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“You’re not getting out of it that easy, Finn Kilgore. Let’s go.”

He grinned. “I’ll hail a cab.” The Lagonda was back in the shop, where Finn, when he wasn’t repairing other peoples’ cars, was at work rebuilding her engine. The final dash from Paris really had been too much for the old girl, more’s the pity. It would have given me a great dose of confidence, gliding up to the Dorchester in the Lagonda. She might be scrap metal under the hood, but she was still all style.

I picked up my hat, a really stunning black confection I’d splurged on because I remembered Eve shaking her head over the queen of spies’s passion for morally questionable hats. This little puff of black gauze and feathers was definitely morally questionable, and I smiled as I tilted it over one eye. “Very nice, Yank,” I imagined Eve saying, and felt the usual lurch in my stomach. The company that had put her house up for sale couldn’t tell us anything; they’d received their instructions by telegram. All we could do was leave a note with Finn’s address, begging her to contact us, and go by the house whenever possible to see if we might catch sight of her. All we’d sighted, a week ago, was a notice on the door that the house had been sold.

Where are you? It was something Eve seemed content to let us wonder. On the days I wasn’t terrified she was dead, I wanted to kill her myself for making me so afraid.

“Charlie lass.” Finn’s voice from the open door sounded strange. “Come look at this.”

I took my pocketbook and joined him at the doorstep. Anything I was about to say died in my throat as I looked out. Sitting low and rakish at the curb outside was an absolute stunner of a car. It gleamed in the morning sun: a convertible in glittering, patrician silver.

“The ’46 Bentley Mark VI,” Finn whispered, moving toward it like a sleepwalker. “Four and a half liter engine . . . independent front suspension by helical springs . . . divided propeller shaft . . .” He ran an unbelieving hand down the fender.

But it wasn’t the car, lovely as she was, that started my heart pounding. Tucked under the windshield wiper was a big white envelope with our names in a familiar black scrawl. My mouth went dry as I ripped the envelope open. There was something bulky at the bottom, but it was the single sheet of paper I yanked out first. The note began with no apology, no salutation, no greeting. Of course it didn’t.

You started the process with Violette, Yank, but I had to find and see the details for myself to believe it. Lili’s name and involvement in the Alice Network were given by a former cellmate, Mlle. Tellier, who, in return for a relaxed sentence, passed the Germans five letters and a confession during the time I was being questioned by René Bordelon. Confirmed with difficulty through trial records, classified documents, and other back-room sources—but confirmed. Also confirmed: Tellier poisoned herself after the Armistice.

René lied. It wasn’t me.

You were right.

I realized I was crying like a helpless thing. But I wasn’t helpless at all. For so long I’d listened to the nasty inner voice telling me I was, that I’d failed my brother, my parents, Rose, myself. But I hadn’t failed Eve. And maybe I hadn’t failed the others as badly as I’d always thought. I’d done what I could for Rose and James—I couldn’t save them, but it wasn’t my fault they died. And I could still fix things with my parents.

As for Charlotte St. Clair, I could take care of her. She had taken the hopeless mess around her, pared away the meaningless variables, the Y’s and Z’s that didn’t matter, solved for X. She had things broken down to a very simple equation—herself plus Finn plus the Rosebud, and she knew exactly how that equation came out. Eve’s note read on:

Violette has written me. I’m on my way to France, where the two of us will visit Lili’s grave. After that, I’m going traveling. Will be back in time for the christening. In the meantime, I owe you some pearls and Finn a car.

Finn took the envelope, upending it. A tangle slid into his big hand: the keys to the Bentley, all tangled up with a string of perfect milky pearls—my pearls. I’d gone back to the pawnshop as soon as I returned to London, but my ticket had expired and they were gone. Yet here they were. I could hardly see them, the tears were dripping so fast. One last line in the note.

Call it a wedding gift.

We brought traffic in and out of the Dorchester to a standstill. Porters, bellboys, elegantly hatted men and their white-gloved wives—everyone turned to look as the Bentley came to a halt before the hotel’s facade. She purred like a kitten and ran like a dream, and her pearl gray upholstery cradled me like a hug. Finn could hardly bear to hand the keys to the valet.

“Take her round,” he said, coming around the fenders toward the passenger side to let me out. “The missus and I are staying for lunch.”

Under the hotel awning, I saw my mother in a frilly blue dress, my father looking up and down the street. Saw my mother’s gaze linger rather appreciatively on Finn in his handsome suit, saw my father run his eyes over the superb lines of the car—and then saw their lips part in surprise as Finn handed me out in my dashing hat and French pearls.

“Maman,” I said, linking my arm through Finn’s and smiling. “Dad. I would like to introduce you to Mr. Finn Kilgore. We haven’t made it official yet”—seeing my mother’s eyes dart to my left hand—“but we’re planning on it, very soon. We’ve got a great many plans for the future, and I want you both to be part of them.”

My mother began to flutter and my father fluttered too in his more reserved way as Finn offered a hand and I made further introductions. Then as the four of us turned toward the doors of the Dorchester opening into its incredibly elegant inner court, I looked over my shoulder and saw her one last time. Rose stood under the hotel awning in a white summer dress, blond hair ruffling in the breeze. She gave me her impish look, the one I remembered so well, and she waved.

I waved back, swallowing the thickness in my throat. Smiled. And led the way inside.

EPILOGUE

Summer 1949