Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
of the Hollywood silver screen were baking themselves on the beaches and showing off their tans in colorful summer dresses, revealing bathing suits, and shorts worn with sailor caps and sweaters. A new era had arrived, and the old guard aristocracy, though they now stayed through the summer, still weren’t certain what to think of this uninhibited new generation of hooligans who were gradually overtaking their hallowed coast.
Tonight they mingled warily, the Americans drinking heavily on one side, the British, French, and Italians more discretely on another, the titled Russians—mostly impoverished since the overthrow of their Romanov tsar and living off the charity of their friends—huddled together in a less conspicuous corner, as if embarrassed by their humbled circumstances. The hum of various languages and accents competed with the orchestra.
Nodding greetings to people she knew, Jules wandered through the room, surveying the crowd. The colorful costumes were expensive and elaborate, spanning the centuries. The women she dismissed, concentrating instead on the men. Kings, courtiers, jesters, clowns, cardinals, musketeers…So many of them wore masks that she felt a moment of discouragement. If the Panther had dared to show up, how could she possibly guess who he might be? He could be any one of them.
She took a breath, trying to calm herself.
What do I look for?
She’d caught only glimpses of him in the moonlight. She didn’t know what color his hair was—the bandana had covered it completely. But he was tall—six feet, perhaps more—broad shouldered, leanly muscular. Athletic, certainly, which meant he couldn’t be more than thirty-five at most. That would rule out anyone short or portly or old. He was clean shaven, which would discount anyone with facial hair, unless he used a false beard or mustache tonight as a disguise. She remembered her first glimpse of him in her study, how he’d moved with such masculine grace, something that would be difficult to conceal.
So that narrowed her choices considerably.
All at once, someone swooped down on her, took her in his arms, and proceeded to Foxtrot her around the floor. He was dressed as a Jacobean revolutionary with a tricolor emblem on his hat. His eyes glared at her through the mask holes with a dazed wildness.
Could it be…?
“How do you like my getup? I’m Danton, or maybe Robespierre. One of those guys anyway.” The voice was distinctly American.
“Scott.” She couldn’t disguise her disappointment.
He was gawking at her necklace. “So those are the famous goose eggs. I saw your picture in the papers. Lucky girl. Must be nice to be rich!”
She could see he was already well in his cups.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was a young American author who’d been a fixture of the American colony on the Riviera for the last few years, most of whom were free-thinking writers who’d come to France to escape what they called the commercialization of America and the killjoy aspect of Prohibition.
She was looking for an avenue of escape when Booth Devlin tapped Scott on the shoulder and cut in. He, too, was an American writer, though without the sort of success Fitzgerald had. He’d published a crime novel two years ago which had never sold well, but that was before Jules had met him, and she’d never read it. A tall man with short brown hair, he wasn’t classically handsome, but he had a craggy face that was full of character and interesting to watch. And he had wordly grey-green eyes that often hinted at some hidden sadness she found intriguing.
“I thought you might need rescuing,” he told her.
“Don’t we all need rescuing when Scott’s around?”
But she wasn’t really paying attention. She was scanning the room for likely candidates. She spotted a man sitting down, dressed as a musketeer. The breadth of his shoulders looked likely, and he was masked and clean shaven. She tiptoed, peering over her partner’s shoulder. But when the musketeer stood, she saw that he wasn’t nearly tall enough.
“You seem far away,” Devlin commented. “I’m not sure my ego can take the rejection. Looking for someone special?”
She vaguely caught the teasing tone and glanced at him apologetically. “Forgive me, Dev. I promised to speak with Nikki. Will you excuse me?”
“Sure. Go ahead. Break my heart.”
Just then, Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda came floating up, asking, in her Southern drawl, “Have either of you dahlin’ chickadees seen Scott? I checked the bar where, by all rights, he should be. But nary a trace. My heavens, Jules, what is that necklace you’re wearin’? I’ve never seen pearls like those in all my days!”
“Let’s go find Scott,” Dev said, steering Zelda off and giving Jules a wink.
Jules headed in the direction of Nikki Romanov, a childhood friend, in case Dev should happen to glance her way. But as she went, she continued to search the crowd. She passed Father Siffredi, an Italian priest and one of the organizers of tonight’s event. She didn’t know him personally, but it was well known that he loathed her husband and denounced him at every turn. She thought fleetingly that they had a great deal in common, except that the priest didn’t know it. But it wasn’t the priest himself who was the focus of her attention. He was talking to a tall man dressed as Cardinal Richelieu. Could that be the man she was looking for? Surely he wouldn’t be so bold as to be speaking to a priest!
As she came around the front of him, however, she saw that he had a massive stomach beneath his long red robes. And he wasn’t masked.
But even as she searched for the Panther, she realized it was just as crucial that he see her. She’d purposely not worn a mask so he’d recognize her, but now she pushed her way into the center of the party where the band was playing, greeting people she knew, laughing, letting herself be seen. She wondered if he was watching even now from some shadowed corner. She could almost feel his eyes on her.
She didn’t stay with one group long, but greeted and moved on, covering as much ground as she could. As always, she received offers she’d turned down a dozen times before. Rex Ingram, the movie director who had his studio on the coast, called to her, “I still want to make that movie about you—Norma Talmadge wants to play the role.”
She laughed him off. “You never give up, do you?”
“Think of it! The Last Habsburg! The audience will eat it up with a spoon!”
The Spanish painter, Picasso, overheard and said, “Forget the cinema, mon petit chou! Let me paint you. Only my canvas can do you justice.”
She shook her head. “You want to paint me with three eyes.”
“I want to show the real you.”
She pushed on.
The mayor of Nice blocked her path, saying, “Madame DeRohan, I really do wish you’d reconsider and make an appearance at the Great War Memorial dedication. It would mean so much—”
“Forgive me, Mayor Clément, but I’m really not good at such things. Will you excuse me, please?”
More people were dancing now, although the older guests sat around the ballroom in Spanish leather chairs.
She’d been so busy looking around that she literally bumped into Nikki Romanov—a tall, dark, attractive but indolent looking young man who carried himself like the prince he was. Realizing that she was on the verge of becoming conspicuous, she asked him to dance. They were playing a waltz and Nikki guided her gracefully about the floor. He was a grand duke of the exiled Romanov family—a cousin to the overthrown tsar—and understood, more than any other friend, her sense of exile. She’d known him since she was a little girl—before the war, their families had both wintered here—and he was more like a brother to her than anything else. With him, she didn’t have to put on an act. She could use him as a screen to view the incoming guests.
He let her dance in silence for a time, then said in her ear, “This waltz reminds me of the old days. Remember, Juli, how we used to dance?”
“It’s