Prologue

Marguerite

Paris, France
Spring, 1914

“Jewels, ma chère. Jewels are the only things that matter.”

Twenty-three-year-old Marguerite Meller sat at a small, marble and gilt table, watching as her employer and mentor went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. This piece of furniture was draped in a pretty cloth, printed with swirls of pale blue and taupe paisley and fringed with silk tassels. Lifting the cloth and draping it over the carriage clock that sat on top of the cabinet, Madame revealed what was in fact a dark green safe. The statuesque form of the maîtresse blocked Marguerite’s view of the dial as she bent to open her repository of treasures.

The maison de rendezvous at 3 rue Galilée was as elegantly furnished as any grand Parisian townhouse, and Marguerite loved to be invited into Madame Denart’s private domain. Marguerite was learning to become a first-class courtesan, proud to belong to a set of women trained to be the amusing and intelligent companions of noblemen and kings. Not only was she schooled in the arts of the boudoir, she’d been instructed in a range of disciplines: horse riding, singing, playing the piano, Italian and German, elocution and etiquette, current events, history, and politics.

Her morning lessons with Madame smacked of special privilege; the maîtresse did not give private instruction to just any of the women who graced her books.

Today, jewels. The tips of Marguerite’s fingers warmed and tingled with anticipation.

Much as she longed to jump up and sneak a glimpse of the safe’s contents over Madame’s shoulder, Marguerite forced herself to remain where she was and wait. After a few moments, the older woman closed the safe and let down the shawl. She returned to the table and set a black lacquered box between them. Its mirror-glaze surface was punctuated by a central motif: a jungle cat made of inlaid mother-of-pearl.

Madame Denart opened the box and lifted out two red satin-covered beds that glittered with precious stones.

Marguerite gasped. “Magnificent! Madame, these are fit for a queen. How I should love to wear such pieces.”

Madame fixed Marguerite with a reproving gaze. “These are not mere decorative baubles, ma fille. Jewels—the right jewels—are the lifeblood of a courtesan. More stable in value than paper money, and infinitely more portable. Easily converted to currency wherever one happens to be yet bestowing upon the woman who wears them a cachet which the mere possession of money never could. They are the first items a woman sews into her petticoats when she makes her escape—whether from a revolution, a war, or a marriage.” Madame smiled thinly. “For courtesans and queens alike, jewels are always better than money.” She jerked her chin. “Hold out your hand.”

Eagerly, Marguerite complied. Madame plucked diamond bracelets from their plush setting, one by one, and clasped them around Marguerite’s slender forearm.

The bracelets were cold and hard against Marguerite’s bare skin. One was too tight and pinched her flesh, but she ignored the discomfort. She angled her arm so that the gems caught the sunlight, dazzling her.

Not for the first time, Marguerite wondered about Madame Denart’s past. She was a handsome woman who took such excellent care of her skin that she might have been aged anywhere between sixty and eighty. She had been a courtesan at a time when the profession was at its height, when luminaries such as La Belle Otero, Blanche d’Antigny, and Cora Pearl had enslaved and enchanted all of Paris with their extravagance and their style. Legends abounded telling of the lengths to which the grandes horizontales drove their admirers—to folly, to madness, to financial ruin, and even to suicide.
Well, what did these men expect? If they did not have the sense to hold onto their fortunes, more fool they. Men had not treated Marguerite so well that she had an ounce of pity to spare for them.

Her husky voice warming to her theme, Madame took Marguerite’s hand and pushed the diamond bracelets together so that they formed a dazzling gauntlet from elbow to wrist, then added one more.

“Jewels are a currency that gentlemen may use to purchase our company without the nasty taint of the transaction. For the courtesan, jewelry is a status symbol, an advertisement of her worth, the standard which other men must match or exceed if they expect to win her favors.” She held up a finger. “But remember this, Marguerite. Let no man own you. Courtesans are not mistresses; we do not confine ourselves to one lover. When a man has exclusive possession of a woman, he becomes complacent, and that diminishes her value. And be he never so charming or handsome or rich, if a gentleman does not make the appropriate gift to show his appreciation, you must drop him. Immediately.”

“Of course.” Dreamily, Marguerite wondered if she could ever hope to command a collection to rival Madame’s. Marguerite was no beauty. Her mouth was too small, her nose a trifle too large and her eyebrows straight and thick, tapering toward the ends, like strokes of a calligrapher’s brush. Her stature was small, but she did have an excellent figure and she took the utmost pains to play up her attractions: a pair of large, melancholy grey-green eyes, a beauty spot on her left cheek, and masses of auburn hair.

She could be charming when she wished, but she had a devilishly bad temper that sometimes got her into trouble. She had learned to curb that tendency—at least until a conquest was firmly ensnared. But like an active volcano, sooner or later, the pressure would build inside her. She would erupt.

Regardless of this undoubted flaw, Madame must have seen something in Marguerite that merited cultivation. For her part, Marguerite meant to grab every opportunity presented to her, while the grabbing was good.

The older woman selected a large ruby pendant and held it up between her finger and thumb, angling it so that it caught the gentle sunlight that streamed between the pale blue velvet curtains of her boudoir. Captivated, Marguerite gazed and gazed at the stone. Encased in a plain gold setting, it was smooth and rounded, as dull as oxblood until the light filtered through.

The diamond bracelets encircling Marguerite’s wrist glittered and flashed as coldly as Madame’s smile. But despite its comparative dullness, it was the ruby that held Marguerite entranced. The interior of the stone seemed to flicker and dance with wicked shadows of devils and hell-bound souls. It seemed to beckon her to enter.

Marguerite shivered, shaking off the unwonted fancy, and asked, “How much would something like that one cost, then?”

The maîtresse frowned at this lapse into vulgarity and Marguerite bit her lip. Her conversational style had improved under Madame’s careful tutelage but sometimes she slipped.

“You will learn how to quickly and discreetly appraise any gift,” said Madame, disregarding the gauche impertinence and replacing the pendant. “You must never allow yourself to be taken in by inferior stones, or—heaven forbid!—fake gems made of paste. A courtesan’s jewel collection is her security and her pension fund.” She narrowed her eyes. “Too many times, I have seen a woman build up tremendous wealth, only to squander it at the gaming tables. Once the toast of Paris, she ends her days old, unwanted, and destitute. Do not let that happen to you.”

Of course, everyone in their circle had heard those stories. “No fear of that,” said Marguerite. She only gambled with other people’s money.

A convent girl, then a servant, turned off without a character after falling pregnant to the master’s son at fifteen, Marguerite knew what it was to be vulnerable, hungry, and alone in the world, subject to all kinds of degradations in the doorways and back-alleys of Paris. She had given up her daughter to her mother to raise but it was Marguerite’s work on the streets that kept the child clothed and fed.

Sheer determination and smarts—and a hard-won stint at the Folies Bergère—had lifted her out of that existence. She took a rich lover or two, one of whom she falsely claimed to have married, thereby gaining a certain status among the Parisian demimonde. Madame Denart had discovered Marguerite through a mutual acquaintance and invited her to be part of her select list of poules de luxe, elevating her to even greater heights.

Madame’s clientele included many wealthy and important men. With the older lady’s connections as well as her expert guidance, Marguerite would never, ever, suffer poverty and humiliation again.

And if the possession of jewels was the way to make sure of that, she would do anything and everything to get as many of those precious baubles as she could.

* * * * *

Chapter One

Cleo

Cairo, Egypt, Shepheard’s Hotel
Autumn, 1935

Breathless and exhilarated and furious, sixteen-year-old Cleo Davenport reined in her grey mare and turned to glare at the approaching rider. Brodie had let her win. Again. Impatiently, she shoved away the strand of curly gold hair that had whipped into her mouth during their desert race. Brodie was only one year older than she was and the best horseman she knew. She wanted desperately to beat him fair and square.

“You beast!” Her words were lost on the wind. The slow dawn had begun with a soft, spiced glow and a pink mist rising over the desert, but now the tangerine disk of the sun was high in the sky, bathing the timeless peaks of the pyramids in shimmering light.

Brodie grinned. He cupped his ear, shrugged, and shook his head. In spite of herself, Cleo smiled back as he cantered toward her. Brodie moved easily in the saddle, his shaggy black hair swept away from his angular face by the strong breeze. He needed a haircut but he’d refused to let her near him with Fifi’s sewing shears after the last time.

His mount, still frisky from the race, danced and sidled. “Come on.” Brodie jerked his head toward the city. “They’ll be looking for you.”

As they entered the city and slowed to a more sedate pace, Cleo slid a glance at her companion. Brodie was Scottish by birth. He’d grown up in France but when his parents had died, his uncle, Mr. Gordon, had brought him back to Shepheard’s Hotel with him.

Mr. Gordon was the zookeeper at Shepheard’s and a bachelor, and his adoption of his nephew was begrudging at best. He’d only warmed to his new charge when he witnessed Brodie’s almost mystical affinity with animals. But Mr. Gordon had died two years ago of a fever. The new director spent most of his time traveling the world in search of new inmates for the zoo and conducting his own research, so Brodie had taken on most of his responsibilities in addition to his own work.

Cleo, too, was an orphan, and she also resided at Shepheard’s Hotel. But while Brodie lived in the zoo director’s cramped quarters, Cleo slept in luxury in the hotel itself.

As they rode through the labyrinthine Cairo streets, the smells of dung and donkey, of incense and spices and refuse filled Cleo’s nostrils. They passed a greengrocer with their giant cauliflowers and cabbages, oranges and dates piled high in wicker baskets.

The workers were watering the dusty road, and Brodie urged his horse to a fast trot. He was responsible for the day-to-day running of the zoo: feeding and watering the animals and checking on their welfare. The zoo was not large but it held a pair of camels, some young Arabian horses, a handful of tame gazelles that delighted the hotel’s children, and even two pandas all the way from China.

They reached Ibrahim Pasha Street with its pretty gardens and approached the wide sweep of Shepheard’s Hotel. It was a four-storied stone building with arched windows and colonnades and tiny French balconies—a grand edifice that might have been a museum plucked from any European capital.

Wrought iron railings girded a square, raised terrace that dominated the expansive frontage. The terrace was furnished with marble-topped tables, rattan armchairs, and lush potted palms. The waiters, called safragi, were smartly clad in crimson and gold embroidered jackets, baggy white sirwal trousers, and red tarbooshes. Even if visitors to Cairo preferred to stay at Mena House or one of the other fine hotels in the city, sooner or later, everyone who was anyone—from Mark Twain and Noël Coward to royalty of every nation—came to tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s.

Forbidden from coming upstairs to harass the guests, hawkers gathered in the street below to sell their wares to the wealthy patrons. Everything from fans, fruits, and fly whisks, stuffed snakes and crocodiles to live chickens could be purchased from these vendors and handed up to the buyer. Cleo and Brodie picked their way through the crowd, firmly refusing assistance from the dragomen hoping to sell their services as tour guides. The pair walked their horses around to the stables, where Brodie slid from the saddle, tethered his animal, then reached up, lifting Cleo by the waist to swing her down.

“I can get down by myself, you know,” she said. “I’m not a child.” He was so big and she was so small, she often felt the need to assert herself.

“Don’t I know it.” Grinning at her puzzled look, he took her mare’s bridle. “I’ll take her. Fifi will not be pleased.”

Cleo rolled her eyes. Her French governess, Mademoiselle Faubert, was as lazy as a pasha. “I don’t care for one of her scolds.”

“Well, we’ll both be in trouble if anyone sees you helping with my chores,” said Brodie. “Or me riding out with you, for that matter.”

“Then we must make sure no one catches us. I’ll do my share.” When he still hesitated as if they hadn’t had this conversation many times before, she stamped her foot. “Brodie.”

Brodie sighed. “Yes, Your Highness.” He pretended to tug a forelock and held out Starlight’s reins to her. “Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”

Usually he spoke with only the slightest Scottish burr, but whenever he mocked what he called Cleo’s “hoity-toity ways” he adopted a thick brogue. Yerr Maejesty. She scowled, then laughed and snatched up Starlight’s reins.