CHAPTER 1

Truth will ultimately prevail where pains is taken to bring it to light.

—George Washington

June 1920 Dublin, Ireland

T he street was quiet. Too quiet.

After the tumult that had come before—the rumble of military lorries, the scramble of people to clear the vicinity where they were headed, the pushing and shoving of those crowding the tram—any normal citizen might have breathed a sigh of relief upon turning into this calm, deserted street. Instead, I felt a keen sense of exposure.

There were no more throngs to conceal myself within, no more ordinary Dubliners bustling about with which to blend. I feared my drab garb, lowered head, and slumped shoulders wouldn't be enough to project the image that I was but another weary soul trudging home after a long day. Particularly when anyone peering out of the tall shutterless windows of the Georgian brick townhouses on this street southeast of the city center would find only me to scrutinize.

There was safety and anonymity in numbers. A fact I'd learned well during the war. In my work as a British intelligence agent, slipping back and forth from the neutral Netherlands across the border strung with electrified barbed wire into Belgium, I'd come to intimately understand how one was at more personal risk from the German occupiers in wide-open spaces and quiet narrow alleys than the lively town square.

Here, too, the Irish rebels seemed to have learned this lesson. Their murder gangs most often struck in crowds, assassinating their targets in well-populated areas where they could then blend back into the populace as they made their escapes. Even the members of their Volunteer Army used the masses to cover some of their activities. As seemed to be the case that afternoon when they'd raided a British garrison in the city for weapons. Hence the lorries filled with troops rushing northward, albeit much too late.

I'd listened to a pair of men discussing the incident on the tram. Whether they were actual members of the brigade who had plundered King's Inn for guns and ammunition or simply part of the crowd that had cheered them on afterward, I didn't know, but they were definitely on the side of the republicans. As were many of the people riding the tram car if their nods and remarks of approval were anything to judge by. Others, like me, kept their faces turned away and their thoughts to themselves. Though I was careful not to view their neutral expressions as indications of disapproval rather than greater circumspection. After all, at least some of them must have been aware that enemy informants could be standing in their midst, listening to everything they said. There was always someone willing to snitch on their neighbors for a few measly quid.

But on this quiet street there was no lilting refrain of Irish brogue to accompany me, no clatter of carts, or rattle of bicycle chains, or ringing bells from passing trams as in the busier thoroughfares. And this being a residential street, there was no foot traffic from those drawn to the theaters, pubs, and restaurants in the evening. Only the clack of my footfalls ringing overloud in my ears, and a snatch of birdsong to punctuate it. I looked up as a pair of buntings flew overhead, making their way toward the trees ringing Fitzwilliam Square.

My intelligence training asserted itself, and I strained to hear any telltale signs that I was being followed while continuing to trudge forward, determined not to give myself away. But my heart was pounding too loudly in my ears. I was out of practice, and Dublin was new territory for me.

Territory where, as a prominent, well-to-do British citizen, I should have been safe. But at the moment, the city was a snake pit. One teaming with revolutionaries and the forces the British government had sent to squash them. I wasn't yet certain from which I was most in danger, but there was a risk from both.

Approaching the corner with a narrow alley, I resorted to an old trick. Lowering my worn bag to the pavement, I bent down on one knee, ostensibly to tie a shoelace which had come undone. Under the cover of this gesture, I searched the length of the street in front and behind me for anything suspicious. However, it was empty, save for a gentleman some two hundred yards in front of me already turning the corner into the square.

Grasping my bag, I darted into the alley, fairly confident I'd not missed any tricks someone trailing me might have employed. The edifices of the Georgian houses were flat, leaving little architectural elements for someone to conceal themselves behind, except for perhaps the odd pillar flanking one of the arched doorways. It seemed probable that a republican would have carried on toward me with their characteristic audacity, while a British intelligence officer would have resorted to his training—feigning interest in the building architecture or pretending to call at the nearest address. Given the street's desertion, I instead elected to proceed as planned.

Tucked away behind the stately townhouses gracing Fitzwilliam Square, the mews revealed the far less auspicious side of these homes. Barely wide enough for a coach or now a motorcar to pass through, the lane was lined with walls and fences, as well as former carriage houses, which for the most part had been converted into garages. Though, at least one stable must have remained, for I heard the distinctive whicker of a horse somewhere nearby. I knew that behind several of these walls grew impressive floral gardens because I'd spied them from a window above. From the vantage of the mews, the only indications of such were the odd vine allowed to trail over a fence or the periodic whiff of a gardenia carried on the breeze. Otherwise, the surroundings were naught but stolid brick, wood, and dusty cobblestones. Even the slice of blue sky visible above seemed small and meager.

Approaching the T-junction with another lane, I turned to look behind me. For after I carried on from here, I would be boxed in. The mews ended at exactly the place I didn't wish to lead anyone. Here, once again, the places for concealment were minimal, but I stood watching the entrance to the mews until a motorcar passed along the street beyond. Then I turned and lengthened my stride—even though my shoes pinched—intent on reaching my destination. I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the place where the lane made an abrupt right turn, before moving directly toward the next to last gate in the wall on the left.

There, I paused, taking a deep breath and issuing myself a stern scolding. I hadn't seen or heard anything to indicate that I was being followed, yet like the greenest agent, I was allowing my nerves to get the better of me. Here in the mews, no one could see me or my jittery movements, but once I stepped through this gate, I would be exposed to the eyes of anyone who happened to look out from the upper windows of the neighboring homes. I had to appear exactly as I pretended to be—a care woman sent to look after the Coxes' house while they were away.

Setting my shoulders, I opened the gate and slid through, careful to latch it firmly behind me. Then I walked calmly up the path that bisected the overgrown garden and circumvented the piles of masonry situated to one side of the rear servants' entrance.

This area of Dublin was often more sparsely populated during the summer months—the owners and tenants having departed for their country estates or traveling abroad—but with the ongoing unrest and disturbances, it was even more deserted than normal. Many of those who did not need to be in Dublin because of civil obligations had fled to safer climes. The Coxes were just such people, abandoning their Upper Fitzwilliam Street home in the midst of a renovation, which had also ground to a halt. I supposed they didn't see the point in going to the expense of completing the task when the building might be damaged by either republicans or British forces. Whatever the case, it suited my purposes perfectly.

Entering the house, I made my way silently past the scullery and kitchen to the staircase. Several of the floorboards groaned loudly when stepped upon, but I'd learned to avoid them. I climbed three stories to the uppermost floor. A thick rug muffled my steps as I entered the bedchamber on the left.

The heavy drapes inside were pulled tight over the windows, blocking the light from the sun still high in the sky on this June evening. However, I had moved about in the chamber often enough in recent days to navigate the dim interior. I was crossing toward the tapestry hung low across the far wall when something shifted in the shadows to my right.

My heart kicked in my chest as I pivoted into a stance to meet my attacker. Only to be blinded by the sudden flare of a torch switched on, though I caught enough of a glimpse of the person holding it to identify him, before shying away.

I muttered a rather unladylike curse. "Bloody hell, Sidney."

"Apologies," my husband replied, lowering the beam to the floor.

I blinked, trying to clear the spots before my vision. "What are you doing here?"

"You were late, Verity," he stated almost accusingly. "And given all the excitement in the northern part of the city, I started to worry you'd been detained. I thought it best to at least come through to be sure there wasn't any trouble on this end."

I noted then that Sidney was already dressed in his evening attire, his dark hair that was prone to curl, ruthlessly tamed by pomade. "You heard about the raid at King's Inn, then?" I asked, reaching for the edges of the dusty tapestry, its floral motif unremarkable at best.

"The moment we returned to the city. Lawrence and Glengarry were furious."

It made sense that two British military officers would be angered by the news that one of their garrisons in the heart of Dublin had been successfully raided by the Irish Republican Army, the IRA. Or, as the British preferred to still call them, the Volunteers, not wishing to convey status upon them or make these rebel skirmishes sound any more warlike than they already were. But there was something in Sidney's tone, despite its seeming impassivity, that made me think there was far more he wasn't saying.

I lifted aside the tapestry to reveal a hole in the wall behind it. A hole that, quite fortuitously, the former contractors had accidentally knocked into it, leaving an opening between this upper story bedchamber and the one in the house next to it. That house happened to belong to the Courtneys, old acquaintances of our friend Max Westfield, the Earl of Ryde, who had been happy to rent the property to us for the duration of our stay in Dublin, as they had fled for warmer and calmer climes. The only contingency was that we had to either repair or tolerate the temporary hole, as well as any ongoing construction that might resume in the home next door.

Far from inconveniencing us, we'd privately been elated by the hole, as it would suit our purposes perfectly. Indeed, promptly upon our taking possession, Sidney and his valet and former batman, Nimble, had set about enlarging the hole and knocking out the back wooden panel of the wardrobe in the Courtneys' guest bedchamber before positioning it in front of the opening.

I gathered my skirts in my hand and began to scramble carefully through the hole and into the wardrobe before pushing open the doors to climb out the other side. Sidney soon joined me before reaching back inside to slide the coats hanging there back into place, concealing the hole. The tapestry on the other side served the same purpose.

We recognized our contrivances might not escape notice during an exhaustive raid by the British forces, which were perpetuated nearly nightly as they searched for revolutionaries, arms, and incriminating documents, but presumably our reputations and those of the loyalist Courtneys would offer us some protection against such an indignity being carried out. More pressingly, it was meant to mask our clandestine activities from the other members of our household staff we'd hired since our arrival in Dublin. They'd been told I was writing a book and that I wished not to be disturbed while I was working. Only Nimble was permitted on the upper story to tidy up or bring me tea. It was one instance in which my reputation for eccentricity came in handy.

"What time is it?" I asked Sidney, glancing about the room for a clock as I removed the coat I'd donned for my disguise.

"Gone half past six." He opened one of the drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe and took the garment from me to carefully fold it to be stored there. "And it will take at least a half an hour to reach the Viceregal Lodge. Probably longer."

I muttered another curse, struggling to hurry with my clothes. "Why couldn't this dinner have been scheduled for another night?"

"I hesitate to point out that you could have opted not to venture out today, knowing you would be pressed for time later," he declared lightly as he took my hat.

"How could I not?" I paused to demand. "We've already lost so much time," I bemoaned, turning back to the buttons of my blouse, with which I was growing increasingly frustrated. "Who knows what sort of trouble Alec has gotten himself into by now? Whether we'll ever be able to extract him. Blast it!" I raged, tugging at the hem of my top.

Sidney's hands reached out to still mine, before drawing me toward him.

"I'll smudge your coat," I sniffed, remembering at the last that I'd used a tinted cream to make my complexion sallow as part of my disguise, muting my normal glow of health.

He relented but his deep midnight-blue eyes continued to hold mine, steadying me. Only briefly did they dip to finish slipping the last button free on my blouse. "I take it you had little luck today."

"None," I grumbled, and then sighed, forcing myself to be honest. "But then, I didn't truly expect any. Not when such an effort takes time. Rushing would only place all of us at greater risk."

Few truer words had ever been spoken about intelligence work. But agents grew antsy, and superior officers demanded results too quickly. Such impatience had spoiled more operations and exposed more agents to suspicion—and at times death—than I could count.

"I only wish we could have begun sooner," I finished, sinking down on the edge of the bed to remove my shoes.

It had been nearly six weeks since we'd learned that my friend and former fellow spy, Captain Alec Xavier, had dropped out of contact with his handler. He'd been sent into Ireland by C, the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS, to infiltrate the republicans, and in particular, Michael Collins and his inner circle, if he could.

If anyone could do it, I was certain it was Alec. After all, the man had insinuated himself into the German Army years before the war had even begun and masqueraded as a staff officer among their ranks in Brussels. I'd worked with him multiple times and was fully aware of his capabilities. He was a master at shifting personas and concealing his thoughts, his legendary charm smoothing over any rough patches.

But Alec wasn't without his faults, and Michael Collins, a member of the executive council of Sinn Féin—the Irish nationalist political party controlling Ireland's shadow government—and the director of intelligence for the Irish Republican Army, was no ordinary target. For one, Alec could be rash and reckless, sometimes failing to look before he leaped. For another, he was provocative, enjoying stirring the pot. This characteristic might go over well with these Irishmen, who seemed to give as good as they got. But then again, it might just as surely get him killed.

I couldn't stop thinking of the look in his eyes the last time I'd seen him in London when he'd hinted that he would be sent to Dublin. That I might be also. There had been something unmoored, something that made me fear he wouldn't be as careful as he'd been in the past.

It hadn't eased my concerns when Byrnes, the agent Sir Basil Thomson, the director of intelligence for the Home Office, had sent to catch Collins, had instead been killed by his quarry—or more likely, by members of Collins's intelligence staff—and then exposed as the spy he was. I'd never had the same confidence in Brynes that Thomson did, but it was still a shock to hear, and had increased my apprehension for Alec.

So when C had reached out through his secretary to inform me that Alec had disappeared, neither I nor Sidney had required much convincing to travel to Dublin to try to discover what had happened, albeit in an unofficial capacity. Of course, all of this was further complicated by the fact that Alec had not been sent to Ireland at Thomson's behest, but rather C's. As such, he hadn't been working in conjunction with the intelligence service at Dublin Castle or the intelligence officers who worked under the political branch in the G Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. Consequently, neither were Sidney and I.

Sidney sat down beside me. "You couldn't help the fact that Groβtante Ilse passed away just as we were preparing to leave London. No one could," he reminded me gently.

My beloved great-aunt's death hadn't been a shock, for we'd known because of her illness that she was living on borrowed time, but it had still struck me like a blow, and the timing couldn't have been worse.

"You would never have forgiven yourself if you'd missed her funeral," he murmured. "And neither would your mother."

I grimaced, knowing this to be true. Relations with my family, particularly my mother, had been strained when I hadn't returned home to Yorkshire to mourn when my brother, Rob, was killed. But then we had been in the middle of a war, and my intelligence work had taken precedence. Work I was forbidden by the Defense of the Realm Act from ever telling my family about. Sidney had only found out because of the indiscretion of a colleague. But while my duties at the Secret Service had been important, my inability to accept the finality of Rob's death had been as much a factor.

However, I had since accepted the truth and reconciled with my family, and I was reluctant to shatter that amnesty. Though that hadn't stopped me from feeling conflicted while we remained in Yorkshire, and acutely aware of the passing of time and the fact that Alec could be in trouble. Eventually we couldn't delay the matter any longer. Not when the updates from C were increasingly discouraging.

When we'd made our excuses for our departure, most of my family had assumed the reason we were bound for Dublin was because of Sidney. After all, he was a decorated war hero, having received the Victoria Cross, as well as the heir presumptive to his uncle's marquessate. In their minds, I supposed it seemed natural that he'd been asked to consult with the military on the Irish situation. A notion we didn't disabuse them of. Only my older brother Freddy had eyed me askance, letting me know he suspected at least part of the truth, but I knew he would never breathe a word to the others.

Sidney's arm wrapped around my waist. "But perhaps more importantly you need to hear that Xavier would not begrudge you our delay."

My chest tightened, wanting to believe him. "That's easy to say now, but what if we discover the worst?"

Sidney shook his head. "Don't take on that burden. Not when we don't yet know what's happened to him. He could very well be hale and hearty, just unable to pass his intelligence reports the usual way. We could hear any day now that he found another way to get in contact with C."

I had to concede this was possible, but it did little to ease my mind.