“I can help you. I can keep your family safe. Work with us, tell us how to find your father’s work, and we’ll protect you all.”
Did he know? Did he know it was Margot he was looking for, not some encoding device that he could simply pick up and set down again on a desk? The words weren’t enough to tell him. But he thought he recalled something in his eyes . . . something to make him distrust the man immediately, deep in his gut.
Why hadn’t his gut given him the same warning about her?
It throbbed now like the bullet wound. Would probably fester as it had done too. Unless he could extract all the pieces now, from the start, so it could heal up properly.
That first day he’d seen her, staring at the building as Margot would do—casing it, probably.
He plucked it out and released it into the wind.
That evening the next day, when she had picked up his Strad and done the miraculous—probably all the while calculating what she could fence it for, or how she could take it with her when she ran off and keep it for herself.
He yanked it from his mind and hurled the memory into a gust.
The way he’d sensed her there that night outside the hotel when he had no reason to do so. The way she’d grabbed his tie and pulled him close and kissed him—gaining his trust, his confidence. Playing him. Nothing more.
He held that one in his mental hand. He never would have thought he’d be that kind of fool. Especially not with the first woman who had stirred him to want something more than a night.
“Lukas! You’re a hard man to find!”
His hand had fisted inside his coat pocket. He released it, praying the memory would trickle out through the wool and into the wind. Then he turned to face down another traitor.
Barclay jogged up the incline with a grin, his hat low over his eyes and a bundle of something under his arm.
Her brother, she’d said. They acted like it. But should he believe her?
Did it matter? She was nothing to him anymore. If she were this man’s wife or moll or whatever thieves called their conspirators, he didn’t care.
He took a step back. A deliberate one. And kept his lips sealed.
Barclay was too keen to miss it. He slowed a few feet away, an amused question drawing a line between his brows. “Am I intruding that badly? Your friend—the one with that round-cheeked girl—said you’d come out here.”
Jules. Not a traitor like these two. But so very absent these days. Busy with a life of his own.
Lukas unclenched his jaw. “You are wasting your time. My pockets are empty.” He pulled out the lining to demonstrate.
One of London’s best pickpockets. This man before him was probably another.
Barclay narrowed his eyes. “Why would you . . . ?” Then his face shifted. Into annoyance. “Blast it all. She told you. Why in blazes would she do that?”
Why had she? She could have bluffed her way out of his room, and he was fool enough that he would have believed she’d just come to borrow music. It was what he would have wanted to believe. He’d even handed her the excuse.
She hadn’t taken it.
Barclay sighed. “Well. I suppose I’ll not be sleeping on your sofa tonight. Even so, I brought you these.” He pulled out the bundle from under his arm and held it out.
Lukas kept his hands in the pockets he’d tucked back in.
Barclay rolled his eyes and waved the package. “You’ll want it. Trust me. Or don’t, I guess, but still look. I’ve been haunting that little newspaper office we went to every day, waiting for—I didn’t know what I was waiting for. Until crates of these arrived. From Belgium.”
Lukas curled his fingers into the lining. He wouldn’t bite.
Barclay stepped closer, eyes bright. “They’re from Allard’s brother, Lukas. In Brussels. A newspaper. The moment they arrived, Allard shoved them at me and told me to get them to you as quickly as I could.”
His hands itched. A trick? If so, he would find it out. The key wouldn’t work.
But they could be lying in wait when he got it out and tried it. Watching. Ready to swoop in and snatch it.
They still wouldn’t know how to use it though. How to write the headline and indicate the number and . . .
Blast. They very well could. He’d pre-written the paragraphs. They were in his bag in London. The blondes had no doubt seen them, copied them.
V had one piece of the puzzle.
The Margot in his head shouted numbers at him like expletives.
“All right.” As if edging away from a snarling dog in the corner of an alley, Barclay slowly set the bundle on the ground and backed away, hands held up in front of him. “I won’t take it personally. Just a prejudice against my profession—I understand that. You know, I never could bring myself to trust a baker. It’s a bias I haven’t been able to get over ever since one threw an old scone at me when I was rooting through his rubbish. Hurt like a rock.”
Lukas clenched his teeth.
Barclay just gave him half a grin and finished straightening. “She’s a thief. But she’s the other things too. You know that, right? She couldn’t fake her talent. Or her prickliness, which you seemed to like for some reason. She’s still Willa.”
Willa Forsythe—one of London’s best pickpockets.
Lukas didn’t say a word. And heard Jules in his head, saying, “Would you just shout at me? Rant and rail as you usually do?”
He’d always thought himself of loud temper. But maybe he’d just never known true depth of feeling until these last few months. He’d just never discovered that when something hurt enough, it didn’t demand noise and fire—it demanded silence and ice.
Barclay didn’t know him well enough to request the safer version. He just sighed and spun and disappeared down the hill.
Then, when the thief was safely out of sight, Lukas bent down and picked up the newspapers. His heart barely had life enough left in it to race. He looked all around him as he strode down the hill, but he saw no one beyond a few residents braving the wind and cold. No one lurking, watching.
He hurried through the eight-minute walk back to the Belle Vue, up to his room, and into the safety of dim light and empty chambers. Then—only then—did he unfold the newspaper.
The words were French. The first word of the first article claimed it was written in Brussels. And the article on page three had a headline that declared LA FAMILLE ROYALE VISITE DES ÉTATS-UNIS.
Lukas sighed. The royal family had, in fact, gone to the United States to try to drum up support from the Americans. But he hardly cared about the facts in the article, which matched the ones he had already read in other papers. He cared only for that La Famille in the headline. And that midway through the piece, a paragraph began with, “After a four-day tour . . .” Four.
He reached into the music crate, pulled out the one Margot had written for him, and looked to the fourth line.
It took him paper, pen, and an hour to work through the cypher—it would have taken Margot about ten seconds. But he worked at it as the light slipped down over the bay, then he stared at the message he’d revealed.
Margot’s words. Margot’s plea.
He knows who we are. Hurry. Two three one Rue de Florence.
Lukas jumped up to flip on the lights before darkness could obliterate the words. Thank you, God, for getting this paper to me so quickly. According to the date, it had been only three days since it was printed. It must have encountered no problems in being smuggled out. Taken directly to Allard in London.
And then Barclay had brought it directly to him. With a sigh, he slumped back onto the couch and dug his fingers into his hair. He couldn’t quite bring himself to consider thanking the man for it. But he’d thank the Lord. Whatever else had gone wrong, those prayers were being answered. The Father was at work to restore his family to him.
He needed air. To walk as this settled. It would be cold outside, but he hadn’t even shrugged out of his coat yet. He simply stowed the message he’d decoded
in the bottom of his shoe—he could think of no other place safe from pickpockets—wound his scarf around his neck, and jogged down the stairs and out into the autumnal evening.
When he pushed outside, he found Cor Akkerman leaning against the glass enclosing the hotel’s front door. His face was a mosaic of shadows even though he was bathed in light. “I have something to tell you, Lukas De Wilde.”
This man broke her violin. Hurt her. He shouldn’t care. He did. But it wouldn’t change what he was about to do. “I already know it. But I could use your help. I need your cousins to get me back into Belgium.”
Akkerman’s eyes flickered from dark to pleased. “We can help you. For a price.”
Lukas was keenly aware of the empty state of his pockets. “Name it.”
“And you claim not to be stupid?”
Willa glared at her brother where he was sprawled on her bed at the Davies house, arms folded behind his head. She had half a mind to throw something to wipe that smirk off his face, but the only things handy were her gloves, and they wouldn’t do enough damage. “Aren’t you supposed to be supportive?”
Barclay pursed his lips and studied the ceiling. “No. No, I don’t believe that’s part of my job in these situations. I’m all but certain my job is to point and laugh.”
She threw one glove at him. It fluttered to a pathetic rest on the very edge of the mattress.
It wasn’t really fair how much better she’d felt the moment he showed up at the door. Not when she’d known very well that he’d have no mercy. And when he’d said all those photographs she’d taken were useless—and that V had failed to apprehend Brown thus far. “I was out of time, between Cor and the German. I had no other choice.”
“Since when is telling the mark about the job even one of the choices?” But he didn’t sound angry. Just annoyingly amused. “You know who you remind me of right now?”
“Shut up.”
“Rosemary.”
“I said shut up.” She pulled her knees up to her chin. The armchair in the corner of her room didn’t protest the position, though it had probably never experienced it before. Ladies, she was sure, never sat in such a way. “I’m not like Rosie. I didn’t tell him because I’ve fallen in love with him or because I think he’s a good man. I told him because the job couldn’t be done otherwise.”
Barclay could pack an awe-inspiring amount of doubt in one “Mm-hmm.”
Willa sighed. “Do you think Mr. V knows? That it’s his sister he’s after?”
The amusement left Barclay’s face as he pushed himself up to lean against her headboard. “If he does . . .”
He didn’t need to say how he felt about it. It was Barclay who had made their family grow from the three of them—him and her and Rosemary—to a collection of twelve. He couldn’t see a helpless child without wanting to be a brother to them. Without wanting to protect and provide. The twelve who had stayed, become family, were just a portion of the ones he’d taken in for a night or two, until they split again.
Street rats didn’t often like to stay in one place for long.
Even after all these years, she wasn’t sure what haunted him, to make him react in such a way. But she was grateful. Then, for making her a sister. Now, for saying without a word that he’d protect Lukas’s sister.
From the Germans. From V. From anyone who tried to take her from her brother.
Something caught her ear. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Barclay sat up straight, but he shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I do.” She’d learned the house well enough to know where sounds were likely to come from—and which ones were unusual. The sisters may be quiet, but they enjoyed each other’s company, and Miss Blaker’s. They were all the time talking.
This, though, was a deeper tone. A neighbor, perhaps. Or the butler. Or . . .
She crouched down at the grate and put her ear to it. Sucked in a breath. Lukas.
“What is it?”
“Shh.” She waved at Barclay to silence him and closed her eyes to better focus on the voices echoing through the walls.
Daisy was talking now. Or Gwen. It was hard to tell their voices apart at this distance, but one of them was saying, “Please, Mr. De Wilde, have a seat. Shall we call Willa down?”
“No.”
She winced. Not at the tone of his voice—at the lack of it. As if he weren’t even angry, just stating a fact. That Willa didn’t exist to him anymore.
That was the way it was supposed to be. The way it had to be. She wouldn’t let it hurt.
Barclay settled on the floor too and leaned close to the grate.
“And no thank you, I hope not to be here long enough to need a seat. I have a favor to ask—but first a question. The men you sent into Belgium to recruit us. Who were they?”
“Oh.” Daisy, she was fairly certain. “The man who administers our trust fund and one of his friends, I believe. Why?”
“What of the one called V?”
Willa squeezed her eyes closed tighter.
All was silence downstairs for a moment. Then Gwen said, “He knew our father. We know little about him, but he offered to help with the effort. Why do you ask?”
“You are not associated with him? Beyond accepting his offer to help?”
“Well. Not . . . especially.”
He would put the pieces together. Soon, if he hadn’t already. They were all there, laid out neatly in a row.
“Of course—and beyond asking you to host Miss Forsythe and pretend she was an old friend, I meant.”
She couldn’t hear the sisters sigh, but she knew they would have. “He assured us it was for a noble cause, Mr. De Wilde. Though, of course, we are never fond of deception. I pray you forgive us if this has somehow injured you.”
“I am well. I assure you. But in need of assistance, and I would rather it have no connection to that man.”
Willa opened her eyes when Barclay nudged her elbow. His brows were quirked. She shrugged.
“How can we help you?”
Lukas cleared his throat. “I need to return to Belgium, in secret, to locate my mother and sister and bring them back here with me. I have an . . . acquaintance who can help with this, but it will be expensive. And as I am sure you know, all my accounts are frozen.”
Barclay’s brows drew together by degrees until they all but flashed lightning. “An acquaintance?”
“Cor.” Willa pushed to her feet and took off at a run. He couldn’t trust Cor Akkerman with this—he couldn’t. Was he an absolute idiot? She charged down the stairs and into the drawing room while Daisy was still speaking, assuring him with a smile that they would be happy to help.
The doors she’d pushed open smacked into the shelves behind them. “Are you an idiot? You cannot trust Cor Akkerman!”
Gwen had sprung up at the clamor of the door, a hand pressed to her chest. “Who is Cor Akkerman?”
“The man who stole the money from the relief fund.”
“Oh.” Daisy shook her head and held out a hand toward Lukas. “Willa is right, monsieur. You must not trust a man like that to help you.”
“On the contrary.” He looked at her so evenly. As if she were a stranger. “That proves exactly how far he will go for money. It is the only thing he cares about, the only thing he will seek. I give it to him, and he is trustworthy exactly as far as he agreed to be for a given sum.” A tic in his jaw. “If any kind of thief can be trusted, I should think it is that kind.”
Barclay must have followed her down, given that he leaned close and stage-whispered “Ouch” into her ear.
Willa batted him away. “And how far is that? Do you really trust him to get you into Brussels? Into the house where they’re staying?”
Lukas’s face didn’t shift. But his hands fisted. “I do not need him for that. I know Brussels better than he does. Once I am there, I will be fine on my own.”
She snorted and folded her arms over her chest. “The last time you tried t
o sneak into a house in Brussels under the army’s nose, you were shot.”
“Shot!” Gwen sank to a seat on the edge of a chair.
“Really?” Barclay, the oaf, sounded impressed. “That sounds like a story I’d like to hear. You obviously got away.”
Lukas ignored them both. “I was unprepared last time. I will not be this time. I will find them, get them out, and—”
“Get them shot. Don’t be an idiot, Lukas. You’re a musician. You don’t know the first thing about sneaking in and out of houses.”
Barclay groaned behind her, obviously anticipating where she was going with this.
Lukas’s eyes flashed. “What, then? Do I need a spy to help me?”
“Of course not. You just need a thief.”
Daisy turned questioning eyes on her. “You said he shouldn’t trust this Cor fellow.”
“A good thief.” She waved a hand between herself and Barclay. “You need us.”
Barclay looked ready to smack her upside the head. “She means her.”
She speared him with a glance. “It’s his sister.”
He growled. And sighed. “Fine. Us.”
“No. Not fine. Not you—either or both.” Lukas shook his head, slashed the air with a hand, that careful, even control slipping. “You think I would be idiot enough to trust you now? You would take her straight to him.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” She stepped closer. Chin up, spine straight. Eyes begging him to see this one truth. “I wouldn’t. We’d get in, get them out, and help you disappear. Safe, all of you.”
Silence pulsed. In the room, in her chest. But not quite in her head. There was a hint of something stirring there, distant but melodic. Enough to say, This is right.
Lukas swallowed. “And how much will this cost me? Or the Misses Davies rather, until I can repay them.”
Willa’s lips turned up. “Not much. Just the key—after I deliver your family safely to you.”
Confusion churned in his dark eyes. “It would be useless then.”
Her smile grew. “I know that. And you know that. But . . .”
“They wouldn’t.” Barclay stepped to her side, even with her. “V and the German.”
A Song Unheard Page 30