“Five years?” Margot jumped to her feet and started to pace the plush Persian carpet of the lawyer’s office. “I have to be separated for five years to get a divorce?” She’d expected it to be difficult, but this?
The rest of them sat at one end of a mahogany board table with Maître Bosshard at its head. The lawyer spread his hands in apology. “I’m not qualified to advise you in the New South Wales jurisdiction, you understand, but I am told that’s the case.” He sighed. “Unless you can prove habitual drunkenness, adultery, cruelty—”
Claire jumped in. “But he was cruel to her. Margot just told you that.”
The lawyer shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we have no proof. And even if we did . . . Sadly, the behavior you describe is not enough. Not nearly enough for a divorce.”
“You mean he would have to have beaten her,” Gina said. “Then, what about adultery? Couldn’t we pay a private detective to follow him, catch him in the act? I mean, surely by now . . .” Claire sent her a warning look and Gina closed her mouth.
“But I don’t have any money,” said Margot, her lips pressed together. She was fighting not to cry and Claire’s heart ached for her. She wished more than anything she could do something to help but the law was against them.
“What if you were the one to get caught?” suggested Gina.
“W-what?” Margot looked mystified, then horrified. “You mean have someone take pictures of me in bed with some man? Are you out of your mind?”
“Gina, you’re not helping,” said Claire.
“Sorry.” Gina sat back in her chair. “I just hate that Margot’s being held hostage like this.” She swiveled to see Margot properly as Margot continued to pace. “Will you stand still a minute? Could you contact your husband through Maître Bosshard and see if he’d be willing to come to a resolution? You might find he wants to move on, too. You know, in America, couples will agree on a scenario where the husband hires a woman for the night and gets the pictures taken, and it’s all fixed, no fuss.”
“He’d never agree to that,” said Margot. “And besides, proving it would mean going to court, wouldn’t it, and facing him? I can’t. Really, I can’t.” Margot crossed her arms and lifted her shoulders a little, as if the thought chilled her.
After a few moments of silence, she blew out a long breath. “I suppose I’ll just have to wait the five years.”
They thanked Maître Bosshard for his help and rose to leave.
He had stood also but before Claire could go, he said, “Mademoiselle Bedeau? A word?”
It was clear he wanted to speak with her alone. With curious glances at Claire, the others filed out. Claire sat down again.
The lawyer began to clean his spectacles with a white handkerchief. “I understand from Madame Vaughn that you are aware of the reason she left Paris.”
Warily Claire answered, “She told me in her letter. Yes.”
Maître Bosshard smiled and hooked his spectacles over his ears, then pocketed his handkerchief. “Madame wanted me to let you know that she is well. She found an excellent spa in Switzerland where she expects to stay until the baby is born.” He hesitated. “As you know, Madame is unmarried and it does not appear that this is likely to change. Initially she was planning to put the child up for adoption, but she has since changed her mind. That being the case, Madame intends to return home to New York with the child and pretend that she has adopted him. Or her, as the case may be.”
Claire was overjoyed to hear this. “Don’t worry. I won’t betray her secret.”
“I’m sure her secret is safe,” said the lawyer, smiling. “Which brings me to the reason I wished to speak with you.” He steepled his hands together. “Madame wishes me to assure you that you may remain in the apartment for as long as you like. She will honor her original promise of nine months, rent-free. Then if you want to stay after that, she will charge a reasonable rent, outgoings and so forth, which we will talk about closer to the time. Does that sound acceptable?”
“That is too generous of her,” said Claire, relieved that she and her friends could stay. “May I write to thank her?”
“Address all correspondence to me and I’ll make sure she gets it.” The lawyer stood as Claire did. “Take care, mademoiselle. I am sorry I did not have better news for your friend.”
Much as she was itching to get started on the search for her gold pen, after the early meeting with Maître Bosshard, Gina had to go to work. Fortunately the bookstore was quiet that day, so with Monsieur Florie’s permission, she took the afternoon off to hunt for the pawnbroker that had bought her gold pen from Jay.
Upon inquiry, Louis had known of a pawnbroker next to a Tabac only a couple of streets away, so she followed his directions and found it without too much trouble.
The shop looked like a respectable-enough establishment if one disregarded the fact that the large picture windows were fortified by wrought iron grilles. Gina pushed open the door and in the broken afternoon sunlight that streamed through the barred front window, dust motes whirled around her. The place smelled musty and damp, as if someone had died and left the place closed up and neglected for months.
“This establishment could use a good airing,” she told the flashy, middle-aged individual behind the counter. He wore a sharkskin suit and loud necktie, perhaps to distract from his pugilist’s face and balding head, across which he had combed several strands of hair. His hands sported several gold signet rings and an expensive watch. Had he gleefully put on each piece the second the door closed behind the poor individual who had sold it to him? Had the gold been warm still from the customer’s body?
“What can I do for you, mademoiselle?” With a hacking cough, the pawnbroker felt about in his pockets, then produced a cigarette case and lighter.
Gina decided not to explain her quest. “Do you have any gold pens for sale?” On a cursory glance through his display cases she couldn’t see any pens at all.
“No, mademoiselle.” Puffing belches of smoke into the fusty air, he added, “Gold watches, plenty. Rings, necklaces, bracelets. We have one gold cigarette case—very nice, that one. Tie pins, cuff links . . . No pens.”
“Would you remember if one had come in and since been sold?” Most likely she was already too late.
The man rubbed the side of his nose. “A gold pen, I’d remember. But we have several other kinds if that’s what you’re looking for. Steel, silver-plated . . .” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a wooden tray, plonked it on top. “There’s sure to be something you like.”
A cursory glance told her that Rose’s pen was not there. “Thank you, no.” Ignoring his attempts to persuade her, she left the shop.
Gina sighed. Of course it couldn’t have been that easy, could it? She tried two other pawnbrokers in the vicinity with no luck.
Had the man in the sharkskin suit lied to her? Or had Jay been mistaken about which pawnbroker he’d visited?
She returned to the first one she’d tried. This time, it was not the man in the sharkskin suit who served her, but a woman in a stained mackintosh and a shapeless knitted cap, like the French revolutionaries had worn. Maybe this woman would remember the pen. Perhaps a female might be more sympathetic to Gina’s situation and try harder to recall than her colleague had.
The woman’s smile was more of a grimace, glinting with gold fillings. Her shrewd eyes examined Gina from head to toe while Gina explained the story behind the pen. “So you see, the pen was brought here by mistake,” she concluded, unable to bring herself to say it had been stolen by her own father. “If you sold it, perhaps you might tell me to whom?”
The woman behind the counter tugged at her woolly hair and her eyes held an anticipatory gleam. Gina knew that look. She’d bribed enough people in her time as a journalist.
Loath as she was to part with her hard-earned money for what might turn out to be a trick, she drew a small wad of francs out of her pocketbook. Offering them, she said, “I’d be grateful for any information.”
The money disappeared into the woman’s pocket. She smacked her lips and jerked her head back, as if the cash had jogged her memory. “There was a gold pen, yes, yes. But I sold it last week, mademoiselle.”
Another offer of cash only elicited a shrug. “It was a man, that’s all I know. Not a regular. We don’t take details of our customers, my duck. We just take the money.”
Nothing Gina could say or offer had the power to extract any further information, and she was forced to conclude that the woman truly didn’t know any more.
That was it. Her mother’s pen was gone forever. She would never get it back. Gina managed to hold herself together until she made it out of the pawnbroker’s shop. Striding away, she dashed her hand across her eyes as great, wrenching sobs tore at her throat.
As she walked the short distance to the club where Andrew Mountbatten was holding his literary soiree, Margot was so sick with nerves, she was tempted to turn around and run home. That awful voice in her head had nearly stopped her going altogether, and Claire had spent more than an hour convincing her to leave the apartment. Apprehensive as Margot was, she knew she needed to do this. Not just for Gina, but to take one small step toward overcoming her fears for good.
She wore a cocktail dress she’d saved up for months to buy—a simple black tulip dress with spaghetti straps. Around her throat gleamed her grandmother’s pearls, the only jewelry she couldn’t bear to sell. Her hair was piled high, with one silky tendril on either side of her face spiraling free.
As the evening deepened, the streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés came alive with light and music spilling out of the cafés and bistros. Once she’d felt an integral part of this vibrant, joyous nightlife, so blithe and carefree, swept up in the giddy period where the main object of Parisian youth was to forget the deprivations and humiliations of the war.
It was the first time she’d been to any kind of party since she’d arrived back in Paris. The only reason she’d let herself agree to come was to try to make contacts in the publishing industry. She’d told herself she was doing it for Gina, but that wasn’t the whole truth.
A strong breeze flirted with her coiffure but that was securely pinned in place and in no danger of tumbling free. She felt more vulnerable without her blond wig, however. Maybe it had been a mistake to banish it to a hatbox in the closet.
Would Mountbatten admire her as a brunette? She shouldn’t concern herself with what he thought, but she couldn’t help it. He’d made it clear he found her attractive as a blonde.
She couldn’t deny she was drawn to him. His dark good looks had struck her as rakish when he’d watched her play the mannequin at Dior—the wicked tilt to his eyebrows, the glint in his dark eyes, the slightly cruel slash of his mouth. But sometime during that lunch with Charlotte, he’d shown a warmer, more relaxed side. If she were honest, this made him even more compelling, and more dangerous to her peace of mind.
She couldn’t trust her feelings anymore—she had to remember that. Not after falling for a man who had nearly destroyed her.
She entered the club and handed her things to the coat-check girl. The hard thump of her heart echoed the beat of the music as she searched the club for Andrew Mountbatten’s urbane figure. She couldn’t let herself feel like this. She needed to pull back hard on the reins of her emotions. You are married, she told herself sternly. You cannot be the judge of who is good for you right now. But it didn’t make a bit of difference to the way she felt.
The crowd was dotted with people whose faces she recognized from book jackets. One could make quite a game of naming them, she thought. Andrew must be a big wheel in the publishing industry to have attracted all of these people to his party.
“Marie?” A touch on her shoulder. “Hello, there.”
She gave a start and turned around, kicking herself for momentarily forgetting her alias.
Andrew Mountbatten looked even better in a dinner suit than in pinstripes. His smile lit his eyes and made him seem younger. “I like what you’ve done with your hair,” he said softly. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out and drew one sleek tendril through his fingertips, then released it. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Her pulse kicked up at the intimacy of the gesture, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to protest. Breathlessly, she said, “I thought it was time for a change.”
“Thank you for coming tonight,” said Mountbatten. “I’d quite given you up.”
“Oh, no! If I say I’ll be somewhere, I always go.” I just needed Claire and a crowbar to get me out of the apartment, she thought. Determinedly tamping down the fluttering sensation in her chest, she added, “Will you call me Margot, please?” When he hesitated, she rushed to explain. “I know it might seem odd, but that’s what my parents call me, and I prefer it.”
“Very well. Margot it is. But only if you’ll call me Andrew.” He jerked his head. “Come and meet some people. I know several authors you’ll particularly like.”
In the most natural way possible, he took her hand and tucked it in his crooked arm. The fine wool of his jacket brushed her bare shoulder, sending shivers down her spine.
Fighting the effect he was having on her was almost a full-time occupation, but Margot couldn’t help but be impressed by the authors who clamored for his attention. They tended to be dismissive of Margot at first, but she soon took care of that. As she and Andrew moved on from one group, which she had entertained with the story of her father accidentally shooting his own knee with the firearm he kept in the desk drawer in his office, Mountbatten said, “I think you might have found your calling. They were hanging on your every word.”
“I do have an endless store of amusing anecdotes,” she agreed. “It comes from living with a bunch of eccentrics on the fringe of the most sinful part of Sydney.”
As he’d promised, Andrew introduced Margot to several fiction editors from across the Atlantic. She did her best to charm them, and to glean from them what kinds of books they published and what they were looking for currently.
“I notice you don’t publish many books by female writers,” she said, eyebrows arched at Mr. Evans, the editor from a small but venerated literary press. “Why is that?”
Evans puffed on his cigar. “I publish important literature, my dear. Most women don’t have anything important to say.”
Margot felt her hackles rise. “So you mean books about war and man’s struggle against man, and man’s struggle against nature, and so on.”
“Well, er, yes.”
“But women make up more than fifty percent of the population, Mr. Evans, don’t they? And I believe they tend to read more books than men.”
“Well . . . er, yes.”
“And so wouldn’t it follow, Mr. Evans, that if you published important books by women about women, you would also increase your sales?”
“She’s got you there,” said Mountbatten, sipping his drink.
“Faulty reasoning,” said Evans, gesturing at her with his cigar. “After all, men won’t read about women. But women will read about men.”
Margot opened her eyes wide. “But isn’t Agatha Christie the most widely read author in the world?”
“Well, but that’s not literature.”
Margot shrugged. “Still, it shows that men will read books by women. Doesn’t it, Mr. Evans? It’s all in the marketing, I would have thought. I think if you promoted a woman’s book as important literature, men would most certainly read it.”
Mr. Evans, running out of puff and clearly defeated, excused himself from the conversation.
Eyes sparkling with triumph, Margot turned to Mountbatten. “I cannot bear such stupid prejudice. And from someone who has every claim to intelligence!”
“You make an excellent point, though,” said Andrew. He quirked an eyebrow. “Have you never thought of writing a book yourself?”
“Me? No!” Margot shook her head. “I don’t have the patience and I hate being squirreled away on my own for long periods. But I do have an eye for a hit. I just knew Arnold Mathieson’s Lightning Glass was going to be a hugely successful book well before the rest of the world caught on.”
“Oh?” Andrew Mountbatten shifted position and regarded her seriously, as if he cared about her opinion. “What made you think that?”
“It dealt with one of the basic human struggles,” said Margot. “And it gave us a fresh perspective on grief. Add to that an ending that was both surprising and inevitable . . .” She noticed that his eyes were brimming with laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“No, don’t stop! I’m impressed. With passion like that, Mathieson should hire you to be his agent.”
She laughed. “Maybe he should.” She tilted her head. “I know a literary agent sells a book to a publisher, but is that it?” It sounded like her idea of a dream job, but there must be a catch.
“Well, the agent gets to know all the editors, wines and dines them and learns their tastes, what they’re looking for . . . Basically what you’ve been doing this evening on your friend’s behalf. Then, when a publisher offers a deal, the agent advises the author whether to accept. There might be more than one publisher involved, and there will sometimes be an auction, which follows certain conventions and rules, depending on what kind of auction it will be. An agent needs to understand publishing contracts and how to negotiate a favorable deal.”
“So basically, it’s a bit like when a realtor negotiates the sale of a house?”
“Just like that,” said Mountbatten. “Only there is a very select pool of buyers to whom you can pitch. And you have to remember that it’s an ongoing relationship. Not only will that particular author continue to work with the editor who acquired their novel, but you will want to sell other books to that editor again and again. So you can strike a hard bargain, but it has to be a fair one, or it might jeopardize the relationship.”
“I see.” She hadn’t been so excited by anything in a long time. “I’d like to know more. Maybe another time, we could . . . ?”
Mountbatten smiled. “Of course. But tonight you should make sure you meet everyone you can, while they’re all here, in one place. And if you’re truly interested in entering the publishing business, make sure you collect their cards as well.”
The very next person to whom Andrew introduced her was an editor at a large publishing house in New York. “Seth Richards, meet Margot Foulon,” he said. “She’s a literary agent.”
Margot’s eyes widened, but she could see that Andrew was enjoying himself, so she decided to play along.
“Oh?” The editor’s eyes roamed her figure, as if her literary discernment might possibly be located in her cleavage. “Which authors do you represent?”
“She’s building her list,” Andrew smoothly replied.
“Give me your card and I’ll be in touch next time I’m in New York,” added Margot.
“You’re British, though?” said Richards, handing her his card.
“I’m . . . a citizen of the world,” said Margot, tongue firmly in cheek. “In fact, I have just signed a brilliant author who hails from Connecticut. She’s working on the great American novel right now. I can give you a sneak peek if you like.”
The editor’s gaze flickered to Andrew and back again to Margot. “Why haven’t you already snapped this book up, Mountbatten?”
“Miss Foulon isn’t officially going out with it until the fall,” said Andrew. “But when Liberty comes on the market, you can bet I’ll be knocking at her door.”
“Interesting title,” said Richards.
“It’s an even better book,” said Margot. “Poignant, tough, insightful—it’s everything you want in a novel. Hits that perfect note between literary and commercial.”
When the editor left, Margot raised her eyebrows at Andrew. “That was bold. How did you know I’d play along?”
He grinned. “I’m a good judge of character. Besides, you must have wanted to help your friend quite desperately to come along to this party. Because for some reason,” he said, his dark eyes capturing hers, “you don’t trust yourself with me.”
Heat rushed to Margot’s face. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “W-well, I . . .” Good gracious, she never stammered, or found herself at a loss for words, either.
Mountbatten held up a hand. “No, that was gauche of me. You don’t have to answer. But I hope you know that happy as I am to talk about the publishing industry, my interest in you is strictly personal.”
Her mind might be in disarray, but there was a solid, clear reason she could not allow this man any closer. She was still a married woman. She’d lied to him. Andrew Mountbatten wouldn’t want her if he knew the truth.
With a great effort, Margot hardened her heart and changed the subject. “How long will you be in Paris, Mr. Mountbatten? Charlie mentioned you were leaving for Bermuda soon.”
“Ah.” He took out a cigarette case. “Now, I thought we’d agreed to use first names.”
She merely blinked and widened her eyes, waiting for him to answer her question. She was deflecting, trying to blame him for the distance she intended to put between them, but he surprised her by shaking his head and laughing ruefully. “You know, I’ve been looking forward to my sabbatical for some time, and my trip to Bermuda was supposed to round it off with an appropriately hedonistic luxury. But all of a sudden, I feel as if I don’t want to go.”
It took her a moment to remember to breathe. “Look, Mr. Mountbatten—”
“Andrew. Please.”
Margot huffed out an exasperated breath. “Andrew. Let me be frank.”
“No, no. Don’t do that.” He was watching someone over her head. “Here comes Charlie’s poet. We need to move on.”
His hand at the small of her back, sweeping her clear before the poet could buttonhole him, sent shivers up her spine. He was dangerous, this man. She needed to be careful or she’d end up falling for him completely.
“I have to go,” she told him firmly, stepping away and turning to face him. “Thank you for tonight. It’s been marvelous, truly.”
“Shall I get someone to call you a cab?” asked Andrew.
“No, I’ll walk,” said Margot. “It’s not far.”
“Then I’ll walk you home,” said Andrew, drawing closer when she would have moved away.
It was late and despite her misgivings, she had to admit an escort would be welcome. “Won’t you be missed?”
“I doubt it,” said Mountbatten with a cursory glance around at the noisy crowd. “Anyway, you said it’s not far.”
They emerged to find a cool, crisp night, freshened by recent rain. The wind picked up and Margot shivered.
“Wait.” Taking off his jacket, Mountbatten settled it around her shoulders.
She nearly melted on the spot. The silk lining felt warm from his body. Its collar smelled subtly of shaving soap, a scent she liked better than expensive cologne.
“There.” Briefly, his hot breath tickled her ear.
“Thank you,” she said in a strangled voice. They walked on in a silence so crackling with tension that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a cyclist shot out of a side street in front of them as she was about to cross. Andrew grabbed her arm and yanked her back to the curb.
“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, her hand to her chest. “Gosh, that gave me a fright.”
“Idiot,” said Andrew, glaring after the cyclist. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She hitched the jacket more securely over her shoulders. “Thanks to you.”
Finally they came to Le Chat. The lights were still on in the brasserie but Louis was stacking chairs on top of tables when she and Andrew reached the door to the apartment building. She turned to him. “Thank you again for a wonderful evening.”
“Margot . . .” He trailed off. For a moment, he simply stared down at her, as the silence between them grew taut with anticipation.
“Yes? What are—” she began to ask, but he bent and swiftly kissed her cheek, and then her mouth, cutting off her question.
His warmth and the insistent, skillful pressure of his lips made her senses swoon. It seemed like a lifetime since she’d felt like this, completely swept away. She responded, winding her hands around his neck, dimly aware that his jacket had fallen from her shoulders but not caring one bit.
All too soon, he drew back. His expression thoughtful, he traced one warm fingertip along the cooling skin of her clavicle.
She let out a ragged breath, unable to speak.
“Good night, Margot.” His eyes gleamed devilishly in the half-light. “See you at the ball.” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up his jacket from the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and sauntered away.
“You did what?” Gina had been putting a new ribbon into the typewriter but she whirled around in her chair and stared at Margot. She’d been writing furiously, trying her hardest to avoid stewing about her father and her lost pen. It had worked, to some extent. She was close to the end of her book, the momentum of the story carrying her through.
“Watch those fingers on the upholstery.” Margot had been dusting the mantelpiece as she told her about her adventures with Andrew Mountbatten’s literary set. “You’ve got ink all over them.”
Gina glowered down at her smudged fingertips. “I ought to wrap these around your neck,” she growled. “What did you say to those editors?”
Margot shrugged. She went to the desk and started laying out business cards like a hand of trumps.
Commissioning editors, publishers, vice presidents, of Knopf, Scribner, Viking, Random House, Farrar, Straus & Young. The list went on.
“I didn’t say much—just enough to whet their appetites. That I had an author who was going to be the next Patricia Highsmith. And I collected all their business cards, and—”
“Wait a minute. You have an author? What does that mean?” Gina’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t mean you pretended to be my literary agent!”
“Of course I did, silly. And they are all waiting on tenterhooks for my call.”
“But the book isn’t finished yet!” Gina spluttered.
“Well, then, you’d better get cracking, hadn’t you?” Margot replied sweetly. On that note, she picked up her feather duster, waved it at Gina like a fairy wand, and disappeared into their shared bedroom.
Gina sat down hard on the nearest chair and was about to put her head in her hands when she remembered her ink-stained fingers.
She went to the bathroom and scrubbed at her hands with soap and a nail brush, rubbing them almost raw in the vain effort to remove the shadows of black ink that seemed to have seeped into her skin.
She had to leave for work in an hour and she’d wanted to get some writing done before she left. Now Margot had totally derailed her thought process. She couldn’t possibly write when she was so mad.
Margot was so impetuous and bold—and true, it was good to have the old Margot back—but why did she have to embroil Gina in her crazy schemes? And now, instead of writing this book at her own pace, she felt pressured to finish.
A bolt of excitement shot through her in spite of her exasperation. What if Margot’s machinations led somewhere?
No. Gina had been disappointed by rejection too many times in the past. It wasn’t that simple.
The old fears that had halted her progress for several years rose up again. As a journalist, she’d developed a thick skin, but that didn’t always translate to her fiction, which felt more personal and important. She needed to conquer her fears or she’d never finish this book.
Determination surged through her. She could do this. Margot believed in her. It was about time she believed in herself.
Due to Margot’s meddling, she needed to double down on her writing schedule. She’d work all night if she had to. She’d get this book done and dusted in record time. And then they would see whether Margot could deliver on her promises.
Shaking her head, Gina gave a rueful grin. How was it that no matter what liberties Margot took or how outrageous her schemes, Gina could never stay mad at her? More often than not, she fell in with Margot’s plans like a good soldier. Probably it was naïve to put her book in the hands of a rank amateur, but somehow Margot’s enthusiasm and verve were impossible to resist.
So Gina dried her hands and sat down at the typewriter and forced herself to focus on the page in front of her. Word by word was how this book would get done.