Gladys’s mother was nothing if not determined.
When Florence decided to focus exclusively on making matches for her girls, she succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. And well into the nightmares of various wives throughout Europe.
Dorothy, the baby of the family and daughter of the slain lover, married a prince and a then a count. At one point she carried the storied name of Radziwill.
Pretty but cantankerous Edith wed a wealthy industrialist. What she lacked in title she made up for in cash, and many times over. The other sisters would be forever jealous of Edith, and her ability to spend without thought.
As we know, Gladys would go on to marry the Duke of Marlborough but not before she smashed through a cadre of notables such as Prince William of Prussia, Hope diamond owner Lord Francis Pelham-Clinton-Hope, the Dukes of Norfolk and of Camastra, General Joffre, Lord Brooke, among untold others.
These relationships may not have lasted but they all contributed to the very essence of Gladys Deacon. When someone complimented her political knowledge at a dinner party, Gladys famously proclaimed, “Of course I’m well informed! I’ve slept with eleven prime ministers and most kings!”
—J. Casper Augustine Seton,
The Missing Duchess: A Biography
“Please be ready by six o’clock for dinner,” said the note from Laurel.
Whatever grain of regret Annie had about the false-jogger story disappeared at around 6:10.
By 6:15, her annoyance turned to anger.
When the clock hit 6:45, Annie wrote off her mother completely. Who was this unreliable woman and what had she done with Laurel Haley? At least Annie had a few “friends” to keep her company, stolen as they were.
Sifting through the pages, Annie thought about Mrs. Spencer and how living with her must’ve been unnerving in ways that had little to do with yowling outbursts or physical threats. It was the woman’s carefully guarded cunning that frightened Annie the most. How had Win ever wrenched a book from her?
With a sigh, Annie pitched the transcripts onto the desk, and then watched as they slid, slow-motion style, straight toward an open bottle of Diet Coke. She screeched when the drink toppled over.
“Shit!” Annie lurched to standing. “Annie! You idiot!”
She swiped the papers from the desk.
“Dammit!”
She blew on them. She shook them. She held them up only to watch helplessly as trails of Diet Coke ran to the floor.
“Annie, you wanker,” she said, eyes watering.
She was done for. The drink’s delicious chemical black magic would obliterate the papers as surely as it was eating away at her insides.
“Dammit all to hell.”
Just her luck. The one time she made any sort of coordinated contact between two separate objects ended in disaster. Her youth softball coach would be pleased to know she was not made entirely of striking out.
Annie kicked at the chair in frustration, but missed of course, then peeled the most soda-drenched sheet from the desktop. After pressing it against her shirt, Annie held it up to the light.
That’s when she noticed. On the back of the paper was an address, written in pencil, in what appeared to be a woman’s hand.
24 Quai de Béthune
144071200
The address of someone in Paris perhaps? And what was the second line? It wasn’t a zip code. A phone number, maybe?
Without thinking, Annie picked up the phone and began to dial.
“We’re sorry, but your number cannot be reached as dialed. Please try again.”
Annie frowned. She remembered from a semester abroad junior year that the correct country code for France was 33. Annie tried again but the congenial-voiced British lady was back. We’re sorry …
With a small huff, she hung up. Probably better not to get through. She’d have a hard time explaining long-distance charges to her mom.
“Quai de Béthune,” she said as she paced the room, staring at the address.
It sounded familiar, which was why she guessed Paris, but Annie couldn’t exactly place the name. An address along the Seine, most likely, as you needed water to have a quay.
“Quai de Béthune,” she repeated and inspected the paper.
It was starting to crumple and dry, a faint brown blotch marring the sheet top to bottom. Annie glanced at the other papers on the desk, most of them equally stained and damp. She’d kick herself but would probably bungle that, too.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “Gus is going to kill me.”
Suddenly, she heard a click.
Annie lifted her head with a jerk. Across the room, the doorknob jiggled. Her heart jumped.
“Crap!” she yelled, and scurried to collect the transcripts. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Most were wet. She could already feel them clumping together.
“Annie?” Laurel said. “Are you in there? Dang it, my key always jams in this lock.”
“Yes, yes, coming!”