The Shadow Queen (38 page)

Without troubling to point out to Alice that she’d been telling her for a long time how cruelly she was being treated, Wallis gave her a grateful kiss and then went out to the taxi she had crossed town in and, after paying the driver, carried the bags she had brought with her into her mother’s small apartment. They contained all her clothes and all her personal possessions. Come hell or high water, her life with Win was finally and irrevocably over.

W
in’s career, if not over, was soon visibly on a downward spiral. He was obliged to leave the Brighton Residential Hotel and, no longer having a wife living with him, he moved into the Army and Navy Club. Via the grapevine Wallis heard he was constantly quarreling with his superiors, and when he abruptly told her over the telephone that he had received yet another posting, Wallis wasn’t at all surprised. This time his posting was the kind that would put thousands of miles between them.

In February 1922 he was commissioned captain of a gunboat, his destination Hong Kong.

“That sounds to be a posting just up your street,” she said pleasantly when he told her. “No more deskwork. You’ll be happy as a clam.”

“No, I won’t,” he snapped back. “The
Pampanga
is a leaky old tub that should have been scrapped years ago.”

It was Henry who told her what Win’s task was going to be. “The
Pampanga
is one of several vessels that form the South China Patrol of the Asiatic Fleet. China is being torn apart by rival warlords, and the
Pampanga
—and other small ships like her—constantly patrol the coastline and estuaries. Their main mission is protecting American businesses and missions—every day there is news of priests and nuns being killed—and to help any American personnel who need rescuing. It’s a task Win is perfectly suited for.”

L
ife in Washington—without Win—perfectly suited Wallis. Several friends from Arundell and Oldfields lived in the city, and through them she entered the heady world of diplomatic society. Wherever she had gone and whatever situation she had found herself in, she had always been popular, and Washington was no exception. She never told anyone that she had left her husband and was trying to figure out the best way of getting a divorce on very little money. Because she was a Navy wife whose husband was serving in China, it was taken for granted that she was on her own because China was too dangerous a place for her to be.

Until now, though she was a natural-born flirt and as far back as she could remember had always preferred male company to female company, she had never been unfaithful to Win. It was a situation that changed within hours when Phoebe Schermerhorn—now the wife of Conrad Zimmerman, a high-flying Washington lawyer—introduced her to thirty-five-year-old Felipe Espil, first secretary at the Argentinean embassy.

Felipe—a rich, smooth, Rudolph Valentino look-alike—was the biggest catch in the city.

“He originally came here ten years ago as an attorney,” Phoebe said to her as, arms linked, they had entered one of the French embassy’s glittering white-and-gold reception rooms. “That he is now first secretary to the Argentinean ambassador will give you some indication of just how ambitious and talented he is. His reputation as a lady-killer is fearsome. One smoldering glance from eyes so dark they appear to be black, and even the most respectable matron becomes a quivering wreck.”

“You too?” Wallis asked, anticipation tingling along her nerve ends.

Phoebe gave a throaty laugh. “ ’Fraid not. Conrad keeps me on a tight leash, and as he’s an absolute dear and I’m crazily in love with him, I don’t allow Señor Espil to work his Latin American magic on me.”

Wallis wondered if Felipe Espil would be able to work his magic on her. More to the point, as she threaded her way through the crowded room accompanied by Phoebe, she wondered if
she
was going to be able to work any magic on him.

In Washington society, the most important thing was precedence.

Ambassadors, of course, were the kingpins of any diplomatic gathering, but a first secretary tipped soon to be an ambassador himself ranked a close second. As the wife of a Navy officer, she came so low in the pecking order that only her friendships with people like Phoebe ensured that she was invited to events such as tonight’s reception. All that would change, though, if Felipe Espil began escorting her to parties and functions.

Even though she had still to lay eyes on him, her determination that he would do so was fierce. In Baltimore, because her impeccable Warfield ancestry wasn’t accompanied by Warfield money, she had been denied unequivocal acceptance into high society—an acceptance that should have been hers by right. She wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to her in Washington. In Washington she was going to fight tooth and claw to ensure she didn’t have to rely on the kindness of friends in order to move in the highest possible social circles.

“There he is,” Phoebe said suddenly, squeezing hold of her elbow-length-gloved arm. “Over there. Talking to Senator Grumbridge.”

Wallis looked—and sucked in her breath.

He was gorgeous. Tall and slim with olive skin and finely chiseled features. His brilliantined hair was night-black, his eyebrows satanically winged.

Even before they made a move toward him, she was more dazzled than she’d ever been before in her life.

“Want an introduction?” Phoebe asked.

“Oh yes,” she said, letting her breath out slowly. She gave a quick glance around the rest of the room, satisfied that the gown she was wearing was sufficiently different to set her apart. It was of black chiffon—the only black gown in the room, for black was rarely worn by anyone other than widows. Her angular, boyish figure was the height of fashion, and the low-waisted sleeveless dress with its deep U-shaped neckline flattered her far more than the same style did the other women in the room.

Where their gowns were lavishly decorated with beading or fringing—and sometimes with both—her gown was starkly plain except for the spectacular bunch of artificial red cherries she had pinned to one shoulder.

Satisfied that if not the most beautiful woman in the room, she was certainly the most eye-catching, and not being afraid to let her confidence show, she allowed Phoebe to lead her in Felipe Espil’s direction.

As Felipe sensed their approach, he brought the discussion he was having with the senator to a halt and turned toward them. His eyes met Wallis’s. They were just as dark and as mesmerizing as Phoebe had led Wallis to believe—and they immediately gleamed with admiration.

“Mrs. Zimmerman.” Dutifully he paid attention to Phoebe first, taking hold of her hand and raising the back of it fleetingly to his mouth. As he released it, he said in a richly accented voice, “You’re acquainted with Senator Grumbridge, I believe?”

“Yes”—Phoebe smiled toward the senator—“but I don’t think either of you have had the pleasure of meeting an old school friend of mine, Mrs. Spencer.”

Felipe gave Wallis the benefit of his full attention, the admiration in his eyes now blatant. He raised her hand to his well-shaped mouth, and for Wallis, as she waited for the hot imprint of his lips on her flesh, time stood still.

He didn’t kiss the back of it. Instead he held it so that her fingers were upright, her palm facing him. Then, uncaring of whoever might be watching the two of them and his eyes still holding hers, he kissed the tip of each finger very slowly and very meaningfully.

Desire confounded her. Given privacy, she would have done whatever he asked of her.

Phoebe said, “Wallis is from Maryland.”

“Ah, a Southern belle.” With what Wallis sensed was deep reluctance, Felipe let go of her hand. “They are reputed to be God’s greatest creation, are they not?” White teeth flashed in a smile. “I now understand why.”

In an adjoining room a small orchestra was playing dance music. “A foxtrot,” Felipe said. “My favorite. Would you do me the honor, Mrs. Spencer?”

The minute his arms closed around her and they began to dance, Wallis had the overwhelming sensation of having come home. This man—wealthy, well bred, sophisticated, and cultured—was her destiny. John Jasper had been an innocent schoolgirl infatuation, a first love she would always remember, but whom she certainly no longer sighed for. Win had been a horrendous mistake: a man neither wealthy, well bred, nor cultured, and certainly not someone who could reinstate her into her rightful place in high society. There were no such drawbacks to Felipe Espil, who was, Phoebe had told her, well on his way to becoming an ambassador.

“I’m here tonight in a semiofficial capacity, Wallis,” he said, dancing beautifully. “It means I cannot devote all my attention to you in the way I would like. Perhaps tomorrow evening you would have dinner with me and I can make up for this?”

By the time the foxtrot ended she was quite certain it hadn’t been a case of
coup de foudre
only for her, but that he, too, had fallen headlong in love the moment they had met.

“You’re the fastest worker I’ve ever come across,” Phoebe said later when they were again on their own. From her tone of voice it was quite obvious she didn’t know whether to be admiring or shocked. Wallis didn’t mind which she was. She was on the verge of a whole new exciting adventure, and once she had her divorce, who knew where it would end?

T
he next evening they dined together at one of the most prestigious restaurants in Washington. It was a clear sign to Wallis that even though she was a married woman, there was going to be no clandestine aspect to the relationship they were now embarking on. As they held hands across the table, she let herself imagine a perfect future. Divorce from Win. Marriage to Felipe. And the whole of Baltimore saying,
Of course, you remember Wallis? She’s now the wife of the Argentinean ambassador in Paris
. Or perhaps it would be London. Or even—the thought made her physically dizzy—Washington.

Over a sublime bottle of Château Margaux she told him her husband was a lieutenant in the Navy and that he was stationed in China.

“And are you looking forward to his return?” Felipe had asked.

“Yes” she had answered, a smile curving her mouth, “but only because it will speed up divorce proceedings.”

Later, he had suggested they drive to his Georgetown apartment and get to know each other still better over coffee and liqueurs.

Not until they were there and Wallis was seated on an elegant, brocade-covered sofa did she broach the subject that had to be surmounted before he took her to his bed.

“There’s something you have to know about me.” Despite her extreme self-confidence, her heart was beating fast and light. “I’m physically very unusual inside, Felipe. Not at all like other women.”

He was seated opposite her at the far side of a glass-topped coffee table. As his eyebrows flew high in stunned shock, she swung her legs to the thickly carpeted floor. “My hymen is impenetrable—but it isn’t the end of the world, Felipe. I can still give great pleasure in bed.”

“I’m sure you can, for you are a flower of the South.” He leaned toward her, his hands clasped between his knees. “And you are also, you say, a citadel that can’t be stormed?” Prurient interest shone in his near-black eyes. “Will you allow me to discover this intriguing uniqueness for myself,
mi querida
?”

He unclasped his hands and, rising to his feet, drew her to hers.

“I knew you were different the instant I saw you at the party, Wallis
amor
.” His voice was husky as he lifted her into his arms. “Only you, in all the room, were not a pale, insignificant butterfly. Only you had what my Jewish friends call
chutzpah
.”

T
he next few months were idyllic. As Felipe’s accepted escort she attended functions and parties that not even Phoebe or any other of her Washington friends could have had her invited to. Felipe taught her the correct protocol on meeting important dignitaries and how to be at ease with them. He insisted she read not only the
Washington Post
and the
New York Times
every day, but also the
International Herald Tribune
, Britain’s
Times—
which kept her up to date with the latest news on the Prince of Wales, who was terrifying the British public with his recklessness as a steeplechaser—and the French
Le Figaro
.

“It will help you brush up on the language,” he had said when she had mildly protested that her schoolgirl French was possibly not up to
Le Figaro
. “Languages are important within the diplomatic community. The German you studied at Oldfields is passably adequate, but you must begin learning Spanish.” He had flashed her a warm, intimate smile. “If you do not, how will you know what the words mean that I whisper in your ear?”

Among his many passions were opera, ballet, and antiques. Always able to show deep interest in the interests of the current man in her life, Wallis became suitably knowledgeable—and though opera and the ballet never became more than pleasantly enjoyable, searching out and recognizing valuable antiques became an addiction that would last her entire life.

Her blatant association with Felipe was comfortably accepted by everyone in Felipe’s social circle—who couldn’t have cared less who he was romancing—and a little more uncomfortably so by Wallis’s friends from Oldfields and by her cousin Corinne.

It wasn’t accepted at all by her mother and Aunt Bessie.

“You’re a married woman!” Alice would let fly at her time and time again. “Your Grandma Warfield will be spinning in her grave!”

Aunt Bessie had been far less hysterical, but deeply concerned. “When this affair is over you’re not going to have a rag of reputation left to you, Wallis. Win will divorce you …”

“Which is what I want!”

“…  and you’ll never find an honorable man who will marry you. You’ll end up a lonely divorcée.”

“No, I won’t,” she had responded feistily. “I’ll end up an ambassador’s wife!”

Chapter Twenty-Three