“Have you heard from Mrs. Bedaux? I understand she’s under the protection of her Nazi friends at Château de Candé.” Amelia’s composure never changed and neither did Wallis’s except for the slight narrowing of her hard eyes.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard from Mr. Bedaux? He was in Africa overseeing the construction of oil lines for the Germans, until he was arrested by the U.S. Army and brought to D.C. That’s why Mrs. Bedaux is no longer free. After everything she did for them, that’s how they treat her.”
“I haven’t heard from Charles since we left Europe.”
“Nor will you. He killed himself with sleeping pills last week. The evidence against him was so damning, he decided to take matters into his own hands.”
Wallis’s hand went to her neck and the Duke stopped eating his tart.
“I understand Mr. Wenner-Gren is in Mexico City; of course, it’s the only place willing to take him since the U.S. government seized his assets, including his account on your behalf at the Bank of Baltimore.”
“How dare they. They have no right to touch that money, it’s mine!” Wallis screeched.
“You’re free to argue your case with the U.S. government. I’m sure they’d love to see any documents connecting you to the account and where the money came from. You have some very interesting financial backers, including Mr. Wenner-Gren, who’s been blacklisted by the U.S. government.”
Wallis’s square jaw clenched tighter in barely concealed anger. “The Bahamas is British territory. U.S. laws don’t apply there.”
“They didn’t until today.” Amelia motioned for Robert to come forward. “The Colonial Office asked us to present His Royal Highness with an order to seize Mr. Wenner-Gren’s Bahamian assets, including Shangri-La, the cannery, his beach resort, docks, and oil import business.”
Robert opened a leather folio and laid the seizure orders from the Colonial Office in front of the Duke. He uncapped a fountain pen and held it out to the Duke.
The Duke read the document, then looked to Wallis for what to do.
“Sign it,” she ordered.
The Duke took the fountain pen, letting it hover over the document a moment before he finally pressed the nib against the paper and signed his name.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” Robert slipped the paper out from under the pen and tucked it back into the folio.
The Duke laid the pen on the table beside him, shoulders hunched in defeat.
Wallis remained ramrod straight in her chair. “You think you have the upper hand, but I know the ways of the world. You’ll be a nothing and nobody soon enough while I’ll be so much more. I taught you everything you know.”
“You did, and many other lessons, especially how to be grateful for what I have instead of always wanting more.”
“You’d have nothing if it wasn’t for me.”
“A pathetic woman afraid of failure, anonymity, poverty, so desperate to be someone, you’d sell your soul to the Germans, and your life to the Duke, the Nazis, or anyone who’d offer it to you. But you won’t get it because there’s nothing behind your carefully constructed façade except selfishness and fear.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Except everyone seeing the weakness hidden by your clothes, manners, and money. I assure you, they see it, the way Mary Raffray, Mr. Metcalf, Her Majesty, and I do, and they see the grasping woman it’s made you, but you’ll never get what you want because you’ve shown your true colors, your lack of loyalty to anyone but yourself and your interests, and you’ll pay for it. His Majesty’s Government will not grant you another official position once your tenure in The Bahamas is over, and you won’t be allowed to return to Britain. You’ll be stuck forever in this false and meaningless life you’ve created.”
Wallis said nothing, more truth in those few words than she’d heard in a lifetime.
“And the press, the British people?” the Duke asked, tugging at his tie.
“In deference to Their Majesties and the reputation of the royal family, no one outside this room and the intelligence community will ever know the truth about your attempt to help the Nazis defeat Britain and install you on the throne.”
The Duke and Duchess stared at the table, taking in what Amelia had said and everything it meant for their lives, future, and all their ambitions. They’d been defeated and they knew it.
With nothing more to say, Amelia set down her napkin and stood, forcing the Duke to rise in respect. Wallis grabbed his arm and pulled him into his chair then glared at Amelia.
Amelia gathered up her purse and gloves and settled her hat over her perfectly coiffed hair. Robert offered her his arm and they walked out of the room.
“No one will ever know what happened in there,” Robert said as they waited for the elevator.
“Wallis knows and I know. That’s all that matters.”
Washington, D.C., January 1953
“Dad, here’s the newspaper. Mom, the postman brought you a letter.” William, Amelia’s son, tossed the items on the kitchen table as he raced through the kitchen to the living room, where his sister, Anne, sat coloring.
Amelia tore open the letter. “It’s from Eugenie.”
“How’s she enjoying Hollywood?” Robert poured a glass of orange juice from the bottle in the Frigidaire and sat down to his usual breakfast of toast and eggs. He always ate with Amelia before catching the train to the Office of Naval Intelligence.
“She loves the weather and being at the center of gossip. She says Marlene Dietrich is as interesting in real life as she is on the screen.” Marlene’s maid had left her around the same time Lady Williams-Taylor had passed away and Amelia had arranged the employment. “She and Barin are tearing up the town. Between them, they know more gossip than Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper combined.”
After the war, Barin had come to America and been one of the first women Amelia had trained and placed through her new agency. Barin had been in Hollywood for years and currently worked for Lauren Bacall. Amelia had placed secretaries all over New York, Hollywood, and Paris. After the war, all the socialites, aristocrats, and celebrities she’d known in France before the war had resumed their old lives as if nothing had happened, and clamored for personal secretaries to manage their revived social calendars.
“Have you seen this?” Robert handed her the newspaper, folded back to reveal a photo of Wallis and the Duke sitting together on a couch wearing paper crowns. According to the caption, Jimmy Donahue had thrown a New Year’s Eve party and the Windsors had been the guests of honor. He’d staged a mock coronation, and while the Windsors smiled a good game, Amelia recognized the strain along the edges of Wallis’s lips, the lack of fire or joy in her eyes. She despised being made fun of and this ridicule cut to the core.
“She’s been crowned at last.” Amelia didn’t feel sorry for her. She hadn’t consciously followed the Windsors since walking away from them at the Biltmore in ’44, but there was no avoiding news of the world’s most famous socialites.
According to her intelligence sources, the Windsors had returned to France after the war and the Duke’s tenure in The Bahamas. Their precious houses, linens, china, and antiques had miraculously survived. While Amelia had left the FBI to build her secretarial placement agency, helping the many women whose careers had ended with the peace, Wallis and the Duke had spent the postwar years as aimless, wandering aristocrats with no real friends or purpose.
