Chapter Four
The embassy Daimler swept along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, bound for the H?tel de Castellane, where the Americans were sparing no expense in a display of dollar diplomacy.
According to Le Figaro, an agreement was within touching distance, the terms generous, the future bright, and any suggestion to the contrary the work of agitators and doom-mongers.
L’Humanité, on the other hand, claimed France was being bled white so that American bankers might grow fat on Germany’s post-war recovery.
While L’Action Francaise declared the whole business une trahison monstrueuse – a betrayal of every man who’d died for France.
Elizabeth had been in Paris little more than a day, and already she’d discovered that the only point on which the entire city agreed was that somebody, somewhere, was getting the better of France.
She settled back against the leather upholstery, watching the Faubourg slide past the window, shopfronts giving way to high walls and gated courtyards, until she caught Clemmi’s eye in the reflection.
Not a word had passed between the three of them since leaving the apartment, only the purr of the engine and the blast of klaxons in the evening traffic.
She offered her friend a smile, but the one Clemmi managed to muster wasn’t nearly as bright as the one she’d worn at Lanvin that morning, when the vendeuse had led them through to the grand salon, greeting Clemmi as if she were Queen Mary herself.
Then she’d spotted it – the drop-waisted chiffon in Lanvin Blue, the house’s signature colour, with a handkerchief hemline that skimmed her ankles.
Clemmi had gone straight to it, the chiffon rippling through her fingers as she’d held it against herself and turned towards the cheval mirror. Oh, Elizabeth, isn’t it simply divine? And for those few moments, the shadows beneath her eyes had vanished, and she’d been the old Clemmi again.
Oliver cleared his throat behind his closed fist and shifted in his seat, his knee coming to rest against Clemmi’s.
Clemmi huffed out a breath, putting on an exaggerated show of readjusting the folds of her skirt about her knees before swinging them towards Elizabeth.
Oliver’s hand slipped from his thigh and came to rest in the space between him and Clemmi, palm down against the leather.
To his credit, Oliver had taken it in his stride when Clemmi had announced that she and Elizabeth would be accompanying him to the soirée, and everything had been going splendidly – right up until he’d helped Clemmi on with her wrap.
Are you sure you’re feeling up to it, darling? No one will think any less of you if you’d rather stay home.
Clemmi had stepped away without a word, slipped her arm through Elizabeth’s, and swept them both out of the apartment, leaving Oliver standing in the entrance hall.
The Daimler swung off the Concorde and up the rue de Castiglione, and there it was.
The H?tel de Castellane, six storeys of pale limestone with light burning in every window, its name set in bronze above the entrance.
Motorcars queued two deep along the kerb, and the Daimler slipped in behind them, creeping forward as, one by one, those ahead gave up their passengers.
A chinchilla stole here, a flash of beading there, white ties and bare shoulders funnelling beneath the glass canopy while the commissionaire waved each emptied motorcar on its way.
Clemmi leaned towards the window, her fingers finding Elizabeth’s wrist. “Rather beats staying home with a cup of beef tea and sardines, don’t you think?”
Oliver’s gaze travelled the length of the queue and back, then settled on the entrance.
They rolled to a stop beneath the glass, and the door swung open.
“Bonsoir, mesdames … monsieur.” A doorman in claret livery stood to attention.
Oliver stepped down, a short row of miniature medals at his lapel, and handed Clemmi onto the pavement, his thumb brushing across her knuckles before he let go.
The corner of Clemmi’s mouth lifted, there and gone, as he turned back to extend his hand to Elizabeth.
She took his hand and stepped down, silver-grey silk velvet cut on the bias, the neckline square and low at the back, a single line of crystal beading tracing the dropped waist to a hem that dipped at one side to brush her ankle as they made their way inside.
The chatter of the reception reached them across an entrance hall of pale stone edged in black marble, growing louder as a cloakroom attendant relieved them of their wraps, Clemmi giving up hers without a glance at Oliver, and a page led them on towards a set of double doors.
The Salon Castellane opened before them, a long sweep of ivory panelling and gilt beneath blazing chandeliers, tall French windows dressed in dark blue silk, and the centre of the parquet left clear, though nobody had yet dared to claim it.
Guests stood in loose constellations about the walls, while waiters threaded between them with silver trays of champagne, and from behind a screen of palms a string orchestra was working its way through “It Had to Be You”, all smoothed out and dressed for evening.
“So, this is dollar diplomacy.” Elizabeth dipped her head closer to Clemmi’s ear. “Even the music’s been imported.”
“The Americans don’t believe in doing anything by halves.” Clemmi’s gaze made a slow circuit of the room.
Oliver steered them along the edge of the room, past the palms, to where a pair of blue-grey velvet chairs and a settee stood grouped about a guéridon in the lee of the orchestra. “Here we are. You’ll be able to see everything from here without being in the thick of it.”
He drew back a chair for Clemmi and stopped, muttering under his breath, his gaze fixed somewhere across the salon.
Elizabeth followed his sightline to the far windows, where a slight, silver-haired gentleman stood talking at a Frenchman of perhaps fifty, impeccably kept, the star of the Légion d’honneur at his breast. The Frenchman stood quite still, one thumb turning the signet ring on his little finger, and looked at the silver-haired gentleman the way one looks at rain.
“Oliver!” Clemmi twisted in her chair to follow his gaze. “Whatever’s the matter?”
“Sorry, darling. It’s Arbuthnot. He’s cornered de Massenet, and after the last time those two spoke…” Oliver’s fingers drummed against the seam of his trousers. “The Ministre de l’Intérieur’s patience isn’t what you’d call diplomatic.”
“Then I suppose you’d better go.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Though I did warn you tonight would be business rather than pleasure.” He was already glancing back towards the windows. “I’ll have some drinks sent across. A ginger beer for you, darling?”
“Actually, Elizabeth and I will take a glass of champagne.”
“Of course.” His lips thinned as he set off along the edge of the room, pausing briefly to return a greeting before he was absorbed into the crowd.
Elizabeth watched him go, then turned back to her friend. “And who exactly is this de Massenet, that his patience, or rather lack of it, should cause such alarm?”
“Monsieur Armand de Massenet.” Clemmi’s gaze flicked to the minister. “He has the police and the préfecture in his pocket, and most of public order besides. Oliver says nothing much opens or closes in Paris without his say-so.”
“The kind of man one wants to keep on side, then.”
“He’s certainly not a man to cross, especially now with the negotiations at such a delicate stage.”
“And Arbuthnot?”
“The Minister Plenipotentiary at the embassy. Sir Conrad’s number two, and rather keen that everyone should know it.
He’s been there far longer than Sir Conrad – since before the war, according to Oliver – but Oliver doesn’t believe for one minute he’ll get the ambassadorship when Sir Conrad retires next month.
” Clemmi pressed the back of her gloved hand to her lips, riding out a yawn.
“He’s more of a behind-the-scenes man, all files and figures.
Rather an unfortunate knack for rubbing people up the wrong way. ”
“Mesdames.” A young waiter approached and set two coupes of champagne on the guéridon.
“Merci.” Elizabeth inclined her head as he withdrew.
She took a sip, her gaze drifting back across the salon to where Oliver had joined Arbuthnot and de Massenet, the minister’s shoulder angled away from Arbuthnot as though the conversation were already over.
“As I live and breathe, Clemmi Mayfield, sorry, Sterling. I still can’t get used to you being an old married woman, you know.” A fair-haired man in white tie flopped down onto the settee beside Elizabeth, without ceremony.
“Pippin!” Clemmi’s face warmed. “And not so much of the old, thank you very much.”
“Where on earth have you been hiding?”
“I might say the same of you. Last I’d heard, you were living it up in Monte Carlo.”
“Was. Past tense, sadly. Until my grandmother got wind of just how good a time I was having and promptly informed me that if I lost another shilling of her money, she’d disinherit me and leave the lot to the church roof fund. So here I am, back in gay Paree … for the foreseeable, anyway.”
“And how long before she relents this time?”
“Hard to say, really, but she can’t stand my cousins, and someone has to inherit.”
Clemmi turned to Elizabeth. “You remember Lavinia Westcott, don’t you? She was with us in Lausanne.”
“Yes, of course.”
“This is her younger brother, the Honourable Peregrine Westcott. Pippin, this is my dearest friend, Lady Elizabeth Hawthorne.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Westcott.” Elizabeth extended her hand, and he pressed it briefly to his lips. “How is your sister?”
“Positively glowing. Both the heir and the spare safely delivered, but Dickie seems determined to go for the hat-trick. Though Mamma’s convinced he’s trying to field his own cricket team.
” He drew a silver cigarette case from inside his jacket and thumbed it open.
“And call me Pippin, please; everyone else does.”
“It sounds as though your sister has her hands rather full.”
“Oh, entirely. At the current rate of production, they’ll have to add a new wing by Christmas. Dickie’s already had the architect down twice.” He held out the case to each of them in turn; both declined. “Filthy habit, I know, but one must have some pleasures in life.”
He took one for himself and placed it in the corner of his mouth, his eyes performing a leisurely sweep of the salon, pausing briefly before continuing the circuit.
He pushed himself up from the settee, patting down his pockets. “Blast, I seem to have misplaced my lighter. Clemmi, a delight, as always.” He pressed her hand to his lips. “Lady Elizabeth, we must have lunch before you leave.”
With a bow of the head, he crossed the salon, pausing to beg a light from a gentleman before continuing on to where a dark-haired woman in beaded emerald silk held court, a long jade cigarette holder poised between her fingers.
Elizabeth followed his progress as he inserted himself into the circle, dipping his head over the woman’s hand while her companions shuffled along to make room for him.
Her gaze drifted on past them, skimming the loose knots of guests along the windows towards the double doors, then stopped.
A tall, fair-haired figure in white tie stood just inside the doors, half-turned away, his head bent towards an older gentleman.
Jonathan?
It couldn’t be … could it?
Surely Clemmi would have mentioned if Jonathan were here tonight.
Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, searching for a gap in the crowd.
A waiter cut across her line of sight, a laden tray at his shoulder, and by the time he’d passed, the fair-haired gentleman was gone.
“Striking, isn’t she?”
“Sorry?” Elizabeth turned back to her friend.
“Oriane de Massenet – she’s striking. If Monsieur de Massenet runs Paris, then Madame de Massenet rules it. There isn’t a hostess in Paris who wouldn’t give her eye teeth to have her dine at their table, but not one of them would leave her alone with her husband for five minutes.”
“And her husband has no objection to what she gets up to?”
“Hardly. She’s the finest asset the ministry has, and well he knows it. What either of them does otherwise, neither cares to ask – as long as both are discreet.”
Elizabeth stole another glance towards the doors before returning her attention to Clemmi. “And what news of Mr Ashcroft?”
“Jonathan? He’s been promising to visit almost since we stepped off the boat train, but something always seems to come up at the last minute.
” Clemmi pressed the back of her hand to her lips, stifling a yawn.
“According to Oliver, he’s in the Americas, but, you know, Jonathan.
I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to receive a postcard from him next week informing us of a visit.
What about you? Have you heard from him? ”
“Not since we ran into each other at the National, a few months back.”
“You know, I had such high hopes for the two of you.”
“High hopes?” Elizabeth arched a brow. Whatever there was between her and Jonathan Ashcroft, she’d yet to find a name for it. But romance? “Really, Clemmi, you are the most hopeless romantic I’ve ever met.”
“Perhaps I was … once. Though these days I’d be hard pressed to say which of us Oliver is married to – me or the chancery.”
“Clemmi, is everything all right?”
“It’s fine; everything is fine. Just ignore me.” Clemmi rose from her chair and re-adjusted the folds of her skirt. “I think it’s about time we took a turn about the room before we’re mistaken for a pair of wallflowers.”
Elizabeth’s gaze settled on Clemmi’s untouched champagne coupe, still standing where the waiter had left it.
Perhaps she would have been better off with a ginger beer after all.