by Sarah Sundin
Not only was the monetary system confusing, but the British wrote their dates backward and didn’t form their numbers right. They used commas instead of decimals, and they wrote the numerals one and seven funny.
Mr. Montague had been patient, and he wanted Wyatt to return next Sunday. But what good could he do?
However, he couldn’t afford to fail. Dorothy trusted him—he saw it in her eyes. He wanted to protect her, protect her father, protect the company, but how?
Wyatt crossed his ankles and breathed a prayer for insight. He imagined finding the perpetrator, Dorothy’s joy, Mr. Fairfax’s relief—
Or would he be angry? Furious that they’d gone over his head? He’d told Mr. Montague nothing was wrong. Why didn’t he want his manager to investigate?
A sick feeling coiled up inside. What if Mr. Fairfax was the embezzler?
He shook his head. Ridiculous. Mr. Fairfax might not be the best father, but he was a good man. And how could he embezzle if he never went to the office?
The door opened, and Jack Vale entered.
Wyatt grinned and shook his friend’s hand. “You’re back. How was Exercise Fox?”
“Just got in at noon.” Jack’s cheeks looked tanner, hard to do in England. “It was a great experience. They put me with a Shore Fire Control Party. We landed on the beach with British naval fire flying overhead.”
Sure, Wyatt wished he’d been there, but he was happy for his friend. “Sounds fun.”
“It was.” Jack handed his report to the yeoman and gave the man instructions. Then he leaned his elbow on the counter. “I tell you though, for the real deal I’ll be glad to be on a destroyer rather than the beach.”
“Me too. So, did the SFCPs work as they were supposed to?”
“The parties did fine, but we had radio problems. The destroyers were on their own. Some did great. Some . . . ?” He whistled. “I wish you’d been there.”
Wyatt shrugged. “I had duties here.”
“If you’d been there, we would have hit those targets.”
“Thanks.” But Geier had gunnery experience too. He’d probably done fine.
“Say . . .” Jack gave him a nudge and a wink. “How about you? Hitting your target?”
“Target?”
“The redhead.”
Wyatt chuckled. “I’m not planning to shell her.”
“Hope not. Any progress?”
“Yes and no.” He paused, not at liberty to disclose the problems at Fairfax & Sons. “Remember how I cut a deal with her the night we went dancing—I’d write home if she went to church?”
“Yeah. She convinced you after I’d failed.”
“What can I say? She’s a better dancer.”
“Hey, now!” Jack gave him a mock glare. The man took too much pride in his dancing skills.
“Anyway, she didn’t keep her end of the deal. She didn’t want to go to church alone. So I went with her yesterday, and then we had lunch with her dad.”
Open admiration lit Jack’s brown eyes. “Wyatt the churchgoing family man versus Eaton the skirt-chasing heel.”
If only Dorothy saw it that way. “More like Wyatt the big brother versus Eaton the heartthrob, but we’re doing the same thing next Sunday.”
“Maybe she’ll see you in a new light.”
Maybe not. More importantly, he hoped she’d see the Lord in a new light. If he could help reunite those two . . . well, that would be even better than winning her heart.
“Mr. Paxton?” The yeoman handed him the typed report.
“Thanks. Looks great.” He smiled at the man, then at Jack. “See you in quarters.”
“So long, Casanova.”
Wyatt laughed and left. Nothing romantic about Sunday, but he’d enjoyed the sermon, the close conversation with Dorothy, and perking up her dad with business talk.
If only every part of the day had gone that well.
Fairfax & Sons.
Eaton.
Wyatt’s steps sounded harder on the tile floor, and he turned up the staircase. One woman had been transferred, and Dorothy could be next. Didn’t Eaton care? Selfish twit.
And she adored him.
Wyatt paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get jealous, and there he was. Why did he always fall for women who preferred rogues?
He continued down the hall. That wasn’t fair. Adler wasn’t a rogue. He was ambitious and competitive, but he’d been better suited for Oralee. He’d won her heart through strong character as well as charm.
If Dorothy preferred Eaton, what could he do? Nothing. In the meantime, he’d keep doing what he was doing.
Wyatt entered Commander Marino’s office. “Good afternoon, sir. Here’s my report.”
“Have a seat.” The commander’s voice and eyes were hard.
What on earth? What had he done? Wyatt lowered himself into a chair.
Commander Marino held up folders in both hands. “This report was written in February when Mr. Geier was here. This was written last week when he was gone.”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t keep the question mark out of his voice.
Commander Marino shook one folder. “Tell me, how much of the first report did you write?”
He didn’t want to get Geier in trouble, but he couldn’t lie. “A good deal, sir.”
“Reading them, you’d think they’d been written by the same man, every word. You wrote them all yourself, didn’t you?”
Wyatt fiddled with the hem of his jacket. “Not entirely, sir. Except last week’s, of course.”
The commander flopped the papers down, his gaze hard as ebony. “Give me a percent.”
Numbers left no room for fudging. He sighed. “Ninety, maybe ninety-five.”
He jerked his head to the side and slapped his hands on the armrests of his chair. “What did Mr. Geier do while you wrote the reports?”
He had no idea, so he chose Geier’s own words. “He—he talks to people, makes connections, builds bridges.”
“And left you to do all the work.”
“I wanted to do it, do it right. I enjoy it, and it’s vital.”
Marino raked his hand through his black hair. “He lied, took all the credit, and bamboozled me, the low-down . . .”
Wyatt stared at the emotions racing across his CO’s face. What had happened to make him see the truth?
Marino’s gaze snapped to Wyatt. “Exercise Fox did not go well from our standpoint. Mr. Geier made us look like fools. He didn’t know Royal Navy terminology, the differences between their guns and ours. It was all in his briefing papers. Then they couldn’t make radio contact with the SFCPs—not Geier’s fault, but he should have been able to pick out targets of opportunity based on the maps. He failed. The gunnery officer was furious.”
“Oh no.”
“Can you do what he was supposed to do?”
“Well, yes, sir. I—I’d study the materials. I already know the maps inside out, and last year I helped direct fire at Amchitka, Attu, Kiska, the Battle of the Komandorski Islands.”
“Good.” He stacked the old reports to the side. “Our role has become more important than ever. Admiral Ramsay agreed with this department’s assessment that we didn’t have enough escort and fire support ships in the American sector—partly thanks to your work, I now know.”
His shoulders squirmed, but he allowed the praise to settle down like a cloak. “Thank you, sir.”
“He asked the US to send three battleships, two cruisers, and thirty-four destroyers.”
The map in Wyatt’s mind lit up with dozens of ships, hundreds of guns. “That’s great, sir.”
“Granted, they’ll strip away some of the British ships, but we’ll still be ahead.”
“Yes, sir. Miles ahead.”
“But that means we’ll have more work—complete bombardment plans for each ship.”
That was the kind of work Wyatt liked. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m bringing in a new man,
Lt. Irwin Slobodsky. I served with him in the Mediterranean. He’s hardworking and reliable. This week you’ll bring him up to speed so he can keep up with the intelligence and reports, and next week you’ll head down to Plymouth.”
A huge break, and all he could think about was missing a couple of Sundays with Dorothy.
Marino shoved a folder to Wyatt. “Unfortunately, Fox was the last big exercise until the end of April. Exercise Beaver starts March 27—only two regiments, but you’ll get your feet wet.”
Wyatt flipped through the thick stack of papers. “Two weeks. I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will.” His voice lowered to a growl. “As for Geier, he’ll be transferred and disciplined.”
How was he supposed to respond? “Good” would sound vindictive. “Thank you” would sound pitiful. “I’m sorry to hear” would sound lenient. So Wyatt just nodded, his head bent over the folders.
“You’re dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wyatt stood and turned the doorknob.
“And Mr. Paxton?”
“Yes, sir?”
Marino’s forehead pinched together. “You told me you were doing your share, and I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry.”
“All forgiven, sir.” He gave his CO a warm gaze. “And I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
Wyatt headed down the hallway, his mind tumbling. Success fit like a shirt cut off-kilter. But it wasn’t about him—it was about the Allied cause.
He accepted it into his empty hands.
18
London
Saturday, March 18, 1944
In the backseat of the taxi, Dorothy strained to see through the blindfold. “Lawrence, please tell me where we’re going. And why did you insist I wear trousers?”
“What a naughty girl. As I said, you must pay a price for each question.” With a finger to her chin, he turned her head. Warm lips pressed to hers.
She’d ask a hundred questions if she could. “But don’t I have a right—”
Another kiss. “No, my dear, or it wouldn’t be the thrilling surprise I planned.”
Dorothy pretended to pout, but she felt giddy. A second date at last, and on her terms. He’d promised to take her somewhere Bliss-Baldwin would never know about.
Lawrence’s finger ran from her chin up her jawline to her ear.
A shiver ran through her, but she allowed only a tiny smile.
A masculine sigh. “Your complexion is incomparable. I’m glad you outgrew those freckles. Dreadful things.”
Her stomach jolted. When she’d eavesdropped on his conversation with her brothers, he’d used the same adjective. “Such a shame about Dolly. If she lost that baby fat and those dreadful freckles, she might be a pretty girl.”
Well, she’d lost the fat, but she could never lose the freckles. She could only cover them.
“And what pretty little ears you have.” He nibbled on one.
She gave him a playful nudge with her shoulder. “No more of that until you tell me where we’re going.”
His arm snaked around her shoulder. “That counts as a question.”
He drew her close and kissed her so well, she could barely think. She reached to her blindfold—she needed to see what she could of his face in the moonlight—but he gripped her hand and threaded his fingers through hers.
She was floating away to Neverland. Was this how Wendy felt, being whisked away on an adventure? “Do you always kidnap young ladies and ravage them like this?”
“Only the daring ones.”
An invitation and a warning. Be daring and sophisticated.
His kiss continued. Had he kissed Helen like this? First Officer Bliss-Baldwin? Any other Wrens? A twinge in her chest, and she pulled away.
The taxi seat creaked, and she felt Lawrence lean forward. “Park there, past the gate. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Then the door opened, letting in the cool night air, and Lawrence tugged her hand. “Don’t remove the blindfold. It’s best you not know where we are.”
She stood. “Why not?”
“Because we’re not supposed to be here.” Mischief lit up his voice.
“Hey ho, Bumps, old chap!” a male voice called.
“Hey ho, Coxy!” Lawrence replied.
Dorothy followed, peering down her nose. Art and Gil had often called Lawrence “Bumps,” a nickname from rowing crew. An oily smell greeted her as in a port, but no scent of seawater or sound of waves.
“They’re with me. Let them in,” Coxy said. “Here’s a quid for your trouble.”
“Yes, sir!” Another man’s voice, obviously pleased with the one-pound note.
Where on earth were they?
Lawrence guided her forward about fifty paces. “All right. You may remove your blindfold.”
Dorothy wasted no time. Lawrence chatted with this Coxy by an American Lend-Lease jeep. A short man, Coxy wore the leather jacket and flying helmet of an RAF pilot.
“Dorothy, may I introduce Lt. Cosmo Blythe of the Royal Air Force? Coxy, may I present Second Officer Dorothy Fairfax? You remember Art and Gil.”
Coxy’s broad face clouded. “I remember them well. Splendid chaps. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gazed around in the darkness. “Are we at an RAF field?”
“We are, but it’s best you don’t know which one.” Coxy helped her into the jeep.
She chewed on her lower lip. “We aren’t supposed to be here, are we?”
“Absolutely not.” Lawrence hopped into the back. “That’s the fun of it.”
Coxy sat in the driver’s seat. “Which reminds me, old chap. Pay up. I could get in big trouble for this.”
Lawrence passed him a whiskey bottle. “Scotland’s finest.”
Coxy kissed the bottle, then started the jeep.
Oh dear. Dorothy loved adventure, but not when it involved breaking rules and not when it involved danger. The Luftwaffe loved to target RAF fields. The air raids had decreased in March but hadn’t stopped. And as the jeep bounded over the field past the slumbering aircraft, a ghastly feeling filled her gut. Please no. Anything but that.
The jeep halted beside a plane with two motors. “The Bristol Blenheim,” Coxy said. “A medium bomber. Not as glamorous as the Spitfire or as gloried as the Lancaster, but she gets the job done.”
Lawrence didn’t bring her here to see the plane as in a museum, did he? “Why are we here?” Dorothy’s voice came out small and strained.
He grinned. “We’re going flying.”
Dorothy clamped her arm over her stomach. “I—I’d rather not.”
“Nonsense.” Lawrence climbed out of the jeep. “I promise we won’t get in trouble.”
Coxy stepped out too. “And if we do, old Bumps will take the blame.”
Dorothy’s breath came fast and shallow as two fears collided—displeasing Lawrence and . . . and . . .
“Let’s fly.” Lawrence extended a hand and that devilish smile, Peter Pan coaxing Wendy.
Unlike Wendy, she couldn’t move. “I—I can’t.”
“Of course you can. Coxy might not be the best-looking chap, but he’s an excellent pilot.”
Even pixie dust couldn’t help. “I’ve always—always been afraid of flying.”
Coxy groaned. “Did you ever think she might have a stomach like Gil’s? Do you remember what happened when I took him up?”
“Nonsense. Gil could be a boring old codger. Not our Dorothy. She’s a daredevil.”
She’d always been a daredevil, hadn’t she? So why was her breath erratic, her face clammy? She’d always been brave, always loved adventure.
Disappointment lowered Lawrence’s smile.
No, she couldn’t let that happen. She had to overcome her silly fear. “All right. I’ll give it a go.”
“That’s the girl I know.” Lawrence helped her out of the jeep. “Now you understand why I asked you to wear trousers.”
A ladder stood b
y the wing. Coxy climbed up, then Dorothy. Coxy slid open the window on top of the cockpit and lowered himself through the hole.
Dorothy sat on the rim, and Coxy guided her down into the cramped plane. The pilot’s seat sat to the left of center. There were no other seats. “Where do I . . . ?”
Coxy swung into the pilot’s seat. “Down there, the navigator’s seat. The best view.” He pointed to an open doorway to the right side of the cockpit. “Don’t touch anything.”
“I won’t.” She squirmed through the doorway and sat on a stool. Windows curved up and around her, close to her head. Worst of all, a window by her feet angled to allow the navigator to see the ground. The last thing Dorothy wanted to see.
“Dorothy?” Coxy’s gaze was solemn. “If you have any problems, inform me straightaway.”
“Thank you.” She gripped the rim of the stool by her hips, the only thing she could touch.
Lawrence dropped down into the cockpit. “She’ll be fine.”
“I daresay. I’m afraid the only remaining seat is for the gunner toward the rear. Or you can crouch where you are.”
“Here will do.” Lawrence squatted and flashed Dorothy a grin. “Smashing, isn’t it?”
She managed a smile. Smashing. Crashing. She mustn’t think of such things.
Down on the ground, a few men scurried about.
Behind Dorothy came the sound of switches and buttons. “I told my squadron commander I was taking Rogers up for a training flight. I promised Rogers a few nips of that scotch. The ground crew received a quid each.”
Paper rustled behind her. “Two fivers for you,” Lawrence said.
Dorothy cringed. This date might be more expensive than their dinner at the Savoy. And far more dangerous. She forced herself to breathe evenly.
More switches, and a motor started, loud and throaty. The vibrations shook her to the core.
Coxy talked on the wireless, code words she could barely hear over the din. Then the second motor started, rattling her.
Perhaps this would be a good time to start praying again.
The plane rolled forward. No worse than an automobile. In fact, it was kind of fun, like the top deck of a bus, like the last time she’d talked about her fear of flying. With Wyatt. What had she told him? Her fearlessness had limits? Tonight she’d find out the precise location of those limits.