CHAPTER 17

W ick had given me much to think on. So much that I almost missed the look of distress on Ginny's features as she hovered in the entry hall. Only when I heard hobbling footsteps mounting the stairs from below, ones which didn't belong to Nimble, did I look up. Ginny shuffled from foot to foot, her eyes ringed red as if she'd been crying, as Mrs. Boyle—our cook who never climbed the stairs if she could help it—came to a stop beside her.

"Did ye tell her?" she asked the maid in her rolling Irish brogue.

A trickle of alarm spread through me. "Tell me what?"

The cook scowled at Ginny. "'Tis Mr. Nimble. They took him away."

The breath in my lungs tightened. " Who took him away?"

"The Tans," Ginny sobbed. "A pair of 'em, they was pesterin' me on my way back from the baker." She swiped at her cheeks. "Mrs. Boyle sent me to fetch a loaf of bread . . ."

"The one they sold me this morn' wasn't fit for a sow," the cook grumbled with a shake of her head.

"And Nimble must've been watchin' for me, because the next thing I knew, he came chargin' down the street, tellin' 'em to leave me be."

"I see," I said. And I did. Nimble would never abide a man mistreating a woman of any class. It was one of the instances which might provoke him enough not to mind his tongue, even when it would be wiser if he had.

Mrs. Boyle planted her hands on her hips, declaring in approval, "He's a good lad."

A fact I didn't think any of us would dispute, but it didn't tell me where they'd taken Nimble.

"What did they do?" I asked Ginny.

It took her a moment to stammer. "They . . . they started beatin' 'im." She hiccupped on a sob. "Called over some friends."

I pressed a hand to my mouth.

"Then threw him into one o' those lorries and took off with him. I'm so sorry," she blubbered, weeping in earnest.

I grasped her hand, shaking my head in agitation. Of course, it wasn't her fault, but there were more important things to be dealt with at the moment. "How long ago did they take him? And where?"

"No more than half an hour," Mrs. Boyle said. "As to where? Perhaps the Castle." She nearly spat the word.

She was probably right. If the men had been Black and Tans, then they wouldn't have taken him to the local DMP station. Dublin Castle or one of the local barracks were most likely their destination, but the Castle could tell me for certain. A swift glance at the clock told me Sidney would be home within the hour from Phoenix Park where he'd gone riding, but I couldn't wait that long.

"When Mr. Kent returns, tell him where I've gone," I ordered, snatching up my handbag and gloves again. "Tell him to come."

"But what are you goin' to do?" Mrs. Boyle asked as I turned toward the door.

The look in my eyes when I glanced back must have been frightening, for they both shrunk back half a step. "Bring Nimble home."

* * *

"I don't give a damn about your protocols," I snapped at the senior guard at the gate to Dublin Castle. "I was here not four days ago." I swiveled to point at a man standing behind him to the left. " You saw me enter." And then another to the right. "And you saw me enter. I am Verity Kent. Wife of Sidney Kent, recipient of the Victoria Cross for his service to his country, and heir presumptive to his uncle, the Marquess of Treborough." I narrowed my eyes, biting off my words. "My bonafides are quite above reproach. And I want to speak to a senior officer now. Not when one is available. Not when an appointment can be arranged. Now ."

"For God's sake, let her through," a thin-lipped gentleman of about forty grumbled. "She's not going to bomb the Records Tower or assassinate the chief secretary."

Still the senior guard resisted, and in another situation I might have admired his devotion to duty, but not now. Not when I was imagining increasingly awful things happening to Nimble with each passing minute.

"Will you vouch for her, sir?" the guard finally asked.

"Yes, yes," he retorted, ushering me before him. "Come with me, my dear. Now, who were you so anxious to see?" he asked as we passed through the inner door and into the Lower Castle Yard.

"A senior officer. I don't know precisely which one. My husband's valet was assaulted and arrested by a group of temporary cadets. He was coming to the aid of our maid, who they were pestering," I explained. "Mr. Kent is at Phoenix Park this afternoon, and Nimble is our only male servant. He takes his job rather seriously in his absence, protecting all the women of the household. I want him released."

The gentleman frowned. "Did he strike the cadets?"

"Absolutely not," I stated with conviction. I knew Nimble well enough to recognize he would never have turned violent, despite what his size might suggest. "He was angry, of course, but he did not express himself physically."

The gentleman continued to grimace, and I felt compelled to offer Nimble further defense. "He served as my husband's batman during the war and was injured at Riqueval."

He nodded. "Yes, I see." He gripped his attaché case tighter. "Come with me." We turned right, striding past the Treasury Office to that of the constabulary.

While not exactly leaping to attention, the men loitering inside clearly recognized the gentleman with me as one of some authority, for they rose to their feet as we passed through several outer rooms. Coming upon a partially closed door, he rapped before entering unprompted. "Smith, Mrs. Verity Kent wishes to speak with you. Apparently, her manservant was arrested under what may be faulty circumstances. The chap served with her husband, Mr. Sidney Kent ." He leaned on my husband's name for emphasis, but I hardly noticed it or the man he was addressing, for my gaze had been captured by the other fellow in the room—O.

He scrutinized me through his monocle. "Clever of you to go to Wylie," he declared before Smith could even speak.

So the helpful gentleman was William Wylie, a barrister who acted as a legal advisor to the Dublin Castle administration. That was a bit of luck.

Wylie scowled at O. "I met her in the guardhouse, and I must say her claims are concerning." This last he addressed to Smith, who must be the man with the authority to amend this error. The name plate on his desk read Inspector General T. J. Smith, and I realized this must be the fellow they expected to retire shortly, and who they'd brought General Tudor in to replace, though for now Tudor was nominally a police advisor.

"I suppose this is regarding your husband's valet, who calls himself Nimble," O interrupted once again, to Smith's obvious irritation. "The man I was just telling you about," O informed him, either oblivious to or uncaring of his annoyance. "But truly, you must calm yourself, Mrs. Kent. You're clearly agitated and that can't be good for you in your delicate condition ." His voice was laced with a mockery the other men seemed to miss, though they got the inference. They both eyed me with alarm, as if I might go into labor at any moment, though it must have been perfectly obvious I couldn't be far along. Evidently Bennett had spoken with O. "Would you like a chair?"

"What I would like," I replied icily, "is to not have to come down here to retrieve the manservant on whom I rely." I turned to the white-haired Smith. "Then he's been brought here?" I asked, relieved to discover that at least this guess was correct. "I want him released. Two of your temporary cadets were harassing my maid. He was merely coming to her assistance when they first assaulted and then arrested him." It took everything within me to restrain my rage and remember to use the polite official terms the government insisted upon.

"Yes, we were just discussing that," Smith replied. "My men are accusing him of attacking them first."

"Balderdash!" I stated, allowing my temper to get the better of me for a moment. "Nimble is a law-abiding British citizen. He may have gotten angry. Your men were pestering an innocent young woman under our employ and protection. As such, he may have raised his voice, but he would never have raised his fist to them."

"He's an awfully large fellow, Mrs. Kent."

I glared at Smith, speaking in a carefully modulated tone lest my words sound like the threat I wanted to make. "Size is not always indicative of capability."

"And your maid is an informant for the shinners," O murmured silkily.

This was no more than I suspected, though I didn't take it as confirmation. From everything I'd heard about O, he was precisely the type to lie as he saw fit in order to sew discord. He expected outrage and anger, no doubt. So instead, I scoffed.

"An informant? On what? Our clothing? The latest on-dit for the gossip rags?" I shook my head and even managed to summon a chuckle.

"You and your husband have some rather highly placed friends," O countered.

"Perhaps, but our staff and the townhouse we're renting here in Dublin are both rather modest. We're not doing any entertaining. So where exactly this maid of ours is supposed to collect information for the IRA, I don't know."

"And you're conducting an investigation on behalf of the lord lieutenant."

This appeared to be news to both Wylie and Smith, but I wasn't about to let it disconcert me. Instead, I stood blinking at O in feigned confusion. "And? Oh, wait. I see. You think we're foolish enough to leave papers lying around or discuss pertinent details in front of our staff." I smiled at him as if he were a simpleton, which was perhaps a mistake. But I rather enjoyed watching the vein throb at his temple.

"You worked for the Secret Service during the war," O bit out, finally succeeding in shocking me as well as the others. Though not because he knew of my role with military intelligence, but rather because he'd spoken of it in front of two men who almost certainly were not authorized to know such things. The Official Secrets Act forbade any such disclosure.

"Colonel Winter, I believe you must have me confused with someone else," I responded calmly, fairly confident I was reading the disapproval now blossoming across the other men's features correctly. "I worked for an import-export company who transported supplies for our troops."

I could see the blistering retort quivering on O's lips, but he must have realized he'd stepped in it, remaining broodingly silent as Wylie turned his back on him to address Smith again.

"Are there any other charges against this Mr. Nimble?"

Nimble was not his real name, but I didn't disabuse him of this and muddy the issue.

"No. Only assault," Smith replied.

"Then, under the circumstances, I recommend you drop the charges and release Mr. Nimble to Mrs. Kent." Wylie turned to me with arched eyes. "I trust we will have no trouble from Mr. Nimble in the future."

"So long as your men do not harass any of the female members of my staff," I answered tartly.

I wanted to demand the Tans who had assaulted Nimble be punished, but I recognized when retreat was necessary. If I pressed the matter, they might refuse to release Nimble, and if the matter went to arbitration, the word of those Tans would be believed to be more valid than that of our maid or most other witnesses. However, I was not about to sacrifice Ginny or Mrs. Boyle's safety. Nimble wouldn't want that.

The inspector general appeared as if he might argue, but then nodded his head in assent.

"This is highly irregular," O complained. "The fellow should be questioned first. By protocol." He turned to look at me, narrowing his eyes. "He may know things."

About us was the clear unspoken threat.

"What things?" Smith demanded.

"About this maid, for instance. Perhaps he's noticed things about her that her employers are too . . . obtuse to see."

I arched a single eyebrow at him in disdain. Obtuse, indeed.

However, I was dismayed to see that Smith was considering it. If necessary, I would threaten to go over his head, straight to Lord French. O had already mentioned our relationship to him. But first I waited to see what he would do.

Wylie shook his head at Smith, demonstrating that at least one of them had sense.

A moment later, Smith relented. "It will take a few minutes to get the paperwork in order. Perhaps you would be so good as to escort Mrs. Kent where she might have a cup of tea," he told Wylie.

The tightness in my lungs eased a fraction, but I knew I wouldn't breathe easier until Nimble was actually walking out of the gate with me.

* * *

Though only ten minutes had passed since Wylie had left me in some sort of lounge, I found myself watching the clock anxiously. I'd managed to stomach a sip or two of tea, but the rest grew cold as I waited for Nimble. Smith had promised he would be brought to me within a quarter of an hour, and there were still five minutes to go, but still my gaze darted between the door and the clock.

The trouble was, I didn't trust O. Didn't trust him even when I could see him.

"The snake," I muttered to myself, not realizing I'd actually said it out loud until I heard the muffled giggle behind me.

I turned to find a woman preparing herself a cup of tea. The same woman, in fact, who I'd noticed across the Lower Castle Yard just a few days earlier. I hadn't heard her enter, but she must have come quietly through the door on the far end.

"You must be speakin' of Colonel Winter," she told me with a conspiratorial grin. "We all think he's rather reptilian."

And by all I suspected she meant all the female staff, but perhaps some of the males as well.

I smiled in return. "One expects a forked tongue to dart out at any moment to clean that ridiculous monocle."

She laughed merrily as she finished pouring hot water over the tea leaves in her cup. "I'd like to see the like. Oh, but that's a good one. I'll have to tell the other girls." Her voice had a lovely lilt. She turned to face me, brushing aside a strand of wavy dark hair that had begun to fall loose from its pins. "I'm Nancy, by the way. Nancy O'Brien."

"Verity Kent."

"Aye." Her eyes twinkled in good humor. "I've seen your picture in the papers."

"Well, don't hold that against me," I jested and she laughed again.

"That's somethin' they don't write about ye. How witty ye are."

I shrugged a shoulder. "Most of the reporters are men. And those that aren't, are usually told to focus on my appearance."

"It's what sells papers."

My voice turned wry. "Apparently."

"How do ye know the colonel, then?" she asked in a softer voice, moving closer while her tea was steeping. "They don't have ye workin' in his department, do they?"

"No, the Tans arrested my husband's valet for defending our maid from their pestering." Renewed anger sparked inside me. "The colonel didn't wish to release him."

This appeared to have bemused Nancy, for it took her a moment to reply. And then it wasn't what I expected.

"Did ye best him?"

I allowed some of the enjoyment I had felt at vexing him to infuse my expression. "Of course."

Nancy grinned.

"What of you? Are you a clerk? A typist?"

"Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that," she answered evasively.

I nodded, turning away, ostensibly to study the door. "I did much the same during the war." Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her studying me curiously. A curiosity that I hoped would keep her from examining my next request too closely.

"I know this might seem an odd remark," I said. "But I don't have a lot of friends here in Dublin. Not ones that aren't fusty and all consumed with their own consequence." I turned to look at her. "But you seem intelligent and fun. Would you want to meet me for a drink sometime?"

I could hear voices outside the door and turned toward them eagerly.

"Sure," Nancy said, drawing my attention back to her. She smirked. "Why not?"

I smiled in return, but I was too anxious for Nimble to feel much elation at securing Nancy's agreement. "I'll send you a message," I told her, rising to my feet as the door opened.

A lanky constable entered first and then stepped to the side to allow Nimble's larger frame past him.

The first thing I noted was the swelling contusion around his eye. I gasped, hurrying over to him, and grasped the sides of his face, turning it this way and that. There was dried blood at his hairline where they'd reopened part of his scar. Blood they'd evidently tried to clean up, considering the dampness of his hair and his collar.

"Ye don't need to make a fuss over me, ma'am," Nimble protested. "I'll be alright."

"I most certainly do! Where else did they strike you?"

But Nimble wouldn't answer, and the lanky constable, who was so young he still suffered from acne, only avoided my eyes. It was doubtful he'd had anything to do with what happened anyway. He'd simply been sent as the scapegoat, so to speak.

"Has a doctor examined you?"

"Aye," Nimble mumbled.

An army one, no doubt. One who would pronounce him fit even if he was bleeding all over the floor.

"Well, we'll have you checked by our own."

"That's not ne—"

"It is," I told Nimble, not brooking any arguments.

"Yes, ma'am," he relented, clearly in some sort of pain.

"Now, let's get you home."

One last glance over my shoulder told me Nancy had observed this exchange, but I ignored her, intent on seeing Nimble safely back to Upper Fitzwilliam Street. I half expected to find O standing outside the constabulary, gloating, but cooler heads must have prevailed, convincing him to remain out of sight. It was a good thing, too. Because I just might have risked being brought up on charges myself for slapping the look off his face.

We shuffled past the guards, who eyed us solemnly, and out the door to Palace Street. By all appearances, Nimble was escorting me, but I could sense the strain it caused him just to walk. I felt tears bite at the back of my eyes but blinked them away. I would not weep. Not when Nimble needed me to keep a clear head and navigate us through this late afternoon traffic. We would have to take the tram, though it would be crowded.

I was just debating where it would be best to catch it when Sidney appeared in front of us in the middle of Dame Street. He took one look at both our faces and assumed command of the situation. I didn't object or try to explain. Not then. I simply accepted his assistance.