A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  Something shifted in the man’s eyes, though Lukas’s mind was too cloudy to put a name to it. Straightening, Akkerman shoved his hands in his pockets. “Quite a few are in London. I’ve heard there are camps and towns being set up in other parts of England—and of course, a resistance army forming, alongside the French. I don’t know any details.” He took a step, brows arched. “I could find out. If you cared enough to help me do so.”

  Lukas didn’t much care for the sort of man whose loyalty could be bought, but that sort could prove useful—so long as he never shared any information with him that he wouldn’t mind someone else purchasing from him in turn. He drew in a long breath. “How much will this ‘help’ cost me?”

  A corner of Akkerman’s mouth pulled up in a nasty little smile. “Fifteen pounds.”

  “Robbery.”

  “Then find someone else.” Another careless shrug. He turned away.

  Blast him. It would eat up a goodly portion of the stipend the Davies had paid him for living expenses. It would keep him that much longer from going back to Belgium.

  But they could be out of Belgium already. God could have led them to England—to Wales, even. Why not? “Ten pounds. I will leave half of it for you at the front desk—and give you the rest when you come back with information.”

  Akkerman turned again. “Twelve. With eight now.”

  “Twelve, yes. But only half up front. I’ll not budge on that.”

  The man pursed his lips and then nodded, pulling out a too-bright smile. “You have a deal, monsieur.” He put such a ridiculous accent on the French that the mangling could be nothing but intentional.

  Lukas couldn’t bring himself to smile. His head was too light. And his arm too burning. “The money will be there in the morning.”

  “Excellent. That’ll give me tonight to let my girl know I’ll be away for a week or so.”

  The implication charged the air between them. Lukas didn’t deign to respond. The look in Willa’s eyes the other day when this fellow had put an arm around her shoulders hadn’t exactly been warm and inviting. She was not Cor Akkerman’s girl, whatever he might claim.

  Though she hadn’t exactly melted at Lukas’s touch either.

  But he’d think about that later. Turning without any acknowledgment of the claim, Lukas spotted Miss Davies’s car rounding the corner. He had other things to focus on just now.

  Ten

  She’d have an hour, at the outside. That was all. Willa glanced once more into the dim, narrow hotel hallway and eased the door shut behind her. From what she’d been able to glean with the ten-second glance at the guest register she’d managed yesterday, this floor was filled with Belgian musicians. Which meant that it should be empty now. And would remain so until their second concert was over two hours hence.

  Missing it was in part a sharp, hollow ache in her middle, making that elusive, unheard melody weep through her heart, only to vanish again before she could take hold of it. And in part, it was a relief. No reminders, tonight, of all she wasn’t.

  Just a focus on what she was.

  A lamp had been left on in the outer room of the suite, which may have caused a burst of panic had she not already verified that Lukas had indeed gone with his colleagues to the symphony hall. It would hurt him—his shoulder had still looked stiff and painful to her eyes during their three lessons this week—but he would never admit it to the world at large.

  Willa cast her gaze around the room as she slid her lock-picks back into her bag, along with the skeleton key that had, happily, worked without her needing to use the more skilled tools. Noting the distance from window to door, she drew herself a mental line on the floor, beyond which she’d be visible to anyone on the street below. The curtains were drawn, but lamps meant shadows.

  The room was well appointed but impersonal. Few belongings were taking up residence here in this outer room. A pair of everyday shoes. A hat. The crate of music that she saw at their lessons. She bypassed all these normal things and padded to the writing desk in the far corner, well out of view of the window and street below.

  A stack of correspondence sat on the surface, envelopes slit but still enclosing the missives. All to him, but with a direction to the Hotel Elysées Union in Paris. She flipped through them, looking for any hints of the covert.

  There were none, not to her eyes. The only English one was a request to visit New York City on his tour. A few were clearly invitations to events, all out of date. One, toward the bottom, was what appeared to be a love letter, though she couldn’t read many of the French words to be absolutely sure. But she spotted a few of the phrases he kept spouting at her. Amour. Ma cherie. Mon ange.

  There were two more in the same script, but he hadn’t even opened those envelopes. Whoever this Em was who had signed that first letter, he was apparently happy enough to ignore her.

  One little part of Willa felt a bit of smugness at that. But only one very little part, and only for a moment. Because she knew well that she wouldn’t keep his affections either. And didn’t want them anyway. The very fact that he had these love letters sitting here . . . He was the type of man she most despised. She might recognize his charm, but she’d sooner hand herself over to Scotland Yard than fall prey to it.

  Her fingers stilled on another letter. This one was outside its envelope and sat in a corner of the desk all its own. Flipping it to see the signature, she didn’t need to know much French to realize it was from his mother.

  He’d mentioned this one on Tuesday. When his face was still so haggard with pain, when he could barely lift his arm, when shadows circled his eyes from what must have been a sleepless night.

  It would make sense, wouldn’t it, for a key to be hidden somewhere in this? A message from his family. Sent just before war broke out. If his mother had suspected what was coming, mightn’t she have included hidden instructions on how to reach them and hence get his father’s work?

  But Lukas hadn’t seemed to know how to reach them. And if he could fake that level of despair, then he ought to be acting on the stage, not just playing violin.

  She reached into the bag looped over her shoulder and pulled out the box she’d slid inside it this evening, when she’d told her hostesses that she had a headache and wouldn’t be joining them at the concert tonight. She’d never actually operated a camera before, but the shop girl had told her it was easy—meant to be, so that busy mothers could take snapshots of their children. Then all she had to do, the girl had said, was send away the film and she’d end up with beautiful photographs.

  Risky. Someone could steal the camera and whatever evidence she committed to the film. Or steal the photographs themselves.

  But it was the best means she had been able to think of for getting her employer a glimpse of this correspondence. She couldn’t just take the letter, not if she wanted De Wilde to remain off his guard. And she didn’t trust herself to copy it, not with it being in French. She could misspell something vital and not even realize it. This way, he could see for himself if there were anything important on the paper.

  Assuming she managed a focused photograph. She went through the steps as the sales clerk had instructed, praying all the while for a decent result.

  No, not praying. Wishing. Hoping. It was entirely different.

  Teeth clenched, she put the camera back in her bag and the letter back where it had been. Even he was talking of prayers now, which was just infuriating. Of all the people in her life to start spouting religious nonsense, who would have expected it to come from the man renowned for his ungodly lifestyle?

  It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be in her life for long anyway.

  And besides, she could almost understand why he’d have a sudden crisis of conscience, given his family’s situation. She just highly doubted it would stick.

  Shaking it off, she went systematically through the rest of the desk, snapping photographs of anything that looked promising. It took her another fifteen minutes to check every possible hiding pla
ce in this outer room, careful to leave everything exactly as she’d found it. Then she turned, with a deep breath, toward the door that stood shut. Into the bedchamber.

  She’d taken only one step toward it when a noise made her halt, made her brows scrunch up. A door closing. If she wasn’t mistaken, the heavy door at the top of the stairs, not the lighter swing of a room’s door. Someone else had just arrived.

  “Blast.” It wasn’t him, surely. But it shouldn’t be any of them on this floor, and if someone was coming back, it very well could be the one struggling to recover from a gunshot wound. He could walk right through those doors in another minute and . . .

  It was probably some flautist who had forgotten something. Right? It wouldn’t be him. Not with his determination to deny his injury. Still, she plastered herself to the wall beside the door so she could listen.

  Footsteps. Soft, but not light. A man’s step, trying to go unheard.

  The padding of the invisible feet stopped outside the door, blast it all. Willa pressed her lips together.

  It wasn’t Lukas. Couldn’t be. He wouldn’t walk with such a mincing step to his own door.

  A scratch, a tap of metal on metal.

  Another sound she knew well—but not a key in the lock. A pick in the lock.

  Apparently she wasn’t the only thief in Aberystwyth trying to steal from Lukas De Wilde. But she was sure as blazes going to be the only one who succeeded.

  With a quick, silent movement she reached into her bag and pulled out that magical skeleton key. Then, breath held lest she make a sound, she slid it into the lock. Not all the way—she didn’t want to bump into the picks and thereby shout that someone was in here foiling the would-be thief. But most of the way.

  Another moment, and then a soft curse from the other side of the door. Willa smirked even as the masculine mumbles out there turned to more insistent scraping and scratching.

  She kept her hand on the key, more for her own peace of mind than because she feared the intruder would somehow dislodge it. Jamming a lock was a guaranteed way to interfere with a lock-pick.

  The real question now, though, was who was on the other side of the door.

  She drew her lip between her teeth, eyes on the peephole. She could look, of course. But if she did, she’d block the bit of light coming through the hole, and if Whoever He Was happened to look up just then, he’d know someone was in here.

  No, she would be patient. Wait until he was walking away and then steal a glimpse.

  Easily decided. More difficult to carry out through the interminable minutes he kept trying with the pick. What, did he not realize it was jammed? Did he think himself merely inept?

  Amateur. Any thief worth his salt knew the difference between a difficult lock and a jammed one. How long would this bloke keep trying?

  Minutes, apparently, upon minutes. She glanced at her cheap watch at one point, and the story its hands told her made frustration simmer in her stomach. He was wasting all her time. All of it.

  She ought to leave the key to do its job and continue her own business.

  But even with the utmost care, she could make a noise. He could hear her. And if he realized someone else was in here . . . Well, he may be an inept thief, but who was to say his skill level in violence?

  She’d just stay right here until he left. It was the safest bet. And she could always come back during the next concert to search the bedroom.

  She’d have to, at this point. She hadn’t time enough to make a good go of it. Drat it.

  And drat it all the more, but what was she to do about this idiot outside now? She couldn’t very well let someone else beat her to the punch. Mr. V would be livid if that happened. Should she somehow warn Lukas that there was a thief about?

  No, then she’d be interfering with her own job.

  Follow this bloke when he left?

  Risky. And while the greatest rewards came with the greatest risks, she saw no real prize waiting in that scenario to make it worthwhile.

  She pressed her lips together. Maybe the smartest choice would be to tell Mr. V. See what he said to do. Though it rather pained her to consider such a move. Would he keep giving them work if they couldn’t handle the simplest of jobs without running to him for help?

  Finally, a curse came from the other side of the door. She didn’t recognize the word, just the sentiment. Was it even English? Perhaps Welsh? Then a gusty exhale and what she convinced herself was the sound of a shoe pivoting on carpet.

  She waited another second, two, and then eased up against the door. Waited yet another second, and then put her eye to the peephole.

  The man was walking away. She caught only a glimpse of his back, distorted by the curve of the glass. But it was enough to make her brows tug together.

  Average build, average height. Middling brown hair covered by a derby. And a jacket in a deep, rusty brown.

  She drew in a long breath and listened for the heavy fall of that stairway door. Cor may have disappeared again this week, but her other shadow was apparently still in Aberystwyth. And was, without a doubt, linked somehow to this job concerning Lukas De Wilde. More, he’d been following her before she’d begun coming here for lessons, so he’d known from the start what she was about.

  Gripping her bag, she counted out two minutes and then let herself out, relocking the door behind her. And wished, for the first time in years, that she had a weapon in her bag more effectual than a camera.

  She scurried to the stairs and slid silently into the dim space, hurrying down to the ground floor. Then pulling to a quick halt.

  A familiar figure approached the front desk, in a buff jacket instead of a brown.

  She may never stop frowning at this rate. Moving smoothly to avoid catching anyone’s eye, she rounded the steps and ducked in behind them, where the ornate railing would hide her from view.

  Cor Akkerman leaned onto the counter with that charming smile of his. “Good evening. Did Mr. De Wilde leave an envelope for me? Cor Akkerman.”

  The man behind the desk flashed an impersonal smile along with his “Just a moment, sir” and then bent down to search beneath the desk.

  Willa eased a bit more into the shadows of the stairs. Why would Lukas have left anything for Cor? She would have sworn they didn’t know each other—there had been no recognition in either’s eyes last week when they met. What was Cor’s angle? He had to be out to gain something.

  And gain something he did, when the clerk stood back up with an envelope in hand. “Here you are, sir.”

  Cor took the envelope with another smile and handed a different one to the clerk. “Thank you. And this is for him.”

  Interesting. And frustrating. What business did these two have? She held her ground for a moment, watching as the clerk greeted another man in hotel uniform and then gave his place behind the desk to him. The first bustled off, disappearing quickly through the same back door Willa had entered through.

  She then glanced to where Cor had drifted to a halt across the lobby, nearer the doors than the desk. He’d opened the envelope and was flipping through it. She couldn’t hear anything he may have said, but he spun back around with jaw clenched. Then startled at seeing a different man behind the reception desk.

  Still, he strode back toward it, making Willa glad she hadn’t emerged. He slapped the envelope onto the counter and utterly failed at wiping the anger from his face. “Pardon me. I just left an envelope with your colleague for Mr. De Wilde. I need it back, if you please.”

  The new clerk blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  All semblance of charm had vanished from Cor’s face—though to her way of thinking, he’d have better luck with this particular fly if he kept the appearance of honey. He tapped a finger to the counter. “Your colleague. Where did he go?”

  The new clerk bristled. “His shift was over, sir. I am certain I can help you with anything he could have.”

  Now Cor put his smile back on, though it was likely too little too late. “Of
course. My apologies. I just left a letter here for Mr. De Wilde that I need back, if you please.”

  Willa pressed her lips against a grin as the clerk did that blink again. “I’m sorry. I cannot hand over anything belonging to our guests.”

  “It does not belong to your guest. It belongs to me, and I—I left the wrong one.”

  She rolled her eyes. Surely a man who could follow her all the way to Wales could do better than that for an excuse.

  The clerk, of course, didn’t budge through the next two minutes of wheedling. Though he did offer to have Cor escorted out of the hotel. At which point the Belgian sneered and stalked off.

  Very interesting. She may have been tempted to try to lift the envelope herself to see what was in it, but the clerk slid it into his inner jacket pocket the moment Cor walked away. And with the desk between them, it would be hard to slip out again. She could probably lure him from behind it . . . but she suspected there was an easier way to discover the answers to this particular question.

  On silent feet, she slid from her hiding spot and hurried out the back door, darting down the dark street until she could peek around the corner of Terrace, toward Marine.

  Yes, as she suspected—Cor stood at that corner, leaning into the row of buildings. Lying in wait. Which meant she could too, back here. He would confront Lukas when he returned, and all she had to do was stay here for another fifteen minutes or so, and she’d hear all about it.

  Under normal circumstances, the wait would have been as easy as getting caught in the rain. But tonight her eyes kept searching the darkness, looking for that rusty-brown coat. Her fingers tightened around the straps of her bag.

  Lukas had better tread carefully. It seemed that he had far more enemies on the streets of Wales than a musician ought.

  Eleven

  It may have been easier to change his life if Lukas’s friends didn’t continually stare at him as if he’d shifted into an ogre every time he made a sound decision. With a huff, he lifted his violin case. And scowled at Jules. “Why do you look at me like that?”