CHAPTER 28

I 'd lost him again, and I was thoroughly sick of it and myself. For this time, I only had myself to blame.

Collins had been headed northeast, crossing the Royal Canal in the direction of Clontarf when I'd allowed my attention to wander. We'd been cycling down the same street for so long, and I'd not ventured to this part of the city before. As such, everything was unfamiliar, including the bizarre configuration of the railway lines as they neared Dublin Bay. What began as a momentary glimpse of curiosity turned into a longer scrutiny and then my mind was deep in contemplation of the contents of Max's belated letter. Before I knew it, Collins had disappeared.

Even though I'd spent the better part of thirty minutes searching for him—nearly getting myself lost in the process—I was forced to admit I'd royally blundered it. My hands tightened around the handlebars of the bicycle, my knuckles turning white as I struggled to restrain my anger. Fortunately, I had a nice long ride into town to review all the curse words in my vocabulary.

Eventually even that grew boring, and my thoughts returned again to Max's letter. To say I'd been relieved by its arrival that morning was an understatement. Nimble had even dared to rap on our bedchamber door to alert us, for he'd known we were concerned. Etta's accompanying note had been glib and amusing as always, and it had confirmed that at least my letters were reaching her to be passed on to Max. Unsurprisingly, Max's missive proved the most informative.

It seemed that one brief communication from him had gone astray—either confiscated during a raid or genuinely lost to the vagaries of the postal system—but it had merely been to inform us he would be away from London for a fortnight visiting his sister and her children. That much explained, Sidney and I had propped ourselves on pillows side by side to read the meat of the letter.

I had known the British coalition government's cabinet Committee on the Irish Situation had been meeting in London, but few details had been leaked to the press. Those that had been seemed encouraging, spurring many people from all parties to begin talking openly of peace, be it in the newspapers or in person. However, Max's source had shared his inside knowledge of the committee's debates, undoubtedly expecting the young earl to keep the information to himself. The present policy in Ireland had proved to be untenable—straddling the line between war and peace—and so the committee was to discuss whether to pool all our resources toward one or the other.

But it appeared its members were split into two camps, one for peace and conciliation and the other for coercion and war. The first was comprised of a few Liberal ministers and most of the Dublin Castle administration, who urged offering a settlement which included Dominion Home Rule for Ireland, while the coercion camp—made up of mostly cabinet ministers—called for the introduction of martial law and greater resources to crush the insurgency.

Wylie, the law advisor who had helped me attain Nimble's release from the Castle, had argued that martial law would only antagonize the Irish people, and create lasting bitterness toward Britain that would strengthen with time and cause further discord. However, General Tudor, the police advisor, was firmly in the coercion camp, and contended that with additional military recruits and support he could end the outrages. As an alternative to martial law, he suggested the implementation of court-martial jurisdiction over all crimes.

Tellingly, Max's source had little hope that the peace camp would win out, even though it was comprised of the people who currently lived and worked on the ground in Dublin, contending daily with the Irish situation. Those in the war camp, except for Tudor, either spent no time in Ireland or were Protestant unionists from the north.

As someone who had lived among the Irish now for two months, I was both disheartened and wary. Some of the remarks made by those in favor of coercion had been alarming, and I could only anticipate matters here deteriorating further. The argument that the current Home Rule Bill could not be abandoned now or it would be a discredit to our government seemed disingenuous at best. Not only had the Irish been waiting for six years for its implementation, but the bill as it now stood had been so altered from the one that had originally been passed—namely partitioning off six of the northern counties in Ulster—as to barely resemble it.

Thoughts about this letter and all the things I would have liked to point out to the committee continued to tumble through my mind as I pedaled toward O'Connell Bridge. As such, the first gunshot barely penetrated my consciousness, but by the time I heard the second shot, I'd instinctively begun to cower, bending low over my handlebars. People crossing the bridge in front of me turned to retreat back toward the north, forcing me to halt in my tracks lest I hit them.

"What's happened?" I called out, over the shrieks of those fleeing, to a man who had sidestepped next to me to peer back over his shoulder toward the south shore of the Liffey. The sound of gunshots continued to echo off the buildings there. This was clearly not just another assassination where a murder gang fired a few bullets into their target and then fled the scene.

"Firefight between our boys and some Tommies outside the bank," was his succinct response before he took off.

I took this to mean the Bank of Ireland, and given its proximity to the river, I knew I couldn't risk crossing here. Not when there were bullets flying. Turning my bicycle, I pushed it alongside me as I trotted north on Sackville Street, following the panicked crowd. I glanced about me, trying to decide what to do and where to go. One woman stood against the wall cradling her arm as if she'd fallen and injured herself. Meanwhile above, curious onlookers leaned out the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening across the river.

It was only a matter of time before the streets near the scene were swarming with military lorries. They would likely cordon off the streets nearby, as well as several of the bridges, trying to catch the rebels in their net. The natural choice would be for me to turn east and try to make it across Butt Bridge before the military arrived with their barricades and barbed wire, but it was also a swivel bridge, and if it was open to allow a boat to pass, I could be trapped. I could turn west and cross the river at any of the several bridges which spanned the river upstream, but that would mean having to also divert farther south to avoid the streets surrounding the bank.

While I might have chanced brazening it out, and hope I passed unnoticed if I were stopped or hindered by a military cordon, I decided it would be better not to risk it. Not after the way Sidney had been treated at the Castle and their dismissal of our allegations against Lieutenant Delagrange. There was also the fact that C was undoubtedly displeased with me. I'd not submitted a report in over a week, and I'd ignored Finnegan's stringent suggestions that I return to London. This meant that finding some place north of the river to lie low for a few hours might be my best option. And only one place immediately sprang to mind.

The farther north I strode the more the crowd began to thin as people peeled off down the side streets. Once I'd deemed it safe enough, I climbed back on my bicycle and set off for Rutland Square. I leaned my bicycle against the wall outside Devlin's along with half a dozen others and entered the pub to find it already full. I'd not yet visited the establishment at such a late hour, usually being home preparing for one evening engagement or another by now, but apparently the pub did a bustling amount of business after the shops and first shift of workers at the various factories ended their workday.

Devlin nodded to me as I slid into an empty space at the bar. One from which I could conveniently survey most of the room. The publican poured me a dram of whisky from his hidden stash of Scots single-malt, for we'd fallen into a discussion of its merits one day when I'd expressed my appreciation for it over the Irish's lighter version. I might have feared this would appear a trifle suspicious, except for the fact that I'd claimed to be from County Antrim in the northwest corner of Ireland, neighboring Scotland, and there was much crossover between the cultures and people. In any case, it had enabled me to form a connection with the publican. One that afforded me some protection in his establishment and influenced him to believe me harmless. Even my presence at such an uncustomary hour didn't faze the Scotsman. He simply set my whisky before me with a wink before all but dismissing me from his thoughts as he returned to his conversation at the other end of the bar.

I took a sip, allowing the full smoky flavor to coat my tongue and savoring the burn as it slid down my throat, hoping it would help calm my nerves as I considered my options. There was really nothing for it but to stay put. Sidney was bound to grow concerned when I didn't return in another hour, but there was no way to contact him. Not without drawing unwanted attention to myself by asking to use the telephone, assuming they even had one. Many in Dublin didn't. No, he would prefer I use my head and return safely if not quickly.

So I breathed deep of the pipe and cigarette smoke, and the maltiness of my whisky, hoping to quell the quiver of uneasiness that had taken up residence along my spine. Another drink of whisky helped, as did the merry sound of lilting Irish voices filling the air as I listened to their conversations.

I'm not sure how long I sat at the bar, laughing at others' jests, and tapping my foot to the music of the fiddler and flute, but I knew some time had passed for I'd nursed one more dram of whisky than I normally allowed myself. Its warmth had spread through me clear to my fingertips, lulling me into a false sense of peace and belonging. That's when I heard a familiar voice raised across the room.

I slowly shifted so that I could see the men in the snug in the corner, confirming that the man who had cried out was, indeed, Tom. The chap I'd met in the Wicklow. The one who'd told me the rumor that the body of a spy could be found in a nearby bog.

And the man he'd hailed, the one who'd just entered the pub, was none other than the Big Fellow himself . . . Michael Collins.

My first instinct was to duck, but I knew that would do the exact opposite of what it was intended to by drawing attention to me. So instead, I calmly turned back toward the bar, attempting to steady my racing heart. Part of me couldn't believe it. After weeks of tailing him, I'd finally found Collins in a place where I might be able to question him. That is, if I could separate him from the group of men with which he'd gathered.

A wry smile curled my lips, acknowledging the irony of ultimately locating Collins in the place where the trail had begun. Was there anything more typical of a tale about Collins?

Knowing my sobriety was already slightly compromised by my last sip of whisky, I ordered myself not to drink a drop more. However, I did intend to use the remaining dram as a cover. Lifting the glass to partially cover my face, I pretended to drink as I surveyed the pub once more. Discovering that no one at the table was paying me the least bit of notice, I lowered the glass.

I could see Collins now talking animatedly, a wide grin on his face and a ready laugh on his lips. Tom shifted to take the seat across from Collins, his eyes sparkling from whatever he'd been telling them. I realized that he must be, in fact, Tom Cullen, one of the members of Collins's intelligence staff, and a badly wanted man in his own right. And I had unwittingly helped him escape the raid at the Wicklow.

Which made me wonder, had he been telling me the truth all along? Perhaps Wick's intelligence was faulty. Perhaps Alec was dead in a bog somewhere. But then I forcibly shut down that line of thought. There was no way to know for sure. Not until I talked to Collins.

I risked another look in their direction, noting that Liam Tobin was seated in the booth, too, looking like a gaunt scarecrow compared to the others. Were they all here? I wondered in shock, surveying the faces of those I could see. If so, should a military patrol walk in right then, they could nab the whole lot of them, and probably end the rebellion. Or at least cripple it severely.

I was surprised by how torn I felt at this revelation. As a British citizen, a lover of law and order, and a British intelligence agent—albeit no longer officially—I should be pleased by the idea. I should be striding out into the night to search out just such a patrol.

But I wasn't pleased. In fact, if anything, I was horrified. I wanted to take Collins and them all to task and berate them for their foolishness.

As for the notion of approaching a patrol, I could only cringe at the very suggestion. Maybe it would be made up of the brave, courteous Tommies I knew from the war. Or maybe it would be a unit of the dreaded Black and Tans, more intent on harassing me, and mistrustful of anything I had to say. Even if I were to reveal my true identity, there was no guarantee of a respectful reception. They would question my presence and disguise, and the chances of them believing me outright were slim to none.

Devlin had been filling a tray with mostly lemonades and sherries, and I watched as Mrs. Devlin carried it over to their table. So much for the rumor that the Irish rebels were naught but a bunch of drunken sots. She laughed and flushed in pleasure as she bantered with them, making it clear this wasn't the first time they'd partaken of the pub's hospitality.

Knowing that they were welcomed here, and that I would not be if they knew who I really was, I felt an urgency to finish the business. After all, I was just here for information. Once I had it, I would leave them and this place behind and do my utmost to forget it.

Given our setting and the limited options available to me, it seemed I had no choice but to use the feminine wiles that male intelligence officers assumed were my only weapon, though I loathed and avoided using them at all costs. I might have risked following Collins from the room, that is i f he ever ventured out alone, but I was unfamiliar with the layout of the pub, and what if he was merely intent on using the necessary. How awkward would that be? No, short of making a scene, wiles were all I had left. At least, to capture his attention and draw him away from Tom and the others.

Perching just so on the stool, I crossed my legs and positioned my split bicycle skirt so that a bit of ankle showed. Then I began to bob my foot up and down, hoping to catch his eye. I couldn't remove my hat because my bobbed auburn tresses would be a dead giveaway, but I could use the broad brim to my advantage if I cocked my head just so. Rather than stare, I cast subtle lingering glances his way. The trick was not alerting Devlin or his wife to this change in my demeanor, but fortunately he was engrossed in conversation once again at the opposite end of the bar and Mrs. Devlin had disappeared upstairs or into a back room.

Happily, this tactic didn't take long to bear fruit. By the third or fourth peek, I caught him watching me, and offered him a shy but artful smile of acknowledgment. He grinned in return before leaning over to say something to the man next to him, who also looked my way. I turned away, playing demure, and when I looked back something unexpected happened.

Collins was no longer just smiling, but a furrow had also creased his brow. One that suggested confusion or uncertainty. I realized he was trying to place me. I braced for Tom or even Liam Tobin to turn my way and identify me. But neither of them was the man with dark hair who twisted in his seat, his gaze colliding with mine.

I felt a wash of cold from my head to my toes as everything about me seemed to momentarily stand still, only to come back at me in a rush. For Alec Xavier was alive. He was alive and he was seated across the room with Collins and his intelligence officers, which meant one of two things.

Either he was deep into his assignment and had severed his connection—at least temporarily—with C and not approached me because whatever he was involved with was too precarious. In which case, my presence here had placed him in terrible danger.

Or Finnegan was right, and Alec had switched sides. He'd become a rebel in earnest, and should now, by all rights, be considered my enemy. In which case, my presence here had placed me in terrible danger.

My cheeks flushed as I turned away, berating myself for not anticipating this very scenario. I don't know what exactly I had expected, but it was not to find Alec drinking and laughing in the middle of a pub with the most wanted men in all of Ireland. And not knowing the answer to my conundrum, I decided my best option was to get out while I still could.

Pulling money from my pocket, I set it on the bar and slipped through the nearest doorway into a back room. After a brief pause, I located the rear door on the right and stumbled through it out into a narrow alley. It was then that I remembered I'd left my bicycle leaning against the wall at the front of the pub. Except I couldn't turn back now. Nor could I risk rounding the exterior of the building to fetch it. Instead. I hurried forward, gravel crunching beneath my feet in the falling twilight and deepening shadows of the tall buildings.

But I wasn't fast enough.

"Verity!" Alec called, exploding through the door afterme.

I hastened on, wondering if I could outrun him. When he called my name again, I rounded on him, forcing him to skid to a stop just two feet from me.

I saw now that he'd donned as thorough a disguise as all the times before, transforming himself both externally and internally to fit the role. He'd grown an absurd little mustache and allowed his hair to become shaggy beneath the flat cap perched on his head. Gone were his stylish, well-cut suits and suave demeanor, and in its place sat a man rough and ready. Even his posture had shifted from easy confidence to a blunt assertion of the space around him. I had always possessed a healthy respect and admiration for his ability to shift personas, to become someone else, but I realized now that the transformation was so complete, he might have walked past me on the street a dozen times now without my recognizing him unless I looked directly into his whiskey-brown eyes.

I found myself crossing my arms over my chest, uncertain of this stranger. "I suppose that answers one question," I said finally. For he would never have risked chasing after me, he would never have called me Verity if Collins wasn't already aware of who he was.

He shifted his feet, turning his head to the side, and I realized he'd been watching me as closely as I'd been watching him. "Aye, well, I did warn ye to go home. Several times." He spoke in a light Dublin brogue, enough to give the suggestion of an Irish lilt. Enough that few natives would question it.

"Warnings you knew I wouldn't obey," I charged. "Not when I believed you were in trouble. Not when I suspected Finnegan wasn't to be trusted." I narrowed my eyes, considering our last interaction in a new light. "Which he isn't, is he? At least, not if one is loyal to the Crown."

Alec neither confirmed nor denied this suspicion, but I didn't really need him to.

"You should've gone," he said, growing angry. "Kent should've made ye." He took a step closer. "This is no place for you, Verity. Not now. When the entire country is a powder keg."

"I've been in dangerous situations before."

He shook his head. "Not like this."

I gazed up at him, a torrent of emotions flooding me. Relief that he was alive and whole. Anger that he hadn't simply found a way to tell me so. Apprehension of the man who now stood before me and wariness that the Alec I had known was gone, or perhaps had never been the real one at all. And fear that I already understood all too well the answer to my next question.

"Why?" I murmured in a broken voice, trusting he would know what I meant.

Why, after risking so much for his country during the war, had he turned his back on it and sided with the rebels? He wasn't even Irish.

Or was he?

I might at one time have been as close to Alec as he would let anyone get, but there was still a great deal I didn't know about him.

He lowered his chin, staring so intently into my eyes that Ifelt my breathing hitch. "You, of all people, know why, Ver. Especially after havin' spent some time here." His brow furrowed. "More time than I wanted ye to."

Because he'd feared that I would come to the same conclusion he had.

I shivered with the awareness that that fear wasn't unjustified. Even now, I wanted to close my eyes and clasp my hands over my ears and run from it. To pretend I knew nothing of the situation in Ireland. But I knew no matter how far I ran, the knowledge would follow me.