It may just work on Georges LeNoir as well."

Christian laughed, slipping an arm around a grinning Leslie. "I think it helps that I actually am a prince again." At their raised brows, he quantified, "If no one else, it helps me, psychologically, to realize that being a bona-fide prince, with my full rank and title restored, is enough to intimidate a lot of people." Amid the laughter, he gave Leslie a quick squeeze. "Well, let's go find out precisely what you and your father are facing here."

She took the wheel and drove to the plane dock; neither spoke on the way, feeling overly alert. Christian took Leslie's hand when they got out, and in silence they strolled to the dock, in time to see the plane taxi around a small spit of land and into the protected lagoon. A frothy wake washed ashore behind the pontoon craft, ricocheting and making it bob up and down as it drifted closer to the dock. Within ten minutes the plane had been moored and the hatch thrown open from inside.

"There's Solange," Leslie said softly, recognizing the blonde woman instantly. She still had the same girlish features, though now they seemed strangely pinched and drawn with worry. She heard Christian make a small noise of acknowledgement beside her, and they watched Solange move ahead a few steps—with a slight limp, Leslie realized—before turning back to face the hatch, where a man was just emerging.

"Was she hurt?" Christian asked, obviously having noticed the limp too.

"I don't know…the kids didn't say," Leslie said. Again Christian made a noise, this one a hmm of contemplation, and fell silent beside her. His hold on her hand tightened then, and she shifted her focus to the man behind Solange. The tall, lank man with frizzy light-brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache caught up with Solange and put his hand in hers; Solange smiled at him, and together they started down the ramp.

Solange saw them first and brightened, easing her pinched look. "Leslie, hi," she called and tugged the frizzy-haired man along with her. She let go only long enough to hug Leslie, who felt Christian's hand slide from hers only reluctantly. "It's good to see you again…wow, you look wonderful! And you must be Prince Christian—I'm glad to meet you, Your Highness." She curtsied, favoring her right leg; Christian smiled and nodded back. Solange turned to the man beside her and added, "And this is my fiancé, Georges LeNoir."

At the last second Leslie remembered her own status as a princess, something that usually escaped her; she didn't need to remember the rank she'd acquired upon marrying Christian unless they were in Lilla Jordsö. She held back the automatic greeting till LeNoir had bowed to her and Christian. Christian nodded back, cool and formal; Leslie said only, "Monsieur," withholding anything else.

"It was a very long flight," LeNoir remarked in a fairly heavy French accent, not as thick as Tattoo's had been, but enough that it made her wonder how good his English really was. "We will go to our room, of course."

"Actually," Leslie said, "my father would like to see you—both of you, right away. That's why we came here. I'll drive you to the main house."

LeNoir gave her a sharp look. "Solange is very tired. Cannot it wait?"

Christian raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to know about Solange's children?" he asked a little pointedly. "Mr. Roarke has information about them."

LeNoir opened his mouth, then seemed to remember Christian's royal status and visibly checked himself. "Yes, perhaps this is a good thing, Your Highness. But we must be careful of Solange. She is fragile." So saying, he took Solange's hand and started for the car that awaited them. Christian scowled, glanced at Leslie, then took her hand and walked briskly along, passing LeNoir and Solange and taking the wheel himself this time.

"Where are the kids?" Solange asked on the way to the main house.

"They're in one of the bungalows," Leslie said, turning in her seat to address Solange. "They're all fine, they've been touring the island and just relaxing a bit."

LeNoir sniffed out something in French and added, "The children…they run away from home, and come here just to have a good time! Little fools!" Solange patted his hand and he subsided into a round of grumbling in French. Leslie noticed the drawn, anxious look had returned to Solange's features, but didn't comment.

Then Solange remarked conversationally, "So I guess you're a princess, Leslie. What's it like to be royalty? It must have been something of a culture shock for you."

Leslie grinned. "Well, it could've been worse. Christian's not the stereotypical stuffy royal. If he had been, I never would've fallen in love with him."

Christian eyed her sidelong and remarked, "You really have a flirty way with compliments, my Leslie Rose." They all laughed, except for LeNoir, who looked as if he thought himself above such puerile humor—at least till Christian caught his eye in the mirror, and then the Frenchman let out a nasal "heh heh" that elicited a strange face from Christian, out of sight of anyone but Leslie.

In the study Roarke arose when Christian, Leslie, Solange and LeNoir came in. He smiled at his daughter and son-in-law, then watched Solange and LeNoir, clearly taking in everything—particularly Solange's limp and the proprietary way LeNoir held her arm. They settled in the leather chairs in front of Roarke's desk, while Christian and Leslie made themselves comfortable on the loveseat near the stairs. Roarke resumed his chair, asked if the new arrivals would like beverages, and nodded when they declined. "I hope your journey was pleasant," he said.

"It was difficult for Solange," LeNoir said in his somewhat labored English. "She is no longer in the best health, and these airplane trips cannot be so good for her. Those children, such disobedient little fools they are, to run away so." He turned to Solange then and asked in a solicitous voice, "Have you taken your pain pill today, mon coeur? You must not forget, you need to keep up your strength."

Solange nodded, cast him a grateful look and began to rummage in an overloaded clutch bag. Leslie brought her a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the tea table, and Solange turned the same grateful smile on her; she returned it, then retreated to sit beside Christian again. Before anyone could speak, however, there was the sound of a baby beginning to fret upstairs. Roarke heard it as well as Christian and Leslie did, and nodded at his daughter, who arose and beckoned at her husband. Without a word he followed her up.

In her old room, Leslie lifted a still-drowsy Susanna out of her bassinet. "She needs changing," she murmured, prompting Christian to spread a protective plastic sheet on the bedspread, then retrieve the triplets' diaper bag.

"I don't like the way Solange looks," Christian said.

"Neither do I," Leslie agreed immediately, glancing at him as she started to remove Susanna's sunsuit. "And it isn't just that perpetually anxious expression she has. She looks older than she did even the last time I saw her. Admittedly that was eleven years ago, but to my eyes, she's aged a lot more than eleven years."

Christian nodded. "Yes, I think she seems older than she should. I'd like to know where that limp came from. Why didn't the children mention it? Do you suppose they're so accustomed to it that they don't see it any longer?"

"That would suggest she's had it for a long time," Leslie mused, removing Susanna's old diaper, folding it carefully and safety-pinning it shut. "On the other hand, if the limp is the reason she has to take pain pills, it might be recent."

"Perhaps not that recent," Christian said, extracting baby wipes and powder from the bag for her. Susanna kicked a little and he grinned briefly at his baby daughter. "Don't like it, Susanna lilla? Believe me, you'll like a dirty diaper even less." He sighed, watching the baby yawn. "I don't know, my Rose…I suppose all we can do is wait to see what Mr. Roarke finds out. I hope he can find a way to get those two apart. I suspect otherwise he won't learn much from Solange—and LeNoir strikes me as a close-mouthed type who wants to convince the rest of us that he's in charge."

Downstairs LeNoir had watched Solange take the pill; Roarke, looking on, continued to take in every movement, every detail. When he did speak, he deliberately addressed Solange: "You are all right, Ms. Latignon?"

LeNoir answered again. "As I think you can see, m'sieur Roarke, she is not all right. She is in pain. Those beastly long flights have made it worse. And all for the sake of those ungrateful children…"

Pointedly Roarke said, "Monsieur LeNoir, Ms. Latignon may be in pain, but I don't believe it prevents her from speaking."

Solange swallowed a little more water and smiled at Roarke in a curiously sheepish manner. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, Georges gets a little cranky when he's tired." That got her a sharp look from LeNoir, but she turned to him anyway. "Mon chou, you did want to go to our room and rest, didn't you?"

"You need it far more than I," LeNoir said. "You will come with me."

Roarke put in, "Perhaps that's wise. If I had known you were in pain, Ms. Latignon, I would not have insisted that you come here, but I felt it necessary. Monsieur, if you prefer to retire, you are more than welcome to do so."

"So you are a sensible man," LeNoir said, eyeing Roarke distrustfully. Roarke had the sense that the man was looking down his nose at him, even though he held his head level. "I will take Solange with me, and we will speak with you at a better time." He arose and began to assist Solange onto her feet.

"Ms. Latignon, do you not even wish to know how your children are faring?" Roarke inquired. Though he addressed Solange, he was looking at LeNoir, and there was a faint but unmistakably steely edge to his voice.

Solange blinked, and a guilty look flitted over her face. She hesitated. "Georges, I'd like to stay a little longer," she said. "You go ahead, I'll be along soon."

LeNoir stared at her, as if she had never before dared assert her will in front of him. Roarke wondered if she ever really had. Finally the Frenchman muttered, "Oh, very well. But do not keep her long, Roarke, she is weary and painful." Leaving his slightly fractured English hanging there behind him, he strode out.

Solange let out a long, heavy sigh and sank back into the chair LeNoir had tugged her out of. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke…"

"He's extremely attentive," Roarke said, choosing the adjective with care.

"Oh yes, he's very attentive," Solange agreed with an odd, misty smile after the departed LeNoir. "Sometimes too much so. But he's willing to take care of me." She focused on Roarke. "How are the kids, really? Are they all right?"

"They're well," Roarke said, "although I must say they have told me a few tales I find rather alarming. If you'll forgive my bluntness, Ms. Latignon, I daresay you do not look at all well, and they are quite worried about you."

Solange frowned a little. "Are they really? I'm not so sure. Patrick's grown very cold to me, and he's made some decisions and taken some actions I really don't approve of. Antoinette finds every excuse in the book not to come home when her ballet troupe isn't on the road…and Mireille's become a true problem child. And all this has come about since I met Georges." She tipped her head and looked pleadingly at Roarke. "I know Antoinette and Patrick miss Tattoo—I do too, every day. But Georges is such a comfort to me, and I do wish they'd realize I have a right to go on with my life, too."

"That may be so," Roarke said, "but they have voiced certain concerns to me in regard to Monsieur LeNoir, and those concerns were weighty enough that I felt it wiser to take them seriously. One of their greatest fears is that you are trying to erase the memory of their father. They have told me that you've put in storage those paintings he created for your family's use, that you are preparing to sell the home you and Tattoo shared, and that you had plans to destroy his papers."

"Tattoo left behind a lot of material, Mr. Roarke," Solange protested a little weakly. "It was Georges' suggestion…"

"There are other ways to handle what Tattoo left behind without destroying it," Roarke said kindly. "In fact, Christian suggested to Patrick that he turn Tattoo's papers over to a reputable archiving firm. And it may interest you to know that, in the matter of the paintings that your children informed me had been removed from the walls of your home, they are here on the island. Leslie picked them up late Sunday and brought them back here to my house, and I have stored them safely away for the moment."

Solange stared at him. "They're here? What are they doing here?"

"Patrick shipped them," Roarke replied. "For him to go to such lengths suggests to me that they are very worried, and have been driven by that worry to take drastic steps to intervene." He took in Solange's overwhelmed expression and added more gently, "For your children's sake, Ms. Latignon, I decided to investigate. I believe their worry for you and for their father's legacy is very real. And for the sake of honesty and fairness, I must also tell you that Patrick is very suspicious of Monsieur LeNoir, and that both Mireille and Antoinette are frightened of him."

"But…why? Georges wants only to take care of me," said Solange.

"Of you, perhaps," Roarke said, "but as I understand it, it's a much different story where your children are concerned." He paused a moment while Solange took another sip from her water glass, then asked, "If you don't mind, Ms. Latignon, please, tell me exactly how you became involved with Monsieur LeNoir."

Solange looked warily at him for a moment, then said in a guarded tone, "Mr. Roarke, I've received enough opposition from my children in regard to Georges, and my parents have voiced some objections as well—all the way from their home in Barbados, I might add. I've grown more than a little tired of hearing all the negativity."

"Perhaps so," Roarke said, "but I am not making any statements against Monsieur LeNoir. I merely wish to know more about him and how you met him, and precisely what role he plays in your life."

He watched Solange in silence while she went on staring at him, as if trying to make a decision. Roarke could remember overhearing Leslie tell one or another of her friends—even Christian once—that in her eyes, he had some quality about him that seemed to compel others to trust him. Roarke himself supposed it must be something intrinsic; whatever it might be, he was grateful for it. Never yet had it failed him, and at this moment he wanted it to have the proper effect on Solange, almost more than anyone else he had ever tried to help in his very long career as host of Fantasy Island.

At last Solange sagged in her chair and closed her eyes, shaking her head a little. "I keep remembering the praise Tattoo heaped on you," she murmured, her voice very weary. "He never spoke of you with anything but the utmost affection and gratitude. I think he would've trusted you with his whole life, even before he'd have trusted his own mother. All right." She opened her eyes and focused on him. "You might be aware that once my dancing career was launched here, I gained a certain amount of fame, especially in France. Tattoo's and my wedding was big news there. There was a wonderful period during which I could almost write my own ticket. When Patrick and Antoinette were old enough, I went back to dancing part-time. I planned to do it again after Mireille was a toddler and the other two were old enough to be able to watch her after school...but then Tattoo got sick and finally died, and I dared not leave my children alone.

"I was able to keep our home and Tattoo's gallery because I had some very good people helping me, people Tattoo had personally chosen." Behind her Roarke saw Christian and Leslie quietly descending the stairs, but didn't move his gaze from Solange. He knew his daughter and son-in-law would remain unobtrusively in the background. Solange went on, "I still had offers from dance companies, not just in France but around western Europe. I knew Tattoo had hoped that he could leave us enough money to live on till at least Patrick was old enough to go out on his own, but I grew up in a lower-middle-class family and I've always had some fear about not having enough. So I was very careful with what we had, made sure I knew what sort of income Tattoo's gallery was bringing in, and supplemented it in the summer by going out on tours with dance troupes. My parents still lived in France at the time, and they came and stayed with the children while I was gone.

"Then my parents retired to Barbados in 2002 and there was no one I could leave the children with. They left at the end of that summer when the children went back to school, and I spent that school year trying to think of a way to allow the children to stay home while I was dancing, the next summer. But no one could help me, and I made the decision at last to take them with me." She sighed. "They weren't happy with it. Patrick was almost eighteen and thought that made him old enough to take care of his sisters while I was gone, but I didn't like it one bit and insisted that they all come along.

"And then I was rehearsing one afternoon in mid-June last year—we'd been on the road only two weeks—and a trap-door mechanism gave way on the stage underneath me. I broke my leg pretty badly when I fell. All the doctors I saw took one look at it and told me it was very likely that my dancing career was finished. They were right, but I didn't want to accept it. I needed to dance—not just to earn money, but also because I've always been a dancer, in my heart and my soul." Roarke nodded, and she continued, "So when my leg was healed, in September, I tried to dance again and the leg collapsed under me. My doctor said that if I had waited longer, perhaps I'd have had a chance to resume my career, but my impatience finished it for good. The bone wasn't strong enough to do what dance requires of it, and I fractured it again in the same place it had been broken in June. I've walked with a limp ever since then, and sometimes it still hurts.

"Since I'm known in France, the news of the end of my career was all over the papers. I spent a long time convalescing. Patrick had taken a summer job to help make ends meet. After my second injury, he began to oversee the art gallery, and being Tattoo's son, he has a good eye for true art. So the staff there took him on, and he's doing well for himself. I don't have to worry about either him or Antoinette, not since she was accepted into the ballet troupe. They're going to have good lives. But I still have Mireille, and I need to provide for her somehow."

Roarke frowned. "Excuse me, Ms. Latignon. But doesn't Tattoo's gallery bring in enough income that you shouldn't need to worry about whether you can dance?"

"It's just my innate worries about money, I suppose," Solange said. "And in any case, after I broke my leg, there were medical bills. They didn't financially destroy us at least. My mother is American—that's why I speak English and French at the same fluency—and when her father was laid low with lung cancer when she was a girl, her family went bankrupt in the face of the staggering hospital bills. It doesn't work that way in Europe, but there were still some things I needed that I had to pay my own money for. And of course, there were taxes, and upkeep on the house, and Mireille's school supplies and field trips.

"I met Georges in the city one day when Patrick took me in for another checkup with my doctor. He was in the waiting room as well, and we struck up a conversation. One thing led to another, and we began to see each other, and he was such a comfort, Mr. Roarke. He was always concerned over me. I finally admitted my worries about money, and he told me he would be happy to help. Not so long ago he'd inherited from an uncle who was a baron, and he said he would take care of me and make sure I didn't have to think about expenses. It was such a relief, and he's so kind and tender…I'd thought no one else could be like that, after those wonderful days I had with Tattoo."

"I see," said Roarke in a neutral tone. "Ms. Latignon, didn't you have the man investigated at all? You've mentioned that you are well-known around France, and as I recall, so was Tattoo. People with substantial means must always be on diligent guard against those who present altruistic motives, but have their eye on the money and the life they can live with it. Did you truly trust Monsieur LeNoir from the beginning?"

"He knew about that," said Solange. "He gave me the names of people he knew whom I could contact, to find out about his character. Right down to a man, they all said he was the warmest person they had ever known. They all confirmed his inheritance from his uncle, and one of them even presented me with a statement from a disinterested third party that Georges was honest, aboveboard and forthcoming."

Roarke let his surprise show. "I see. So you feel that he is forthright in all his dealings, and that he can be trusted with your children?"

"Of course! He promised to take care of my children too, and I could see the sincerity in him. So I arranged to give him access to our accounts."

"Including the trust funds that Tattoo created for the children," Roarke said.

"Well, yes. Patrick will get full control over his trust fund next September, but till then it's in good hands, and so are the girls' funds…"

Roarke cleared his throat. "I am afraid the children are of another mind. I assume you know that Patrick is able to check on the amount in his and his sisters' funds via computer." Solange nodded, and he added, "He has been keeping a sharp eye on the accounts, Ms. Latignon, and several days ago he told me that someone had withdrawn money from them—all three of them, approximately one hundred euros from each."

Solange's eyes narrowed in confusion. "But that can't be right. The children can't touch that money till they're 21, and neither Georges nor I would have a reason to."

"So Patrick tells me," Roarke said, "yet he insists that the money is missing."

"Well, it must be a bank error," Solange said firmly. "Georges knows Tattoo put that money away especially for the children, and he wouldn't do that to them." She lifted a hand and massaged her forehead, wincing with what looked like pain.

"Are you all right, Ms. Latignon?" Roarke asked in concern.

"I…just need to rest," Solange murmured. "Please, Mr. Roarke, if you don't mind…"

Roarke studied her intensely for about ten seconds, then nodded. "Very well, Ms. Latignon. Do you wish to see your children before you go?"

Solange shook her head. "I need to rest…get a little strength back…" She struggled to get out of her chair, and Christian instantly arose and crossed the room to lend assistance, earning himself an exhausted smile from Solange. Just as she gained her feet, she dropped her clutch, which exploded open and spewed odds and ends all over the floor. "Oh no!"

Leslie and Roarke had both already gotten to their feet while Christian was helping Solange onto hers, and Roarke hastened around the desk while Leslie began to gather up items that had spilled from the purse. Christian turned Solange over to Roarke and helped, scooping up a few things at a time and dropping them into the bag that Leslie had retrieved. "Thank you, both of you," Roarke said, helping Solange towards the foyer.

"I appreciate it, Leslie," Solange added, her voice sounding a bit muzzy. Leslie cast a sharp glance in her direction, a spurt of alarm shooting through her; Solange hadn't even looked up, never mind meeting her gaze, and she sounded as though she were about to fall asleep, literally on her feet. A drug? she wondered, and had started to climb back to a standing position when she spied a small dark-orange prescription bottle under a chair where it had rolled. Silently she poked Christian and pointed at it; he nodded and went after it, while Leslie forced the overpacked clutch shut and brought it to Solange.

A driver was waiting out front for Solange, and Roarke saw to it that she was seated comfortably in the jeep. Leslie gave her the clutch, and Solange smiled feebly in thanks. The driver pulled away, leaving Roarke and Leslie in the lane watching the jeep go. When the dust had settled a little, Leslie approached Roarke and said, "Father, I don't like the way she looks at all. Christian mentioned it too. Would she be like that from a leg injury? She was walking fine when she and LeNoir came off the plane. I mean…she looked a little tired, like anyone would be after such a long trip, but she wasn't like that—half knocked out. Didn't LeNoir make her swallow a 'pain pill' in the study?"

"He did indeed," Roarke said heavily. "I too have a sense of foreboding about this, Leslie, and I think your instincts are correct. Unfortunately, I don't know what more we can do at the moment."

"Actually, Christian picked up a prescription bottle that rolled under one of the chairs," Leslie said. "I closed up Solange's purse and gave it back to her without his putting it back in there. I just had a weird feeling."

Roarke's look was piercing, just for a moment; then he nodded once. "Good thinking, Leslie. Come, let's get a look at that bottle."