Free Scent of Triumph by Jan Moran

murmured.
    “Soon, my love, we’ll be together.”
    She managed a wistful smile, took a step back and tilted her head. “Jon’s old suit fits you well. Libby’s tailor did a fine job. And I agree with him, you do look like the Duke of Wales.”
    “Nonsense,” he said, though he seemed pleased at her compliment. He held the door for her, then Hadley helped them into the car. They rode in silence, gazing out the windows as they snaked through the dimly lit streets.
    Libby had once described the Newell-Grey’s Art Nouveau-styled home as an ocean liner. It loomed ahead on a corner, sleek and curvaceous, with long lines and rounded corners. Round porthole windows framed the front door and a shiny brass railing lined the second-floor balcony. High above them on the darkened balcony two figures stood waving at them.
    Danielle waved back. “It’s Jon and Cameron.” She’d missed Jon, and looked forward to talking with him again. Max helped her from the car and hurried her to the door. She shivered and drew into her cape.
    The front door flew open and light flooded the stoop like a beacon. “Come in, darlings,” Abigail said, smiling and laughing. “I’ll take your coats. Though Max, you might want to keep yours if you plan to join the two renegades on the balcony.”
    Danielle rubbed her arms. “Thanks, but I’ll keep my cape a little longer. What are they doing?”
    “Watching for enemy aircraft. It was Cameron’s idea. What a maniac he is. No matter what the press says, I don’t believe London will ever be bombed.” A shadow crossed her face. “The Nazis can find better targets, like His Majesty’s armed forces, poor boys.”
    Max kept his coat on. “I believe I’ll join them upstairs. Perhaps I can coax them down.”
    Abigail laughed. “Do your best. We’ll sit by the fireplace until dinner is served.”
    As Danielle followed Abigail to the sitting room, she sniffed the air. “Dinner smells delicious. I love nutmeg, it always reminds me of home.”
    Abigail looked surprised. “You
are
good. That’s the secret ingredient in my pheasant recipe. You’d make a great chef.”
    Danielle laughed. “I prefer perfumery, it’s the language of love.”
    “So is cooking,” Abigail replied with a wink.
    Danielle laughed again with her, then the two friends made themselves comfortable near the brightly burning blaze.
    “This is wonderful.” Danielle sank into a black leather club chair and glanced about the room, impressed at the quality and creativeness of her surroundings. The curved beam ceiling soared overhead and the entire room was decorated with teakwood paneling and brass fixtures. She spied a Turner seascape above the fireplace, with the artist’s signature light reflected on a turbulent sea. She shuddered at the remembrance of her last ill-fated Atlantic crossing, the scent of kelp and salt rushing in her head. The Turner painting was eerily realistic.
    Abigail followed her gaze. “Feel like you’re back at sea? Father loves his work.”
    They went on to talk about their families, and Danielle asked her how long she would be staying in London.
    “Not long, I need to go back to Los Angeles for a Red Cross fundraiser. Do you know what you’re going to do?”
    Her stomach tightened. “Our priority is to find our family. Until then, I’ll stay with my family in France.”
    Abigail leaned forward. “Daddy told me about Max’s mission. He’s a brave man.”
    “I wish I could join him.”
    “I know how you feel. Listen, Danielle, people are fleeing Europe in droves, many are sailing to New York. If the Germans reach France, what will you do?”
    “I hope it never comes to that.”
France?
She shivered at the thought. The Maginot Line insured protection; everyone knew that. France was virtually impenetrable. She shivered again.
    Abigail looked concerned. “You and Max should come to the States as you’d once planned. Have you ever thought about Los Angeles? I could help you get settled. The