But she’d done it. She felt that surge in her veins as she came round the final corner and saw that familiar rusty-brown jacket sitting on a bench.
The man in it was nothing to note. Hair a middling brown. Weight a middling twelve stones, she would guess. Skin a middling pale.
He didn’t look up from his newspaper as she approached, but he was aware of her. His fingers tightened around the paper just a bit.
She sat beside him and crossed her ankles, looking out over the town that, in her opinion, shouldn’t really be called a city. But then, she’d grown up in London, which the Welsh would probably deem too much of a city. The question was, where was Mr. Brown here from? “If you wanted to remain unseen, you oughtn’t to have followed us yesterday.”
His chuckle was all sunshine and rainbows, and the disarming scent of pine drifted to her when he shifted. “Why would you assume that my goal? Perhaps I wanted just this, Miss Forsythe.”
A chill skittered down her spine, digging in its claws as it went. It was one thing to realize someone had been following her—different, somehow, that he knew her name. Even if it were easier to discover just now, when she was the guest of known sisters and on the arm of a celebrity, than it would be in the anonymity of home.
And his accent. It was almost, nearly a normal London cadence. Perhaps, if her ears weren’t so practiced at noting nuances in sound, she wouldn’t have noticed it.
He wasn’t from England.
She didn’t let it change anything about her posture. “If you wanted this, then congratulations on your success. Now what?”
“Now . . .” Mr. Brown flipped a page amid much rustling. “We make a deal.”
“Oh, do we?” She could give a deceptively bright chuckle as well. “I cannot think what deal I would want to make with you.”
“Then your imagination does not match your skill in . . . other areas.” He smoothed a crease in the fold. “I was following you in London, you know. Seeking the best thieves to assist me, and everyone I asked said the same thing—if I want the best, then I want Barclay’s crew.”
He’d been following her at home? And she’d failed to note it? Something that burned of failure sizzled through her veins. She sent her mind back to those last weeks at home, to the pub, searching her memory for any unfamiliar face that had set her instincts buzzing.
“For weeks I haunted that bleak little back-alley pub where your crew meets. Watching you all, determining which of you would best fit my needs. But there was no question. And so I ought to have known the Admiralty would set you on the same task for which I wanted you—your talents are too uniquely suited to this case.”
The burning sank teeth in. None of them had noticed him. They’d been too distracted with Rosemary turning their world upside down. Or she had been, anyway. Her own fault, and now she’d pay the price.
“I knew the moment you booked a ticket to Wales that we were about the same business. And so, my offer. The key, Miss Forsythe—give it to me rather than your employer when you find it, and I will pay you double what he offered.”
Double? Pound signs danced before her eyes for a moment before falling to the ground and dashing themselves to pieces. “Who are you? Or perhaps the better question is, who are you working for?”
“Does it matter?”
Did it? How many times had they claimed, with cynical smiles and flip words, that their loyalty was to the coin and not the monarch upon it? But that was before they went to war. Before Georgie had signed up. Before Rosemary had married a man who was an actual friend to the king. That was before Germany had begun their march of destruction across Europe.
She wasn’t completely sure she understood loyalty to a mere place. But she understood being opposed to something—and she was perfectly comfortable saying she was opposed to Germany.
That was the accent. German. This man beside her was . . . what? The spy she’d claimed not to know how to be?
She folded her hands, clad in pretty little white gloves, in her lap and watched a bird fret over something stuck at the edge of the pavement. “How do you even know how much I have been paid?”
The man laughed again—a short, soft bark of it this time. “I am familiar enough with how much your government grants for such tasks. It would have been about two hundred pounds, correct?”
The bird pecked at the ground. Willa might as well too, just to test things. “It was a thousand, actually.”
“Ha! Ridiculous. What kind of fool do you take me for?”
She shrugged. It wasn’t strictly true—but V had paid that much for the last job. “It was to guarantee the family’s loyalty and establish a relationship. If you’d like me to give it to you instead, then . . .”
A grumble rumbled between them, and this time that careful accent disappeared into German words. Then, “Fine. Two thousand pounds.”
Easy. Too easy. Her stomach soured. Not at the supposed deal, but at the thought that this man wanted that key so much. Would toss all that money her way to get it. It must be far more important than she’d supposed.
But why? Professor De Wilde was already dead—what could this key he’d made really accomplish without him? How could it possibly lead these people to whatever machine he’d created? She hadn’t the foggiest notion and didn’t really know how to discover it. Cryptography, or whatever it was called, was well beyond her.
She hummed in supposed consideration. “I don’t know. My employer is a dangerous man I don’t mean to cross.”
He snorted. “Shadows generally are. But he never needs to know. Whatever you find, simply supply me with a photograph or rubbing or some kind of copy before you return to London to turn over the original.” He flipped another page of newsprint. “Simple.”
Hardly. “Why not just get it yourself? Why were you looking for a thief to begin with?”
“It is not my skill set.”
A little breath of laughter slipped out. He was right about that—not understanding that the lock had been jammed. He was definitely not a thief.
Which meant . . . Clawing chills wracked her. She was sitting a foot from a spy. A German spy. Someone who ought to, by all rights, be in prison right now. According to Rosemary, the government was quietly rounding up anyone suspected of espionage and locking them away.
Though to be fair, she ought to be in jail too. If she were judging on that criteria.
And really, why had the government let foreign agents run about freely to begin with? Why wait for war to arrest those they already knew were guilty of it?
Stupid, if you asked her. Which no one ever did.
Regardless, this man had thus far escaped the notice of the government, or evaded them. Which meant that, while a lousy thief, he was apparently pretty good at being a spy. Still, she ought to have spotted him in Pauly’s as she had on the streets here. She ought to have known he didn’t belong there.
Should she leave her options open? She couldn’t imagine putting herself in league with the Germans just now, when they were shooting at her little brother. When this key could arguably lead to something that would harm him there on the front. But what if she could somehow use this man? He could, perhaps, help her identify what the key even was.
A dangerous game, to use him and yet keep the thing from him. A dangerous game if she refused, though, too. What might he do if she didn’t agree to help?
She glanced over at him just long enough to catch the gaze he flicked her way. His eyes were hazel. Shuttered behind little round spectacles that would provide a shielding glare from the sun on days when it bothered to shine. But just now, she saw his eyes clearly.
And they were hard. Cold. Calculating.
Remove her. That was what he would do if she didn’t help him. He would get her out of his way—he certainly would not let her report to Mr. V with the key.
Best to play it safe for now. Let him think whatever he wanted . . . while she thought of what to do about him. “You had best stop following us around—Lukas is smart
er than he lets on. He’ll notice eventually, now that his arm is healing and not distracting him.”
“I will not need to follow you, if you agree to meet me with the key.”
Somehow she doubted he would trust her that fully. But let him think her so naïve. “How? How would I meet you, I mean. If you’re no longer following us.”
“Send a note to Mr. Black at the Gogerddan Arms Hotel.”
Mr. Black? No, she’d stick with Brown, in her thoughts at least.
He folded his paper with more care than it called for. Stood. “We’ll meet here again, the day after you send the note, at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning. Agreed?”
Well, she wasn’t going to disagree. “And you’ll have the two thousand pounds.”
“Of course.” His smile though—meant to look like a polite farewell to a stranger—was as warm as a knife blade. “And more to come, if you wish. Whatever your government asks of you, give it to me first. And you, my dear, will be paid twice for it. A rather tidy arrangement, do you not agree?”
Profitable—but far from tidy. Double agents were no doubt the most hunted people in a war, and she didn’t much fancy having a death sentence hanging over her. She gave him a tight-lipped smile and said nothing.
He walked away, his paper folded under his arm. Just another man about his day.
She held her seat for a long moment more, letting it all sift through her mind. Her line of work was never exactly safe. But Mr. V had led them into a whole new ocean of turbulent waters. Where the lines between thief and spy grew ever more blurred.
It was a line she didn’t relish crossing. Thieves dealt simply in things, which could be replaced easily enough by the marks who lost them. And in the case of their family, they made it a policy only to steal from those who could well afford the loss. Spies sold information that got people killed. And one couldn’t just replace a life, no matter how deep one’s pockets.
But two thousand pounds. And double on any future jobs. It was a fortune.
Once two minutes and a half had ticked by, Willa stood too and meandered her way back to Lukas’s hotel. Just another girl about her day. Not one anyone would think was debating loyalties and danger and risk.
With the greatest risk comes the greatest reward.
It was a truism their family had proven time and again. But which was the bigger risk here—working with the German or against him?
And could that really be her gauge on what to do? It shouldn’t be, should it? She should have some gut feeling that told her this is right and that is wrong.
But right and wrong . . . they got fluid after a while in this life. When you were so hungry your stomach was turning inside out and stealing was the only way to eat, then you quickly decided it couldn’t possibly be wrong to steal some food. And when you then had other mouths in your care to feed, bony little bodies to clothe, rent to pay . . .
Her feet came to a halt at the street corner, though she wasn’t quite sure why. It took her a moment to realize that something felt odd. And a longer one to realize what.
It was too quiet—not the street. Her head. Usually when she thought long and hard about something, there was . . . not noise. Something more melodic than noise. Something akin to the soft, mood-setting music an orchestra played during an opera when the actors were moving about, engaged in action without words. A backdrop as adept as the painted one at setting the stage.
She could never translate that music in her head to her fingers, but it was always there. Sometimes rising to a level that was surely nearly audible to anyone standing nearby, sometimes so quiet she herself had to strain to hear it. But there.
It wasn’t now. When she was debating whether it could possibly be right to double-cross Mr. V.
But if it weren’t, if she admitted it, if she drew that line in the sand, didn’t that then mean she was admitting there was a side she was on? Something greater than herself or her family that was worth fighting for?
That was dangerous. That could lead her to make decisions that put something above her family. Like Rosemary had done, though she’d deny it.
Her glove-clad fingers curled into her palm. No. Nothing was more important than the family they’d pieced together. Nothing. Not England, not Germany, not war or intrigue or money. Nothing would ever make her choose to follow her own path away from those children.
Someone bumped into her—a mother with two chattering tots. The woman gave her a harried look and a muttered apology, though they both knew it was Willa’s fault for just standing there like a dunce on the street corner.
She offered an apology of her own and forced her feet forward. Down the familiar walk to the hotel, through the familiar door. A nod to the familiar clerk at the desk, then the quick turn down the hall to the function room with the sea view that they’d claimed as their own.
No music greeted her. Combined with the silence within her own head, it was striking. And made her nearly, for one half of a second, fight back the urge to let tears well. She could handle loss and risk and cold and hunger, but this she couldn’t do—she couldn’t lose the music. Whatever decision she made, it must be one that brought the melodies back.
The door stood open, and when she turned into it, she spotted Lukas right away, at the table that held his crate of sheet music. His fingers stilled in their flipping when she entered, and he shot her that grin that had no right to make her stomach quiver as it did.
It was a shame, in a way, that she couldn’t take his talk of a future together seriously—his would be a fine face to wake up to every day. If he weren’t so blasted charming and untrustworthy . . . But he was. Which meant she’d have to be content with the version of him she had tacked to her wall. The one before her now was far too dangerous to keep so near her. And no doubt about as faithful as her own father had been.
“Hello.” She tossed her handbag onto a chair, tugged off her gloves to toss on top of it, and unpinned her hat. “How’s the shoulder today?”
“Driving yesterday took a toll—though it was worth it.” He rotated his arm, wincing only a little. “Did you sleep well, ma cherie?”
“As always. What are you teaching me today?” The Stradivarius called to her especially loudly given her otherwise empty ears. Her gaze focused on where it rested, elegant and beckoning, in its case.
“Non, no playing today. We must spend some time on theory.”
Her heart lurched. “I fail to see why.”
“Because last time when I mentioned the G augmented chord, you had no idea what I meant.” He folded his arms over his chest and raised a brow. “You could be the best violinist of our day, Willa. But not if you cannot speak the language.”
As if she needed to speak the language to play on the only stage she ever would—the one Pauly had built for her. “I don’t care about being the best of our day. I just want to play.”
The silence pounded in her head.
And his eyes shown dark and serious. “There is a saying, I believe, about hiding our lights under a basket. Perhaps Jesus was talking of our faith, but I believe it applies to the gifts He has given us as well, n’est-ce pas? This miracle He has given you, ma cherie—you must not hide it. You must share it with who you can and spread that light. The joy that only music can bring. I like to think it is a sacred duty. A . . . calling.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, stifling the urge to spin away from such talk and leave. “God, if He is real, is not calling me to anything.”
“No?” His smile looked sad. “I think you are wrong. But as I doubt I will convince you through mere conversation . . .” He sighed and straightened. “We will compromise. I will let you play now—a reminder of this thing we both love—but then we will teach you the vocabulary you need to know, and I will send you home with sheets on it you can study. For now, we can work on how you hold your bow.”
It took everything in her not to bristle at the implication that there was something wrong with the way she did it now. Or pe
rhaps everything still wasn’t enough, because he laughed, bright again, and sidled near with eyes twinkling.
“Your form is by no means bad, mon amour. But we could all use a bit of refinement, n’est-ce pas?” He waggled his brows at her. “And it will give me an excuse to touch your arm and make you jump.”
He’d certainly taken every excuse yesterday as they’d strolled around the castle ruins after they ate. A hand on her arm, on her back, fingers catching hers. She’d almost gotten used it. Almost. Though she’d never admit on pain of death that it was more pleasant than not.
Still, she did jump when he came right up to her and touched a finger to her chin. And no doubt the scalding gaze she set on him told him clearly what she thought of that action.
He’d already grown as adept as Barclay, however, at ignoring her glares. His eyes were narrowed. “What is the matter, Willa? You look upset today, and it cannot be merely over my suggestion that we study theory.”
She may have argued, if she weren’t infinitely aware of the crumpling of her own features just now. Because it wasn’t right that he should be able to tell that with a glance. And it was certainly all wrong that she wanted to lean into his hand rather than away from it. And it was absolutely terrifying that the internal music had surged again with that one little touch from his fingers.
She sank onto the chair positioned in front of the music stand. Safely away from him. “Do you ever hear it? The music in your head? Or is it just me?”
Crouching down in front of her, Lukas somehow made a frown look handsome and compelling. “Do you mean a song that has got stuck in there, or something else?”
“Else. I think. I don’t know—it may be bits of existing songs pieced together, perhaps.”
“Ah.” The frown transformed into a smile every bit as handsome and compelling. “My friend Eugène speaks of such things—the composer. Perhaps, ma belle, you have a song in there you need to put to paper.”
A Song Unheard Page 18