Her inner glow must have shown on her face. Presuming that it was for him, Beaumont leaned forward and laid his hand warmly over hers. “I have read numerous examples of your English translations of French literary works, Victoria, and know your craftsmanship to be excellent,” he said. “Therefore you must forgive my…ploy for luring you here. I know you are engaged, but I simply could not allow the opportunity to go by to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman for even a short while on what will probably be my last visit to America for some time.”

Victoria thought she could see how a woman could be taken in if she were not aware of the writer’s long history of philandering. A drop or two of honesty introduced at just the right moment was like cream to a dish. It added a little depth and strength to an otherwise false charm.

“You’re forgiven, if you’ll forgive my running off in a little while when my brother shows up,” she said.

He sighed and drew his hand away. “Must you keep reminding me?”

The champagne arrived. “Let’s talk about your book,” Victoria said.

An hour crawled by. The pigeon on the lip of the fountain flew away. Panic rising, conversation growing as exhausted as the bottle of Bollinger, Victoria nearly leaped from her chair when Beaumont said regretfully with a look at the revolving door, “I do believe I see your brother now. Tall, handsome, wearing a Royal Air Force uniform? I can see the family resemblance.”

Victoria thought: Family resemblance? Ralph was dark to her fair; brown-eyed to her gray-green. Beaumont pushed back his chair, irritation tinging his plastered smile. Slowly, Victoria turned around.

“Hello, sis,” her blond-haired, gray-green-eyed brother Lawrence said.

There was no need to ask what he was doing here. The weighted features of her brother’s face explained why he had come. The room fell into a slow, cream-colored, chandelier-lighted, mahogany spin. Victoria permitted Lawrence to assist her to her feet. Beaumont Fournier, bewildered, swam in a haze of cigarette smoke and the swirl of cocktail chatter. He was an unusually tall man, she noticed, pencil slim, as if he existed on truffles and champagne. “Uh, pardon, please,” he said in English, “but I am a bit confused. Is…there anything wrong? Could I be of help?”

“We’ve lost a family friend in the skies over France,” Lawrence said. “We’re both in a state of shock. There is nothing anyone can do. Excuse us. I must take my sister home.”

“Oh, yes, well, of course,” the Frenchman said. “I’m so sorry to hear it, but, uh, Miss Grayson—Victoria—I must ask. Does this mean that you won’t be translating my novel?”

Victoria did not answer as she allowed Lawrence to lead her toward the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

July 1942

Washington, D.C.