“Bon appétit,” Victoria said and saluted with her Perrier.
Madame Bonnard responded with her glass of champagne.
She started the conversation with an observation of the Parisian weather. The summer had been so hot, and airless. They moved on to fashion and art, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. But by the time the desserts were served, small talk was getting smaller and the conversational pauses were longer.
“It’s remarkable that you were able to make the trip to Paris from Norway,” Madame Bonnard said as she finished her crème brûlée.
“Because of the volcanic ash, you mean?” Victoria asked.
The waiter poured the demitasse and left the silver coffeepot on the table for them to help themselves.
“Yes, I understand that European airspace is closed right now.”
“I came on the ferry from Oslo.”
“There was no mention in the press.”
Victoria smiled. A plate of macaroons was within her reach, and she selected a light pink raspberry-filled confection and bit into it, taking her time to answer.
“There are ways of keeping things out of the press.”
Madame Bonnard raised an eyebrow.
“Apparently it doesn’t always work.”
Victoria laughed. “Oh, poor Mr. Sinclair. They were wrong about that.”
Madame Bonnard took another spoonful of crème brûlée, smiling coyly.
“I see you are skeptical,” Victoria said.
“Your personal affairs are really not my concern, my dear.”
“I’m afraid they are. You see, I was with Charles.”
Madame Bonnard’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
“That is impossible! He would have said something to me.”
Victoria let the facts settle in. Madame Bonnard put the spoon down, her gesture abrupt.
Victoria soothed her over with superb diplomatic tact. “Of course Charles would respect my privacy. You have raised a perfect gentleman.”
“What is it you propose to do about this liaison?”
Victoria took her time before she answered, calming her pulse, as she knew so well how to do.
“I would like to continue to see Charles. With your permission, of course. And I must tell you that I am aware of his American heritage.”
“What does Charles say about this?”
“He is naturally cautious, and wants to protect my reputation, as well as yours. But I’d like to do this formally and introduce him to my parents. I see no need for continued secrecy.”
“You realize that it will not be easy.” Madame Bonnard said and took a sip of coffee. “The media will uncover his past.”
“I understand that is a risk. But if my parents give their approval, the story will die away quickly enough. There will be no scandal. And the press might never investigate Charles further.
“One could only hope,” Madame Bonnard said speculatively.
“Will you give me permission to make our liaison public?” Victoria asked, her heart pounding.
Madame Bonnard paused, dabbing her lips with her napkin. She focused on the young princess with a serene smile.
“Charles’s real father passed away last year, so I have no further obligation to uphold the secret.”
“And you would be willing to endure the bad publicity?”
Madam Bonnard gave a Gallic shrug. Her look of noble resignation rivaled that of Marie Antoinette facing the guillotine.
“If you are willing to risk the furor, then so am I.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“The happiness of my son is all that concerns me.”
“I want Charles to be happy also. And I think he is, with me.”
“How should we proceed?” Madame Bonnard asked.
“When I return to Norway, my parents will be informed. There will be a formal announcement from the palace.”
“Are you sure they will agree so quickly?” Madame Bonnard asked.
“They must approve of Charles.”
“Must?”
“Yes, you see, there is no choice in the matter. I have just discovered I am carrying his child.”
PARIS, FRANCE
Clothilde Bonnard was following her usual custom of sipping a Lillet before dinner. The sun had just dipped behind the trees, casting a golden glow across the Luxembourg Gardens. Madame Bonnard entered the large salon, smiling smugly.
“Is your brother still here?”
“He’s going out.”
“I must speak to him first,” Madame Bonnard said and rang the bell for the housekeeper.
Annette entered, carrying a silver tray. She was well aware of Madame Bonnard’s cocktail of choice and had already mixed a Kir Royal. At that exact moment, Charles strode into the room freshly showered and dressed for an evening out. Clothilde noted his new navy linen, unstructured suit, cut in the latest fashionable Italian style.
He pointedly ignored her scrutinizing his clothes and requested his usual aperitif, Punt e Mes—a bittersweet Italian vermouth—with a splash of soda and an orange twist. As Annette set off to fetch it, Madame Bonnard confronted her son.
“Whom are you seeing tonight, Charles?”
“Mother, you know very well. You had lunch with her today at the Hotel George.”
Clothilde gave a little snort into her glass and pretended it was a cough.
“What are you planning on doing about her?” Madame Bonnard asked in an impatient tone.
“I am trying to decide.”
“Trying to decide?” Madame Bonnard demanded, drawing the words out with drama.
“Charles, that is not acceptable. Surely you understand the seriousness of the situation.”
“I understand, mother.”
Charles accepted his drink from Annette, and they all stayed silent until she left the room. Clothilde kept her eyes on her mother’s face.
Madame Bonnard took a long sip of the champagne cocktail, her narrowed stare burning into her son.
“You must marry her, Charles. There is no other way.”
Charles flagged a taxi and gave the address—135 rue Saint-Dominique. Settling into the backseat, he thought about what had just transpired. His mother was enthusiastic about Victoria. And she was right about marriage. It was exactly as Sinclair said. Princesses don’t date. He’d have to propose soon.
Victoria gave every indication that she would agree. But the public acceptance wouldn’t be quite as smooth. The tabloids would uncover his past and the King and Queen of Norway would not be thrilled about their daughter marrying an illegitimate son of an American senator. Of that he was certain.
The cab pulled up to the curb, and he paid the driver. Victoria was meeting him here. The restaurant Le Violon D’Ingres was young and lively—completely different from the stodgy formal dinners she usually attended.
As he got out, he noticed a young, blond bohemian girl in a leather jacket, long skirt, and sandals standing outside the restaurant. It took him a second to realize it was Victoria.
Victoria and Charles walked into the restaurant in total anonymity. The flowing skirt was unlike anything she ever wore, but she also wore her long hair hanging down her back in a braid. Clothilde also suggested a touch of bright red lipstick and hoop earrings. Those style changes transformed her from a demure princess to a contemporary young woman of the Left Bank.
They took their places and looked around at the other patrons. Everyone was too busy to notice. Victoria immediately lost all self-consciousness.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll stick to mineral water tonight, if you don’t mind.”
“Come on V, let’s have a nice glass of red wine.”
“I can’t Charles … I’m in training for the biathlon team.”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
He returned the wine card to the sommelier, ordered two Perriers with lemon, then sat back, utterly relaxed.
This w
as how things should be between them, informal and stressfree. Charles looked around the restaurant with satisfaction. Everyone was laughing and talking loudly.
“I thought you’d like it here,” he said.
Victoria was leaning back against the banquette, her skin glowing. She was lovelier than ever. If he and V could date like this, it would be fun, instead of all that sordid sneaking around.
The waiter came over with the drinks. Just then, his cell phone vibrated.
“It’s Cordelia. I called her to contact Sinclair, so he can help find Karl.”
“Go ahead, Charles. Take it.”
Charles pushed back his chair and answered the call.
“Hello? Delia? What’s up?”
He walked through the restaurant with the phone pressed to his ear. “Just a second. I can’t hear you.”
Victoria took a sip of mineral water. Tonight was going to be a big moment. After dinner, she’d tell him she was pregnant. Not a soul knew about it, except for Brindy and Madame Bonnard.
The funny thing was, Victoria hadn’t planned on divulging the secret to Charles’s mother, but if she was willing to put her reputation at risk for the sake of her son’s happiness, then she deserved to know about her first grandchild.
Incredibly, the baby must have been conceived the first night she and Charles were together. It had been a colossal miscalculation on her part. She knew about prevention, but buying birth control products was too awkward. She couldn’t just walk into a pharmacy like anyone else. So she’d decided to take her chances with timing. A very stupid move, as it turned out.
Of course, Charles wasn’t to blame. He never imagined the evening would be so passionate. When it had become obvious that things were progressing rapidly, he stammered an apology about not having brought the necessary precautions. She had assured him it was fine, leading him to believe that she was taking something. But she wasn’t.
About five weeks later she began to feel unwell in the mornings. Then she gained a few pounds. Soon after, panic set in.
She couldn’t confide her secret to anyone at the palace. So Brindy had been her confidant. The contessa had come up with a plan to invite her and her brother to Capri.
It had been thrilling to see Charles again at the villa. He seemed even more charming and special, and she was awed by the ease and sophistication with which he handled everything. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him.
That weekend she tried to bring up the subject of the baby, but she was afraid it would be too much of a shock for him. What would he think of her?
Victoria came out of her reverie to see Charles enter the restaurant, walking rapidly. As he slid back into his chair, his expression was worried.
“You never mentioned that your sapphire necklace was missing.”
“I know. I seem to have lost the silly thing.”
“V, that’s a big problem.”
“Why?”
“Your parents have called Scotland Yard. They think John Sinclair stole it.”
Victoria gasped.
“Do you know where you put it?”
Victoria sighed. “That’s just it. I had it in my suitcase at the Villa Brindisi, but when I got home, the box was empty.”
Charles frowned.
“The household staff at Villa Brindisi would never touch it.”
“I know,” Victoria said, her eyes serious. “The problem is, I think Karl may have taken it and sold it for cash.”
Charles looked shocked. “Are you sure?”
“The necklace is missing, and Karl has been gone for almost a week. He couldn’t afford to travel on the spending money he had.”
“Then we need to find him and the necklace. Scotland Yard is searching for Sinclair.”
“Does he know?”
“No. He left the country a few days ago.”
“Can’t you just call him?”
“No cell phone. What I can do is to go to London to talk to Cordelia and Malik. I want to meet with Sinclair’s lawyer. We’ll figure it out together.”
Victoria felt her sprits sink.
“You mean you have to go away to London for a few days?”
“Or more. I might have to go find Sinclair. Some of his archaeological sites are very remote.”
Victoria slumped back against the cushions of the banquette.
“Charles, you can’t leave me here!”
“V, don’t be silly. I’ll only be gone for a day or so.”
“But we don’t have that kind of time …”
Charles looked at her in confusion.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
Panic was rising; she needed to tell him about the baby. But this was not the place to say such things. As their voices rose, the couple at the next table glanced over.
“V, what’s the matter?” he said, regarding her with alarm.
Somehow, she couldn’t tell him. She sat silently, looking at him, taking in the details of his appearance.
The moment was crystal clear. His hair was slightly mussed, and he wore a deep midnight blue suit with a white chambray shirt, fashionably wrinkled. A white hair-elastic was on his wrist, almost hidden by his watch.
“Is that mine?” she asked, touching it.
“Yes, I found it on the terrace.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“What is it darling?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
If she told him about the baby, nothing would ever be the same. Charles Bonnard would be irrevocably altered. The carefree charmer would be gone, and he would have to take on the burden of fatherhood. She didn’t want to rob him of his last moment of freedom. The weight of duty and obligation had crushed her for years. How could she do it to someone else?
The room was crowded and loud. The people next to her were entirely too close. She felt her eyes fill with tears.
“Can we go?”
Charles paid quickly and ushered her out of the restaurant. Once they were in the dark street, he put his arms around her.
“Tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand.”
Just then, a group of people walked by giving them a curious glance. He took her wrist and pulled her along.
“C’mon V, we can’t stay here. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS
Madame Bonnard was sitting in her boudoir with her feet up re-reading Chéri by Colette. Her concentration was poor. She unwrapped the silver foil from a Fauchon caramel and popped it into her mouth, rolling the buttery flavor across her tongue.
All this business about Charles marrying Princess Victoria was too exciting. Her son had attracted the love of a royal princess and would finally take his proper place in the world. And the prospect of a royal baby was almost too much to consider. Imagine the christening, and a long lace dress, the King and Queen … It would be in all the magazines.
Downstairs, she heard the door open, and there was the sound of voices. Charles must be home. Did he bring the princess back with him? Madame Bonnard put down the book and tiptoed out to the landing for a peek.
The Bonnard house had four floors and a spiral marble staircase connecting them. In the middle of the landing, there was an ornate and gilded elevator, the kind installed in many European houses at the turn of the century. The shaft was Madame Bonnard’s secret listening post. The narrow space served as a sound amplifier, and voices on the ground floor were clearly audible outside her bedroom.
“Don’t worry, my mother is asleep,” Charles said in a low voice.
Madame Bonnard smiled smugly to herself. Little did he know …
“… or maybe she’s up there eating caramels and reading romantic novels, like she always does.”
Madame Bonnard’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Where can we talk?” a woman’s voice asked, a Norwegian accent clearly discernible.
“Let’s go into the salon. No one will disturb us there.”
Victoria followed Charles
into the living room and put her jacket and purse on the chair. Her lobes ached, as she removed the earrings and shook her long hair out of the braid. She deftly twisted it up into a chignon. Now she felt like herself again.
Charles was watching her silently. He’d become somewhat withdrawn and pensive in the cab on the way home, and he now walked over to the window. The treetops in the park had turned silver in the light of the full moon.
“Tell me what’s wrong, chéri?” he asked, turning to her. “Aren’t you comfortable with the way things are between us?”
She took a deep, shaky breath, uncertain where to begin. “Yes, actually. In fact, I think we should tell my parents about us. You could come back with me.”
Charles looked shocked.
“Victoria, I can’t just run off to Oslo. There are other things I have to take care of first.”
“You mean finding Sinclair?”
“He’s facing criminal charges. I have to find him. In the meantime, you need to figure out what Karl might have done with that necklace.”
“But that is not …”
“V, it’s really important that we solve this as soon as possible.”
Victoria’s heart sank. A fatalistic mood came over her. Maybe now was not the right time to tell him about the baby.
“I’m sorry V, but if that necklace doesn’t turn up, Sinclair could be facing jail time.”
Victoria nodded, almost relieved that the conversation about the pregnancy could be avoided, once again.
“All right, Charles. But don’t tell anyone about Karl stealing it. We can’t disgrace the family.”
“Understood. Now, will you go back to Oslo? All this might take a while.”
“She will stay in Paris,” a voice said from the doorway.
Madame Bonnard walked into the room with a determined look on her face. Her purple velour robe and high-heeled mules were elegant, and the carriage of her head was imperious.
“Princess Victoria can stay with us while you are away,” she said.
“I don’t think …” Charles started.
She ignored him, turning to Victoria. “Your Royal Highness, you can say that you are consulting with Clothilde on a new wardrobe. I believe you will need some new clothes fairly soon.”
Summer of Fire Page 14
