lined with stately mansions and manicured trees. Finally, Aleksei pulled to a stop in front of an imposing granite edifice—eighteenth century, she thought.
The driver jumped out and opened the door. As he offered a hand to help Anna from the car, he leaned toward her and said flatly, “Mr. Barton said please not to look shocked when you see his mother. And please to take special notice of her hands.”
“What—”
Aleksei inclined his head toward the building, where an elderly uniformed doorman was already holding open a massive wood door inlaid with what appeared to be coats of arms in varicolored marble. “Monsieur Couret is waiting.” Then, somehow managing to do it without turning his back on her except figuratively, he got back into the car, noiselessly closing the door behind him.
“Madame Wallingham? S’il vous plaît .” The old man escorted her across a dark stone floor to an old French cage-style elevator, gesturing her inside. He turned a lock next to a floor button with a key, then slid the metal grill closed between them. “The lift will take you to the fifth floor.”
She stepped off the elevator directly into what was clearly the antechamber of a single apartment—one of those rooms designed to keep visitors waiting three centuries ago—with several brocade sofas and chairs along with assorted Louis the Whatever cocktail tables and sideboards, which struck Anna’s admittedly unpracticed eye as the real thing.
She stood looking out the waist-to-ceiling windows onto the street just moments before a set of double doors opened to her left, and Pierre Barton motioned her to come into what clearly was Luxeland. Persian rugs gave way like marshmallow beneath her feet; the wall coverings of the rooms they passed through were flocked damask; heavy silver and Lalique crystal filled glass-fronted cabinets and tables. They traversed a smaller anteroom, then a hall with parquet floors and a large circular staircase before entering the salon where Madame Marie Héloise Beaumarchais Barton awaited.
In a room shimmering with sunlight, Madame Barton sat with her back to the door, so Anna’s first impression was of a birdlike creature perched on the bergère chair. When she stood and turned into the light, it was all Anna could do not to gasp. She realized why she’d been forewarned.
“Here’s our guest, Maman,” Pierre said softly. “Anna Wallingham. Marie Héloise Barton.”
One look at Madame Barton, and any woman would think twice, then a third time, before committing to plastic surgery. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and round; too much skin had been removed for them to close properly; she must, Anna thought, need to sleep with some kind of pads over them to keep her eyeballs moist. Whatever nose had once sat in the middle of her face had melted into a small, pug-like muzzle, while oversized cheek implants added an almost whimsical touch of chipmunk. Lips too lush for even a twenty-year-old were the finishing touch, ballooning out from her face, turning up at the ends, and making a normal chin look weak and recessive atop a tight, corded neck. The Joker, Anna thought. The thick curls of a platinum wig tumbled about this hodgepodge of readjusted features, undoubtedly hiding a hairline a good five inches back from the one with which she had started.
Everything else about Madame Barton was perfectly in keeping with her station in life. She was elegantly attired in a pale blue A-line, its narrow pleats indicating vintage Balenciaga, and matching pumps. Before grasping the small hand Madame held out, Anna looked at it carefully. It was dainty and expertly manicured, the nails short and natural in color, the rings simple but featuring jawbreaker-sized diamonds. The unusual thing about the hand, though, was its skin—its taut, smooth, unmarked skin. It looked almost as if Madame Barton’s hand had been transplanted from the arm of a much younger woman.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Madame
The driver jumped out and opened the door. As he offered a hand to help Anna from the car, he leaned toward her and said flatly, “Mr. Barton said please not to look shocked when you see his mother. And please to take special notice of her hands.”
“What—”
Aleksei inclined his head toward the building, where an elderly uniformed doorman was already holding open a massive wood door inlaid with what appeared to be coats of arms in varicolored marble. “Monsieur Couret is waiting.” Then, somehow managing to do it without turning his back on her except figuratively, he got back into the car, noiselessly closing the door behind him.
“Madame Wallingham? S’il vous plaît .” The old man escorted her across a dark stone floor to an old French cage-style elevator, gesturing her inside. He turned a lock next to a floor button with a key, then slid the metal grill closed between them. “The lift will take you to the fifth floor.”
She stepped off the elevator directly into what was clearly the antechamber of a single apartment—one of those rooms designed to keep visitors waiting three centuries ago—with several brocade sofas and chairs along with assorted Louis the Whatever cocktail tables and sideboards, which struck Anna’s admittedly unpracticed eye as the real thing.
She stood looking out the waist-to-ceiling windows onto the street just moments before a set of double doors opened to her left, and Pierre Barton motioned her to come into what clearly was Luxeland. Persian rugs gave way like marshmallow beneath her feet; the wall coverings of the rooms they passed through were flocked damask; heavy silver and Lalique crystal filled glass-fronted cabinets and tables. They traversed a smaller anteroom, then a hall with parquet floors and a large circular staircase before entering the salon where Madame Marie Héloise Beaumarchais Barton awaited.
In a room shimmering with sunlight, Madame Barton sat with her back to the door, so Anna’s first impression was of a birdlike creature perched on the bergère chair. When she stood and turned into the light, it was all Anna could do not to gasp. She realized why she’d been forewarned.
“Here’s our guest, Maman,” Pierre said softly. “Anna Wallingham. Marie Héloise Barton.”
One look at Madame Barton, and any woman would think twice, then a third time, before committing to plastic surgery. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and round; too much skin had been removed for them to close properly; she must, Anna thought, need to sleep with some kind of pads over them to keep her eyeballs moist. Whatever nose had once sat in the middle of her face had melted into a small, pug-like muzzle, while oversized cheek implants added an almost whimsical touch of chipmunk. Lips too lush for even a twenty-year-old were the finishing touch, ballooning out from her face, turning up at the ends, and making a normal chin look weak and recessive atop a tight, corded neck. The Joker, Anna thought. The thick curls of a platinum wig tumbled about this hodgepodge of readjusted features, undoubtedly hiding a hairline a good five inches back from the one with which she had started.
Everything else about Madame Barton was perfectly in keeping with her station in life. She was elegantly attired in a pale blue A-line, its narrow pleats indicating vintage Balenciaga, and matching pumps. Before grasping the small hand Madame held out, Anna looked at it carefully. It was dainty and expertly manicured, the nails short and natural in color, the rings simple but featuring jawbreaker-sized diamonds. The unusual thing about the hand, though, was its skin—its taut, smooth, unmarked skin. It looked almost as if Madame Barton’s hand had been transplanted from the arm of a much younger woman.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Madame
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