The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (36 page)

It wasn’t so much a question as a directive.

“Of course, Uncle.”

It took all of my willpower not to stress the last word sarcastically.

“Goodnight. Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said to Charles. In a lower voice meant only for his ears, I added, “I’ll be in touch about our mutual friend.”

Charles gave a polite nod to show that he understood.

I started for the door, telling myself to not look back at my date. Not with Cyrus watching.

“Stas—Ms. Prince?”

“Yes?” I replied over my shoulder.

“My jacket?” Charles nodded towards the dinner jacket still hanging from my shoulders. “Unless, of course, you would like to keep it as a souvenir?”

I let out an awkward laugh that reminded me of a schoolgirl’s giggle. All I needed were some knee socks and a plaid skirt.

My boss did not find the quip nearly as amusing. As I shrugged out of the jacket, Cyrus took it from my shoulders and handed it to Charles himself.

“Here you go, son. Have a safe night.” With those terse departing words, my boss guided me inside and shut the door in Charles’s face.

“Was that necessary?” I asked, brushing past Cyrus.

“Of course. It’s 1925, Stassi. An overbearing family member is par for the course.”

I spared a glance over my shoulder to find my boss grinning.

“We flipped for the honor,” Gaige said from the couch. He held up his index finger. “Just one time, I want that coin to come up heads.
Once
. Losing as often as I do is statistically impossible.”

“And you’re a statistician now?” I asked, plopping down in the chair beside him.

Gaige sat up straighter. “I wear many hats, Stassi.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Goodnight, guys,” Cyrus called from the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, we have work to do.”

More than you know,
I thought.

OVER ESPRESSO AND
runny eggs, I briefed Cyrus on my dinner with Charles. Naturally, I forgot to mention our discussion of my necklace. And the kissing.

“A British tailor named Waldorf Hucklesbee shouldn’t be hard to track down,” Cyrus said when I was finished, taking a sip from his miniscule espresso cup. The sight of such a large man, with such a commanding presence, drinking from a mug that looked like it belonged at a child’s tea party was hilarious. Gaige snickered every time our boss raised the tiny cup to his lips.

“Ines may even know him. I’ll touch base with customs and follow that lead,” Cyrus continued, pointedly ignoring my partner.

“I have lunch plans with Hadley Richardson today. I’ll see what she knows about the third part of the manuscript,” I added.

“Well aren’t you just Miss Social,” Gaige teased. “We do all the heavy lifting, while you go on dates and hang out with the cool kids.”

“And you go boxing and end up with a black eye,” I shot back. “We all have our roles.”

“Stassi is learning valuable information,” Cyrus said sternly, putting an end to our bickering.

It was odd having my boss on a run with us. Though we normally turned in detailed mission reports and gave oral briefings in the runner meetings, actually having him there to witness the day-to-day was just weird. Not in a bad way, though. And Cyrus was helping us just as much as we were helping him.

“Depending on how things go with Hadley Richardson, we’ll have to find a time to search this Carmen’s apartment.” Cyrus turned to me. “Do you know where she lives?”

“No, sir, but I can find out. Ines might know—they are acquaintances. If not, I can ask Hadley, discreetly of course.”

“Good.” Cyrus eyed Gaige over the rim of the tiny cup. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Boxing with the menfolk. Ezra, Ernest, and Andre enjoyed my company so much that they asked me to join them again. I guess Ezra has writer’s block, and thinks exercise is the way to get past it.”

“I think you mean they enjoyed using you as a punching bag,” I joked.

“You’re not the only one with cool friends,” Gaige retorted. “Don’t be jealous that you’re not allowed to do manly things.”

“Is this how the two of you always communicate?” Cyrus asked, his voice devoid of humor.

My partner and I exchanged a look.

“Yes, sir,” we replied in unison.

This drew a hearty chuckle from our boss.

JUST AFTER ONE
o’clock, I crossed the Place Vendôme and entered the lobby of the Ritz hotel. My stacked heels clicked on the marble floor as I slowly crossed the lobby, taking in the matching marble pillars and staircase. In the center of the lobby was a mahogany table sitting atop a Persian rug, the chandelier overhead making the glossy wood gleam brightly.

As soon as I reached the domed entrance to the public areas of the hotel, I realized my mistake. With two restaurants and three bars currently open, I probably should’ve asked Hadley specifically where to meet.

I scanned the tables of the main restaurant first, where dozens of people were sipping cocktails and champagne beneath a rounded ceiling painted with a blue sky and puffy white clouds. I was beginning to feel lost in the maze of hallways when a familiar voice called my name.

“Stassi dear, there you are!” Hadley’s voice sang out, echoing loudly off the tall ceilings. “So sorry I am late.”

“I’ve only just arrived,” I said. “I was just looking around.”

“Opulent, isn’t it?” she asked, raising both eyebrows with a knowing glance.

“It’s something, alright,” I replied. Given the modern, utilitarian architecture of my time, I actually thought the stunning hotel was full of character and life. But I could imagine that a woman like Hadley, who didn’t exactly surround herself with the finest things, might think it over the top. As I moved to enter the main dining room, Hadley put a soft hand on my arm.

“If you don’t mind, would it be okay if we had lunch in the bar?  It’s quiet, and less crowded.”

“Of course,” I replied easily, following her down yet another hallway.

There was no maître d’ in the bar area, only a bartender wiping down the shiny lacquered surface in front of him.

“Bonjour Frank!” Hadley called out, walking to the back corner of the dark room.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hemingway,” Frank replied from his post. “Audrienne just ran to fetch me some ice, can I get you started with a drink? The usual?”

“That would be perfect,” she replied, then glanced at me. “Fancy a gin fizz, dear?”

“Just a glass of champagne, please. I must admit, I’m a bit of a lightweight,” I told the bartender with a conspiratorial smile.

“Nonsense,” Hadley protested. “Frank here makes the best gin fizz in all of Paris, you simply must have one.”

“In our city, it is never too early for a proper drink,” Frank coaxed.

Though it was against my better judgment, given the hour and the fact I was working, I relented.

Frank and Hadley chatted easily while he mixed our drinks and I checked out our lunch venue. Between the dark paneled walls, gold-trimmed mirrors, and dim light fixtures, the bar had a definitively masculine vibe that was in stark contrast to the bright lobby and formal dining room. It was a room designed for men to gather and discuss everything from writing to politics, and would be used for just that over the course of its long, esteemed history.

Ironically, the dark, narrow space would be renamed Hemingway’s Bar in the not-so-distant future, due to his frequent patronage and affinity for using the space as a makeshift office. The moniker would remain for centuries, until the hotel closed its doors in 2390. The fact I was seated with Hadley Richardson in the bar made famous by her husband wasn’t lost on me—it was one of those surreal moments that demanded I take pause and appreciate the incredible opportunities afforded to me by my job.

Two men with familiar faces sat on tall stools at the bar, scribbling in notebooks and possessing the haggard look of starving artists. Several others were engaged in a lively debate at two round tables that had been pushed together, the tops of both littered with empty glasses and crumpled pieces of paper.

“This is
the
place for struggling writers,” Hadley confirmed, catching me staring at the two men I couldn’t quite place. “They spend what little money they have on alcohol and smoke their cigarettes, in the hope inspiration will strike. My husband just loves coming here.”

“I imagine the people he meets make for interesting characters in his novels,” I replied, my heart sinking.

In the following years, Hemingway would meet a woman in this very bar and begin an affair, ultimately leading to a divorce from Hadley. Knowing what was to come for her brought a feeling of sadness that I struggled to shake off. It was a hazard of the job.

Luckily, Hadley chose that moment to tell a joke about two writers who walked into a bar, and my bleak mood was lifted as I laughed at the punchline.

We sipped our drinks and chatted easily until the waitress arrived in a flurry of apologies. Evidently, it wasn’t only her husband who frequented the place; Audrienne greeted Hadley by name, just as Frank had done. They exchanged pleasantries, then we chose several small plates from the menu to share.

For the first hour, Hadley gossiped to me about her friends, revealing what she purported to be all of their dirty little secrets. Given the tightknit nature of their group, I had to guess that the tidbits weren’t at all secret. If it was similar to the rumor mill that churned on the island, everyone knew everyone else’s business.

One gin fizz turned in to two, which ultimately turned in to three. When the food arrived, I compensated by carb-loading like a marathon runner the night before a big race. Hadley didn’t feel a similar need to offset the alcohol, which worked well for my purposes.

The more time we spent together, the more I found that I genuinely liked Hadley Richardson. Had we been born in the same time, we probably would have been friends. And so I chose not to rush the conversation. Sitting and talking with her was a welcome respite from all of the somber events of the run, and I was actually having fun. I found myself feeding in to her need to gossip, as if her friends were mine and the stories meant something to me.

“You
must
be joking,” I said, eyes wide and fingers covering my mouth to hide my smile. “Her skirt was really tucked into the back of her stockings all night?”

Hadley laughed so hard at the memory that she gasped to catch her breath. “Genevieve was
so
embarrassed. She didn’t show her face in town for weeks.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell her?” I asked, giggling right along with my companion.

Hadley waved her hand dismissively and sipped her drink through the tiny cocktail straw.

“Oh, because Genevieve DuMount thinks she is something special. Her father is some minor duke or lord or something silly like that. She insists that people call her
Lady Genevieve
during formal greetings.” Hadley sighed dramatically. “Her time here is supposed to be making her more cultured. Wait until daddy dearest learns she has spent most of her stay on her back. No dowry is large enough to make a man overlook the reputation she’s earned.”

The waitress arrived with another round of drinks, which we hadn’t ordered.

“Compliments of the gentleman sitting by the window.” Audrienne gestured to a man sitting alone at the corner of the bar.

Both Hadley and I turned to look at him, only his profile in view from our vantage point.

The generous man wore an expensive suit in charcoal gray. He was attractive in the male model sort of way that would become popular a century later, though his pale complexion was a little too vampire-esque for my taste.

Hadley raised her glass to our benefactor, and I followed her lead. The man reciprocated with his own tumbler of amber liquid. Though I would’ve expected him to stand and join us, as was customary, he made no indication that he wanted any further interaction.

It was decidedly odd, but I was grateful he didn’t expect polite conversation with us in return for the drinks. Since I had yet to broach the topic of the manuscript with Hadley, I didn’t need any distractions.

“It seems you have an admirer,” Hadley teased.

“How do you know it’s me that he’s after? Maybe it’s you,” I countered.

Though Ernest’s wife had a very pretty face, she had a matronly air about her that wasn’t helped by her masculine style of dress. Between her short, wide-legged gaucho trousers, the blouse buttoned to her neck, and face unadorned by makeup, Hadley Richardson certainly didn’t seem concerned with attracting the attention of men.

“Be serious, Stassi.” Hadley patted her short, unruly hair. “Of the two of us, you are the more likely candidate. You should go talk to him.”

I laughed uneasily. One man in my life was more than enough trouble.

“I am having too much fun with you,” I said decisively, raising my glass to clink it against hers.

“Me too,” she declared. “Speaking of fun, have you been to Monte Carlo?”

I shook my head.

“Shame you didn’t arrive sooner, we could’ve run away for a few nights down there. There’s such excitement, you would just love it.”

“I’m sure I would,” I agreed.

“Ernest and I leave for Germany at the end of the weekend, otherwise I’d steal you away.” The light in Hadley’s eyes dimmed slightly, and her smile wasn’t quite as wide. The change was so minor that someone less perceptive might have missed it. She drank deeply from her glass. When she set the tumbler back onto the table, the bubbly attitude was firmly back in place. “Everyone simply must experience Monte. Perhaps when I return?”

“Germany? How long will you be gone?” I asked nonchalantly.

My own glass was cupped between my palms, the contents untouched. After the amount of gin I’d consumed already, I resolved to pace myself for the rest of our lunch.

“Three months. Ernest wants to finish his notes on Andre’s novel, then get started on his own new one.” She took another healthy swig from her glass.