71 
Mademoiselle Très Chic

Amanda sat in front of the mirror in her hotel room with a pair of scissors in her hand.

With a grimace she took hold of a small strand of brown, then clipped it to a length of three or four inches.

That first snip was the hardest, she thought. She followed with another . . . then another.

Twenty minutes later she stood up and took a few steps back, turning her head first one direction, then the other.

Not the best job, she thought. But the short-clipped hairdo had a distinctively French look. She had seen several girls wearing similar cuts in the shops. Amanda now set the red beret she had bought atop her newly coifed head, tilted it to one side, first to the right, then the left.

Hmm . . . it might work, she thought.

Now for a little makeup around the eyes, and some red lipstick . . .

Of course Ramsay would know her if they met at point-blank range and stared at each other. But she didn’t intend to let that happen. As long as she could blend in among a crowd, she ought to be safe. He wouldn’t be expecting her in a million years.

Another thirty minutes later, Amanda took stock of herself in the mirror—red beret, pale chartreuse scarf, draped over a loose-fitting blouse of somewhat darker green, fashionably slinky black French skirt with black stockings and boots. Along with the lipstick and dark eyes, it was bold and brash, like nothing Ramsay had ever seen on her before. And so very French! She could have stepped out of a fashion show!

“Ah, mademoiselle,” she said aloud, “vous êtes très chic!”

Amanda squinted slightly. “I admit,” she added, “the colors are a little loud and clashy . . . but even I don’t recognize you!”

She turned away and started for the door.

“I think it’s time I found out if this is going to do any good.”

Amanda left her room and descended to the lobby, where, with magazine in hand, she took up a seat in one of several chairs scattered about a spacious sitting area to await the appearance of the man who, a few short months earlier, she had considered her husband. What she considered him now . . . she couldn’t say. She hadn’t figured that out yet.

A long and uneventful hour passed. She began to think the whole thing ridiculous. For months she had been doing her best to get away from Ramsay. What did she now hope to accomplish by trying to find him?

Amanda grew sleepy. Actually . . . this was a stupid idea. Spies and plots and lighthouses . . . she had probably been making the whole thing up. What was she thinking—that she was single-handedly going to help England win the war?

And this silly outfit!

Why didn’t she just get on a train to Cherbourg before any more time went by and get away from Ramsay once and for all?

She started to stand up, glancing around absently as she did, when all of a sudden, not more than ten feet in front of her, the tall form of Hartwell Barclay walked past.

Amanda’s eyes widened to saucers and she froze halfway out of her chair. She could almost feel the hair standing up on her arms and head. Her whole body chilled at sight of the white hair, the tall thin form, the eyes that had exercised such a magnetic, mesmerizing power over her. All her confidence of an hour earlier when alone in front of the mirror in her room instantly vanished. Her knees quivered and her stomach lurched slightly in the direction of her throat.

Barclay was striding across the lobby toward the stairs, looking about casually. She saw his eyes roving in her direction. They lit momentarily upon her . . . then continued on.

Her paralysis lasted but a second or two. Then he was gone. She eased back down into her chair, heart pounding.

What was this, she thought, a convention of the Fountain of Light!

Next thing she knew, Ramsay’s mother would show up! A little makeup and haircut would not deceive her. She would see through it in an instant. She had better watch herself, thought Amanda, gradually getting her breath back. For all she knew, Mrs. Halifax might be here already.

But Mr. Barclay had seen her and had looked right through her. Seeing his eyes again had terrified her. Amanda knew he would never be able to exercise the same mind-control over her as before. But he was still a forceful presence whom she would just as soon avoid.

After a few minutes she rose and returned to her room. With Hartwell Barclay now on the scene, she had to rethink her strategy.

If she even had one!