32 
“queen o’ hearts”
I settled into Petit’s for breakfast the next morning, but my thoughts were far from the creamy coffee and crisp croissant in front of me. The only way to get rid of Fox was to get rid of this mission as soon as possible. I had my notebook with me and opened it to review everything I knew so far.
The mission: The Prince of Wales, and possibly one of his brothers, were being courted by the Fascists. To find out how deeply they were involved with the German Brownshirts, I had to follow the people who were courting them—namely Hausmann, the German princes, and the Russian princes. These courtiers were all going to some big event, and there was a big event coming up in Italy, with Mussolini. I doubted there were two big fascist events in the next few weeks, so I needed to find out if the English princes were planning to go to Rome. If they were, I had to stop them before they embarrassed the British government by proclaiming to be anti-democratic and pro-German.
With these clues laid out, it was clear that I needed to keep following Felix and Theo until their royal connections led me to the English princes. That meant using Theo; I winced. Theo was such a sweet lover, a lovely man, I didn’t want to exploit him and his connections. But as he had asked me to look out for Felix, there wasn’t any way around it. I would see if I could get Theo to Nancy Cunard’s party tonight.
I would also ask him about Lazarev. Why was Lazarev at Theo’s apartment in the early morning? When did Lazarev stop being an art dealer—or had he never stopped, and was now leading a double life? The more I knew about Lazarev, the better placed I would be when I questioned him, a prospect about as enticing as nursing a flu patient through his death rattle. Fry could say what he liked; I wasn’t going to use physical violence.
The threat of pain called forth memories of Fox. His silver voice over the operating table, the air reeking of the butchers’, the floor slippery with blood.
I pushed away the memory; I was in Paris, I was home. Madeleine gave me a little nod and a smile, she was getting used to my whims and lack of routine. I ordered some bread and cheese; I needed a bit more inside me today than just smoke and pastry. Was it the crisp air whipping up an appetite, or the distances I walked in Paris? Was it simply time, that I was getting further away from my own heartbreak? I spread the soft cheese thickly on the bread. I was sleeping better than I had for months, neither passing out with exhaustion, nor fretful and fitful. I still had the usual bad dreams of the war, but here I was in company, I wasn’t isolated in my terrace. One of the old men nodded hello to me as he caught my eye, before going back to his game of chess. Whatever Fox wanted, here I could survive it.
Which meant I had to bait him, draw him out somehow. He had left a note for me in my letter box. Could I do the same? Did he have copy of the key? Awful if so, but useful to know. I scrawled a little note for him:
Art thou pale for weariness
Just that, the first line of a Shelley poem. That would tell him all he needed to know and would hopefully conjure up a meeting place, time, or telephone number. The thought of getting the better of Fox sharpened my appetite.
“I’m so sorry to have woken you this morning, darling Theo.”
He kissed my hand and settled into his chair at the Rotonde. I had chosen a table outside, the heater behind me warming the collar of my coat, the four corners of the boulevards busy with cars, horses, and people.
“As I said, you are allowed. Un café crème, s’il vous plaît.” He turned back from the waiter. “Actually, there is a long list of people who are allowed—Irène and Felix, all my brothers, my dearest Mama of course, but she stays in bed longer than I do, Vanya on my instructions—and of all of those, you are the best of all. But you usually don’t wake me up, you wait for me to get bored of ferrying rich opera-lovers, bourgeois philanderers, and stinking pimps and come knocking at your door.”
“Well, I thought you could skip the stinking pimps for today. Will you come to a party with me tonight? It’ll be a rough and ready bohemian party, right here at the Rotonde, thrown by heiress Nancy Cunard. You won’t need your dinner suit.”
“Or my tuxedo manners.”
“But you might need your aristocratic nose for family. You’ve been worried about Felix, the company he keeps… at this party, there will be some Russian artists, exiles, Whites. I need you to see if any of them have been going to political meetings with Felix.”
“They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“But they might tell me. Just introduce me, I’ll do the rest.” I swigged the last of the coffee in my cup to avoid his gaze. “By the way, what did Lazarev want the other morning?”
“Lazarev? You mean Arkady Nikolaievitch?”
“Yes, him. I saw him at your apartment, the morning after the ball.”
“Do you know everyone?”
“By reputation at least. I thought Lazarev was an art dealer. Early morning is an odd time to negotiate a sale, isn’t it?”
“Felix brought some art with him from Russia, to much fanfare—two paintings by Rembrandt. He sold them last year, to an American, I believe. They’re the only people still with money! Arkady Nikolaievitch wanted to know what else Felix had to sell… but I haven’t seen him since, well, not for a long time.”
“Can you ask and tell me tonight?”
“As you wish, mademoiselle.” He gave a mock bow. The trees on the boulevard stroked the pale stone.
“Drink up, Theo. You’ve got a shift to get through before we meet again.”
Under the table, he flicked up the hem of my skirt to stroke my thigh. “Do I?”
He finally left to get ready for the party, giving me just enough time to post my write-up of the Chanel ball to the Star. I felt strangely proud that I had managed, after much swearing and crumpled paper, to type it up without mistakes and strangely sad that it wouldn’t be Bertie who’d open it and giggle first. I checked my letter box multiple times but there were no telegrams announcing Bertie’s or Tom’s arrival, and the note for Fox was still there.