CHAPTER 7

I t was several days before I heard from Lord French. Long enough for me to almost forget my promise to the man, such was my absorption with finding Alec, or barring that, at least the phosgene cylinders. I'd spent as much time as I dared in Vaughan's Hotel and the Wicklow, not wishing to draw the wrong sort of attention, as well as several hours each day wandering the streets and squares Alec had mentioned in his reports. While I saw much to concern me, none of it pertained to either of my objectives.

Sadly, I appeared to be growing as accustomed as the other Dubliners to dashing out of the way of military lorries filled with the motley-dressed Black and Tans as they careened through the streets, seemingly heedless of any pedestrians they might hit. They sat back-to-back, their guns pointed outward, prepared for any sort of trouble, and occasionally fired off a volley of shots just because they could, it seemed. I'd yet to witness the ambushes they were so wary of, but I'd heard them in neighboring streets and seen the resulting scatter of innocent bystanders rushing away from the scene. Apparently, the Dublin brigades of the IRA were fond of waylaying passing lorries, tossing some sort of improvised explosive inside and then letting off a barrage of gunfire on the soldiers as they leapt from the vehicle. Then the Volunteers would scatter to the winds, disappearing into the fleeing crowds before they could be caught or wounded themselves.

All of this, of course, resulted in some injuries and casualties, simply from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At any hour of the day or night, one heard gunfire, and nowhere was truly safe from the searches conducted by the Crown Forces—be it a raid on your home or a random street or bridge sectioned off with barbed wire so passing citizens could be searched. Thus far, being female and respectable looking, I'd been allowed through these barriers without harassment, but others were not so fortunate. I'd seen the rough treatment the Tans subjected some of the men to, seemingly for no reason other than they were Irish and fit their view of what a rebel might look like.

Not all of the supplementary police were so callous. Some of the former British soldiers were polite and carried about their duties with civility and almost a sense of embarrassment that they were subjecting the populace to such treatment. But for every upstanding soldier there seemed to be another who took pleasure in the task of bullying and belittling those they were supposed to be protecting, not just policing.

This treatment contrasted sharply with what Sidney and I experienced when we ventured out on the town in our glad rags each evening. We dashed from restaurant to theater to nightclub to private party, all with the greatest of ease. If we were exposed to the sight of even the smallest of contretemps, it was smoothed over by the jaunty laugh of an officer and the assurance that whatever was happening to the poor bloke he'd brought on himself. I couldn't help but be reminded of the evenings I'd spent on Alec's arm, pretending to be his latest Belgian paramour, as we mingled and danced and dined with his fellow German officers at the Brussels establishments the German Army had taken over for their own use. All while the real Belgians outside lived in terror of their occupiers, near starvation from their meager rations.

Then, I'd barely stomached it. Now, it was even harder.

But Sidney and I continued to smile and laugh and toast, subtly plying what information we could from others and gritting our teeth behind our lips when their aspersions turned foul. More and more, the drinks we tipped back became necessary to take the edge off the shame and anger which seemed to have settled permanently in my gut; however, I was careful never to get corked. That way lay only trouble, for drunks couldn't be trusted to hold their tongues.

Still not having received our permits, we obeyed the curfew, not wanting to test the limits of our status. Yet even when one evening the hour drew a shade too close to midnight for comfort, we were waved through a barrier being erected, with nothing but hearty laughs and the confession of one cheeky corporal that he kept a photograph of me torn from a magazine hanging inside his locker. For all the special treatment we received, had we been deluded enough, we might have chosen to believe that other parts of the city were not nightly subjected to almost a state of siege, as members of the Crown Forces carried out their door-to-door searches armed with rifles and pistols, and Crossley tenders rigged with machine guns.

The more time I spent among the regular people of Dublin, the more I listened to their amiable chatter and shared in their laughter and overheard the harrowing stories of their encounters with the overzealous Black and Tan, the more I admired their pluck and spirit. It was difficult not to be drawn into their lives, particularly as they began allowing me to share them. The hoteliers at both the Vaughan Hotel and the Wicklow had taken it upon themselves to draw smiles from me seated quietly at the end of the bar where I usually perched. When I was alone, they would chatter amiably, sharing anecdotes about their lives and families, or they would include me in the banter they held with other regulars, urging me to join in their razzing. I engaged with them cautiously, testing my growing familiarity with the dialect, but wary of giving myself away. However, they'd yet to afford me the opening I needed to ask about my "cousin" until the day Lord French's letter arrived.

I hadn't read it, though it was burning a hole in my inner pocket. I'd been leery of carrying it with me, but leerier of leaving it behind where Ginny might find it. I didn't even know if she could read, but I'd been suspicious of the maid ever since I'd caught her eavesdropping. As such, I'd been even more cautious of what was left lying around.

I was thinking of this and Lord French's request, and the kindness of the older woman seated next to me on the bench in Rutland Square the day before, insisting I take a slice of bread from her lunch because she'd decided I was too thin. I was feeling balled up inside, and not attending to what Peter, the hotelier at the Wicklow, was saying, when I suddenly realized he'd stopped talking. At first, I feared he'd recognized me, but then I realized his gaze was too empathetic for that.

"What is it, lass? You've been comin' here for more'n a week now, sayin' nary a peep, but I can see the worry hangin' round ye." He leaned his elbow on the bar, gesturing for me to draw nearer. "So tell ole Peter what's ailin' ye. Maybe I's can help."

I hesitated, knowing that if I appeared too eager, I would ruin the work of the past eleven days. Alec's early reports had relayed his suspicions that hotel employees were passing information to Collins and his intelligence staff or acting as couriers. A hotelier at the Wicklow had been mentioned in particular, and while he hadn't shared his name, I had a strong hunch it was Peter.

"'Tis my cousin," I began softly, repeating the words I'd rehearsed over and over, mindful of the accent and the musical lilt of the Irish tongue. "He got himself into a bit of trouble back home," I confessed, dipping my eyes. "And I heard he come to Dublin." I trusted he would infer that trouble involved the IRA, and when the RIC's search for him had grown too heated, he'd been forced to flee the area. There were many such men in the same predicament. "But I don't know where. And I don't know where to look."

Peter didn't say anything at first but continued to scrutinize me as I fidgeted with my empty teacup. When he reached for my cup, silently nodding to ask if I wanted another, I began to fear I might have overdone it or flubbed the accent. I shook my head, and he whisked the cup and saucer away and into a bin beneath the bar before swiping a towel over the smooth wooden surface where they'd set. I almost wished then that another customer would appear, distracting him and affording me an escape, but the pair of men at the opposite end of the bar still had half their pints to drink.

Peter leaned his elbows against the bar once more, though he seemed reluctant to meet my gaze. "Must be important to find him for ye to come all this way. Alone."

There was definitely suspicion in his voice, but there was nothing for it but for me to continue to brazen it out. "Aye," I replied in a small voice.

His dark eyes slowly lifted to search my face before dipping meaningfully to my abdomen. "Are ye sure he's yer cousin?"

I blushed at the implication, and Peter flushed in turn. Though not gray-haired yet, he might have been old enough to be my father, and for all his good-natured jesting and swinging the lead, he adopted the persona of more of an uncle to the young people who stepped up to his bar. As such, I could tell how uncomfortable it made him to ask such a question, and despite the embarrassment, I decided not to disavow him of his assumption. Not when it just might get me the information I needed.

However, that didn't mean I confirmed it either. At least, not in words. Instead, I turned to the side, seeming to struggle with myself. I knew this would be seen as proof enough.

"Can ye tell me what he looks like? And I'll see what I can do." His lips compressed into a compassionate smile as he took in my features. "He must be a handsome devil."

I blushed again, taking this as the compliment he meant. For why else would a woman as attractive as me have wasted my time with him.

I described Alec for him and called him by his code name MacAlister. If Alec had gone off-book and chosen a different name than planned, I had no way of knowing it. Just as I had no way of knowing if the county I'd alleged we were from was correct either. A short time later, I made my departure, deciding it would be best not to linger lest Peter change his mind. He'd asked me to give him a few days to ask around.

I'd returned to our townhouse, too distracted and flushed from my success to be of much use elsewhere. There was also Lord French's letter to peruse. Upon returning through the hole concealed in the wall of my "writing room," I sat down on the edge of the bed to read it. Though I'd returned earlier than usual, Sidney found me there a short time later.

I glanced up in surprise as he entered. "Was I too loud?" I murmured, conscious of the fact that, while there was little to worry about from Mrs. Boyle, who rarely ventured past the kitchen, Ginny moved through most of the rooms in the house—cleaning and dusting and changing linens—even if we'd instructed her not to disturb the uppermost floor.

He shook his head, eyeing the paper in my hands. "What's that?"

"From Lord French." I lifted the two cards that had been contained inside. "Our permits to be out after curfew."

"As promised." Sidney sat beside me, taking the permits to examine them. "What else does he say?"

"That he's arranged for me to pay a call on the Kavanaghs tomorrow morning, and afterward to speak with DI Burrows at Great Brunswick Street Police Station." I turned to him. "Will you join me?"

He straightened as if aghast. "And miss tomorrow's race meeting?" He heaved a mock sigh. "I suppose if I must."

I began to refold Lord French's missive. "If it's too much trouble . . ."

"No, no, no," he interrupted, continuing to sound self-sacrificing. "No, I understand where my noblest duty lies."

I arched a single eyebrow at him, letting him know he was laying it on a bit thick. "How was your ride this morning?" I asked, beginning to remove my coat.

Sidney had risen even before me to drive out to Phoenix Park to go riding with the lord lieutenant's Master of the Horse, Dicky Wyndham-Quin, and a few others. "Quite nice, actually," he surprised me by replying. "Though not fruitful." He pushed back the lock of dark hair that stubbornly fell across his brow despite his best efforts to tame it, and I noted his cheekbones had gotten a bit of color from the sun. "But what about you? No luck either?"

"On the contrary . . ." I relayed my conversation with the Wicklow hotelier. Or rather, most of it. I decided there was no need to inform my husband that Peter had assumed I was MacAlister's lover rather than his cousin, and that I was in a delicate state. Particularly without a husband to claim the babe.

"Progress, indeed," Sidney declared as I finished changing back into my fashionable green and white checked drop-waist tea dress.

I stowed my disguise in the bottom of the wardrobe and when I returned to my feet, he draped my long string of pearls neatly around my neck.

"But you know that doesn't mean he'll uncover anything," he cautioned gently.

I could see the concern reflected in his midnight-blue eyes. Though we hadn't discussed it, I knew he could tell that our time here weighed on me, and not simply because Alec and the phosgene cylinders were still missing.

"I know," I assured him, and then decided to change the subject. "Any word from Max?"

Sidney had planned to stop by the Bank of Ireland that morning, where we'd instructed Max to send his correspondence to us, care of Tobias Finnegan. He shook his head and I frowned. "I'm beginning to think he misunderstood the assignment."

Sidney chuckled. "It's only been a few days, Ver. Give the man some time. Besides, I do believe he had to contend with all the pomp and circumstance surrounding Trooping the Colour."

I'd forgotten the ceremony celebrating the king's birthday was the previous Saturday. Had we been in London, Sidney, no doubt, would have been invited to attend in service dress. Perhaps he had been invited, but if so, he'd said nothing to me about it.

Regardless, it was a startling reminder that on that same day a year ago, I'd set off from London, still believing my husband to be dead, and unable to face the spectacle that was to take place—the first Trooping the Colour since the war began. So I'd fled from London, driving west to stay with a friend before carrying on to that fateful house party on Um-bersea Island when I'd discovered Sidney's deception and the reason for it, and nearly died trying to set it all to right.

For a moment I couldn't speak, the significance of the anniversary being a little too much for me. For that had been when I'd first seen Sidney's beloved face after believing I would never do so again, at least not this side of the grave.

Sidney's brow creased. "Ver?"

I struggled to clear my throat, and my voice was slightly wobbly when I replied. "It's just, I left London the day of Trooping the Colour last year."

I didn't need to say more, for I could see that Sidney understood, pulling me to him and tucking my head beneath his chin. I allowed him to hold me that way for some time while I battled the foolish tears filling my eyes.

"June eighth," he said.

I sniffed, pulling away to look up at him in confusion.

"That's the day we saw each other again. Well, technically I saw you on June seventh." Because unbeknownst to me, he'd been posing as a gardener at the estate where I was staying. "But June eighth is the first time I held you again." An impish glint lit his eyes. "Until you flung me away."

"For good reason," I contested, tempted to fling him away now.

But Sidney only pulled me closer, silencing any further protests with his lips. And tongue and teeth. When his mouth left mine to nibble along the line of my jaw, I managed to murmur, "I can't believe you remember the date."

He pulled back to look down at me. "It's seared in my memory. As is the date I last saw you before I left for the front that last time." I felt the intensity of his gaze clear down to my toes, which curled in their oxford pumps. "I remember every moment with you." Then his smile turned slightly wolfish as he lowered his mouth to my ear. "Even the first time you . . ."

"Sidney," I chided, suspecting I knew what he was going to say, though the breathless tone of my voice likely ruined any hope of correcting his behavior. Not that I was certain I wanted to.

"Where are we promised tonight?" I asked the next time my lips were free.

"Dinner with the Greenwoods," he replied, pressing openmouthed kisses to my neck behind my ear, a move that was almost guaranteed to leave me witless. "And then dancing . . . with Lawrence and his girl."

Unfortunately, I retained enough of my faculties to realize what a tedious meal it could prove to be if the chief secretary persisted to pontificate in his overly affected and hyperbolic manner. I nearly groaned aloud, and not in enjoyment of Sidney's efforts, though I rather liked Lady Greenwood. At least the dancing would be fun, and a chance to cut loose with the other gay young things eager for a few hours of forgetfulness, particularly as the dance halls were one of the few places where a sort of general truce reined and the Crown Forces—albeit in mufti—could dance a rag next to a Volunteer without an altercation. Or so it seemed to me. But perhaps I was too optimistic.

In any case, we still had several hours before our reservation for dinner, and I decided there was only one way I was going to make it through a meal with Sir Hamar Greenwood, and that was if Sidney had already coaxed me into a near comatose state.

"Come help me draw a bath," I urged him with a smile.

I didn't have to ask twice.