Baroness (7 page)

Rosie dropped her dress on the floor and picked out a white, wide-collar blouse and a checkered skirt. She added a long-sleeve cardigan, cinched it at the waist with a belt, and grabbed a sailor's hat with a wide bow at the brim, pulling it down to her eyebrows.

She added lipstick—no time for proper makeup—slipped into a pair of low heels, and dashed down the hall.

Lilly's door was closed, and she refused the urge to stop, to mend their row. Perhaps tomorrow.

Or next week.

Rosie debated asking Pierre to warm up the Peugeot, as she ran down the stairs, and decided that a cab might be faster.

She closed the door behind her and a cab almost instantly appeared as if it might be fated.

She directed him to the train station in her worst French ever then leaned into the seat, wanting to direct him through traffic as they pulled out onto the boulevard.

Wouldn't Dash be surprised? Rosie let the memory of his smile soothe away her row with Lilly. With luck, she would catch them just as they were leaving, and they'd make a glorious day of it. They'd purchase the racing forms and study them side by side, make their picks on the journey out, and then visit the paddocks to cheer on their mounts. She imagined the noise of it all, the raucous cheering of the crowd, the fleshy, earthy smell of the horses in the dirt, the noble colors of the jockeys' silks. They'd stand at the rail and root on their ponies together, and when their horse won—or not—they'd celebrate with a picnic under the blue skies of the French countryside. Perhaps Dash would lie down beside her and let her nest her head in the crook of his arm.

And then, she'd help him dream. Because that's what inspiration did.

“Faster.”

Her cabbie ignored her. Around her, the city had come to life, the flower vendors lining the sidewalks with all manner of carnation and roses and lilies, the fruit vendors pulling out their carts, the newspaper kiosks opening their doors, new copies of the
Chronicle
thick on their shelves. Men and women already gathered for breakfast, eating crepes or a brioche, drinking a cup of café au lait at the sidewalk cafes.

Today, she would give Dash a bit more encouragement. Because even she didn't quite believe her own words yesterday.
What if I don't want to get married?

Maybe she didn't belong on stage. Maybe she belonged on Dash's arm.

Finally they pulled up at the station. She paid the cab driver and jumped out, nearly running past the columns, under the awning into the tiled central hall. A sign listed the trains and their platforms and she located the one to Auteuil.

No time for a racing form, or even breakfast. She lined up at the ticket booth and tried not to bark. “One for Auteuil, please.”

Taking her ticket, she walked as fast as decorum would allow toward the far platform. The train had already pulled in, green, with gold-fringed shades at the windows. Relief leaked out of her, but she hustled her pace.

As she drew closer, she saw passengers lined up to board, many of them still clumping in conversation. Race-goers carried picnic baskets, wore sporting suits with leather or flannel jackets, women in wide-brimmed hats and gloves. Men in straw hats and derbies smoked cigarettes.

She glanced through the crowd for a glimpse of Dash or Pembrook.

There—she spied Pembrook at the far car, Blanche beside him, holding their picnic basket. Dash appeared, stepping from behind Pembrook to let them pass as they handed the conductor their tickets.

Pembrook helped Blanche up the steps then followed.

Rosie hustled her pace, wanting to wave. She bumped into a woman holding the hand of a little boy. “Excuse me.”

They glared at her.

She turned back to see Dash—

He was helping someone onto the train. Rosie slowed, watching the woman turn, seeing her regal, slim figure in a pair of trousers and a white blouse. She smiled down at Dash and put her hand on his shoulder.

Frankie.

Rosie slowed, her heart caught in her throat.

He pulled himself up on the steps behind her. Then, they disappeared into the car, Dash's low-throated laugher trickling out like a stain upon the day.

Rosie stopped, her heart thumping, the ticket in her hand deformed as she closed it around the paper.

But…

“Ma'am, are you boarding?”

She shook her head and moved aside for an elderly gentleman in a suit and fedora to pass. She glanced up toward the train.

Blanche stared out her window at her. She met Blanche's gaze, then shook her head.

She saw Blanche turn away, and couldn't stay for the humiliation. Turning on her heel, Rosie headed for the exit with more dignity than she felt. Behind her, the train coughed, lurched, then began to pull out.

By the time she reached the street, her eyes were blurry, burning. She strode out of the station, crossed the street, and found a bench.

She sat until she stopped shaking, watching travelers arrive, luggage in tow, watching carriages and footmen unloading crates, pigeons fighting the squirrels for sunflower seeds.

Lilly did this. Lilly and her whining. Lilly and her foolishness. She'd shown up in New York City and invaded Rosie's life.

Rosie had taught her how to dress, to act, to talk, and introduced her to her friends. And Lilly repaid her by going flying. Flying.

She could have been killed, and who would have borne the blame?

Rosie got up, walked over to a flower vendor, and purchased a bouquet of lilacs, breathing them in.

Lilly was a chain around Rosie's neck, suffocating, pulling her under.

It was time to cut the chain and let her drown.

* * * * *

“Rosie hasn't spoken to you for five days?”

Lilly tried to place the name of the redhead who'd posed the question—she'd met so many people in the past week, she struggled to keep them all straight.

Darby she remembered, because of his soldier's uniform. Irish and tall, he had flown with Rennie and now worked at the embassy. She liked his brogue and well-bred manners, unlike Rennie's pal Hem, who'd shown up last night with his pregnant wife. Hem knew Darby, and all three soldiers shared a darkness they refused to discuss. Brooding and dark, Hem drank too much and had danced most of the night with a coquette girl who sported some fancy title. Baroness Raymonde, or something. Rennie called her Ray and teased her enough that Lilly had to work to laugh at her jokes.

There were others—Scott and his drunken, pretty wife, who cursed like men in a shipping yard and had nearly embroiled her husband in a fight over her honor, and two women who dressed in trousers, suspenders, and white oxford blouses and danced together, their derbies cockeyed upon their bobs.

As for the redhead…Paige, maybe? She couldn't remember her name, but clearly she had an interest in Lilly and her moaning about Rosie and the fact that since she'd left her handprint on Lilly's check, Rosie had behaved as if she didn't exist. Shopping, lunching, even dining out and clubbing with Blanche and Pembrook without even a fare-thee-well to Lilly.

Although, for her part, Lilly hadn't exactly followed her cousin down the hall to make amends. Not after her first attempt ended with the door in her face.

How was she supposed to chaperone a cousin who loathed her?

“She's angry with me.”

“Why?” the redhead asked. Yes, it must be Paige. Or Patty?

“Because she doesn't need her anymore, Presley.” Rennie slid onto the chair next to Lilly, set his arm around her shoulders. “Because Lilly has discovered Paris on her own.” He picked up her glass and winked at Lilly.

Oh, she wanted Rennie to kiss her. Every day, he seemed to nudge his way deeper inside her soul, until it felt as if he belonged there. She had lingered last night as he'd let her off by her door, caught in his smile, hoping he might sense her acquiescence. But Rennie was a gentleman, all the way through to his core, and although he'd taken her out every night and taught her to dance, he hadn't once pushed for more.

Maybe tonight. She'd silently begun to thank Rosie for her efforts to attire her in the latest fashions as she'd picked out a sleeveless sequined tunic dress with large orange and red poppies, and a matching headband that, admittedly, Lilly never dreamed she'd wear. She had also forgone the braids and twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, amazed at how thin it made her neck appear.

But this week had been one of new discoveries, each moment igniting inside her something new. New laughter, new passions, new daring pursuits. Something about being away from New York, eyes upon her, the daughter of mighty Esme and Oliver Stewart, the publishers of the
Chronicle,
meant that she never went anywhere without the specter of fame.

But here—here she tasted the freedom she'd forgotten, was slowly becoming the daredevil she'd named herself. She never dreamed she'd learn the Charleston, thanks to Presley—yes, now she remembered her name. Or find herself in a smoky dance club, listening to a dark-skinned American croon out a song from stage, something sultry, as if she were listening to chocolate. It made her wish that Rennie might pull her back onto the dance floor, wrap his arms around her.

She never thought she'd be the kind of girl who let a man fill her thoughts, invade her dreams.

Perhaps she never really had dreams, before Rennie. Just sorrows. And, she
hadn't
discovered Paris on her own.

Rennie had given it to her.

“I think you should just forget about your cousin,” Presley said, smoke trailing from her cigarette holder. “She sounds like a bore.”

“Rosie? Oh, hardly. She's a lot of fun, and very kind, really.” Lilly put her hand to her cheek, the bruise still upon her heart. “I think she'll forgive me, in time.”

Her gaze went to Rennie, talking to a brunette seated on a stool at the black zinc bar. She wore a dark lace dress that stopped just above her knees, and a pair of matching sheer stockings rolled just below the hem. She played with a long string of pearls as she smiled at Rennie, running her other gloved hand down his arm.

He held Lilly's lemonade in one hand, his absinthe in the other, but made no move to turn away. He was so handsome, it could steal Lilly's breath, the way his straw-blond hair fell over his eyes, adding a hint of dangerous mystery. She longed to twirl her finger through the curls at the nape of his neck. Tonight he wore a pair of tweed trousers and a shiny vest over his collared white shirt. She wanted to smile at the way he laughed at the brunette's words, his expression so full of life, the brokenness draining away from him on nights like this.

“I see Ginny is still trying to get her fingers back into Rennie.” Presley sipped her glass of champagne then shook her head. “You'd think she'd had enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

Presley gestured at the pair. “Lady Virginia Fontenbreau. The former Ginny Dupree. She and Rennie were married a couple of years ago. They have a son—Duffy.”

Lilly stilled, the words sliding hot through her. “Rennie was…married?”

Presley glanced at her, frowned. “How well do you know him?”

“We met this week—he took me flying.”

Presley smirked, rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.”

Lilly's chest began a slow squeeze. “What do you mean?”

Presley shook her head. “You're such a nice girl, Lilly. Too nice. I can't figure out what you're doing with Rennie.” She threw back the rest of her champagne. “I'm going to find someone to dance with me before this night is a waste.”

She slipped onto the dance floor, and it didn't take but a few moments for a chap to swing her into his arms.

Lilly watched Rennie peck his former wife on the cheek and turn back toward the table.

She couldn't look at him. Around her, the music turned raucous, and the dance floor filled. She slid off her chair and disappeared into the crowd, heading for the door.

She just needed some air, a fresh breeze to clear her head, sort through Presley's words.

“Lilly!” His voice spurted out behind her, but it bled into the jazz and she ignored the tug to return. She didn't have the voucher to retrieve her coat so she pushed out onto the street and gulped in the night air.

The lights from the marquee of La Rotonde bathed the night in white and red, and outside the club, couples spilled out of taxis, dressed in sequins and pearls, feathered headbands, the men in suits and shiny silk vests.

She strode down the Boulevard Montparnasse, the music spilling from La Select and the Dome, and from them more partygoers, most of them wildly tight, their tongues soaked with absinthe and preening loudly about life.

She clasped her hands to her bare arms, brushing away the gooseflesh. What was she doing here, in this world? She should go home, back to Rosie, apologize, figure out how she'd let Rennie—

“Lilly!”

She didn't turn, but heard his feet scuffing down the sidewalk. He grabbed her arm, stopping her, breathing hard. He must have run all the way from La Rotonde. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

She ran her hand along her cheek, keeping her face away from him, hating her tears. She didn't need Rennie or his—

“Lilly-Peach, what's egging you?” He'd stopped her fully now, putting himself in front of her, grabbing both arms. “You're freezing out here.”

He shook out of his suit coat and settled it on her shoulders, searching for her eyes. She looked away, but he touched her chin, brought her head up.

“What did that snipe Presley say?”

Lilly's jaw hardened. “Was she your wife?”

“Who, Presley?”

“Don't mock me.”

“Fine. Yes. For three blissful weeks and eight agonizing months. We're better as friends.”

“And parents?”

He shook his head. “Duffy? He's not mine. Ginny was already carrying him when I met her. I thought I could change her, but she's her own person. In the end, she didn't want me.”