But that was proving hard to do since Victoria didn’t seem to get it.

“I can meet him only for drinks,” she said. “My brother’s in town on leave from the RAF for the evening before he goes to Virginia in the morning to see our parents for one day before he has to get back to the squadron. I’m sure you can understand how important it is that I spend the time with him.” The lift of her perfect brow line carried a world of meaning impossible for Willard to misread. Willard was well aware of the high casualty rate for England’s Royal Air Force pilots as they fought off Germany’s Luftwaffe to remove the last obstacle to Hitler’s intention to take over Europe. Victoria’s brother, like her fiancé, had been among those at Dunkirk of whom Churchill had made his famous statement: “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

The editor felt a profound sense of relief, not to mention a relaxation of the grip on his conscience. Now he was off the hook to engage in an awkward explanation to Victoria of what was not expected of her, while at the same time impress upon her the need to use every feminine artifice at her command to achieve the desired result without compromising her virtue. There was no danger of the author forcing a future engagement. His Vichy-government-issued travel permit was temporary and required him to return to France the following day.

“I will explain that to Monsieur Fournier,” Willard said. “How can he possibly not understand? Drinks only, no dinner, in case he should have that in mind once you become acquainted. He’d like you to meet him in the Champagne Bar of the Plaza at six.”

“Fine,” Victoria said. “I’ll have my brother meet us there.”

Willard watched her go, then picked up the phone to dial the author at the Plaza. The editor suspected he’d been wasting his paternal concern regarding Victoria Grayson. In contrast to his daughters, pretty but timorous, his lovely French translator could likely handle herself in most challenging situations. The woman was formidable. Every time Willard looked at her, he was reminded of the city fencing competition in which she’d represented the company. He’d been amazed—a bit terrified, really—of her mastery of the sword, her easy but ruthless whip, slice, and thrust of the blade. Victoria Grayson had shown her opponent no mercy. Perhaps Beaumont Fournier should consider himself lucky. Were the evening to extend, she just might serve him his free-wheeling male member upon a silver Plaza platter.

*  *  *