The Hunt

“There’s nothing mundane about a good thoroughbred,” Keegan said with a crooked grin, trying to overlook the exchange. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” He turned to Lady Penelope. “What do they call you, Penny?”

“You may call me Lady Penelope,” she snapped back and, wheeling around, she walked away.

Willoughby shrugged. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” he said apologetically. “Her sense of humor hasn’t been just right since her husband’s death.”

“Perhaps I was being a bit too familiar,” Keegan answered. “Extend my apologies.”

“Of course. By the by, Keegan, should I bet on your horse?”

“I’m going to,” Keegan said as the stuffy Britisher left.

“That’s telling the spoiled brat,” Rudman chuckled.

“I am sorry,” Jenny said. “It just burst out.”

“You sure let the wind out of her sails,” Keegan said and laughed. “She looked like she’d been whacked with a paddle.”

“1 say we have brunch at Maxim’s on me and get back for post time,” Rudman said.

“We have to pass,” Keegan said, wrapping his arm around Jenny’s waist. “We have previous plans.”

“Oh?” Jenny said. “And can’t Bert join us?”

“Nope,” Keegan said, leading her toward the Packard. “We’ll see you in two hours at the post party.”

Rudman watched them walk across the parking area and get in the back of his car. He had never seen Keegan so excited and happy. It was the opening of the Longchamp racing season, a major social event in Paris, and they had been generous, sharing their days with him so he felt no slight when they decided to slip away for a couple of hours before the races started.

Rudman was so absorbed in his good feelings for Keegan and Jenny, he didn’t see von Meister cross the parking lot toward him.

“Herr Rudman,” the Nazi said. “It is nice to see you.”

Rudman glared at him. “That uniform seems out of place here,” he said brusquely.

“You will get used to it.”

Rudman started to walk around the tall Nazi but von Meister stood in his path.

“By the way,” he said. “You have an employee in your office, a photographer named Marvin Klein.”

“That’s right.”

“Perhaps The New York Times did not receive Reichminister Goebbels’s order. You cannot hire Jews to work in Germany anymore.”

“We didn’t hire him in Germany. He’s an American.” “Well The German smiled. “Don’t concern yourself.” As Rudman started to walk away, von Meister said, “Your

friend, the one who owns the racehorse, what is his name?” “Keegan.”

“Ah yes, Keegan. I believe his girlfriend—or is it his wife?— no girlfriend, I imagine . . . I believe she is German.”

“So?”

“Just curious. lam always interested in German girls.” The German chuckled. “So. . . tell him I hope his horse wins. I bet on him.”

“Poor old Bert,” Jenny said as they got in the car. “We must find him a woman so he can share our happiness.”

“Old Bert’ll do all right. His mistress is his job. If he gets too lonely, he’ll go get his trenchcoat and he’ll have to beat them off with a bat.”

“Stop that. You give him such trouble.”

“I’m showing my affection. It’s the only way men can show affection for each other without getting arrested.”

She tossed back her head and laughed. “Sometimes you make me laugh and I am not even sure wily.” She snuggled against him. “I am so happy, Kee.” For a month now they had been living in a dream world. The subject of Hitler and politics was rarely mentioned.

“Someday we’ll look back on these days and realize how special they are,” Keegan said tenderly.

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. Falling in love is a magic time.”

“Are we falling in love, Francis?”

“A fait accompli for me, my love,” Keegan said softly. “I fell in love with you that night at Conrad’s, the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“What a lovely thought.”

“You are a lovely thought,” he said.

“Oh Francis, it has been so wonderful it makes me nervous. I am so happy.”