CHAPTER 3

I had been a dinner guest at some of the most beautiful and palatial homes in Britain and across Europe. Places of such opulence and splendor that it was difficult to pay attention to either the meal or your dinner companion, for your gaze kept wandering to the frescos and wood carvings and artwork.

The Viceregal Lodge was not one of those residences.

Despite being the home of the Crown's representative in Ireland, it proved to be altogether rather modest and terribly bland in appearance. Save for the brilliant white of its exterior, which practically glowed in the light of the evening sun, the sprawling, blocky affair boasted only one architectural element of distinction—four Ionic pillars which held up the portico on the north fa?ade. Though I supposed the magnificent grounds surrounding it in some way compensated for the building's lack of grandeur. An avid horseman like Lord French would find the vast park and superb stables a boon.

I had met the lord lieutenant just once, and that had been shortly after his return to England following his resignation as commander-in-chief of the British Expeditionary Force. A resignation Lord French had been all but forced to make in late 1915, before being replaced by his subordinate, Field Marshal Haig. As such, I didn't expect him to recall our brief acquaintance, but I was wrong.

"Mrs. Kent," he declared as he grasped my hand at the entry to the drawing room. "How delightful to see you again." A broad grin stretched his face beneath his magnificent white waxed mustache. His bright gaze shifted to Sidney. "And with your husband in tow, I see." He shook Sidney's hand. "I've heard a great deal about your exploits, Captain Kent. Though I don't believe I had the pleasure of meeting you at the front."

"No, sir," Sidney replied. "Though I saw you once when we were waiting to go up the line near Neuve Chapelle."

"Yes." Some gravity returned to Lord French's appearance at Sidney's mention of the battle. French had always been popular with the troops, partly because of his efforts in raising their morale by his frequent visitations to the front. He'd also seemed to take the heavy casualty figures of his men to heart. But while such empathy might be endearing, to be an effective military commander required a certain amount of detachment and ruthlessness that French had lacked.

He clapped Sidney on the shoulder. "Good man." Then he turned to offer me his arm. "Allow me to introduce you to my other guests."

French's figure was short and ran to portly, but he was known to be rather notorious with women. He'd been linked to several scandalous affairs, including one with a fellow officer's wife in India, which had nearly ruined his career. Witnessing the charm he exhibited as we circulated the room, coupled with the fact he'd been more attractive as a younger man, I could better understand his reputation. He lived almost permanently separated from his wife, instead entertaining with his mistress, the beautiful widow Mrs. Bennett.

We were introduced to a number of society figures, including Lord Powerscourt and his wife, with whom I was already acquainted, and high-ranking members of the lord lieutenant's staff, such as Captain Wyndham-Quin—who served as Master of the Horse and Military Secretary—and his wife, Helen. Also attending were a few privy councilors from the viceroy's advisory council—judges, railway directors, senior public servants, and the like—and their wives. Though their role now was more ceremonial than practical, just as Lord French's was.

There had recently been a serious overhaul of the administration at Dublin Castle, and many of the senior civil servants had been replaced. Only a few had escaped dismissal. One of them being the lord lieutenant himself. Though, rumor was, his position was shaky, and as part of the restructuring effort, many of the executive powers he'd previously exercised had been taken away, leaving him as little but a figurehead.

The former field-marshal being a man accustomed to wielding authority, I imagined Lord French was struggling to adjust to this new set of circumstances. I was quite certain he was aware of the top-level cabinet meetings currently ongoing in London, which the newspapers had reported on that morning. Meetings being attended by Dublin Castle officials and the heads of the military and police in Ireland, as well as the prime minister and his cabinet as they discussed the Irish situation. Lord French, no doubt, wished he was there rather than straining to exert even the smallest influence among the attendees at this dinner party.

Sidney and I had discussed this as we'd motored through the gates to the Viceregal Lodge, and my eyes met Sidney's and held, reminding him of it and our intentions to play this to our advantage. Reports were that Lord French was prone to a bit of swaggering, and without the senior officials here to keep him in check, our hope was that he might unwittingly reveal something that would help us to locate Alec.

Given our late arrival, we weren't given much time to work on our host or circulate among the guests before the butler announced dinner. As we made our way down the corridor toward the dining room, Helen Wyndham-Quin drew up beside me. "I love your gown," she declared. "It's positively stunning."

"Thank you," I replied. "I'd be happy to give you the name of my modiste in London if you'd like her to create something similar."

"Oh, I don't know," she demurred, though I could tell she was torn.

"It is a trifle daring," I admitted with a laugh, guessing this was the reason for her hesitation. Her own gown of steel blue, while certainly quality, was a bit staid. "But yours wouldn't have to be."

"True." Her gaze flickered over the satin and lace once more before she nodded decisively. "Yes, I would appreciate that very much." She reached up to fiddle with her pearl necklace as we turned to stroll side by side. "You must think me cowardly." She glanced over her shoulder toward her handsome husband. "Dicky always tells me he doesn't know how it is I can ride so hell-for-leather after the hounds and yet be such a mouse about everything else."

"We can't all be brave about everything," I told her. "Why, just ask Sidney what a veritable goose I become whenever I see a spider."

"It's true," Sidney sidled closer to say. "Even honks like one, from the chair onto which she's jumped."

Everyone laughed as I playfully swatted his shoulder.

He draped his arm around my waist, pulling me affectionately toward him. "Don't worry, darling. It's no worse than the way I shrieked when I found a snake curled up in one of my boots while waiting to go up the line." This drew even more laughter, including a loud guffaw from Lord French. "I received about a dozen rubber snakes as gifts that Christmas," he ruminated, keeping the amusement going.

I'd not yet heard this story, leading me to wonder if it was true or not, or if he was merely playing to the crowd. Like many returning soldiers, Sidney was reluctant to share information about his time at the front, so I gave the matter even odds. In any case, it had certainly broken the ice, and now people began to converse freely with us where before they'd been slightly stilted.

"Oh my," I exclaimed, stopping short at the sight of the dining table. A profusion of colorful blooms filled the vases at its center, spilling down across the tabletop to wind with the crystal and silverware that glittered in the light of the chandeliers overhead and the sunlight softly streaming through the windows. The sun wouldn't set for at least another two hours on this June evening. "I hope they haven't pruned every bush in the garden."

I turned at the sound of tinkling laughter.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Kent," Lady Powerscourt said. "The Viceregal Lodge's gardens are extensive."

I smiled. Her Ladyship was nearly two decades older than my three and twenty years, yet she might have passed for thirty, such was her beauty. The wide neckline of her golden gown accentuated her long, graceful neck and smooth shoulders. I suppressed a pulse of envy, knowing that, courtesy of the scar on my shoulder left by a gunshot wound, I would never be able to wear such a fashion again.

"Yet, I've heard that the gardens at Powerscourt House are beyond compare," I remarked.

In fact, her husband's estate and family seat were famed far beyond the shores of Ireland.

"They are magnificent," she conceded. "You and your husband must come stay with us sometime."

"I'd like that," I said, pleased to be so easily making inroads. Not that I'd doubted the ability of our social position and wealth, not to mention our status as social darlings and Sidney's prestige as a war hero, to attain us any invitation we might desire. But it was good to see that curiosity and suspicion about our presence in Dublin had not damaged this clout.

Truthfully, I hoped to be back in London before such an invitation was ever issued, but part of intelligence work was learning to take advantage of every opportunity afforded to you. For all that Lord and Lady Powerscourt were unlikely to have any knowledge of—or association with—Alec, they might have guests who did. And they very well might have a connection to the cunning Lord Ardmore, a fellow Irish peer, who for all intents and purposes had become my greatest nemesis. The Powercourts could know something worthwhile about Ardmore's past which could help us in the present.

To that end, I set about charming Lord Powerscourt when I discovered he was seated on my right. He was amiable, if a bit horse-mad, as a large number of the people seated at the table seemed to be. I was beginning to greater empathize with Sidney's position that afternoon, for while I enjoyed a good gallop as much as the next person, I felt little desire to dissect their every feature and antecedent or to bet on their races. Fortunately, this topic of conversation didn't reign long.

During a brief lull after we'd been served the second course, Tommy O'Shaughnessy, the Recorder of Dublin, fastened a probing stare on my husband across the table. I could well imagine him in his role as chief magistrate, addressing barristers and defendants in much the same manner. With his long white hair, he would hardly need the wig he must wear in court. "Well, now, Mr. Kent, you're a military man," he proclaimed. "What do you make of the trouble these republicans have brought to our fair city and country?"

"Former military man," Sidney corrected him, dabbing his mouth as the clanking of silverware all but fell silent so everyone could listen.

"Aye," O'Shaughnessy conceded, though there was a glint in his eye that suggested he wasn't certain of that. "But as a holder of the Victoria Cross, ye must be dismayed?"

"I would say . . . ‘concerned' is the more appropriate word." He nodded toward the judge and several of the others. "As I'm sure you are."

A man seated across from me—one of the railway directors— scoffed loudly. "‘Concerned' is much too weak a word in my opinion. Not when they're murderin' policemen and government officials. Not when they're incitin' my railwaymen to treason."

I didn't think the recent refusal by railway workers to load munitions or drive trains with British arms or troops on board quite constituted the label of treason, but I could understand him having strong feelings about it, considering how it affected his company.

"It won't last for long," one of the other men predicted. "Not when it concerns their wages."

"Aye. Especially when I sack 'em all and bring over Englishmen to do their jobs," the railway official stated spitefully.

"Now, let's not be hasty, Frank," O'Shaughnessy cautioned.

"Maybe that's exactly what Mr. Brooke and the others should do," Lord French interjected, his white mustache bristling. "Teach these shinners a lesson. You can't defy the British Empire and expect not to suffer the consequences."

"The Germans and Austrians certainly learned that lesson," another fellow jested to the general amusement of some.

Sidney's gaze met mine briefly, and I could sense the turmoil within him, for it echoed my own. For millions of good men had died allegedly teaching them that lesson, and in Belgium some months earlier we'd learned that a good portion of them would still be with us if our leaders had swallowed their hubris and not bungled the opportunity to make peace midway through the war. Given what we knew, it was impossible not to feel cynical about the government's efforts here. Particularly knowing they'd had a much different response to the Curragh mutiny six years prior that in many ways had brought about the current situation.

"We've strayed from the point," O'Shaughnessy cautioned the others, and I wondered if he'd sensed my and Sidney's discomfort. "Ye were sayin' you're concerned." He leaned forward to prompt my husband.

Sidney took a drink, seemingly unruffled by all the attention directed at him, but I could tell he was playing for time to consider his response. "Well, naturally one can't help but be concerned by all of these policemen being shot. Not quite sporting, is it? And the burning of their barracks." He shook his head in disgust, but then tempered his words. "But these rumors about the so-called Black and Tans and their treatment of civilians are equally concerning."

"Those rumors are highly exaggerated," one man declared.

"Naught but Sinn Féin propaganda," another concurred.

But was that true? Even in the short time we'd been in Ireland, the number of reports of mistreatment—of homes being sacked or burned and civilians being assaulted—seemed to grow with each day. Of course, many of these were not reported in the British-controlled press, but some were. And others were shared by the papers which seemed to delight in defying the government's censorship restrictions.

The notion of recruiting former British soldiers who were out of work, to bulk up the dwindling and ineffective ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary as temporary cadets, might have seemed a good one, but they'd yet to prove their worth. Particularly given these reports of reprisals. They'd been christened the Black and Tans because of their hodge-podge attire. There not being enough RIC uniforms, many of them wore khaki army trousers or tunics with whatever dark green RIC apparel and caps were available, the dark green appearing almost black. Jests had also been made comparing them to a breed of Kerry beagles, a hunting dog whose color markings were black and tan, and so the name had stuck.

"Even if they are true, it only serves them right," Mr. Brooke, the railway director, chimed in to say. "You've never seen a crowd turn deaf and dumb so quickly as in Ireland. Even when half of 'em had a clear view of the shootin'. Tell me I'm wrong, Tommy," he challenged the Dublin recorder.

"Aye, you're right," Mr. O'Shaughnessy conceded. "The courts 've had a devil of a time findin' witnesses willin' to step forward. More often than not, they all deny havin' seen anythin', especially the culprits, though they sees them on the streets every day." He sniffed loudly, this time in disgust, though it wasn't the first time that evening he'd inhaled sharply. Judging from this habit and the discoloring of his cravat, I deduced he was a rather devoted snuff-taker.

"They're all complicit," a man with a salt-and-pepper beard declared, pounding the table. "Accessories to the crime. So why shouldn't they expect to share in the punishment?"

"Now, I wouldn't go that far," O'Shaughnessy demurred.

"I would," Brooke grumbled.

The Dublin recorder scowled. "Remember, they're all thoroughly intimidated, and they don't have the protections you or I have."

"Then they should speak up and get the lot of 'em thrown in jail," Brooke retorted.

Except such matters were never so simple.

"I trust Tudor will soon have the RIC and the Tans sorted out," Captain Wyndham-Quin said as he forked a bite of sole.

"Yes. A good man, Tudor," Lord French asserted, though I couldn't tell from his tone whether he actually believed this. "What of you, Kent?" he turned to ask Sidney without missing a beat. "Are you acquainted?"

"We've met," Sidney replied with what I imagined was maddening obliqueness to the men gathered at the table.

"Recently?" Mr. Brooke pressed.

Sidney swirled the wine in his glass. "Not in many months."

I looked down at my plate, suppressing a smile. It was clear they suspected Sidney might have been drafted in to assist Tudor in his capacity as police advisor. Though why such a matter would be kept secret, I couldn't fathom.

"Aye, well, Colonel Johnstone had best get his DMP in line as well," the man with the salt-and-pepper beard groused. "One hears they're all either sympathetic to these shinners or too afraid to confront 'em."

"Ye can hardly blame 'em for not wantin' to stick their necks out," O'Shaughnessy rebutted. "The moment they do, they get shot."

"Aye, except 'tis their job!"

Glancing about me, I wondered if these men fully appreciated what a bleak picture they were painting of their security forces. The Dublin Metropolitan Police were so intimidated by Collins and his murder gang that they were all but rendered useless. The RIC were being burned out of their barracks and driven from rural outposts, all but abandoning them to the republicans' control. And the reinforcements we'd brought to Ireland to combat the problem seemed to be doing more to terrorize the population they were sent to protect than they were to enforce the law.

From the furrowed brows of a number of the ladies present and their lowered forks, it was clear they weren't unaffected by the pronouncements, and if nothing else several of their husbands were at least attuned to that.

"Perhaps another topic of conversation," one of the men in military uniform suggested after clearing his throat.

"Yes," Lord Powerscourt agreed before turning to me. "I should have issued you an invitation to our meeting at the Royal Dublin Society Theatre last night," he proclaimed. "We're proposing a fundraising drive to clear the debts affecting nearly a dozen hospitals in Dublin."

"What a worthy cause," I replied, allowing him to redirectus.

"I'm glad you think so. It's a disgrace the hospitals have been allowed to come to such a state." He then hastened to tell me about the fete they were planning to hold at the RDS grounds in October as their main fundraising event.

There was little opportunity to interject probing comments during the remainder of the meal, but when Lord French drew me aside as we all adjourned to the drawing room, insisting the lodge boasted a painting by a Flemish master I simply must see, I allowed myself to be persuaded. I trusted Sidney would note my departure and abet me in capitalizing on the opportunity this presented by keeping the others away. I also trusted him to know that I could fend for myself should Lord French's intent be to exert anything more than his charm onme.

We turned one corner and then another, making small talk about mutual acquaintances, before finding ourselves in a parlor which overlooked a broad sweep of the grounds. The sun sat low in the sky, casting long shafts of yellow light through the windows, which fell upon the painting where it hung over a bureau. It wasn't the most optimal lighting, and I was far from an expert, but I struggled to believe it had been painted by a master, Flemish or otherwise. In fact, I doubted the setting was even Flanders. But I soon discovered his showing me the painting was as much a pretense as my interest in it.

"Mrs. Kent, may I pour you a drink?" he asked, crossing to the sideboard.

"Sherry," I requested. Sherry was not usually my drink of choice, but since my arrival in Dublin I'd quickly learned that the gin available was not of the same quality as in London, and sherry seemed one of the likeliest alternatives to be found among the set of decanters before me.

I meandered aimlessly from picture to picture—some paintings and some photographs—while Lord French poured our drinks.

"Lest you think otherwise, I want to assure you that I haven't brought you here in order to subject you to the same interrogation your husband is no doubt undergoing in the drawing room."

My gaze having been arrested by a photo of the late Queen Victoria in a donkey cart outside the Viceregal Lodge perhaps two decades earlier, I was somewhat caught off guard by the directness of his words.

He offered me an artful smile as I turned to look at him, then returned the lid to the decanter of deep red port he'd selected for his own glass. "Clearly your husband has been asked here for some purpose, but I shall extend you the courtesy of not asking you to betray his confidence."

"Thank you," I replied as he handed me my sherry, curious whether he expected this courtesy to spur me to confess all. If so, he wouldn't be the first man I'd met who'd believed feigning understanding and indifference would convince me he could be trusted.

But rather than press this point, he merely nodded in acceptance, albeit in a magnanimous manner, and turned to squint through the window into the rays of the setting sun. Though he wouldn't have thanked me for it, I couldn't help but notice how tired and haggard his features now appeared. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, age hung heavy upon him. Or perhaps it was memory.

Given the importance of sunrise and sunset in the trenches, and the daily rituals of morning and evening stand-to, ready for attack, I knew that none of the men who had returned would ever look at those transitions from day to night and night to day in the same way as they had before the war. It was the same reason it featured so prominently in their poetry. Even now, nearly nineteen months since the armistice, no matter where we were, Sidney still found himself alert at the rising of the sun and its going down.

As field-marshal, Lord French might never have passed a night in the trenches, but he must still recognize its significance. After all, it had been his lot to issue the orders that sent so many men over the top, never to see another sunrise or sunset again.

I found empathy stirring in my breast and guarded myself against it. After all, this might be as much a ploy for information as the rest. There was little space for compassion in intelligence work.

I swiftly considered and then discarded several conversational gambits that might have led to information about Alec, leery of either revealing more than I wished to about our presence in Ireland or insulting Lord French with my awareness of his diminished role within the administration. The fact of the matter was, the longer I stood there sipping my sherry, the less convinced I became that Lord French knew anything of importance about intelligence matters within Ireland, let alone the existence of Alec. I began to wonder if there was actually anything of value he could be tricked into revealing.

Then Lord French surprised me.

"You are a diligent woman, aren't you, Verity? May I call you Verity?"

"Only if I can call you John," I countered archly.

A smile flickered across his lips. "Johnny, please."

I scoured his features as he continued to stare out the window, intensely curious about his remark about my diligence.

"I've been led to believe that sometimes you and your husband make inquiries into . . . delicate matters for others."

When I neither confirmed nor denied this, he continued.

"As I understand it, you were the ones who uncovered the truth about Lord Rockham's death. And you also investigated a troubling crime in Wiltshire, as well."

I could hardly deny it. Both incidents had been documented in the papers, though for good reason the full details had not been made public. As such, when Lord French spoke of the truth , it was unclear what exactly he meant: the truth that had been told to the press or the facts privately held by a few select individuals.

When I still failed to respond, he turned to look at me, his pale eyes studying me with great interest. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him of something, for his jaw firmed. "I, too, have something delicate I need looked into." His eyebrows arched resolutely. "And I'd like you to do it."