He said one of but looked only at Dot. Which suited Margot fine.
“Oh.” Her friend looked to her, obviously debating whether it would be rude to abandon her.
Margot produced a smile and waved her fingers toward the improvised dance floor. “Go. Have fun.”
Fun. That would be the quiet of her flat and that journal the Duchess of Stafford had lent her. She’d already read through the whole thing twice, but she’d like another go at Einstein’s article before she dared to talk of it to the duchess. Her German was good, but it hadn’t recently been focused on mathematical and scientific phrases, and she wasn’t altogether certain she’d been translating each word properly. She’d brought a massive dictionary home with her this afternoon, though, to help her remedy any mistakes.
Once Dot put down her glass and joined the sailor on the not-a-dance-floor, Margot edged backward until she’d found a nice corner to disappear into. By her calculation, they could leave in another twenty-three minutes without it looking rude. Assuming Dot wanted to go. With a bit of luck, the sailor wouldn’t be charming enough to outweigh her friend’s urge to return home. Surely she’d want to go and check on her newly installed brother.
Culbreth drifted to a halt in front of her, along with Sir Malcolm—one of DID’s staff. “A bit scary, isn’t it?” he was saying.
Sir Malcolm hummed his agreement. “I’m just grateful we managed to intercept it. Can you imagine the chaos it would have caused if they’d made it to our armies? There was enough sugar there to have killed thousands of animals. Horses, donkeys—we’d have been in quite a spot.”
Margot lowered her glass a bit. Sugar. Dead animals. She’d decoded something about that, but the details wouldn’t quite surface. Which was troubling. She frowned at her soda and tried to sort through it.
Wednesday last. That was it—the day she’d come home with a fever and found Maman.
No wonder the details were playing hide-and-seek.
Culbreth was shaking his head. “I can’t quite fathom it. Using a disease like anthrax to gain the upper hand. It doesn’t seem right, does it? Deliberately spreading something we’ve tried so hard to eradicate?”
“The huns are scrambling for any advantage they can find, that’s what. We’ve got them on the run.”
Anthrax. Margot took another sip of the soda.
“Yes, but what if some of that sugar had made it into human consumption? Can you imagine the results?” Culbreth, though his back was to her, was surely frowning. She could hear it in his voice. “I looked it up—nasty thing, that. Gave me quite a start, too, to see how many symptoms of infection resembled the flu, what with that bout of it going round the office.”
The synapses in her brain finally fired in such a way that she felt the jolt all the way to her toes. This was what had been bothering her ever since she stumbled home that morning and found Maman.
Anthrax. Sugar cubes. A perfectly healthy woman falling prey to death for no good reason after contracting the flu.
Maman hadn’t just died. She’d been killed. Targeted—and perhaps more of them would be too. One of the agents the admiral had left in play must have been contacted, given something tainted with anthrax. And he must have decided to use it against Room 40. The people under Admiral Hall, who was waging war so effectively against the Germans’ intelligence operations.
The soda in her cup sloshed as her hand trembled. She slid the glass onto an end table nearby and pushed through the crowd of familiar faces, toward the lavatory, muttering her apologies as she bumped into a few colleagues on her way.
They all just smiled and moved aside, oblivious.
But she wasn’t. Not anymore.
14
Drake had never considered himself a coward. But apparently he was one, as evidenced by the fact that every time he opened his mouth to tell Dot the truth about his wartime activities, he closed it again, the words still unsaid. He’d meant to get it over with as soon as he’d settled into her flat on Saturday, but she’d been busy alternately fussing over him and then herself, preparing for her outing.
His sister. Out for an evening. Of her own free will.
Perhaps it was the shock that rendered him speechless.
No, because he’d been speechless still the next morning as she dressed for Mass, and he had remained so even after she’d returned.
Now here they were, mere hours left in Sunday, right up against his admiral-imposed deadline for telling her, and he knew he had only an hour or two of wakefulness left. He’d managed to shuffle his way to the sofa in the main room, given that Margot De Wilde was due any minute, and it had cost him a ridiculous amount of energy.
He should tell her now, before Dark Eyes arrived. He should.
He would.
To prove it to himself, he cleared his throat. “Dot . . .”
“Here you go.” Cheerful and smiling and utterly oblivious, she handed him a cup of steaming, fragrant tea. “Just the way you like it.”
“Gracias.”
She kept smiling, but her eyes frowned. “De nada.” She shook her head. “Thinking of Spain, are you?”
A slip—one he usually only made in the first week or two after returning from time in Spain. His subconscious must be trying to help him along. “Perhaps so. After spending so many years there at university, I—”
“Oh! That reminds me!” Dot sat in the chair at right angles to his sofa, bouncing upon the cushion in whatever excitement she’d just recollected. “I’ve been informed that Margot’s birthday is next week!”
For a long moment he could only blink at her. “How does my being at university in Spain remind you of Margot’s birthday?”
She laughed. “Because she was talking the other day of how she hoped to attend university after the war is over. And thinking of her reminds me of what I just learned last night about her, though she never would have admitted her birthday on her own, I suspect. She isn’t one for a fuss. But I’d like to host a small dinner party for her. You wouldn’t mind, would you? Just her and her brother and his wife?”
“Of course I don’t mind. But if we could backtrack a bit, I—”
A knock sounded on the door. Not the usual quick rat-a-tat-tat, but a measured, slightly slower version. Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap.
“There she is.” Dot hopped to her feet again with enviable ease. “And I’m sorry. What were you saying about your university days?”
Maybe it would be easier to tell it to her back as she scurried away, toward the door. He glanced at her retreating form.
Nope.
Besides, he would only be interrupted again by her opening the door and greeting her friend. He’d just have to tell her and Miss De Wilde both.
Perhaps it would be better that way. Perhaps Dot wouldn’t overreact in the presence of company.
He didn’t bother answering her question directly, and she didn’t seem to notice, given that in the next moment she was unfastening the chain, turning the lock, and opening the door with an exclamation of greeting.
Drake couldn’t drag himself to his feet fast enough to stand like a gentleman when the ladies entered the room, but he managed to sit up a bit straighter, anyway. And he’d donned a real shirt and trousers for the occasion. Nothing constricting, no waistcoat or jacket, but he was at least out of his pajamas and dressing gown.
Not that Margot De Wilde did more than glance at him with a generic smile, the same one she’d have given anyone. A blow to his self-confidence, to be sure. He may not be the most handsome bloke in the world, and girls may not fall over themselves vying for his attention, but it would be nice if he weren’t entirely invisible to her.
“Sit, sit.” Dot waved her friend toward the chairs. “We’ve another half an hour before the food is ready. Would you like something to drink, Margot?”
“Not yet, thank you.” She shrugged out of her coat and passed it into Dot’s outstretched hand. Then she turned her dark eyes on him while Dot went to put her coat somewhere. “How g
oes your recuperation, Lieutenant?”
“Very well, thank you.” He took a sip of his tea and prayed silently for a way to broach this conversation with his sister.
Miss De Wilde—would she ever give him leave to call her Margot?—shifted on her seat a bit. “I don’t believe Dot ever mentioned which ship you were on. I’m afraid I’m not aware of any that saw action last week.”
Sometimes the Lord answered prayers at an alarming rate. He cleared his throat and tracked Dot with his gaze as she came back from her bedroom, all smiles. For now. “The Royal Oak. Though, actually . . .” Blast, but the truth was hard sometimes. He’d pay her the respect of looking her in the eye when he delivered it though. “Actually, I wasn’t on a ship at all.”
Dot reclaimed her chair, looking only mildly curious. “Oh? Where were you, then?”
He wanted to look at something else, anything else. But he didn’t. “On a train from Bilbao.”
A bit of bafflement entered her eyes. “Were you visiting Abuelo on a leave? You didn’t mention such intentions. And how would you have got shot on a train?”
“It wasn’t leave. Or a visit.” His fingers tightened around the delicate china cup she’d given him. “I haven’t been on a ship for years, Dot.”
Now her expression flattened into disbelief. “Nonsense. You are always such a joker.”
“I’m not joking. DID has instructed me to tell you the truth. He pulled me from the Royal Oak in my first months aboard. Because he needed men on the ground in Spain, gathering intelligence. And my records included that I’d been educated there.”
Dot went still. Utterly still.
Miss De Wilde—Margot, in his thoughts if not in his speech—leaned forward. “Interesting. You’re part of Thoroton’s network, then?”
For a beat, he stared at her, surprised she knew the name. But then, she’d probably typed up the decrypts of his reports or something. Perhaps that was why the admiral had smirked when he’d asked if it was all right for her to know the truth. She most likely already knew a large part of it, just not his name. He shook himself and nodded. “Stationed in Bilbao mostly, where I could stay with Abuelo and use my already-existent reputation there as a cover for my real work.”
Dot had folded her hands into her lap, but it wasn’t a peaceful pose. Her every muscle looked tense, and her breath came too fast. “Do you really mean to tell me that you’re one of the admiral’s spies?”
“Agents.” Semantics, but spy had such a negative connotation. It implied untrustworthiness, deceitfulness, duplicity.
His sister didn’t seem to care about his correction. Her nostrils flared. “And you were shot how, exactly?”
Though his throat was dry, he didn’t imagine the hot tea would really help it much. “I was . . .” How much to say? He was telling her the truth, yes. But discretion was surely still called for. “I was part of a team tasked with identifying and intercepting a shipment of sugar cubes tainted with anthrax. The German agent accompanying the shipment got in a lucky parting shot.”
“A lucky shot?” Faux peace abandoned, Dot leapt to her feet. “You could have been killed!”
“A fate just as likely were I a regular soldier. More likely.” He set the teacup down and swung his feet to the floor, wincing a bit in the process. “I’m far safer than most chaps I know. Eating well, living in Abuelo’s luxury while my friends are starving and dying in the trenches. If there’s guilt to be felt, Dorothea, it isn’t about being in a dangerous spot and not telling you—it’s over having it easy, all things considered. Over not being haunted by the experiences that eat up my friends—deaths on their consciences, second-guessing, wondering at—”
“Having it easy? I know the number of agents lost in the field, Drake! I type up the reports every day!” Rivaling sparks of fury and fear in her eyes, she spun away, toward the window.
“Not in Spain.” This from Margot, whose dark eyes seemed to bore into him as effectively as Jaeger’s bullet had done, though it made his pulse hammer instead of slow. “We haven’t lost any agents in Spain. Though we have gained much valuable intelligence.”
He lifted a brow. “Is that a compliment?”
“For the effectiveness of the organization, yes. Whether any of that belongs to you in particular, I cannot say without more information.” She lifted a brow in return, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Though DID seems to like you well enough, so you can’t be too useless a source.”
A laugh sputtered out. And dug claws into his stomach. He pressed a hand to the spot that hurt the worst.
Margot nodded toward Dot’s back. “Your sister’s been typing up the reports from France. Different tale for our agents there, unfortunately. We’ve lost far too many, either to death or arrest.”
“I can imagine. But France is occupied territory, Dot. Spain isn’t.”
His sister drew in a deep breath and let it slowly out, but she didn’t turn back around.
Margot tapped a finger three times on the arm of her chair. She opened her mouth, closed it again, clenched her jaw. Even having met her only a few times before, Drake had a feeling that hesitation wasn’t her normal mode of operation. But after a few seconds she met his eyes again. “How long were you investigating the anthrax?”
He couldn’t think why she’d ask. But she’d have a reason. “Several weeks.”
“How likely is it that any of the tainted sugar or grain made it to England?”
He reached again for his tea, mainly to give himself a moment to consider. She didn’t seem to be asking from fear—or if so, her fear didn’t reveal itself like his sister’s did. “Nothing is outside the realm of possibility, of course, but I discovered nothing to hint at it. Why?”
Dot turned around, her drawn brows focused now on Margot rather than him. “Yes, why?”
What an interesting young woman she was. She didn’t flinch under their regard, didn’t shift, didn’t look away. She didn’t raise her chin or straighten her spine. She just blinked. And answered them. “Because the symptoms my mother was apparently suffering before her death are consistent with anthrax.”
Dot took a tentative step forward, her hand stretched out a few inches toward her friend. “Margot . . . they’re also consistent with a heart attack.”
“She was perfectly healthy.”
“We both know these conditions aren’t always apparent.”
Still Margot showed no signs of either defense or offense. Her posture didn’t change, nor did her facial expression. “The statistical probability of her falling prey to the same ailment that felled my father four years ago, when considerations such as diet and location and exercise are so vastly different, is considerably lower than the probability that one of our abundant enemies has been at work.”
Dot’s eyes went wide, and her arms spread out in a gesture that said, Look about you. “In what world is a heart attack less likely than—than assassination?”
Drake willed his sister to look over at him so that he could give her a sign to shut up. She was Margot’s friend, and she ought to know better than to say something like that, even if she thought it. He could scarcely believe she just had.
His fault, he suspected. She was reeling from his news and lashing out.
Margot didn’t miss a beat. “In my world. We lived for months under the same roof as a German general who never hesitated to share with us how readily the High Command would kill anyone deemed an enemy. We watched our entire town be torn to pieces and burned. Any family whose military-aged son had escaped the country could be arrested. They dismantled our factories and sent the pieces to Germany so that we cannot rebuild after the war.”
“But that is different than being targeted.”
Why was Dot fighting her about this?
Perhaps Margot was wondering the same. She finally changed her expression and lifted her brows. “We were hunted before, for my father’s work. My brother was shot because he was recognized as being the son of Professor De Wilde. Will
a was shot and held prisoner trying to help us escape from Belgium. Agents of both the English and German Crown made it quite clear they would do anything to get their hands on his work in cryptography.”
Who was this girl? Or perhaps it was more a question of who her father had been, and if in fact she and her mother had been in possession of his work. He didn’t know yet which question to ask. But he’d dealt in this world long enough to see the sense in her words.
Dot, he granted, hadn’t. She huffed. “Terrible. But years ago.”
“You think the threat evaporated? While the war yet rages on?”
“No.” Drake’s interjection, quiet but sure, had his sister spinning on him, her eyes asking why he was encouraging her friend in what she no doubt thought was a fruitless and unhealthy inquiry. Which it might be.
Or she might be right. And if she were right . . .
He transferred his gaze from Dot to Margot. “Have you mentioned your concerns to DID?”
“Not yet. I only just made the connection last night.”
He nodded. “We should bring it to his attention. I have no evidence to say you could be right, but I have none to say you’re wrong either. I’ll do what I can to remedy that for you.”
Now she moved—her shoulders sagged, just a bit. And she let out the tiniest puff of breath, so small he likely would have missed it had he not been paying close attention. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“I’m really not accustomed to answering to that, given that I have been undercover for all these years. Call me Drake.” He tried for a grin, though it no doubt didn’t look all that charming. And likely wouldn’t faze her regardless. “One of the conditions of my inquiry.”
“Very well.” No, not so much as a pause or a shift to indicate any effect.
“You’re both ridiculous.” Dot stormed between his sofa and Margot’s chair. “I’m going to fetch the potatoes from Mrs. Colton’s oven.”
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