Before the Dawn Page 4

  “Frightful machines,” Lady Stafford pronounced. “Well, if you have no fascinating love affairs to confide, tell me what you’ve been doing in the theater.”

  Alyssa settled down to an anecdote-filled description of the plays she had been in and the actors and actresses she had dealt with, making the older woman roar with her account of the petty squabbling and upstaging of the two warring leads in her latest production. A slight man with sharp features and bright, intelligent eyes hovered for a moment on the edge of their conversation until Julia noticed him. She squinted, being too vain to wear her glasses.

  “I say, Ian Hedley. How are you? I should have known you’d be here. Claire’s uncle, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. How are you, Lady Stafford?”

  “Passably well, I suppose. And you? I hear you’ve thrown your lot in with Churchill and those hotheads.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “I wouldn’t say they’re hotheads, precisely. Just realists.”

  “Of course, I’ve never agreed with Churchill’s politics. But I can’t like Chamberlain’s backing down as he had. Looks bad. England never backed down in her history, even against the mightiest navy in the world. We whipped the Armada then and sent them scurrying back to Spain, and it seems a disgrace to give in to some strutting little paperhanger now.”

  “I agree.”

  “Alyssa, do you know Ian?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “This is Ian Hedley. Ian, Alyssa Lambert, a friend of Claire’s and Jessica’s. Good girl, even if she is American.”

  Ian’s eyes lighted with amusement. “I’ve met a few of that breed who aren’t all bad.” He bowed slightly to Alyssa. “I’m pleased to meet you. Jessica and Claire are quite fond of you. In fact, I specifically came over to see you.”

  Alyssa’s eyes widened slightly. “Really?” She couldn’t imagine why Ian Hedley would seek her out. She had wanted to meet him; she’d been very intrigues with the idea of Claire’s family harboring a spymaster. But why in the world would he have any interest in her?

  “Of course,” Julia said with a martyred sign. “All right then, you rude creature. Take her away, but you must promise to bring her back to me.”

  Ian led Alyssa away with a gentle but insistent hand at her elbow. “Would you like some punch?”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  He got her a glass, then quietly steered her away from the crowd and through the entryway into the softly lit, deserted drawing room. Alyssa sipped from her glass and watched him, waiting. He sat down across from her and gazed back at her for a moment. “Well, my dear, Claire wasn’t exaggerating about your appearance. You are a very beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Claire has told me of your other admirable qualities: intelligence, loyalty, a sense of justice.” Ian took in Alyssa’s raised eyebrows. “Don’t look so surprised. Claire’s quite smart about people. Jessica confirms her opinion. I trust those two young women. Very levelheaded.”

  “Yes, they are. But I don’t understand—“

  “Then let me get to the point. I forget how impatient you Americans are. Jessica said you agree with her that Hitler must be stopped. That war is inevitable and that we must do everything to prepare ourselves for it.”

  Alyssa tilted her head to one side, considering. “Yes. I’ve been amazed, I guess, at how lightly everyone is treating the idea of a war. I wish my own country were more aware of the danger, but, of course, there we’re so separated from the conflict. But here…”

  “Yes. It’s right in our backyard,” he finished for her. “Quite right. We ought to be paying more attention. Should have been for a long time. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it won’t be long before we can’t ignore it any longer. In the meantime, there are some of us who are doing what we can.”

  Alyssa’s brows knitted. What if the world was he driving at?

  “I understand that you’re flying to France after the wedding.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good. I want to ask you to do me a favor.”

  Alyssa’s eyes widened. “You mean you want me to spy for you?”

  Ian smiled. “My dear, please. You sound as if I’m asking you to be Mata Hari.”

  “That’s what came to mind.”

  “Goodness, no,” he assured her calmly. “You needn’t steal documents or pour poison in some traitorous fifth columnist’s drink. All I want is for you to keep your eyes and ears open while you’re in Paris. Listen. Talk to people, all sorts of people, whoever you happen to meet, and remember what they say. Their mood, what they think about Germany, England, the war. What they’re having trouble buying. Your father is a diplomat, a wealthy man. You are meeting him in Paris, are you not? Probably you shall attend parties, dinner, and such where there will be other men like him—wealthy, important, informed.”

  Alyssa frowned. “I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. Father never says anything about his job to me; he’s extremely cautious. And even if he did, I couldn’t repeat what he entrusted to me. As for the other people I might meet—well, I wouldn’t know what to do. What to ask. Whom to talk to. I haven’t the first idea what’s important. How could I discriminate between what’s vital to you and what’s trivial gossip?”

  “Miss Lambert, you misunderstand me. I would never ask you to divulge anything your father told you in confidence. Nor would I expect him to tell you anything that couldn’t be public knowledge. But, you see, since I am not in France or the United States, I can’t be sure what is public knowledge there. That’s why I need someone to tell me. You needn’t be an expert; there’s no need to know what we’re looking for. I simply want your observant eye on the situation. Listen to what people tell you—and believe me, a woman as beautiful as you will find lots of men eager to talk to you. Then fly back here instead of going straight home, and tell me whatever you’ve heard. We’ll sift through it to find what we need.”

  Alyssa gazed at him for a moment. “You make it sound very easy.”

  “It is. And it’s safe; I wouldn’t urge you to do anything that might endanger yourself. I don’t want you stalking Nazis.”

  “I still don’t understand how it will help you. How could I learn anything that your people couldn’t?”

  “I told you. You will go to parties where most people can’t go, talk to men most people wouldn’t meet. What you learn may merely corroborate what we’ve learned through another channel, or it may provide us with a piece that will fit into a part of a puzzle. A little tidbit might arouse our curiosity in an area we haven’t explored before or show us a new direction. As for ‘my people,’ as you call them, I have very few paid employees. They’re nearly all volunteers, as Claire is. You see, we aren’t an official government organization. All we have is a few friends who are farsighted enough to know that the information we can glean now may be immensely important to us in the future. But at the moment our government is exploring avenues for making peace with Hitler, not ways to defeat him. Our group doesn’t fit in with the present government; we are not recognized—we hope they don’t even know we exist. So we have no money except what is donated and no help except what is freely given us.”

  “I see.” And she did. She saw a bunch of amateurs gallantly struggling to stave off disaster for their country, facing facts their own government refused to accept. There would be war; she was becoming more and more convinced of that. When it came, England would need every bit of help it could get; not only arms and men, but vital information as well. “I’ll do whatever I can,” Alyssa promised softly, “if you really think I’d be useful.”

  “Good. I was certain you’d feel that way. Don’t doubt your usefulness. I have several friends in the entertainment business, and they’ve done the same sort of jobs for me.”

  Alyssa stared. “Really?”

  “Yes. You, of all people, ought to know that actors and directors aren’t just a bunch o
f featherheads.”

  “Of course. But—well, I never imagined…”

  “They travel a lot and everyone wants to meet them: kings, generals, businessmen, Germans, Swedes. You name it. It’s amazing what people will brag about to a movie star. Well, then, it’s arranged. You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Ian shook her hand. “Good-bye, then. I wish you a safe journey. When you return, just come by to visit Claire. I’ll meet you there.”

  “But, wait! Is that it? Aren’t you going to tell me anything? What to do? What to look for?”

  “I already have. Listen and try to remember all you hear. Don’t press for information; nothing will make people go silent more quickly.”

  “It sounds very vague.”

  “I’m afraid it is. You see, we’re all working in the dark.” He gave her a thin smile. “Good-bye, Miss Lambert. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  When he left the room, Alyssa simply sat for a moment staring after him. She could hardly believe that she’d agreed to gather information for a secret, nongovernmental organization. Alyssa Lambert, girl spy. A smile quirked her mouth. How absurd. She couldn’t imagine herself coming up with anything they could use. Still…at least she would be doing something to fight the Nazis while the rest of the world was sitting on its hands. And—she couldn’t deny it—she felt a little sizzle of excitement.

  Chapter 3

  Claire and Ky were married at St. Luke’s Church in Chelsea, and the next day Alyssa flew to Paris. She was eager to see her father again—and eager to see Paris.

  Alyssa loved Paris. It had a special quality no other city had, an indefinable charm that was part beauty, part sophistication, yet more than either. Its jumble of streets ran into each other at odd angles, forming islands of triangular buildings. Some of the streets were incredibly narrow and twisted, quaint and old, yet others were broad boulevards centered by wide strips of grass and trees, giving a feeling of spaciousness. Whereas London had spots of greenery in its squares and parks, Paris had trees in rows along the sidewalks and down the center of the boulevards. In spring the streets were alive and sweet with blooms. The buildings were beige or cream-colored stone with steeply pitched dark gray slate roofs, some decorated with black wrought-iron balconies. They were so graceful that their very similarity was pleasing to the eye.

  It was uniform yet unique. Lovely. Charming. And somehow more. Alyssa had long ago given up trying to define the appeal of Paris and simply accepted the fact that she loved it. Whenever she came there, she felt suddenly invigorated, exhilarated, as if the air had an extra buoyancy.

  She took a taxi to the George V, driving through the Left Bank and across the Prince Alexander III Bridge, lined with turn-of-the-century wrought-iron streetlamps, then onto the Champs-Élysées. It was a broad, beautiful avenue, its wide sidewalks lined with the brightly colored umbrellas and tables of outdoor cafes. Alyssa smiled. Before long, she would be sitting at one of those tables watching the parade of people go by.

  It began to rain just as Alyssa emerged from the cab at the hotel, and the doorman scurried out to shelter her beneath his umbrella. Three tall stone arches led into the hotel, each set with a gold and black wrought-iron gateway. Just as Alyssa was about to step through the center doorway, an unusual couple walked out.

  The man was rather short, only a couple of inches taller than Alyssa herself, with a wide chest and a heavy-armed, powerful build. A fat cigar was clamped between his lips. He looked more like a longshoreman that the head of a major Hollywood studio, which was what he was. The woman, however, looked exactly like what she was: the reigning queen of film comedy. Her chin-length waved hair was platinum blond, her eyes velvety brown and huge, and her small figure was full-breasted and enticing. The wide mouth curved invitingly, and there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. Thrown around her shoulders, sleeves dangling carelessly, was a white fox fur coat. She might have stepped straight off a movie screen.

  Alyssa stared at the man and woman, and they gazed back at her with equal amazement. It was the man who broke the frozen tableau. He popped the cigar from his mouth. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Lora! King!”

  “Alyssa!” The blond woman grinned with genuine pleasure and came forward to hug her. Each kissed the air, Hollywood fashion, so as not to stamp the other’s cheek with her lipstick.

  “Whatever are you two doing here?”

  Lora chuckled. “Don’t be so amazed. We do get out of Los Angeles every now and then.”

  The man, Kingsley Gerard, stepped forward to claim his embrace from Alyssa. “How are you, Beautiful?” he asked her.

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better—unless you tell me you’ve decided to come back to Hollywood.”

  Alyssa laughed. “No, I’m a stage person, I’m afraid. I like to be able to see my audience and hear their applause.”

  Three years ago Kingsley had seen her in a play in New York and had enticed her to Los Angeles with a one-year contract with his studio, Royal. Her first role had been that of the beautiful society villainess in a comedy with Lora Michaels, Royal Studios’ reigning star.

  Alyssa had enjoyed working with Lora. Lora Michaels was a genuinely kind person, and all her years in the movie industry hadn’t managed to spoil that. She had taken Alyssa under her wing, always friendly, helpful, and utterly devoid of airs, snobbery, or even jealousy. With her blond, sexy good looks and inviting figure, she usually played a wisecracking woman of the world, but beneath the sophisticated veneer lurked a certain innocent sweetness. One well-known actor had once described Lora as “a combination of Jean Harlow and Shirley Temple.” It was this mixture that stole the audience’s heart.

  But as much as Alyssa liked Lora, she disliked Hollywood. The fawning fans, the publicity seeking, the cold lack of response in acting in front of a camera, all went against her grain. Most of all, she hated the contract system. The studios literally owned their contract players, and even the stars had little power against them. Just a few years earlier Lora herself had gone up against Royal Studios and even she, the studio’s biggest money-maker, had lost. It was rumored that if it weren’t for the fact that Kingsley Gerard himself had fallen in love with her, Lora’s career might have been finished after her fight with the studio.

  Alyssa gave Kingsley a grin. “Besides, you know I’m not photogenic.” Lora had that magical combination of bone, skin, and personality that showed up vibrantly on film. Kingsley liked to say that “the camera loves her.” It didn’t love Alyssa. Somehow film paled the beauty that was so vivid in person.

  Gerard snorted. “Photogenic, hell! So what if you’re only half as pretty on film as you are in real life?” He made a sweeping gesture with his cigar. “That’s still three times prettier than most women. You could have a big career at Royal.”

  “I didn’t like the movies,” Alyssa said, uttering what was to Gerard the greatest heresy in the world. “I’d rather go through the play from the beginning to the end, not jump around all over the place.”

  “You’d get used to it,” King declared and stuck the cigar back in his mouth. He had a reputation for sensing star quality, especially in women; Lora had been his biggest find. When he had “found” Alyssa, he had been certain that he had another star on his hands. It annoyed him that Alyssa had gotten away.

  Alyssa crossed her arms across her chest and smiled. She was one of the few people whom Kingsley Gerard did not intimidate. She couldn’t deny the raw power he exuded, but when at six years of age one had sat on the knee of a famous and much-feared oil millionaire, wealth and power lost much of their power to intimidate.

  Alyssa’s father was an influential man in diplomatic circles. Had he not fallen in love with a woman who had no interest in the obligations of his career, he could have become ambassador to a major country. As it was, he had become a more-or-less secret adviser on foreign affairs to the President and a roaming troubleshooter
for the Secretary of State. He moved among the powerful all over the world, and Alyssa, often called upon as a teenage girl to stand in for her mother on social occasions, had moved among them as well. Grant Lambert’s daughter stood in awe of no one, including a Hollywood mogul.

  “Come on, King,” she said with a smile. “Admit it—if I had stayed at Royal, I’d have been a real thorn in your side.”

  King frowned at her, then relaxed into a grin. “True. You’re even more cussed independent than Lora.”

  His wife rolled her eyes and talked past him to Alyssa, “Alyssa, what are you doing here? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  Alyssa half smiled. “I’m beginning to wonder if Europe knows there’s a war on. I went to the wedding of an old school friend of mine in London yesterday. My father’s here in Paris, so I thought I’d pop over and see him before I went home.” She paused and allowed a little grin. “And I might buy a few clothes while I’m here.”

  Lora shot back a conspiratorial smile. “I just may find the time for that myself. I’m ready to take on Chanel and Jean Patou.”

  “Not to mention Schaiparelli.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m going to stock up on ‘Shocking.’ How I love that perfume!”

  “What about you two?” Alyssa asked. “Why are you here?”

  “Business, what else?” Lora shook her head in mock disgust.

  “I’m in talks with Claude Freret,” King explained.

  “The director?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping to get him to come to L.A.”

  “I can’t imagine Claude leaving France. When I met him, he seemed a very ardent Frenchman.”

  “Oh, he is. I wrote him over a year ago, offering him all kinds of money, but Claude refused. He said he wouldn’t think of leaving France. But he’s Jewish, and with France now at war with Germany, I would think he’d be more interested in my proposition.” King grinned. “Besides, I’m always harder to resist in person.”

  Alyssa chuckled. “I know.”