“How long have you been in Paris?”
“Three years. I worked in Washington, D.C., before that. I’m from Boston originally. My family has been there for generations. I attended Groton then Harvard. My uncle worked for the State Department. I worked for the Cipher Bureau for a time and then became a Foreign Service Officer.”
Ciphers, as in decoding secrets. Amelia waited for him to mention her past, sure he’d deciphered that bit of news from one source or another. It’d been quite the story in Boston when Jackson’s swindle had come to light, and people loved to spread and remember juicy scandals.
“You must know all the best places to go when not working?” Amelia changed the subject fast, eager to keep him talking about anything except her.
“I do.” He told her about which cafés to avoid and which were the best, of jazz clubs she had to visit, art galleries she must see, and bookshops where the tourists never ventured. She enjoyed his deep voice and the easy way he spoke to her as a fellow American in Paris, not the Duchess of Windsor’s secretary, and she imagined visiting the places he described.
With whom? She didn’t know anyone outside the Windsors’ staff and they had families and friends in Paris, including Mr. Forwood, who was seeing a young secretary at the British Embassy. Amelia had no one, and once the Windsors returned, there’d be precious little free time to make friends.
“Here we are,” Mr. Morton announced.
He held open the door to the plainly named Café Capucines at number 23 Capucines. The heady aroma of rich café Viennese struck her the moment they entered, as did the number of young men cluttering the tables and discussing European politics over small coffeepots and plates of rolls, meats, and cheeses. The American accents were as impressive as the marble and wood counter where a young woman with thick-rimmed glasses filled cups from the large copper coffee machine.
“This is a Chancery favorite. Close enough to walk to, but out of the way enough to privately discuss what we’ve seen and heard.” Mr. Morton nodded to a couple of coworkers as he led her to a small corner table. He held out her chair then took the one across from her. The waiter exchanged pleasantries with him before taking their order for the prix fixe lunch then bustling off.
“What interesting things have you heard?” The cloak-and-dagger suggestion of what went on here between courses intrigued her as much as he did.
“That King Carol of Romania has invited the Windsors to dinner.”
“How do you know? The invitation just arrived.”
“It’s my job to know what’s going on in Paris, who’s coming and going and why, especially people of note, and King Carol is certainly noteworthy. He’s spent most of the summer here meeting with the French Foreign Minister and other gentlemen of interest.”
“Well, I don’t know much about him except he and his entourage are taking up the second floor of the Hotel Meurice while the Duke and Duchess are on the third. I’m housed with the servants on the fifth. I have a view of the Tuileries Garden and I can just see Notre Dame over the tops of the trees. I’m positively spoiled.” She woke up every morning in expensive sheets with someone to change them and clean her room. It was simple compared to the Duke and Duchess’s suite but far more elegant than anything she’d enjoyed in a long time. “I sit at the window at night and watch the city lights while I catch up on work. It’s better than being in a stuffy old office.”
She didn’t dare say she stayed up working to distract herself from the loneliness.
“As someone working in a stuffy office, I’m jealous.” He sat back to let the waiter set a coffeepot down in front of them along with a small creamer and sugar bowl. Mr. Morton plucked the lid off the sugar bowl and, using the tongs, picked up a sugar cube. He offered her one then dropped a cube in his cup before glancing up at her from beneath his brows, making her forget all about the steaming drink in front of her. “A word of advice to you and your employer about King Carol. His mistress, Madame Lupescu, is with him. The Queen is in Romania with the children. The less said about that arrangement the better.”
Amelia reached for the creamer. Business, he’s talking business. I need to be businesslike. “I’ll tell Her Royal Highness. She’ll understand the need for discretion. I certainly do.”
“Everyone in Paris does because everyone here has a story and a few secrets.” He pointed the sugar tongs at her. “Including you.”
And there it is. She set down the creamer and sat back, the spell he’d woven with his sugar, advice, and good looks vanishing. “I’m not going to embezzle the Windsors’ money if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Not at all.” He pushed the sugar bowl aside. “It must have been hard being snared in someone else’s machinations and then left to deal with the consequences.”
Good Lord, this man was full of surprises. “It was.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
And he was, it was there in his blue eyes, the way it’d been in Wallis’s. “Thank you.”
She didn’t say the only thing she was sorry for was having married Jackson in the first place. The fines and other issues had died with Jackson but not the attorney fees, or the recovery lawsuit now hanging over her.
Stop it. Wallis wouldn’t face something like this by looking back or playing the wounded widow. It was time for dignity, elegance, perhaps a bit of wit, not self-pity. She crossed her legs beside the table and leaned toward him as she’d seen Wallis do with people, giving him her undivided attention as she raised her coffee cup.
“Let’s not dwell on the past. That’s in America and I’m in Paris, making a new life for myself, and possibly some new secrets.”
He raised one curious eyebrow, and humiliation flooded through her.
What the devil am I doing? She hadn’t learned anything from Jackson if she was flirting with a man she barely knew simply because he was handsome and giving her attention. She almost set her coffee down and slid her legs back under the table but she didn’t. She wasn’t flirting but being confident, like Wallis. After all, she was an experienced widow, not a naive debutante, and she’d made a move; she couldn’t look silly by chickening out.
She waited for him to laugh or make some snide remark, but he leaned forward on one elbow and clinked his coffee cup against hers. “To a new life, and new secrets.”
“To secrets.” Exhilaration swept away her humiliation. Whatever she’d done, it’d worked, and with a charming gentleman. She’d
have to find out what a little more confidence might do for her.
Chapter Six
“I’ve taken the liberty of organizing your closet so Mademoiselle Moulichon can arrange everything according to color and style,” Amelia explained to Wallis during the tour of their suite and Wallis’s closet the morning after her return. “I had special tags printed with spaces to write when and where each outfit is worn so nothing is seen too many times at similar events.” Amelia turned over the tag pinned to a ball gown to show the lines for each entry.
“How very clever of you.” The Austrian mountain air and time away from reporters had done wonders for Wallis. She was relaxed and almost cheerful today, like the old Wallis from Wakefield Manor rather than Château de Candé. “I’ll tell Mademoiselle Moulichon to arrange my shoes, hats, and gloves according to your system too. I want everything to be coordinated so I always look my best. I’m not the prettiest woman but I can be the best dressed, and David deserves the most fashionable wife.”
Amelia didn’t mention it was Mrs. Bedaux who’d suggested the closet organizing system. The generous lady had visited Amelia a number of times over the summer and taught her how to call for cars, inform hotel staff about Wallis’s special preferences, to make seamless travel arrangements and reservations, and the many other skills expected of a private secretary. Amelia wasn’t sure why Mrs. Bedaux had taken her under her wing but she was glad she had.
“I’d intended to spend this fall training you but I can see you have everything under control. Fern, who adores you, gave me a stern talking-to about how I treated you and made me see I’d thrown you in the deep end when I took you on. I’m sorry I was so harsh and short but I was under such an awful strain. I wasn’t myself. I hope you can forgive me, and we can make a fresh start. I want you to enjoy this position and your time with me, not dread it.”
“I do enjoy it, and all the opportunities you’ve given me.” After the disastrous start at Château de Candé, Amelia had worried about how it’d be when Wallis returned. This conversation gave her hope that everything would work out swimmingly.
“Good, then let’s get to it.” Wallis led Amelia back to the sitting room and sat down at the narrow writing desk. Amelia stood in front of it, ignoring the chair beside her. Wallis frowned. “Why are you standing?”
“The staff were ordered to stand in your presence until invited to sit, in deference to your new status.”
“Nonsense. We’ve known each other far too long for that. In public, or with anyone who isn’t an intimate friend, you’ll address me properly and behave as expected of a hired secretary. In private we can be much more informal, the way we used to be at Cousin Lelia’s. Now, what business do you have for me?”
“I’ve prepared a calendar with all of your appointments.” Amelia sat down, took out her folio, and removed a few papers. “Mr. Guillaume Guglielmi is scheduled to arrive every day at four to set your hair, except on the nights when you go out, then he’ll arrive at two. Miss Sage, the manicurist, will be here on Tuesdays and Thursdays at nine. I took the liberty of scheduling next Monday for Schiaparelli and next Wednesday for Mainbocher for you to review their winter collections.”
