A Jewel In Time; A Sultry Sisters Anthology

by Barbara Devlin

  “Gambling is a sin of the utmost danger to your soul, to your family,” she mocked her father’s pompous tones. The words rang out in the echoing silence of her office. “For always, it leads you to believe you are not at risk.”

  Grace’s grandfather, her father’s father, had nearly bankrupted the family through gambling, so His Lordship had reason to despise it.

  She lit a match and resealed the letter with a fresh wax wafer and her seal. She would post it on her way to her suite of rooms.

  She’d just put the seal away when her secretary knocked briefly, then bustled in with a sheaf of papers. Her abrupt entry made Grace jump, but she forced herself to relax. She had to act as if it were business as usual, as if she were going to make a little trip north, purchase a brandy, then jaunt over the channel to deliver it. Something she did with surprising regularity.

  She’d lie and say she’d be back at her desk in Paris in a few days. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t become used to the deceptions. This time, however, was an underlying ache.

  She was deeply saddened to leave. Despite her horrible experience in boarding school, she loved France. She loved the people, the food, the wonderful nightlife, and of course, the wine.

  “Eh, Elisette,” she said to the secretary in flawless, schoolbook French. “I must go to Pays-Auge, then home for a few days to deliver that 1902 brandy we found for the client. I’m taking the account books now so I can do my quarterly reporting early. I’ll be back by,” Grace paused to consult her gilt-edged calendar. “Monday at the latest. If my father doesn’t insist I dance attendance on him at Dale Manor, I’ll stay the weekend and see some of my chums in London, then head back. If he does, then it may be Wednesday before I’m back, but no later than that.”

  “Oui, Lady Corvedale,” Elisette made a note, and looked up expectantly. “Do you need me to make your travel?”

  “No, my brother took care of it and charged it to the buyer,” she made herself grin at Elisette, inviting her to share the joke of pawning the expense off on the client. Elisette dutifully laughed, but Grace caught the calculation in her eyes.

  The last shred of doubt disappeared. Elisette was reporting her movements to someone. That look sealed it.

  Damn it all.

  The secretary left to carry out the morning’s business, but Grace waited a heartbeat to be sure she wasn’t coming back in. The ornate ormolu clock chimed the hour from its place of honor on a nearby bombe chest.

  Carefully and quietly, Grace rose and crossed the room. She turned the key in the door’s lock and settled in for some serious work.

  There was a lot to do before she left the office, much less the country.

  Lt. Robert “Dix” Dixon shrugged out of his overcoat and acted as if he handed such mundane things off to a stiff, uniformed English butler every day. In America, few families kept this kind of “high” servant, even if they were wealthy. At least they didn’t in New Orleans. There were butlers there, sure, but not this kind.

  Dix took off his cover, and handed the stiff officer’s cap to the man as well.

  “Thank you,” he said, and the butler nodded, but said nothing in reply. He then followed his friend Char into the depths of the opulent townhouse. The weight of centuries hung around the building’s graceful architecture, but the furnishings were of the latest mode. That is, until he arrived in the Marquis’ office.

  “It’s been five days since she should have been at Portsmouth,” Arthur Corvedale, Lord Charleton--Char to his friends--stated the obvious as he paced his father’s study. Dix’s friend had hardly introduced Dix before he leapt on the obvious. “Something’s happened, Father. Grace is never late. Ever.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Char’s father, Lord Michael Standish, Marquis of Dale, intoned, glancing at the fourth man in the room. Lord Shippingston nodded, but Dix had no idea what he was approving.

  “There is little, officially, that we can do,” Standish continued.

  When Char protested, his father held up a meaty hand. “Officially. We are newly at war, Arthur.” Obviously Char’s father didn’t use the nickname. “Things are unsettled, unpredictable. Officially, we begin a search for her and hire an investigator in France, and so forth.” He waved the same hand, dismissing all that regular nonsense. “We’ll do more than that, of course.”

  Relief eased over Char’s fears. But from Standish’s body language, Dix guessed this was far more serious than one overdue girl.

  As proof of his hunch, the Marquis continued. “We are all aware that this is not a regular disappearance.”

  Char froze in the act of lighting a cheroot and a cold ball of dread settled into Dix’s gut. That feeling always told him he was heading into serious danger.

  Char had invited Dix to accompany him to Portsmouth when he picked up Grace. Dix had wanted to see the port anyway, so he’d gone.

  The more he knew, the better he could plan. In his capacity as an unofficial American attaché to the British War Office in London, he was, officially, a nonentity. A cipher.

  His real, clandestine, duties were a whole lot more interesting.

  They’d waited two days in Portsmouth. When the sister didn’t arrive, Char had driven at breakneck speed back to London to call on his father, the Marquis.

  Char had intimated his father was involved in Special Projects with the Home Office. Dix had met the Marquis briefly at the Home Office, but now was not the time to reveal that.

  “I am well aware of Grace’s movements,” the Marquis said, looking drained. “She did not reach The Suffolk Special. I had hoped some of her other resources would have allowed her to get to Portsmouth, however.”

  “Oh, Father, what have you done?” Char spun to confront his father. “How could you? How could you involve Grace in your doings?”

  Lord Shippingston cleared his throat, and Char blushed. Dix fully expected Char’s father to take Char to task for speaking so bluntly in front of Lord Shippingston.

  Instead, the Marquis looked at Shippingston, and again, Shippingston nodded.

  Char’s imposing father sighed heavily, suddenly looking every one of his nearly sixty years. The defeated slump of Standish’s otherwise fiercely erect posture, however slight, pulled Dix’s attention away from Shippingston and back to Char’s father.

  “What?” Char demanded, staring at his father.

  “Grace volunteered, Char. Insisted, in fact,” Standish said heavily. He continued as he ponderously rose to pour himself a brandy. “However, we can only seem to look for her through official channels. That hasn’t changed. We’ll proceed in the ways I’ve mentioned.”

  “Unofficially, then?” Char snapped, out of patience with his father’s machinations.

  Dix didn’t know the girl, but he could hardly believe Standish would allow this Grace, who was Char’s younger sister, to involve herself in Home Office plots and schemes...

  “Grace is a law unto herself, Arthur,” the older man said sharply. “We have ideas as to how to locate her. We’ll be calling on your friend,” Standish nodded toward Dix, and Char’s frown turned stormy and angry. “To help us.”

  “What does Dix have to do with this?”

  “He’s far more than an unofficial attaché, boy,” Standish snapped. Shippingston ahem-ed again and now Standish turned his pique on the hefty diplomat. “Do you have something to add?”

  Shippingston looked briefly surprised, then simply smiled.

  “Not at all. I was merely thinking you might want to let both our guests change, and adjourn this until after dinner.”

  As he spoke, the clock chimed the hour and Standish looked surprised. “Ah, it’s grown late. Yes, you are correct.”

  “But father--” Char began.

  “No, Lord Shippingston is correct. Lt. Dixon, I believe Lord Charleton will have evening wear to fit you.” He eyed Dix’s uniform for a moment. “Hmm. I’ll tell Willoughby to send up the suit your cousin Henry left,” he said to Char. Turning back to Dix, he ordered, more than
asked. “You’ll join us for dinner, I trust?”

  “Of course, sir. I’d be honored.”

  “We’ll send a note to your commanding officer to let him know you’re in our care,” Standish said with a weary smile. “As well as a note to our other colleagues,” he added with a sharper look.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  With a look of disbelief mixed with irritation, Char made a slight bow to his father and led Dix from the room.

  They’d barely reached Char’s room in the massive town house when Char burst out with, “What the hell was that about.”

  “I told you. Attaché is a ruse. I’m here for a lot of reasons that have nothing to do with paperwork and horse fairs.” The last part was a bit of dig, since Char’s duty to show him some of the RAF facilities had digressed into a jaunt to a championship horse show and sale.

  “Spies and secrets,” Char growled. “You and Standish might actually be worse than my sister.”

  “Your sister’s a spy?”

  Char snorted as he undid his collar. “Of course. And this isn’t her first foray to get information for Father’s little projects. I think she did her first work for the Crown when she was barely eighteen.”

  “How old is she now?”

  “Oh, only twenty-three, and barely that,” Char finally smiled. “But she was born to sneak and spy.”

  Char’s man knocked on the door and came in with a perfectly pressed evening suit, leaving it to hurry away and polish Dix’s already highly polished shoes.

  The suit provided was, thankfully, larger than anything Char might have had. Dix was much bigger through the chest and shoulders. Cousin John--whoever he might be--was obviously closer to Dix’s breadth of chest. The formal kit, though a bit snug, sufficed.

  They were heading down to dinner when Char again spoke of his sister. “You’ve got to understand, Dix. Grace is brilliant. I’m actually not surprised she demanded father cut her into the action, given her sneaky ways. She’s a whiz with ciphers and codes, she is. But...”

  “You’re worried. It’s understandable,” Dix didn’t know what else to say. A woman alone in what was, essentially, a war zone. If it had been his sister...

  He laughed at the image. His sister would never survive as a clandestine agent. Sophia was too bold. Too...impulsive.

  “If she’s as sneaky as you say, then she’ll come out all right,” Dix said, trying to inject a positive note into the words. “Hopefully we’ll get a cable from Portsmouth in the morning cursing us for making her wait.”

  Char smiled faintly, obviously unconvinced. “We can only hope.”

  They entered the dining room, only to find Standish and Shippingston with a uniformed stranger.

  “She’s waitin’ on Hitler, in Germany,” the man stammered.

  Chapter II

  “The hell you say!” Char burst out. Dix was thinking the same thing.

  “Hush,” Standish said. Turning back to the messenger he said, “Go on.”

  “She was taken sir, before she could get on the train. Evidently it was peaceful-like, if you take my meanin’, but word is she’s detained waitin’ on the Führer. He wants a word with her fer some reason.”

  “Where is this?” Shippingston said sharply.

  The messenger turned his way. “Zweiwig,” he said, then stopped. “No, Zweiburg, he said. “It’s over the border in’ta Germany a bit. At a hunting lodge.”

  “Dammit!” Standish paced angrily up a few paces, then back. “If she were still in France we could act openly.” He turned to Dix. “I guess we’ll still need you, young man.”

  Shippingston took the documents the messenger handed to him, dismissing him to go back to the Home Office. Shippingston tucked the papers into his breast pocket and moved to sit.

  “We might as well eat, then plan. No use planning on an empty stomach.”

  Dix thought otherwise, but sat with the others as a multi-course meal was served. Again, he acted as if this level of formality was his norm. It wasn’t.

  Inwardly he smiled at the thought of his fiery, impatient, half-Cherokee father sitting through such nonsense. Beauregard Dixon entertained lavishly, and often, but he never let it get in the way of business.

  But Dix was adept at blending in, and fitting in, without becoming totally invisible. And tonight, that meant having an elegant dinner and waiting for his mission orders.

  Evidently this Lady Grace Corvedale was important enough to send someone--Dix—-in to fetch her. Given that, he needed all the information possible on Lady Grace Corvedale.

  He’d already set up exit points for both American and British citizens when the time came for them to be evacuated from France. That was ready. After Poland’s forced annexation, war was declared. Despite their building efforts, there was doubt France would hold the line against German forces. The United States was nominally neutral. For now. But agents from both countries would need ways to get out when the time came.

  He just hoped he could get himself and this English socialite out of Germany before the hammer came down.

  Grace paced the room at the old hunting lodge. Her possessions had been returned to her, all but the diary that went with her brooch. That, the German general had kept.

  As polite as he was, Herr General Freisenstadt was not nice. The hard set of his mouth and the coldness in his eyes told her he wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

  To her great surprise, he hadn’t taken the brooch. She was still wearing it as a pendant, concealed beneath her shirt.

  There had been no other questions. Nothing about the other trips she’d made. There was no mention of the English presence in France. Nothing was asked about the many jaunts she’d made over the various borders, now war zones.

  In fact, Herr General’s questions had been brief. And all about her brooch.

  Just the jewel. And the diary.

  And of course, in his cold, but pleasant and courteous manner, he had answered none of her questions.

  Irritated, she took another turn around the room trying to get past her immense anger and get to something constructive. She had to escape, of course.

  The first day, she’d been driven here. Then she’d been fed, and kept locked in the room ever since. The servants had been obsequious, even welcoming, but adamant in their refusal to discuss her situation.

  She conned enough German to know that she was being held until Adolf Hitler himself arrived to talk to her. Somehow he’d learned about her antique jeweled brooch, and the legend around it, and around her family’s ancient Templar origins.

  Grace’s lip curled in a silent snarl. It wasn’t like anyone had kept the legend secret, exactly. Each generation’s eldest daughter, if there was one, received the brooch. The previous generation’s eldest daughter passed it on to her daughter, or to the niece or cousin she felt should be the recipient. Grace’s Aunt, also named Grace, had passed it to her namesake on the day Grace turned eighteen.

  Aunt Grace’s brood was large, but they were all boys.

  Grace didn’t really believe in the legend. How could dreaming of your “destined love” be helpful in any way? And really. Different dreams? Compelling futures?

  Balderdash. But she loved the jewel, and kept the tradition of wearing it, always. And because she did that bit, she kept the journal with her at all times, as well.

  Grace looked at her watch as she heard the creaking of the great stairs down the hall from her room. There was a perfunctory knock and the grate of a key in the old fashioned lock.

  The same pattern had been repeated for three days now. She’d been here a week, but within the last few days, three more generals had arrived. She’d been introduced, but then sequestered in her room.

  She’d smelled the luscious scent permeating the house, and heard the talk echoing up from the living areas below. Now, dinner was about to be served.

  She hurried to the chair by the window and picked up the book she’d left there. She wanted always to appear unconcerned about her si
tuation, confident that all was well, that her release was imminent.

  She preserved the illusion that she was an honored guest.

  “Fräulein Corvedale, your dinner.”

  A woman, the lodge’s housekeeper, bustled in. Her name was Frau Shemper and she spoke superb English. “Come, come, I will set it up here, yes?” She motioned the servant following her to put the tray down on the table near where Grace sat.

  As he set down the tray, the man watched her. Harsh white scars ran like claw marks under a black eye patch. His stooped posture and distinct limp should have made him look menacing.

  Instead, there was a knowing look in his good eye, an assessing look. It was as if he wanted--needed--to talk to her, but dared not.

  “It won’t be long now,” Frau Shemper chirped chattily, pulling the curtains, shutting out the winter landscape. “The generals, they meet in the dining room tonight, so I’ve brought your dinner. But, tomorrow night our special guests will be here,” the woman said, her smile twinkling, inviting Grace to enjoy the idea of that. “You will enjoy this, yes? Leaving the room, of course. And to come downstairs, wearing one of the lovely gowns I pressed for you. Yes, yes,” Frau Shemper said, beaming, her hands clasped together. “It will be good.”

  Dinner tonight was a hearty stew with crusty bread laid in a lovely wooden bowl with a snowy linen cloth. The smell of it made Grace’s stomach give an unladylike growl.

  There was a bottle of wine, a red, to go with the stew, as well as a fat pot of tea, a cream pitcher and sugar bowl. The sight of those made her sigh.

  She’d almost made it. She’d gotten to Calais. She’d almost made the ferry. They’d let her get as far as the first class waiting lounge before they pounced. The tea she’d ordered arrived with three Nazi officers. If she’d seen the barest whisker of them before she arrived at the ferry, she’d have melted into the crowd and disappeared without a trace.

  Evidently they’d guessed that.

  “Danke, Frau Shemper.”

  “Bitte-bitte. Of course, of course,” Frau Shemper replied, as she turned to smooth the bed covers and plump the pillows. The manservant had tended the fire, and now stood at the door, a hulking, dark-haired reminder that she was a prisoner.