Wrong Train to Paris - Jennifer Moore Page 0,1

all Parisians, from wealthy financiers, heiresses, and clerks to street performers and penniless urchins.

As for herself, Julia adored the tower, having watched its construction as a child and viewed it with nostalgia each time she returned to Paris.

“A most extraordinary creation,” the man who had introduced himself only as Nicholas, sitting at Julia’s right, replied with a nod. “Even still, eleven years after its creation, she is zeh tallest structure in zeh world. She has zeh strength of iron, yet zeh lines are so graceful. Elegant.” He hooked his curved pipe back beneath his thick black mustache, then swept his hands wide, lifting them to a narrow point in imitation of the tower’s shape. “A true masterpiece.” He spoke the words slowly, drawing out the last and infusing it with a dramatic flourish.

Julia arranged her cards both by suit and in numerical order and then spread them evenly in her hand.

“A masterpiece indeed.” Frau Maven nodded and smiled sweetly.

Julia’s companion, a stern-faced widow from Austria, had agreed with every statement either of the men had made so far, making the conversation, in Julia’s opinion, rather dull. The older woman sat to Julia’s left with her back to the train’s window, wearing fresh lip rouge and a colorful silk scarf with her beige traveling clothes. Neither accoutrement had been present when Julia and the older woman had boarded the train late the previous evening at the Vienna station, nor had they appeared at any time over the nearly fourteen-hour journey until just an hour earlier, when she’d entered the lounge car. Not only had Frau Maven’s attire been drab and free from color of any kind, her temperament had seemed to follow the same course. Julia had not heard a kind word or seen a hint of a smile on the woman’s face until the two gentlemen had introduced themselves, joining them for luncheon in the train’s dining car earlier that day. The transformation that came over the older woman had been astonishing, to say the least. She’d not only smiled and spoken quite cordially but had actually giggled—often.

When the men had proposed an afternoon card game to pass the dull hours before dinner, Frau Maven had practically fallen over herself to accept.

After a moment of deliberation, Julia played a card, and Nicholas set one atop it almost immediately.

“A gut choice, sir.” Frau Maven beamed across the table.

Nicholas smiled. He didn’t appear to have even given his cards more than a quick glance, but he’d managed to win nearly every hand—even when his partner, Frau Maven, was so distracted. He was dressed in black from the top of his hat to the toe of his shoe, and his hair and mustache followed the color scheme exactly. His look was unique and distinctive, with an old-style pipe in his mouth, although in the hours they’d spent together, he’d yet to light it. He apparently considered it a distinguished-looking ornament rather than a functional item.

Julia couldn’t be certain of the man’s age and estimated him to be near to fifty years old, but she would not have been surprised had his true age deviated fifteen or more years in either direction. His accent she could not place. He spoke English, French, and German easily, as did the others, moving between the languages throughout the course of their conversations, but in every language, his accent remained—not quite identifiable.

Adding to the peculiarity of her new acquaintance, Julia thought Nicholas looked familiar, though she couldn’t say from where she might have known him. Perhaps their paths had crossed at one time in an art museum. Or maybe they had taken the same train before. Try as she might, she couldn’t place him.

An attendant approached, and Nicholas scooted his chair forward, giving the man more room to pass between himself and the stools bolted beneath the bar behind him. Nicholas and Herr Klausman had pulled the table away from its place beneath the window and set a chair on each side. The arrangement was much more conducive to a card game but less convenient to those walking past along the narrow aisle.

After a moment of deliberation, Herr Klausman lay down a card. “Und at zeh Grand Exposition, you will also see the world’s largest wheel. Taller than one hundred meters, if you can believe it.”

“Oh my.” Frau Maven touched her breastbone.

At last we are speaking of something interesting. Julia had anticipated riding in the Grande Roue since it was announced months earlier. “Yes,” she said. “When I