Müller’s attention snapped to Sophie, and his eyes widened in a manner that suggested Sophie’s efforts at glamour hadn’t been wasted either. She, too, wore a dress fit for a starlet, courtesy of a French Tempsford seamstress. It was pale blue with a beaded bodice, the long sleeves she had requested gathered at her wrist with silk ribbon. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and when she had emerged from Estelle’s bedroom, the woman had, with a wry smile, called her an ice princess.

“Who are you?” the soldier asked warily.

Sophie only smiled in reply because, at the door, there was a predictable fracas as the men carrying the package were stopped.

“Must I do everything?” Estelle huffed and stalked toward the door, her heels striking the pavement in a sharp staccato.

Müller followed her hastily, protesting as he went. Sophie simply slipped in behind the two at a discreet distance.

Another soldier, alerted by the fuss, had come forward, blocking their path. The two men from the lorry set their burden down on the pavement outside the hotel.

“If someone would be so kind as to let Colonel Meyer know that Mademoiselle Allard has arrived with a gift for the Reichsmarschall, we would not all be standing out here,” she said before the second soldier could open his mouth.

“The colonel is not here. He is at dinner,” the soldier told her. “He has a standing order not to be disturbed.”

Sophie already knew this. Estelle had told her that Meyer rarely deviated from a two-hour routine that usually included red wine, braised lamb, buttered potatoes, and roasted vegetables, all served at Maxim’s. And a pretty redhead named Collette for dessert, served somewhere else entirely.

Estelle put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Well then, after he has finished his dinner, you may be the one to tell him that the Le Brun that I had promised the Reichsmarschall was destroyed in the rain outside this hotel because you would not admit us entry.”

The two young soldiers looked at each other with indecision.

The Ritz employees merely waited, their eyes averted. Sophie wondered where their allegiances lay. Given the muscle jumping in one of the lorry drivers’ jaw every time the soldiers spoke, Sophie was reasonably certain that his loyalty, at least, did not belong to the Reich.

Thunder growled low, and a gust of wind raced across the square, chasing a chill around Sophie’s bare legs. The timing could not have been better.

“At the very least, allow me to have the painting brought in,” Estelle snapped imperiously. “Before you are required to assume the cost and consequences of your inaction. Because I can assure you that you cannot afford it.”

“Fine.” It was Müller who finally spoke. “Bring it in.”

At a wave of Estelle’s hand, the two men lifted the awkward canvas-wrapped painting and maneuvered it carefully through the door.