by Sophie Davis
“You do not believe that,” Charles stated flatly. “Neither do I. Is it not more likely that this pocket watch is the piece on the stained receipt? You did say that it was badly damaged, and that the item could be anything.”
“Yes, but all the receipts looked so old, and your watch appears to be nearly brand new.”
“As does your necklace,” he pointed out.
“True,” I conceded.
It was something I’d frequently wondered about with regard to the locket. I wasn’t particularly careful with it, and yet the gold never scratched, became dull, or showed any sign of normal wear and tear.
“Perhaps Bonheur treated the gold with some sort of protectant?” suggested Charles.
I had no answer. At least, not one I was prepared to give Charles. If J. Jacobson was a runner, as I strongly suspected, then it was possible he or she had alchemist connections. Which meant it was also possible that the metal wasn’t gold, but rather an element unknown outside the ancient and magical order.
I hadn’t even considered that until this moment.
How had Tessa come to be in possession of such a precious artifact? And why did she gift it to Charles?
Supposing my many assumptions were true, how my mother came to own the locket was less of a conundrum. Even before I was born, there had been a thriving black market for historical artifacts. She could have purchased my necklace from any number of merchants specializing in illegal goods.
“Did Tessa say anything when she gave you the watch?” I asked, completely ignoring Charles’s comment about Bonheur treating the gold.
“No,” he said, looking ill at ease. “I have always assumed that it was a family heirloom, since it appears to be quite valuable. But now, I am not so sure. It never occurred to me to ask Tessa where it came from.”
“J. Jacobson,” I whispered, the name slipping out unintentionally.
“Sorry?”
“J. Jacobson,” I repeated. “That was the name on the commission orders Matthieu Bonheur showed me. If this watch really is the item on that damaged receipt, J. Jacobson is the one who had it made.”
Charles’s gaze was alight with hope.
“We need to find him. We should visit Bonheur’s, together this time. Perhaps Matthieu will recognize the watch, and be more forthcoming with information about this J. Jacobson character.”
“Not likely,” I scoffed, recalling the jeweler’s hesitancy to tell me anything about my locket.
I felt Charles’s disappointment as keenly as I’d felt his excitement. Which was why, despite the huge warning lights flashing in my head, I told him about Worchansky.
“There is someone who might have information for us,” I began tentatively. The current of optimism surging inside of Charles was palpable. “I do have the name and address of the current owner of the cufflinks: M.L. Worchansky.” And then, because the light in Charles’s eyes was reaching supernova levels of brightness, I quickly backpedaled, “But he might not know anything more than what I’ve already learned.”
“It is just as likely that he does,” Charles countered. “We should pay him a visit immediately. Perhaps he even knows Tessa’s family. Maybe they are related. As I said, I would really like to do something nice for her relatives to repay the great kindness that she showed me. How is tomorrow? Are you free to call on this Worchansky gentleman?”
His enthusiasm over the prospect of meeting Worchansky eclipsed the enthusiasm he’d shown for me on our sham date.
“I’ll have to look at my calendar,” I said curtly.
I had no right to be annoyed with Charles for using me. But I was.
You are a big old hypocrite, I lectured myself.
Charles leaned forward, bending down so our foreheads touched. Because I didn’t want to come across like a petulant child, I forced myself not to pull away from him.
“You do know that my interest in you far exceeds my interest in your jewelry, correct?” he asked.
“Do I?” I replied cheekily, not swayed by his sweet talk.
“The moment I saw you sitting at that table, I wanted to know you. Everything that has happened since is simply a fortunate twist of fate. Even if I had never seen your locket, I still would have been desperate to spend more time in your company.”
My next breath came out as a shudder. Okay, maybe I was capable of being a little swayed by his words.
When Charles’s lips found mine, my ability to think rationally took a tumble. Down a very large hill. Without a single boulder, tree, or donkey to slow the descent.
Charles’s hands slipped inside the jacket, locking around my waist and drawing my hips closer to his. Next thing I knew, my fingers were running through his silky hair. The kiss was soft but insistent. His mouth tasted like champagne.
Cold hands found their way to the small of my back, just above the waistline of my dress. Slowly, tenderly, he followed the line of the jeweled strap upwards, his touch growing warmer and warmer the longer his skin was in contact with mine. My body responded automatically, moving impossibly closer until nothing but thin fabric separated us.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been kissed like that. Maybe never. I didn’t want it to end. In that instant, I was a normal girl kissing a normal boy at the end of a, relatively, normal date.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. I looked into his eyes. The gold flecks seemed more prominent than before, as if his desire had brought them to the surface. But there was something else there, too—affection. The way Charles was looking at me left little doubt that he’d truly meant what he said about his interest in me surpassing his interest in my locket.
Charles ran a thumb over my bottom lip, his long fingers skimming my cheek with a touch as light as the flutter of butterfly wings. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feel of his skin on mine. I didn’t think about how wrong this was. How pissed Cyrus would be if he found out. How, in several days’ time, I would disappear from Charles’s life forever.
Cupping my jaw in his hands, he brushed his lips against mine, then lingered for one final kiss.
“I should get you home,” Charles said softly.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed, though the last thing I wanted was to return to the townhouse just then. Without his lips on mine, causing my hormones to muddle my thoughts, I also knew it was best for both of us to let that kiss be the end of our night.
Charles rode in the cab with me back to the townhouse. The driver was only too happy to accept an exponentially larger fare to wait while Charles walked me to the front door. My body and mind were at odds. One hoped for another kiss, while the other urged me to make a clean break before this went any further.
The decision was out of my hands, though. No sooner had my heels hit the sidewalk, than Cyrus appeared in the doorway. No doubt, he’d been watching through the curtains.
“There you are, Anastasia,” Cyrus said in greeting, though his focus was solely on Charles. My boss scanned the other man from head to toe appraisingly.
I had a decent command of my facial expressions. If I wanted to convey how I was feeling, I could. If not, my face could appear as a mask. But Cyrus was the master. With a single look, he managed to express curiosity verging on disapproval, but absolutely no further insight into the thoughts swirling around in that busy brain of his. It was irritating.
I shot my boss a withering glare for his use of the unnecessarily formal name.
“Hello, Uncle Cyrus.”
I was about to make formal introductions, when Charles stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Hello, sir. Charles DuPree. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Cyrus took the other man’s hand and shook it firmly, playing up the protective role a little too much for my liking. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said in a flat tone, before turning to me. “It is late, Anastasia. Why don’t you come inside?”
It wasn’t so much a question as a directive.
�
�Of course, Uncle.”
It took all of my willpower not to stress the last word sarcastically.
“Goodnight. Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said to Charles. In a lower voice meant only for his ears, I added, “I’ll be in touch about our mutual friend.”
Charles gave a polite nod to show that he understood.
I started for the door, telling myself to not look back at my date. Not with Cyrus watching.
“Stas—Ms. Prince?”
“Yes?” I replied over my shoulder.
“My jacket?” Charles nodded towards the dinner jacket still hanging from my shoulders. “Unless, of course, you would like to keep it as a souvenir?”
I let out an awkward laugh that reminded me of a schoolgirl’s giggle. All I needed were some knee socks and a plaid skirt.
My boss did not find the quip nearly as amusing. As I shrugged out of the jacket, Cyrus took it from my shoulders and handed it to Charles himself.
“Here you go, son. Have a safe night.” With those terse departing words, my boss guided me inside and shut the door in Charles’s face.
“Was that necessary?” I asked, brushing past Cyrus.
“Of course. It’s 1925, Stassi. An overbearing family member is par for the course.”
I spared a glance over my shoulder to find my boss grinning.
“We flipped for the honor,” Gaige said from the couch. He held up his index finger. “Just one time, I want that coin to come up heads. Once. Losing as often as I do is statistically impossible.”
“And you’re a statistician now?” I asked, plopping down in the chair beside him.
Gaige sat up straighter. “I wear many hats, Stassi.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Goodnight, guys,” Cyrus called from the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, we have work to do.”
More than you know, I thought.
OVER ESPRESSO AND runny eggs, I briefed Cyrus on my dinner with Charles. Naturally, I forgot to mention our discussion of my necklace. And the kissing.
“A British tailor named Waldorf Hucklesbee shouldn’t be hard to track down,” Cyrus said when I was finished, taking a sip from his miniscule espresso cup. The sight of such a large man, with such a commanding presence, drinking from a mug that looked like it belonged at a child’s tea party was hilarious. Gaige snickered every time our boss raised the tiny cup to his lips.
“Ines may even know him. I’ll touch base with customs and follow that lead,” Cyrus continued, pointedly ignoring my partner.
“I have lunch plans with Hadley Richardson today. I’ll see what she knows about the third part of the manuscript,” I added.
“Well aren’t you just Miss Social,” Gaige teased. “We do all the heavy lifting, while you go on dates and hang out with the cool kids.”
“And you go boxing and end up with a black eye,” I shot back. “We all have our roles.”
“Stassi is learning valuable information,” Cyrus said sternly, putting an end to our bickering.
It was odd having my boss on a run with us. Though we normally turned in detailed mission reports and gave oral briefings in the runner meetings, actually having him there to witness the day-to-day was just weird. Not in a bad way, though. And Cyrus was helping us just as much as we were helping him.
“Depending on how things go with Hadley Richardson, we’ll have to find a time to search this Carmen’s apartment.” Cyrus turned to me. “Do you know where she lives?”
“No, sir, but I can find out. Ines might know—they are acquaintances. If not, I can ask Hadley, discreetly of course.”
“Good.” Cyrus eyed Gaige over the rim of the tiny cup. “What are your plans for the day?”
“Boxing with the menfolk. Ezra, Ernest, and Andre enjoyed my company so much that they asked me to join them again. I guess Ezra has writer’s block, and thinks exercise is the way to get past it.”
“I think you mean they enjoyed using you as a punching bag,” I joked.
“You’re not the only one with cool friends,” Gaige retorted. “Don’t be jealous that you’re not allowed to do manly things.”
“Is this how the two of you always communicate?” Cyrus asked, his voice devoid of humor.
My partner and I exchanged a look.
“Yes, sir,” we replied in unison.
This drew a hearty chuckle from our boss.
JUST AFTER ONE o’clock, I crossed the Place Vendôme and entered the lobby of the Ritz hotel. My stacked heels clicked on the marble floor as I slowly crossed the lobby, taking in the matching marble pillars and staircase. In the center of the lobby was a mahogany table sitting atop a Persian rug, the chandelier overhead making the glossy wood gleam brightly.
As soon as I reached the domed entrance to the public areas of the hotel, I realized my mistake. With two restaurants and three bars currently open, I probably should’ve asked Hadley specifically where to meet.
I scanned the tables of the main restaurant first, where dozens of people were sipping cocktails and champagne beneath a rounded ceiling painted with a blue sky and puffy white clouds. I was beginning to feel lost in the maze of hallways when a familiar voice called my name.
“Stassi dear, there you are!” Hadley’s voice sang out, echoing loudly off the tall ceilings. “So sorry I am late.”
“I’ve only just arrived,” I said. “I was just looking around.”
“Opulent, isn’t it?” she asked, raising both eyebrows with a knowing glance.
“It’s something, alright,” I replied. Given the modern, utilitarian architecture of my time, I actually thought the stunning hotel was full of character and life. But I could imagine that a woman like Hadley, who didn’t exactly surround herself with the finest things, might think it over the top. As I moved to enter the main dining room, Hadley put a soft hand on my arm.
“If you don’t mind, would it be okay if we had lunch in the bar? It’s quiet, and less crowded.”
“Of course,” I replied easily, following her down yet another hallway.
There was no maître d’ in the bar area, only a bartender wiping down the shiny lacquered surface in front of him.
“Bonjour Frank!” Hadley called out, walking to the back corner of the dark room.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hemingway,” Frank replied from his post. “Audrienne just ran to fetch me some ice, can I get you started with a drink? The usual?”
“That would be perfect,” she replied, then glanced at me. “Fancy a gin fizz, dear?”
“Just a glass of champagne, please. I must admit, I’m a bit of a lightweight,” I told the bartender with a conspiratorial smile.
“Nonsense,” Hadley protested. “Frank here makes the best gin fizz in all of Paris, you simply must have one.”
“In our city, it is never too early for a proper drink,” Frank coaxed.
Though it was against my better judgment, given the hour and the fact I was working, I relented.
Frank and Hadley chatted easily while he mixed our drinks and I checked out our lunch venue. Between the dark paneled walls, gold-trimmed mirrors, and dim light fixtures, the bar had a definitively masculine vibe that was in stark contrast to the bright lobby and formal dining room. It was a room designed for men to gather and discuss everything from writing to politics, and would be used for just that over the course of its long, esteemed history.
Ironically, the dark, narrow space would be renamed Hemingway’s Bar in the not-so-distant future, due to his frequent patronage and affinity for using the space as a makeshift office. The moniker would remain for centuries, until the hotel closed its doors in 2390. The fact I was seated with Hadley Richardson in the bar made famous by her husband wasn’t lost on me—it was one of those surreal moments that demanded I take pause and appreciate the incredible opportunities afforded to me by my job.
Two men with familiar faces sat on tall stools at the bar, scribbling in notebooks and possessing the haggard look of starving artists. Several others were engaged in a
lively debate at two round tables that had been pushed together, the tops of both littered with empty glasses and crumpled pieces of paper.
“This is the place for struggling writers,” Hadley confirmed, catching me staring at the two men I couldn’t quite place. “They spend what little money they have on alcohol and smoke their cigarettes, in the hope inspiration will strike. My husband just loves coming here.”
“I imagine the people he meets make for interesting characters in his novels,” I replied, my heart sinking.
In the following years, Hemingway would meet a woman in this very bar and begin an affair, ultimately leading to a divorce from Hadley. Knowing what was to come for her brought a feeling of sadness that I struggled to shake off. It was a hazard of the job.
Luckily, Hadley chose that moment to tell a joke about two writers who walked into a bar, and my bleak mood was lifted as I laughed at the punchline.
We sipped our drinks and chatted easily until the waitress arrived in a flurry of apologies. Evidently, it wasn’t only her husband who frequented the place; Audrienne greeted Hadley by name, just as Frank had done. They exchanged pleasantries, then we chose several small plates from the menu to share.
For the first hour, Hadley gossiped to me about her friends, revealing what she purported to be all of their dirty little secrets. Given the tightknit nature of their group, I had to guess that the tidbits weren’t at all secret. If it was similar to the rumor mill that churned on the island, everyone knew everyone else’s business.
One gin fizz turned in to two, which ultimately turned in to three. When the food arrived, I compensated by carb-loading like a marathon runner the night before a big race. Hadley didn’t feel a similar need to offset the alcohol, which worked well for my purposes.
The more time we spent together, the more I found that I genuinely liked Hadley Richardson. Had we been born in the same time, we probably would have been friends. And so I chose not to rush the conversation. Sitting and talking with her was a welcome respite from all of the somber events of the run, and I was actually having fun. I found myself feeding in to her need to gossip, as if her friends were mine and the stories meant something to me.
