“Versailles-Château, three tickets,” Alice said. Her French was fluent, her accent unmistakably American.
The Gare de Montparnasse was most likely the station where Reggie would’ve caught the train to Versailles. Alice, Gemma, and Suling had searched the platforms and public rooms hoping Reggie was still at the station, but Gemma spoke to a porter who confirmed seeing a tall young woman with dark curls and a red scarf on the platform not an hour ago. The tall woman had asked him whether she was boarding the right train and her accent was obviously American. And yes, the woman had taken the train to Versailles.
Their carriage was full to bursting. The three women sat squeezed together on the same bench, sharing the car with families carrying picnic baskets and couples dressed for an afternoon of walking in the country. An old man and his wife stared silently out the window, their relief at leaving the city visibly etched in every line of their faces. Suling had made this trip before with Reggie, an outing to the palace and its gardens. It had been a day of pure happiness, but now she dreaded what they might find when they reached Versailles. The train hurtled through the outskirts of Paris, houses and back gardens opening up to fields and farmland, lines of poplar trees bordering country roads. Suling tried hard not to spend the entire journey imagining the worst. She would not chew her nails or start crying. Alice gazed intently out the window. Gemma appeared absolutely composed and calm, her only sign of nervousness the handkerchief twisted in her hands.
Suling fought to keep her own hands folded on the bag that contained the dragon robe. She’d had an idea just before running out the door of the apartment. The blue robe had given her entry to Callot Soeurs, it was her good luck charm. And it might be what she needed to get her into the party without an invitation. That, and boldness.
“It’s only a ten-minute walk from the station to the Palace of Versailles,” Alice said, reading from her guidebook. Of course Alice would remember to bring a guidebook. “Unfortunately, it’s a much longer walk to the Pavillon du Butard, which is actually outside the palace grounds. It used to be a royal hunting lodge.”
A lodge that became famous when Paul Poiret leased and then renovated it for his fabulous parties, each soiree so spectacular all of Paris society fought to attend.
“I will crawl the entire way if we have to,” Gemma said, and Suling knew they were all remembering the same thing: Reggie’s voice, grim and hate-filled. I want to kill him. Gemma’s face was all determination, mirroring Suling’s own resolve. They had to prevent Reggie from courting disaster.
When they got off at the Versailles station platform, they saw why their carriage had been so full. Six other carriages displayed placards marked Reserved for Private Party, and passengers from the private cars descended to the gaping stares of other travelers. Musicians with brilliantined hair carrying instrument cases and garment bags stepped out. A troop of dark-skinned, dark-eyed women, each holding a portmanteau, followed. More musicians descended from another carriage, dressed in neat white tunics with red sashes and matching red turbans, instruments in leather cases carefully tucked under their arms. A group of women with identical hairstyles sashayed across the platform, all the while berating the porters who followed behind toting their trunks. The women’s words made no impression on the porters since they were chattering in English.
“Goodness, they’re from Queens,” Gemma said. “Those people are the entertainment for the ball. Let’s see how they’re getting to the Pavillon.”
Outside the station, a long line of horse-drawn charabancs waited, all also displaying placards, Reserved for Private Party. The loud women clambered into one of the charabancs.
“We need to move fast,” Alice said, walking rapidly toward the nearest charabanc. Its driver stopped them.
“This is for a private party,” he said, eyeing the three women. “Do you have invitations?”
Suling opened her canvas bag to show him a glimpse of the dragon robe, its rich embroidery. “No, but I must get to the Pavillon. My mistress la Duchesse de Clermont-Tonnerre forgot this part of her costume.” The duchess had ordered a dress for the costume ball from Callot Soeurs and Suling was betting the staff at Poiret’s party had been briefed on the guest list—at least the most eminent ones.
He nodded and waved her on. Suling climbed in beside the dark-skinned women, who shifted silently to make room for her.
Gemma turned her most radiant smile on the driver. “I was hired to sing at the party.” He looked dubious. Not even bothering to clear her throat, Gemma sang the opening vocalise from the “Bell Song” in Lakmé, her voice rich and thrilling, the notes pouring out effortlessly. The driver waved her on, and she climbed in beside Suling.
Alice simply pushed past and seated herself across from Gemma and Suling. She pointed at the charabanc ahead of them, the women still jostling one another amid shrieks of laughter. “I’m their chaperone.”
“But then, do you not want to sit with them?”
“Would you want to sit with them?” Alice said, frostily. He hastened to the front of the charabanc and clucked at the horses.
The horses clopped along the public road, which gave way to a private drive that led them through wooded glades until they reached wrought-iron gates decorated with gilded acanthus leaves. The sun was sinking behind the tall trees that surrounded the Pavillon but within the gates, open-sided tents on the long oval of lawn blazed with candlelight. Torches lined the main driveway and pebbled paths that wound between flower beds. The Pavillon itself stood glowing at the end of the driveway, light pouring out from windows and doors.
The musicians and dancers got out of the hired charabancs and were directed to a large tent. Gleaming private automobiles pulled up to the stone steps of the Pavillon, where a man and a woman, gorgeously bedecked in costumes straight out of Scheherazade, stood greeting guests: Paul and Denise Poiret. Liveried servants checked the guests for invitations before ushering them to the Poirets. As the three women watched, two burly servants took hold of a young couple in evening clothes and marched them firmly down the steps of the Pavillon.
“Oh dear,” Alice murmured at the sight. “I suppose we could try the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“If we’re to look for Reggie we need the authority to go anywhere we please,” Suling said. “We must enter as guests.” Carefully, she unfolded the dragon robe and slipped into the garment.
The dragon robe usually hung at the back of their armoire. Suling brought it out occasionally, usually to model the robe for colleagues at Callot Soeurs. She pointed out the different stitches and knots, explained about the special occasions when an imperial consort would wear such a robe. She never put it on without wondering about the original owner, her hopes and sorrows, whether she had also loved this beautiful garment. How many times had this long-dead woman worn the dragon robe before it had been looted from the palace?
Gemma helped arrange the dragon robe so that it draped properly. “It suits you,” Gemma said. “I can hold the garment bag, if you like. A woman in a robe like that doesn’t heft her own bags.”
Suling nodded her thanks and took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
In her dragon robe, Suling managed to stroll past the watchful servants, but she paused when the two burly manservants began moving toward her. Suling called up the steps. “Monsieur Poiret!”
Paul Poiret exclaimed in delight. He rushed down the stone steps of the terrace, hands held out in greeting. “Mademoiselle Feng! Ma chère Suling! What a spectacular robe! It outshines anything here! This, this, dear lady, is why I want so badly for you to head up my embroidery workshop!”
“Monsieur Poiret,” Suling said, pointing behind her, “these are my friends. The soprano Gemma Serrano, toast of the Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires. And this is Alice Eastwood of San Francisco, America’s most eminent botanist and curator at the California Academy of Sciences.”
“Welcome, welcome,” Poiret exclaimed. “Any friends of Suling Feng are welcome.”
The two burly servants melted into the background.
“Alas, another automobile,” Poiret said, after kissing all their hands. “Ladies, I must greet those other guests, but please, the ladies’ boudoir is to the right of the vestibule. Select whichever costumes and dresses please you. That is my only requirement, that you put on a costume. And Mademoiselle Feng,” and here he pressed her hand once more, “I hope to see you at my office in the next day or two, so we can discuss employment terms.”
As he hurried to the next set of guests, Suling murmured something that sounded like agreement. She had no intention of discussing employment terms with Poiret.
The three women made their way into the Pavillon. Racks of costumes and Poiret’s fashions filled one side of the boudoir. Racks on the other side held women’s clothing, evening gowns guests had exchanged for Poiret’s costumes. Several female guests were looking through the racks, maids patiently standing behind to hang up any clothing they shed.
“I really don’t think these are appropriate,” Alice said, looking doubtfully at a pair of harem pants in heavy gold satin.
In the end, Alice pulled a black-and-silver caftan over her sensible skirt and blouse; Gemma exchanged her travel suit for turquoise-blue harem pants and a sequined jacket, then tucked her blond hair under a matching sequined scarf. The maid handed Gemma a lacy half mask decorated with jewels and blue feathers, a plain black one edged in gold beads to Alice, and a blue satin domino to Suling.
“Ready?” Alice said. “Let’s start looking.”
The Pavillon and gardens were chaotic and festive. Footmen circulated bearing trays from the kitchen. In addition to large vases cascading with flowers that filled every niche of the Pavillon, cages of colorful tropical birds hung from wall brackets, their screeches sounding over the music. The svelte, dark-skinned young women had disrobed and now danced in costumes that weren’t much more than gold-painted leopard spots. Each of the tents outside featured a different sort of music or entertainment. Dancers from the Moulin Rouge were kicking up their legs in a cancan to a mostly male audience, and the noisy American women from Queens turned out to be a troupe of tumblers and acrobats. Bartenders wearing red fez hats and vaguely Turkish tunics mixed drinks that sparked green and blue flames, then handed the glasses to applauding guests.
But after an hour and four rounds of searches, none of them had spied Reggie. By then several copper tubs of ice and champagne had been emptied and refilled, and it seemed to Suling that all three hundred guests were there, yet more automobiles kept rumbling through the gate.
“It’s getting harder to search,” she said in despair when she met up with Alice and Gemma. “It’s totally dark outside now and more guests are arriving all the time. And so many are masked.”
“Should we be keeping an eye out for Thornton as well?” Gemma said. “Has anyone seen him yet? If Reggie finds him first—”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Alice said, “but yes, we must also watch out for that man.”
“What if Reggie is watching out for Thornton?” Gemma worried. “She’d be lurking in a spot where it’s easy to see new arrivals. I mean, they all stop at the steps to greet the Poirets.”
“I’ll hang around the guests by the Pavillon entrance,” Suling said. “Perhaps you two watch from spots where the entrance is visible, but from a bit farther away.”
Three gleaming automobiles were filing up the driveway as Suling took her place. The vehicles stopped beside the stone steps and their chauffeurs fairly leaped out to open the doors. It wasn’t an arrival, it was an entrance. Under the shadow of a clipped cypress hedge, Suling dug her fingers into the palm of her hand when a tall figure emerged from the first car. Thornton, no, van Doren leaned down and held out his arm. A small hand gloved in silver lace reached for it and a young woman stepped out. Cecilia Arenburg von Loxen wore one of Poiret’s lampshade dresses in a deep, iridescent blue. Gold sandals sparkled on her feet. Her silvery blond hair hung in braided loops at the nape of her neck. An older man followed, lean and commanding, a leonine mane of gray hair, and an evening suit. Not the sort who would deign to wear a costume, not even a mask to hide that dueling scar. Her father, the baron. Two younger men in Arabian costumes climbed out of the next car and trailed behind the baron as he made his way up the steps.
Guests spilled out of the other vehicles while Thornton directed a servant to take a box out of the automobile’s trunk. From its size and shape, it had to be holding the Phoenix Crown. Thornton finally made his way up the steps, walking slowly so that by the time he and his fiancée greeted Poiret, their companions had dispersed and only he and Cecilia were there, the focus of their hosts’ complete attention.
Poiret gestured, evidently impatient to peek into the box, which the liveried servant carried as though holding a newborn baby. Poiret and Thornton entered the Pavillon together while Denise Poiret took Cecilia by the arm and guided her inside. Then Suling saw a lean man sauntering up the steps, following them into the Pavillon.
Not a man. Reggie.
She wore a long red caftan and a silvery brocade vest over trousers but Suling recognized the loose, casual gait, the dark curls peeking out from the patterned scarf wrapped like a burnoose around her head. Suling didn’t call out to Reggie; she didn’t want to alert Thornton to their presence. She hurried across the grass and up the steps. Inside, the vestibule and ballroom were noisy and chaotic, the music louder, the party guests more inebriated than an hour ago, the air even more blue and stifling with cigarette smoke. Suling caught sight of a red caftan mingling with a cluster of guests who were shouting encouragement as a man in Turkish costume joined the line of cancan dancers. Suling slipped behind another group of guests.
Then there was applause, members of Thornton’s entourage clapping. But not for the dancers. Denise Poiret had emerged from the boudoir with Cecilia, whose delicate neck seemed too slight to hold the weight of the Phoenix Crown. Strings of pearls brushed her shoulders, and the electric blue of her dress almost, not quite but almost, matched the blue kingfisher feathers. Thornton’s smile was one of triumph, and Paul Poiret could not hold back his cries of admiration and envy.
Cecilia touched a slim hand to the crown, asked something of Thornton, who smiled indulgently. She looked toward her father, who nodded encouragement. As the young woman straightened her shoulders Suling could almost hear her sigh. Then Cecilia asked Denise Poiret something, and Madame Poiret pointed up the staircase. The ladies’ salon. Suling had been there during her first search.
The two young men in Arabian costumes moved to the edge of the dance floor with Cecilia’s father. Their costumes couldn’t hide their military bearing, and their deportment toward the baron was unmistakably deferential. Perhaps he was their commanding officer? Thornton and his entourage moved toward the open French doors, following the dancers who were now cancanning their way out to the gardens. Suling ducked around a caged pair of scarlet macaws, keeping out of sight.
Then panicked. She’d lost sight of the red caftan.
She spun around just in time to see Reggie disappearing into the ladies’ salon upstairs. Why would she be heading away from Thornton? Suling pushed her way through the guests toward the staircase to follow Reggie.
When she arrived, the door to the salon was slightly ajar and she heard Reggie’s voice. Not raised in anger, but gentle and patient. Another voice, more shrill and disturbed. Suling was about to push the door when it burst open.
“Nein, nein, das kann nicht wahr sein!” Cecilia Arenburg von Loxen shrieked. Then before Suling could move, the petite blonde ran down the stairs with a clatter of swinging pearls.
Inside the salon, Reggie sat slumped on a daybed, looking resigned.