CHAPTER 1
CAFé DE FLORE, PARIS
‘I never have breakfast unless it’s champagne,’ said Lady Ashworth as she signalled for the waiter to top up her flute.
‘I’d join you for a second glass if we didn’t have to go to work,’ said Violet as she watched the stream of bubbles fizz to the lip.
‘I thought you began every day with bubbles, Lady Ashworth?’ commented Charlie James.
Her elder breakfast companion, Lady Eleanor Ashworth, had a cheeky, youthful glow, despite nearing sixty.
She looked the very picture of a quirky interior designer, dressed head to toe in discreet Chanel with a hint of makeup and perfect red nails.
Her signature green hair was slicked into a chignon—daring everyone to take a second glance.
She had the broad confidence and accent of her stateside Southern Belle heritage laced with a lifetime spent in the most elegant chateaux in Europe.
The older woman threw her head back and laughed.
‘Who said anything about my not working? I have a shipment of furniture that was picked up for a song from a Loire chateau, which I need to catalogue before it heads across the pond.’ She took a sip of her drink and lowered her voice.
‘Rothschilds.’ She winked. ‘Then, a meeting at the Louvre to discuss the next fundraiser for the hospital and then a town car is taking me back to Versailles to look at some wallpaper samples. My chauffeur, Monsieur Cardo, will be here momentarily to collect me.’ She sat back in her cane chair with a satisfied sigh.
‘And I thought we were the ones heading into a full day of work, mea culpa,’ said Violet in her crisp English accent as she lifted her flute in a conciliatory toast.
Charlie James and her colleague Violet Carthage from the Paris office of The Times were finishing their weekly Wednesday breakfast at Café de Flore.
The breakfast had been their ritual since Charlie arrived in Paris from Sydney several months ago to chase her lifelong dream of being a foreign correspondent.
Charlie had left behind a second, shattered dream in Sydney—her disastrous marriage.
Occasionally Lady Ashworth would join the two younger women at these morning meals, dispensing advice and champagne in equally unsolicited volumes.
‘Now, if you two ladies permit me, I have something I wish to share.’ Lady Ashworth reached down to the Hermès purse by her feet and pulled out some photographs of a pretty woman in her early twenties with a wavy blonde bob and dimples. ‘This is Maisy Anna Bell. Twenty-two. American. From Dallas.’
‘Oh, she’s heaven. Professional lighting. Actress? Model? Look at those big pearly teeth.’ Violet laughed. ‘A rich American.’
‘A missing one!’ Lady Ashworth pursed her lips.
‘Maisy Bell was travelling with her aunt, Clementine Bell, to celebrate Maisy’s recent graduation from college.
Barnard, I believe. They were staying at the Ritz and the younger Miss Bell took it upon herself to organise some sightseeing one day. She never returned.’
Charlie studied the photo of Maisy Bell and asked, ‘Are you quite sure Maisy Bell is missing? If so, that’s serious—a matter for the police.
’ Charlie’s voice sounded controlled even as her heart started to patter at the whiff of a story.
Lady Ashworth had a complicated history of taking justice into her own hands.
Even though she had been the respected wife of an English diplomat and lord for many decades until he recently passed away, Lady Ashworth considered the conventions of European diplomacy and laws mere suggestions.
‘Clementine Bell has been to the police, of course. At my insistence.’ Lady Ashworth took care to emphasise the last phrase.
Charlie raised an eyebrow and said nothing. The last time she’d chased a story with Lady Ashworth, the older woman had held the police at a sceptical distance and Charlie had almost died.
‘I’m assuming the police opened a missing person’s file?’ asked Charlie.
‘Perhaps.’ Lady Ashworth shrugged and finished her drink. ‘The young woman is still missing, so I think there is far more to be done than open a file.’ She enunciated her words in her dry Southern accent.
‘Where did Maisy Bell go sightseeing?’ Charlie pulled a photo towards her for a closer look.
‘That’s the question. She attended my fundraiser in the ballroom of the Hotel Ritz on the eighth of August,’ replied Lady Ashworth, smoothing her chignon, ‘and was last seen leaving the hotel the next day.’
‘I was there too, briefly,’ added Charlie. ‘I wore the midnight-blue dress you lent me.’
Violet looked between Charlie and Lady Ashworth, shocked.
She threw her hands in the air as though giving thanks to God and said, ‘My work here is done. Charlie James now attends parties without the need to be dragged. Dragged or dressed,’ Violet corrected before studying the photo and appearing contrite as she remembered the serious matter at hand. The missing woman.
‘Oh, I saw you,’ Lady Ashworth said. ‘Tucked away by the champagne stand all on your lonesome—honestly, I thought you were about to start pouring drinks. I have no idea why you insist on lurking in the shadows at parties, Charlie. I wanted to introduce you to Maisy Bell but you ducked out before I had the chance. Even though she’s a young graduate, I felt you’d have a lot in common.
Clever outsiders seeking creativity and adventure in Paris. ’
‘Let’s hope this is a simple misunderstanding and I get to meet Maisy Bell,’ said Charlie, running a finger over the photo.
‘I was late and stood in the corner doing my job’—she gave Lady Ashworth a defiant look—‘taking mental notes, then actual notes, of guests for my allocated puff piece in the newspaper. I remember Maisy Bell. She seemed every bit the charming young graduate. She looked bright-eyed and ready for adventure and a summer of fun. Swanky in that American money kind of way. Perfect hair and makeup. As you pointed out, Violet, huge, open smile. Maisy was surrounded by people all night.’
‘Is she an American movie star?’ asked Violet, sounding impressed. ‘This photo is no family happy snap. Look at the lighting.’
‘I have no idea as to her career aspirations; I didn’t get a chance to speak with her. People … men … swarmed like bees.’ Charlie took out her notebook, tucked the photos of Maisy Bell inside and wrote down Clementine Bell—aunt.
‘Don’t even think about reporting on this for The Times,’ said Violet as she eyed the notebook with suspicion. ‘This looks dicey to me. With respect, this isn’t the Wild West, Lady Ashworth. Charlie, this is a police matter.’
Charlie studied her dear friend’s pinched face.
Violet was right to be concerned. The last story Charlie had worked on at The Times started with a homicide at a masquerade ball hosted by this very same Lady Ashworth at her Versailles chateau, then took Charlie from gala balls to fashion parades in sultry jazz clubs and charity soirees at the Louvre.
The story ended with Charlie attacked in a park and fighting for her life in hospital.
Charlie had earned her first front-page by-line and investigative story, but it had come at great personal cost.
Charlie examined the photo of Maisy Bell.
Just last week those eyes had sparkled, the lips were coated in alluring red lipstick, and her adorable dimples had radiated a joyful Shirley Temple innocence.
It was hard to stand out in a sea of couture at the Ritz, but this young American, Maisy Bell, certainly had.
If this vibrant young woman was missing, Charlie needed to know why.