It was with no little relief that she felt the chaise roll to a stop in front of the Palais Royal. Directly opposite was the old Palais du Louvre, which had been turned into a museum. Annabelle had heard of the controversy which raged in diplomatic circles: the allies were insisting that the treasures Napoleon had lodged there—the spoils of war—should be returned to their countries of origin. The crafty curators denied such things even existed. Rumor had it that they had hidden them away in the labyrinth of passages in the foundation of the building. The Duke of Wellington, however, was proving relentless in his pursuit of the booty. It did not seem likely that he would lose this battle with the French any more than he had lost any other.
The coach door swung open, and with the aid of Jerome, her groom, and her coachman, Annabelle alighted. One comprehensive look at the throng of pedestrians and her unease returned in full force. The pavement outside the Palais Royal, the former palace of Richelieu and now a commercial district, was as crowded as Bond Street on any afternoon of the week. But though there were many fine ladies in the crush of people, they were of the painted female frailty and were flirting outrageously with the officers of the allied armies who lounged about.
Annabelle drew herself up to her full five-foot-six-inches and with a curt word to Jerome strode purposefully to an
allé
e
which gave entrance to the magnificent enclosed courtyard gardens. Within minutes, in one of the arcades, she had found the door beside a jeweler
'
s shop which bore the address in her hand. She passed through without incident and bade her stoic coachman wait until she should return. One floor up and Annabelle came to the conclusion that she had made a grave error in judgment. For all its exalted title and past history, the Palais Royal was not what she had expected. To her left could be heard the unmistakable sounds of a gambling house.
"Faites vos jeux, messieurs
,"
Annabelle heard, and waited to hear not one word more. She went forward, mounting the next flight of
stairs in a kind of frozen chagrin. When she entered the scarlet doors at the top of the stairs, her steps slowed and finally faltered altogether. The decadent splendor, the drawn shades, the lingering perfumes, and the hushed murmurs of the "ladies
"
as they were roused from their slumbers for the beginning of a new day—and this at four o
'
clock of the afternoon—confirmed her worst suspicions. Damn if she had not stepped inside a bawdy house!
For a moment, she was severely tempted to turn on her heel and make a strategic retreat. Cooler logic prevailed, and Annabelle was nothing if not cool. The damage had already been done. And there were cogent reasons for her to remain. She could conclude her business inside of ten minutes at a pinch. It would be stupid to have come so far and then run off like some hysterical schoolroom miss. Good grief! She was a woman of the world! The risk of meeting any gentleman of her acquaintance was bound to be slight. She moved in only the highest reaches of London society. This was Paris. And she had made up her mind to meet with Miss Dupres in her own setting. So be it. Still, her fingers trembled alarmingly.
A very proper and demure maid accepted her card and showed her into a small waiting room. Only then did Annabelle begin to relax. Within a few minutes, the door opened to admit a strikingly pretty girl who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair was dark auburn, a hue that was perfectly acceptable to Annabelle
'
s sense of aesthetics. Her eyes were large and dark and clearly registered all the shock she was feeling at see
ing a lady of quality in such a
setting.
"How do you do?
"
said Annabelle, rising to her feet and extending her hand in a friendly gesture. "I am Mrs. Jocelyn. You must be Monique Dupres. I have come to make you an offer for the manuscript you so kindly wrote to us about. I must say that the opening pages of your memoir
s were highly…
diverting.
"
The girl came slowly into the room and eyed Annabelle in
astonishment. "You are from…"
"Yes. I
'
m here as a representative of Bailey
'
s Press.
"
Annabelle was used to taking charge of conversations and did so automatically. "May we sit down?
"
Miss Dupres obediently seated herself.
"I
'
ve no wish to inconvenience you during working hours
…"
said Annabelle, and came to a sudden halt when the infelicity of her remark occurred to her.
"No, no,
"
disclaimed Miss Dupres, tying the belt of her almost transparent robe more securely around her waist, "I don
'
t start work till ten, unless by special appointment.
"
It was years since Annabelle Jocelyn, nee Summers, had blushed. She felt a small rise in temperature under her skin. By sheer strength of will, she forced the unwanted heat across her cheekbones to cool to a more acceptable degree.
"Excellent,
"
she said, and would have slumped with relief, except that Annabelle never allowed herself to give way to slumping or to any other outward show which might betray that a crack had developed in her habitual ironclad composure. She gave a small self-deprecating smile. "I beg your pardon for descending on you uninvited. I know the arrangement was that we should meet on neutral ground. But I was curious, you see.
"
Truth to tell, it was more than curiosity which had brought Annabelle in person across the English Channel and to this particular establishment. She had no wish to buy a pig in a poke. If Monique Dupres was not who and what she represented herself to be, there would be, could be, no question of publishing her memoirs. Annabelle
'
s object was solely to verify the girl
'
s identity. Both ladies knew it.
"The reason I wished to meet with you on neutral ground,
"
murmured Miss Dupres meaningfully, "must be very evident to you now.
"
Annabelle
'
s smile was a trifle thin. "I apologize for misjudging you. If I had known what I was getting myself into, you may be sure, I would never have stepped over your threshold. If I
'
ve caused you any embarrassment, I
'
m sorry for it.
"
"
Ç
a ne
fait rien,
"
responded the girl with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "Think nothing of it. If you don
'
t mind, why should I? And I assure you, when you leave, I shall forget that you were ever here.
"
"Thank you,
"
said Annabelle, and meant it from the bottom
of her heart. "My one consolation is that I
'
m not like to encounter any gentleman to whom I might be introduced in a London drawing room.
"
Though Annabelle had not thought of saying anything humorous, her words produced a spate of laughter in the other girl.
She waited till the laughter had subsided and gently prodded, "Did I say something funny?
"
"Oh
assuré
ment,
"
said the brunette airily. "In this establishment, we get only the
crè
me
de la crè
me
of masculine society, whether English, French, Prussian, or Russian. You
'
ll
find them all here,
"
and she rattled off a string of titles which any hostess on either side of the English Channel would have given her eyeteeth to have enter her portals.
Annabelle
'
s dismay lasted only a moment. For one thing, she had no intention of encountering any gentlemen in that establishment. She was sure she would put a bag over her head before she would let her face be seen. For another, Miss Dupres
'
s list of gentlemen included only military sorts, and Annabelle avoided them like the plague. She had once been married to one. The experience had left her with a thorough distaste for anything remotely connected with Wellington and his armies. Her opinion of men in general was not very high. Of soldiers, it was positively unprintable.
She listened politely as Miss Dupres began on a flood of anecdotes that would, thought Annabelle, provide enough material for a second volume of her memoirs. She stored the information away for future reference. By degrees, she politely and unobtrusively steered the conversation to Vienna and Brussels in the year during which Miss Dupres had been the mistress of one of Wellington
'
s high-ranking officers before he met his untimely end at Waterloo. Within minutes, Annabelle came to the conclusion that Miss Dupres
'
s memoirs, in diary form, were no fabrication. She considered herself a shrewd judge of character and had decided that there was the ring of truth in Miss Dupres
'
s words. Having achieved her sole object in coming to Paris, Annabelle asked if she might see the rest of the manuscript. It was duly brought to her. She dipped into it at random.
From time to time, Annabelle
'
s eyes lifted to gaze thoughtfully at the other girl. There was nothing spiteful or malicious in the racy and often witty stories in her diaries. On the contrary, there was a certain charm and vivaciousness in the girl
'
s personality which was evident in her writing. Still, Miss Dupres
'
s intimate knowledge of the bedroom antics of Wellington and many of his staff, not to mention diplomats and visiting dignitaries, was enough to rock both houses of Parliament.
Such sordid goings-on held no interest for Annabelle. But she was sensible of the fact that what she held in her hands, when published, would sell like hotcakes. Such a book would consolidate Bailey
'
s Press as one of the leading publishing houses in London. It also represented future security for the employees who relied on Annabelle
'
s business acumen as well as the means to provide for her dependents. That it would be an embarrassment to those who found themselves portrayed in its pages did not weigh with Annabelle. The gentlemen had sown their wild oats. Let them weather the scandal as best they might.
She made an offer, a very handsome one, but then, Annabelle told herself, this particular volume was like to sell as many as twenty thousand copies, and at a selling price of a guinea a volume, Bailey
'
s P
ress stood to make a very handsome profit. The offer was accepted with alacrity. A bank draft exchanged hands. Thereupon, a hatbox was produced to store the four hundred pages or so of Annabelle
'
s latest acquisition. She was feeling very proud of herself as she rose to take her leave of the other girl.
"You
'
re a very talented writer, you know,
"
she said sincerely. "You could quite easily make a living in that field if you had a mind to.
"
"Oh no, there
'
s not nearly enough money in it,
"
was the candid rejoinder. "I
'
m at the top of my profession now. In a year or less, I shall have the capital to open my own establishment if I continue as I am now.
"
Annabelle, who had only moments before handed the girl a draft for the sum of two thousand pounds, was thunderstruck. It had been on the tip of her tongue to offer the poor thing
temporary sanctuary in her own home in London until such time as she found a respectable position and might pursue a more settled way of life. She
'
d thought the girl an unhappy victim of circumstance. Evidently, the life of a demi-rep was more lucrative than she had credited and held an allure which outweighed its disadvantages. She became conscious that she was staring with her mouth agape.
She pulled herself together and held out her hand. With her habitual poise, she brought the interview to an end. "I
'
ll say good-bye, then, and take this opportunity to wish you every success in your chosen profession.
"
The unthinking remark was no sooner out of her mouth than Annabelle regretted it. She
'
d used those practiced words, or words very like them, at the conclusion of many a business transaction. It did not seem proper, however, for the daughter of a vicar to voice such a sentiment and in such circumstances. As she slipped into her pelisse and donned her bonnet, she tried to view the whole matter philosophically.
Thankfully, her poor father knew little of his daughter
'
s enterprises. His living was in Yorkshire; London held no interest for him. As far as he was aware, his only child lived the life of a respectable widow under the auspices of her late husband
'
s relatives. It never occurred to him to question the why, or wherefore, of the generous bank drafts Annabelle sent to him regularly when she
'
d been left with only a very small competence. Annabelle was perfectly sensible of the fact that Jonathan Summers would not under any circumstances condone his daughter
'
s mode of living if he ever learned of it.