CHAPTER 2

T wenty minutes later, give or take a minute or two, we were speeding south down Pembroke Street in Sidney's Pierce-Arrow, drawing looks from those we passed. It was difficult, after all, to remain inconspicuous tooling about in a carmine-red roadster, especially one that was the envy of many a motorist.

Before our arrival in Dublin, Sidney and I had discussed at length the best approach to our investigation here. Since it seemed unlikely we could pass unnoticed for long—our faces having graced the pages of newspapers the world over, both the society columns and in relation to some of our investigations exposing treason and murderers—it had seemed foolish to even attempt it. Besides, why cut off your nose to spite your face? We could gather what information we could as social darlings, gaining access to people and places most could not, while simultaneously masquerading as lower middle-class Irish to learn what we could from the streets.

It also gave us the added benefit of hiding in plain sight. After all, who would ever suspect two virtual celebrities of being intelligence operatives? The very suggestion seemed laughable. Or at least, I hoped it seemed so, to the rebels and Dublin Castle alike. The true nature of my intelligence work during the war had only ever been known by a few, so even if someone at the Castle knew of my past involvement, it was doubtful they believed me capable of more than typing and translating.

So, subscribing to the notion of in for a penny, in for a pound, we'd decided to ship Sidney's Pierce-Arrow to Ireland, as well as pack some of my more glamorous clothing. Such as my current gown of emerald satin which was covered in a black beaded lace overlay with a cape that gathered and fell from my shoulders, and highlighted rather than concealed the scooped back of the satin underlayer. The evening being a fine one, Sidney had opted to lower the roadster's roof, which helped to blow-dry the dampness at my hairline from my harried ablutions. It would also provide me with a ready excuse for the unruliness of my auburn bobbed waves.

Sidney navigated around Royal University and Harcourt Railway Station, bound for the South Circular Road that would skirt the edge of Dublin just inside the ring of the Grand Canal. In the distance, we could see the blue smudge of the Dublin Mountains. We passed numerous bicycles, a couple of horse-drawn carts, and a tram, but there were few motorcars occupying the road alongside ours, at least in comparison with London. It was undoubtedly due to the lingering effect of the protests over the implementation of motor permits late the previous year by Dublin Castle—the British government's seat of power in Ireland. Not only were drivers required to have a license, they also must display a permit with their personal details and photograph. It was all part of the effort to thwart the rebels from using motorcars for their illegal purposes. Though, that hadn't stopped the raiders at King's Inn from loading their confiscated arms and ammunition into two motorcars as they made their getaway.

The farther west we swept, circling the outskirts of the city, the more rural our surroundings became. The landscape was dotted with trees, fields, and an old mill, as well as a few quarries. We also passed several of the military barracks that dotted the outer edges of Dublin, as many of them were built close to the canals, which more or less formed a ring around the city, allowing them to be easily resupplied.

Sidney honked the horn jauntily to a pair of army lorries we passed outside the gates to Wellington Barracks. Several of the soldiers hung over the sides to wave and gesture, probably more interested in my husband's Pierce-Arrow than the two of us. I smiled reflexively as we hurtled past, but an uneasiness stole over me as I watched the lorries recede in the wing mirror. For all that those boys were ours and would have drawn good cheer and well wishes back home in Britain or along the pockmarked roads of northeastern France near the Western Front, this was Ireland.

There—in Britain and France and Belgium—they'd been wanted. Here, a large proportion of the population resented their presence. They didn't stand and smile and wave when those soldiers and their like—the so-called Black and Tans, drafted to supplement the dwindling ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary—rolled through the streets of the city in their lorries and tenders on patrol or bound for some building to be raided. Rather, the Dubliners cowered, or scattered, or jeered and hurled cabbages at them. They viewed the troops less as their protectors and liberators and more as occupiers.

"You've gone quiet," Sidney remarked.

I didn't want to share my troubled thoughts. So instead, I occupied myself with tying a scarf around my head. My hair had seen enough wind, and I hoped the covering would tame it at least to some degree.

When I didn't respond, he took to probing more directly. "So what route did you elect to take today?"

We'd already discussed the matter at length, but given the struggle I'd had just convincing him to allow me to venture out alone in disguise, I wasn't surprised he wanted to know if I'd deviated from the plan. Never mind that I'd already acceded that, from a strategic standpoint, it made sense for him to know where I was, lest any problems arise. After all, Sidney and I were the only reinforcements each other had.

"I stuck to the scheme," I said. "But I also realized rather quickly that it's faulty. Wandering about the city for hours on end isn't likely to gain me anything but aching feet. So, instead, I chose a few locations Alec mentioned in his earlier reports. Places where he suspected the proprietors of being sympathetic to the republican cause or where he'd witnessed some of the rebels gather."

"Which locations?" he inquired, not sounding as satisfied with this course of action as I was.

I adjusted the Indian shawl draped around my shoulders. "Vaughan's Hotel, Rutland Square, the Wicklow, and St. Stephen's Green."

"Won't your turning up there repeatedly draw suspicion?"

"A respectable young woman new to the city, minding her own business? I think not."

As a rule, men discounted women, especially when they weren't behaving disreputably. It was why we made such excellent agents, regardless of the prejudiced prevailing opinion about women throughout the service. I liked to believe C was different, but truth be told, I wasn't certain he even fully appreciated my abilities, despite the fact he continued to trust me with these clandestine assignments. But of course, I'd been the one to first seek his assistance on an urgent matter pertaining to my war work, and every inquiry since then had been an extenuation of that.

I'd been demobilized more than a year ago, along with most of the other women who'd served in the intelligence services during the war. Demobbed and told to go home and keep our mouths shut. Which we did, despite the aspersions some of the officers had cast to the contrary. So every assignment I'd taken from C since then was not officially sanctioned.

Sidney turned to look at me briefly. "You didn't ask any questions, then?"

"Of course, not." I waited to explain until he'd maneuvered the motorcar around a cart piled high with hay. "Nothing would be certain to draw suspicion faster and seal their lips tighter. Better to be reserved and quiet, but polite. Unthreatening. Then they'll either begin to forget I'm there, and hopefully let something slip within my hearing, or grow curious and start asking questions themselves."

"And you can play the damsel in distress?" he surmised.

"Fretting about my missing ‘cousin,' and uncertain how to go about looking for him? Yes," I confirmed, referring to the story we'd concocted about Alec's relation to me. We couldn't exactly go about telling people we were looking for a missing British Intelligence officer. "It may take more time to achieve results, but it will be safer and more effective in the long run."

Not to mention the fact that it would give me a chance to better attune my ear to the Irish vernacular and perfect my accent. Relying on my current ability, I was afraid I would give myself away if I uttered more than a few words at a time. In Belgium, I'd never feared detection because I'd grown up speaking French and German with a Walloon accent, as we'd frequently visited my Groβtante Ilse, who'd lived just over the border in Westphalia, Germany. But the Irish dialect was unfamiliar to me, and even with as good an ear as I had for languages, I knew I had much to learn.

"You have thought this out."

The surprise in his voice sparked my irritation. "Yes, shocking, I suppose, considering I've done this a time or two."

My derisive quip seemed to have landed squarely, for a few seconds later his hand reached out to grip mine. "Sorry, Ver. I know I should have more faith in you, and I do . But . . ." He broke off, grimacing as he struggled to explain himself. "The stakes have changed, haven't they?" He darted a glance at me. "I mean, I wasn't with you behind enemy lines during the war. I didn't have to watch you evade the Germans and their grasping fingers. I didn't even know it was happening much of the time. And our investigations since then have been more about avoiding a few nefarious figures, not potentially an entire populace full of them."

"I'm not going to do anything foolish, Sidney," I assured him. "We're here to find Alec. Once that's done . . ." I couldn't finish the sentence, knowing the matter wasn't as straightforward as I wished.

We drove on in brooding silence for a few minutes before Sidney dared to break it. "To tell you the truth, I thought Alec would contact us himself by now. Or at least, that he'd contact you. After all, we haven't exactly been keeping a low profile." He gestured to indicate the Pierce-Arrow and I supposed all the conspicuous trappings of our life.

I didn't want to admit it, but I'd expected the same. And it troubled me. Surely if Alec were alive, if he were able to reach out, he would have done so once he'd realized we were in Dublin. Which meant that either he was in another part of the country, or more worrying, he was unable to approach us either because of injury, some sort of incarceration, or . . . death.

I'd considered the possibility that he no longer trusted me—that that was the reason he hadn't made contact—but I'd swiftly rejected it. When his position within the German Army had been compromised and he was in danger of being detained and summarily executed, I'd ventured back into Belgium at great personal risk to extract him and guide him to safety back in Holland. That wasn't something someone forgot.

"He hasn't, has he?" Sidney asked, interrupting my agitated thoughts. "Contacted you?" he clarified.

I scowled. "No."

Sidney's gaze locked with mine for a short moment before turning back to the road.

I wanted to begrudge him the question, but I couldn't entirely fault him. It would be like Alec to reach out to me privately and not Sidney. Because of our past and our mutual rapport, operating undercover together in the German-occupied territories. And because I'd once shared his bed during the dark days after I'd learned of my husband's alleged death.

For fifteen months, Sidney had allowed me to believe he was dead as he recovered from a nearly fatal bullet wound delivered by a fellow British officer, and then pursued a nest of traitors. We had since worked to heal the hurt of that betrayal, as well as some of my own, including my very short-lived intimate relationship with Alec. It had not been easy, and Sidney and I still had a distance to go, but we now knew that our bond would not break, and our marriage was the stronger for it.

However, relations between Sidney and Alec were complicated, to say the least. So sometimes Alec strove to avoid the inevitable tension by communicating with just me. Nonetheless my husband should have known I would never keep such a thing from him.

I scrutinized his profile—his square, resolute jaw and high cheekbones—trying to decipher what he was thinking. Sidney had always been good at masking his thoughts, keeping himself in a constant state of vigilance—a holdover from the war. He presented himself as an easygoing man-about-town to others, but I knew better. Only in sleep did he relax. And sometimes not even then.

"There's also the matter of those phosgene cylinders," Sidney said as he decelerated into a sharp turn.

As if I could forget. We'd learned about the missing poisonous gas nearly seven months ago, and while we'd recently confirmed they'd been taken to Ireland, all trace of them had since vanished, despite numerous sources—including Alec—searching for them. The idea of them being used against either the military or the populace here featured prominently in my most recent nightmares.

But I didn't want to discuss them now. Not when I had to play the role of the sparkling socialite in short order. So I ignored the loaded comment and instead posed a question of my own. "What of you? Did you have any luck today?"

"With the horses? Yes." He adjusted his hands on the driving wheel. "But not with the rest."

"Your chums didn't have anything interesting to say?"

"Not anything worth repeating," he muttered.

Though I was curious, his voice forbade prying, and for once I obeyed.

Since arriving in Dublin, Sidney had discovered a number of his acquaintances had been stationed here, either in military or civil service positions, and we'd decided it would be good for him to make contact with them. He'd attended a race meeting with a pair of them today while I'd ventured out in disguise.

"Well, if you managed to win more than you lost, then I suppose you at least didn't embarrass yourself as you feared," I murmured lightly.

Horse racing was not of great interest to my husband. Yet, here in Ireland, horse racing was a celebrated pastime, especially for gentlemen with money to throw around. Now, if they'd been racing motorcars, then Sidney would have been as keen as mustard. But there was a reason he had enlisted as an infantry officer and not in the cavalry.

Thank God for it! The cavalry corps had suffered horrendous losses during the war, and essentially been rendered obsolete by the middle of the conflict, for a cavalry charge could not hope to withstand a machine gun barrage.

Even so, like most gentlemen, Sidney had been taught to ride at a young age and could acquit himself quite admirably in the saddle. In fact, he was an expert polo player. With that came a knowledge about horses which allowed him to at least enjoy the feat of the thoroughbreds, and saved him from making any foolish remarks.

The tension he was holding in his shoulders seemed to ease a fraction as he tossed an affectionate look my way. "I did well enough."

Wry amusement curled my lips, for I knew that look. "By which you mean you came out ahead of them both."

He shrugged with a self-satisfied smirk.

Crossing over the River Liffey, we finally came in sight of Phoenix Park. The massive park at the northwestern edge of Dublin housed numerous important buildings, including the Viceregal Lodge, the Chief Secretary's Lodge, and the Magazine Fort, as well as operating as a garden and green space for Dublin's residents. As Sidney navigated a series of turns, I scrutinized the wide variety of trees, shrubs, and flowers in the flush of June. A towering obelisk—a memorial to Wellington—dominated one plain near the central avenue.

At the outer edge of the park, numerous military and constabulary installations overlooked the otherwise peaceful setting, including barracks, a military hospital, and the headquarters of the Royal Irish Constabulary—the RIC. As Sidney stopped to allow an electric tram before us to disgorge its passengers, we noticed a perimeter of soldiers blocking the entrance to the park. Having yet to visit this part of Dublin, I didn't know whether their presence was typical, or if the lord lieutenant's dinner party had prompted extra security measures. Of course, there was one other explanation.

"I suppose the raid at King's Inn has them on high alert," Sidney remarked softly.

"As I understand it, the Volunteers got away with a number of weapons," I replied, joining Sidney in his scrutiny of the troops.

"Rifles, hand grenades, and over a thousand rounds of ammunition. Not to mention two machine guns."

My eyebrows arched skyward, and I was about to ask him how he'd come by this information so quickly, when we began moving forward again. I supposed the answer was obvious. Lawrence and Glengarry must have been informed by their colleagues on their return to Dublin, and Sidney had overheard.

He pasted a pleasant expression on his face as we rolled to a stop before the cordon. "Good evening, Captain. What seems to be the trouble?"

"Shinners, sir," the officer who stepped forward replied, using one of the derogatory names applied to the rebels. It was a corruption of the dominant Irish nationalist political party's name, whose members had formed their own government in early 1919 and declared themselves representatives of the Irish Republic rather than taking their seats in the British Parliament. Sinn Féin was pronounced "shin fayn," from which was derived the slurs "shinner" and "shins." Though it was the IRA who formed the fighting branch of the rebellion, and who had caused the trouble at King's Inn that day, most British didn't bother to distinguish between the political rhetoric and the army, instead lumping them all together. Indeed, there was much crossover. But while most of the fighting men in the Irish Republican Army also supported Sinn Féin, not all members of Sinn Féin espoused the tactics of the IRA.

"Now, surely, you don't suspect me of concealing weapons in the boot," Sidney quipped.

Several of the soldiers eyeing the Pierce-Arrow appreciatively chuckled, but the officer didn't appear amused. "It's merely a matter of form, sir. These shinners are sly little devils."

"Of course," Sidney replied good-naturedly.

"I suppose you're on your way to the dinner at the Viceregal Lodge, Mr. Kent," the officer remarked casually, letting us know he was aware of who we were. There was a glint of something akin to disapproval in his eyes as he turned to gesture for his soldiers to let us through. "Best hurry, or they'll begin without you."

Sidney reached for the shifter, and turned away, all but dismissing the man as he eased his foot off the break. "That's doubtful."

I was unused to my husband displaying such arrogance, even though he wasn't wrong. But then the officer had plainly gotten under his skin. In truth, I was equally surprised by the officer's reaction to Sidney. Most soldiers—most men, in general—seemed to revere my husband. He'd always been the type of man that others wanted the good opinion of, and his status as a war hero had only increased that. But the captain had clearly been unimpressed.

As we motored down the lane which cut through the center of Phoenix Park, I debated whether to say anything, but Sidney already knew what I was thinking.

"He was suspicious."

I turned to him in mild alarm. "What do you mean?"

"Of why I'm here. In Dublin," he clarified.

"I don't know why he should care."

Sidney sighed as we passed the turn to the Zoological Gardens. "Because I'm Sidney Kent, the War Office's golden child," he scoffed. "And why on earth would they send me to God-forsaken Ireland unless there was a good reason. One that officer isn't sure he'll like."

"Except the War Office didn't send you."

"No, but he didn't know that. And if he did, then he'd only assume that means the director of intelligence sent me. In either case, that officer and others like him are suspicious."

I pondered this for a moment. It had seemed inevitable that there would be some who questioned our presence here, but I'd expected it more from the officials we were about to encounter at the lord lieutenant's dinner than the general rank and file.

"Did we make the wrong decision?" I asked, pressing my hands to the smooth leather seat. "Should we have tried to conceal our being here?"

"Only to come under even greater suspicion once our presence was inevitably discovered?" Sidney shook his head. "No, Ver."

"But if our own men think you've been sent by either the War Office or Intelligence, then some of the rebels are bound to think so, too. What if they come after you?"

"They won't," he pronounced with quiet certainty.

"You can't know that."

"I can," he countered stubbornly before adding, "but if they do, they won't live to regret it."

I took this to mean he was carrying his Luger pistol with him about town despite the restrictions against civilians doing so. I supposed he was counting on his connections and social standing to smooth over any difficulties.

"Is that wise?" I asked him, referring to his gun.

He turned to look at me. "I wish you would carry one. Just a small pocket pistol. It would make me feel better."

I sat back, frustration simmering inside me at his bullheaded obstinance. "In my experience, guns only create complications. I operated quite effectively inside German-occupied Belgium and France without a pistol." Where civilian-owned weapons had also been banned, and grounds for immediate arrest if not summary execution. "And I shall operate just as effectively without one here."

I felt Sidney's gaze on me but remained resolutely turned away. His refusal to understand that I was better equipped to confront the challenges of our current task continued to rankle. Ireland might still be part of the British Empire, but a significant portion of her population was at war with her British overseers. Our leaders could publicly deny it all they wanted, but this was no simple disaffection. And the fact that the government continued to mobilize more of the Crown Forces, even supplementing the ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary to help combat the rebels, only confirmed they knew this.

This wasn't a conflict of clearly delineated lines and battle fronts, but one of shadows and stealth. Sidney, like the British government, might wish to contort the dispute and force it back into the nice, tidy rows of direct confrontation that the Crown Forces and her civil authorities excelled at countering, but thus far the Irish rebels had proved too savvy to let themselves be pressured into doing so. Which meant that Dublin Castle and the Crown Forces needed to adapt— Sidney needed to adapt—to this new form of rebellion, or they hadn't a hope of effectively counteracting it.

Maybe it was a mistake to divide and conquer. To send Sidney off to gather what information he could from his military and civil government contacts rather than accompany me on my forays to republican gathering places. But I knew my husband would immediately draw suspicion. He hadn't the acting skills I did, nor my facility for dialects, and they would see through any disguise he adopted in minutes. I'd laughed myself silly upon hearing his attempt to speak with an Irish accent. Any chance of gathering valuable intelligence with him by my side seemed slim to none.

So for the time being it seemed we had no choice but to operate separately. Nonetheless, I was wary of his military acquaintances' influence on him. I could only hope that whatever mulishness he picked up from them could be counteracted, and that it wouldn't get him killed.