The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [2]
“Claire, darling! You’re missing your own party. Where have you been?” Surviving exclusively on cigarettes and gossip, Margo Townsend’s rail-thin body was adorned in couture and dripping with jewels. She planted a dramatic kiss on Claire’s cheek, then leaned in to whisper. “Did you see Flora Foster? She brought a photographer with her. Drop Hitler a thank-you card for this one. Everyone is in Manhattan tonight.”
Margo was right. With Germany’s invasion of Poland last fall, State Department travel restrictions meant that only diplomats and journalists could travel to Europe. Everyone was in town this spring—and at the Stone mansion tonight. Claire scanned the room for Foster, the matriarch of the New York Times society pages. She’d written up Claire in her column a number of times in the past year, but a photo spread was a significant accomplishment. Russell ought to be pleased that his wife was the toast of Manhattan. Whenever the bastard showed.
A white-coated server glided by with drinks on a silver tray. Claire downed a glass of champagne and pressed through the dancing couples, smiling, kissing and maneuvering her way across the floor.
Flora was holding court in the corner, a lean brunette surrounded by admiring socialites gunning for a mention in the coveted first paragraph. “Ah, there’s our hostess.” Flora stabbed a long cigarette toward Claire’s necklace. “That piece is devastating! Cartier?”
Claire stroked the jewels with the tip of her finger. She loved their feel against her skin. Intricate spiderwebs of diamonds spun toward a glittering pendant that hung between her breasts. In the center, an enormous faceted diamond reflected dancing lights.
“What was the occasion for that sparkler, darling? Spill for our readers.”
The necklace had been a present from Russell for her twenty–ninth birthday this spring. A reward, and damn well earned, for her social climbing on his behalf.
“Kiss and tell? Never,” Claire said to twitters of laughter.
A gloved hand tapped her elbow. Her butler, Davis, caught her eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. Irritation flashed through her. Had her ass of a husband finally called? She forced a smile, excused herself, and followed Davis into the hall.
“Did Mr. Stone telephone? How late is he going to be?” Claire didn’t know what she was going to do about von Richter if Russell didn’t show soon.
“No, Mrs. Stone. There is someone at the servants’ entrance.”
“Let him in.”
“He’s not invited, Mrs. Stone.”
“Well, have him tossed out, then.”
“I don’t know if that would be a good idea.” Davis leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “He purports to know you. Know you well.”
Her mind churned at all the possible ghosts outside that door. “Are you the only one he’s spoken to?”
Davis nodded.
“Keep it that way,” she said.
Claire stepped outside the kitchen door, Davis at her shoulder. A large dark figure stumbled up, smelling of bad whiskey and sweat. Broad shoulders strained at the tattered fabric of his jacket, spotted with food and drink and road.
Her own personal nightmare, in the flesh. The champagne fuzz in her head burned away. She forced the words past the dread gripping her throat. “Davis, please go inside and attend to our guests.”
He frowned, his gaze on the man.
“Now, Davis.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stone. Ring the bell should you require anything.” He pulled the door shut behind him.
The visitor’s sour mouth turned down as he examined Claire. “My, my Clara May. Don’t you look fancy.”
“Bernard. What do you want?”
“I saw you in the paper, read about your fancy sham pedigree and your rich husband.” He sneered at her thin dress, the creamy skin that glimmered in the moonlight. “I got a little something for you.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d had plenty from him and his sweaty obsessions years ago. She reached for the door.
“It’s a letter from your family. Your real