Read Chapter 26: The Villa in Fontainebleau

The train smelled of coal smoke and cheap perfume, and the third-class carriage rattled hard enough to blur the words on the newspaper Julien pretended to read. Evie sat across from him, her guitar case propped between her knees, wearing a straw boater and a silk dress better suited to a garden party than a rail journey. She had spent the morning pinning her hair into something demure and practicing the smile of a woman who had never needed to lie for her supper.

Fontainebleau arrived in a blaze of late-morning sun. The station was small and tidy, its platform dotted with maids and footmen unloading trunks from a first-class carriage ahead of them. Evie caught a glimpse of a hat she recognized from the fashion plates in *Les Modes*—tulle and egret feathers—and felt the gap between her borrowed finery and the real thing yawn wide.

"It's fine," Julien murmured, taking her elbow. "You're American. They'll forgive you anything."

"The Americans they've met," she said. "Not the ones who've been singing in Pigalle."

They had a name to drop, supplied by Marguerite: the Baron de Saint-Loup, a collector of curiosities and a man who threw parties that people talked about for seasons. The invitation had not been hard to secure. A note from a woman who claimed to represent a new cabaret act, a whisper of exotic talent, and the baron's secretary had written back within the day. They were to perform at the garden party as "Mademoiselle Hart et Monsieur Delacroix," a duo of American jazz and French classical sensibility.

The baron's estate sprawled at the edge of the forest, a limestone manse with shutters the color of dried blood. Servants in crisp livery directed them around the side of the house to a tented area where other entertainers were assembling: a juggler, a trio of musicians, a woman in a fringed shawl who paced and muttered in a language Evie didn't recognize. A thin man with a clipboard checked their names and waved them toward a small stage draped in white roses.

Evie tuned her guitar, letting the familiar tension of the strings ground her. Julien sat at the borrowed piano, running scales so soft they barely carried past the first row of chairs. She watched him work his fingers, watched his jaw set, and knew he was thinking about his family, about the name he was not using, about what it would cost him if anyone here recognized the pianist who had once played at the Conservatoire.

"Julien," she said.

He looked up.

"Whatever happens today, we do this together."

He nodded, and for a moment, the mask of the hired entertainer slipped, showing her the man underneath. Then the baron's guests began to drift into the garden, and they were just performers again.

Evie sang three songs before she saw her. The first was a slow, aching blues number that she had learned in New Orleans, and the second was a French ballad Julien had arranged for her voice. The third was a jaunty jazz tune that made the baron's guests tap their feet and smile. And through all of them, she scanned the crowd with the careful attention of a hunter, looking for a face she had last seen at a tenement window in Pigalle, laughing at something Marguerite had said.

Lily was serving champagne.

She wore a deep red dress that dipped low at the back, and her dark hair was pinned with combs that caught the light. She moved through the crowd with a dancer's grace, smiling at the guests, laughing at jokes Evie couldn't hear. She looked healthy. She looked polished. She looked exactly like the kind of woman who belonged at a baron's garden party, pouring wine for aristocrats who would never remember her name.

Evie's voice caught, and Julien covered for her with a fill that made it sound intentional. She watched Lily glide past a group of elderly gentlemen, watched her laugh and toss her hair, watched her pause by a table of pastries and take one, nibbling it with the careful restraint of someone who had been taught not to enjoy things.

Lily didn't look at the stage.

Evie finished her third song to applause that felt miles away. The baron himself approached her as she stepped down from the platform, a tall, silver-haired man with a face like a fox and eyes that missed nothing. He complimented her voice, asked about New York, and let his gaze linger a moment too long on the curve of her neck.

"You must stay for the dancing," he said. "My guests always enjoy an American flavor."

Evie smiled and said something gracious. Her eyes tracked Lily across the lawn.

Lily was at the far edge of the garden now, near a hedge of roses that bordered a small stone fountain. She was speaking to another server, a young man in a crisp white jacket who nodded and took the empty tray from her hands. Lily laughed at something he said, then turned toward the house, beginning the walk back toward the kitchens.

Evie moved.

She crossed the lawn with the lazy ease of a woman who had nowhere to be, pausing to admire the roses, to smile at a countess who complimented her voice. She reached the path just as Lily emerged from the kitchen door carrying a fresh tray of champagne flutes.

"Pardon me," Evie said, stepping into her path. "I'm looking for the ladies' room. Is it through there?"

Their eyes met. Lily's smile was professional, practiced, the smile of a woman who had learned to be pleasant to strangers. She gestured toward the house with her chin.

"Through the green door, second left," she said. "Mademoiselle... forgive me, have we met?"

Evie's heart hammered. She forced her voice to stay light.

"I don't think so. But you have a lovely face. Were you ever in New York?"

Something flickered in Lily's eyes—curiosity, maybe recognition, maybe nothing at all. She shook her head.

"Never. But I've heard the jazz is wonderful there."

"Best in the world," Evie said. "You should come hear me sometime. I'm at Chez Nous, in Paris. Ask for Evie."

She pressed the note into Lily's palm along with the champagne glass she had taken from the tray, a smooth exchange hidden by the curve of her body. The note was small, folded tight, just two lines of writing: *I know who you are. Meet me tomorrow at the Café des Arts, noon.*

Lily's fingers closed around it automatically. Her smile didn't waver. She was already turning to greet a guest who had approached, her attention shifting with the practiced ease of a woman who had learned to hide everything behind a gracious face.

Evie stepped back, relief washing through her—

"Mademoiselle Hart."

The voice came from behind her, deep and smooth as velvet over steel. She turned.

The Baron de Saint-Loup stood three feet away, watching her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He held a glass of champagne, and his gaze moved from Evie's face to Lily's, then back.

"You seem interested in our little Spanish dancer," he said. "I didn't realize you had a taste for flamenco."

Evie's mouth went dry. She had read the program card earlier—*La Señorita Lucia, danseuse espagnole*—and she had not made the connection until now. Lily was performing under a name too, hidden in plain sight.

"I was just admiring her dress," Evie said, forcing lightness into her voice. "The color is stunning."

The baron's smile grew. "She is a treasure," he said, stepping closer. "A gift from a dear friend. Do you know, I have never seen a woman with such capacity for both grace and silence? It is a rare combination."

His hand landed on Evie's arm, light but insistent. "You must let me introduce you properly. She and I have... an arrangement. I am sure she would love to meet another American."

Lily was gone, disappeared back into the crowd with her tray and her note and her secrets. Evie stood frozen under the baron's grip, her stomach turning cold, and realized she had underestimated him completely.