by Kate Breslin
Colin almost laughed at the tinge of red igniting her cheeks. So much for maintaining propriety.
She looked to him suddenly, jerking her head slightly toward the clerk as if Colin should help. He shrugged, unable to keep the smile from his lips. He couldn’t wait to see how she would extricate herself from the awkward situation.
It didn’t take long. Miss Reyer’s eyes blazed at him before she returned her attention to the harried clerk. “Monsieur, please. Have pity. My husband, when he sleeps . . . his snoring could awaken the dead.” She leaned close to the desk. “A wound he received during the war . . .”
The clerk’s frown eased, and he looked to Colin as if for corroboration. Colin gave him a brief nod, admittedly impressed by Miss Reyer’s quick wit.
“Let me see what I can do, madame. A moment.” The clerk perused the warren of boxes along the back wall, many of which contained keys. He finally selected two. “I can offer you and your husband two single rooms directly across the hall from one another. Is this acceptable?”
Miss Reyer’s relief was almost comical. “That will certainly do. Until connecting rooms become available, of course.”
“Of course, madame.”
The clerk retrieved the hotel register, and once they had both signed their names, Colin surveyed the empty lobby. He turned to the clerk. “We would like to speak with Monsieur George Petit, if he is available. Can you please get a message to him?”
“Petit? Why, he is the hotel porter.” The swarthy man behind the desk guffawed before appraising him with dark eyes. “Why are you so interested in a porter?”
Miss Reyer turned to raise a brow at Colin, a mocking smile on her lips.
Touché. Colin plunged ahead. “We met a couple on the train who recommended Petit by name. Said the chap provided them with superior service and was a credit to this hotel.” He didn’t like having to lie, but it seemed necessary.
Miss Reyer gave him a slight nod, her eyes shining with admiration.
The clerk snorted. “A porter.” He rang the silver bell on the desk. “Petit! Venez ici!”
A tall, slim, clean-shaven man in dark gray livery soon emerged from across the lobby, pushing a freestanding wheeled trolley.
“Petit, you seem to have a reputation to uphold. Take Madame and Lieutenant Mabry’s bags up to rooms 308 and 309.”
Petit shot Colin and Miss Reyer a curious glance before loading their luggage onto the trolley. As the three walked toward the elevator, Colin and Miss Reyer exchanged another look. This porter was not the man in the photograph.
The elevator operator, a young boy garbed in the same gray uniform, let them out onto their floor. Petit led the way with the trolley down the empty hall before pausing in front of their rooms. Once Miss Reyer indicated her luggage, he unlocked her door and deposited her things inside, then did the same for Colin.
When he returned to the hall, Colin offered him a few francs.
“Merci.” The porter pocketed the money. “Will there be anything else, Lieutenant?”
“You’re George Petit, correct?”
The porter’s expression turned guarded. “I am, monsieur.”
Colin’s heart thumped in his chest as he withdrew the photograph of the dark-haired stranger and held it up for Petit’s inspection. “We are looking for this man. Do you know him?”
Miss Reyer had reemerged from her room to stand in her doorway. Colin flipped the picture to show Petit the message on the back. “Henri Lacourt said you could help us.”
Petit looked up slowly, confusion clouding his dark eyes. He glanced at Miss Reyer, then back at Colin. “Pardon, monsieur, madame, but I do not know the man in the photograph. Nor do I know any Monsieur Lacourt.” He offered a weak smile. “I am sorry. If there will be nothing else, I hope you both enjoy your stay with us.”
Colin’s mood plummeted as he gripped the photograph and watched the porter depart with the trolley. Titan’s teeth! Had Henri Lacourt sent him on a fool’s errand after all?
“Goodness. Now what?”
He glanced at Miss Reyer before checking the time on his watch. Almost nine o’clock. “It’s too late to contact Lacourt in Paris tonight.”
Colin pocketed the photograph, his hand brushing against Gambette’s dispatch. “I must leave now to run a quick errand for my Paris office. I should return within the hour. Will you join me for dinner downstairs? I believe the hotel restaurant is open until eleven.”
She leaned against the doorjamb, her features pale. “I’m sorry, but I’m quite done in. All the traveling today has worn me out. I’ll call for room service and see you in the morning.”
“Of course.” Colin watched her retreat behind the door, his spirits dampened. He’d hoped to have her company at dinner to discuss the reasons Henri Lacourt might have sent them on a wild goose chase. Still, he understood her exhaustion. The day’s travel had taken its toll on them both, and the prosthetic sleeve made his old wound ache.
He checked his room before returning downstairs and had the swarthy clerk arrange a cab. According to MI6, Monsieur Gambette had a flat on rue Lafayette. It took only minutes to arrive at the lighted street in front of a row of Art Nouveau appartements.
Colin looked at the driver. “Wait for me. I won’t be long.”
Climbing the stone steps to Gambette’s front door, he exercised the brass knocker, and a woman in service dress soon answered to inform him her employer was out for the evening. With the promise to return the following day, Colin made his retreat to the waiting cab, his frustration mounting. It seemed his first night in Toulouse was determined to be a failure.
Back at the hotel, he entered the elegant restaurant. A few people were still dining late: a French soldier and his sweetheart sat near the window, holding hands across the table, while in a quiet corner, a well-dressed elderly couple enjoyed their meal.
Three other men, two in uniform and one clad in a business suit, drank their wine and feasted on servings of cassoulet, the simple meat and bean dish advertised as the night’s special. Colin wondered if food was more plentiful this far south, or if Toulouse adhered to the same rationing laws as Paris. Either way, he felt a sense of guilty pleasure in knowing he’d put more distance between himself and the siege guns.
Once the waiter came and seated him, Colin chose a sandwich and bowl of soup from the menu, both easy enough for him to maneuver. When his water arrived, he stared at the full glass, hesitating the barest moment before raising it to his lips to drink thirstily, blocking his memory of the ghosts in his past.
He gazed at the other patrons eating and wondered if Miss Reyer—Johanna—had ordered room service as she’d planned. Likely she now slept.
Recalling their conversation on the train, especially about Ireland, he couldn’t help smiling. The woman was feisty, much like his sister, Grace, when she got her back up.
Johanna was also a bit of a rebel, and though he’d conceded to her argument on the rights of women, Colin couldn’t imagine turning his back on king and country and all that he’d fought for.
Moira’s nature sounded equally rebellious, if not more so. The woman not only defied convention with her daughter’s scandalous birth but had been consumed with the women’s suffrage movement to the point of calling her own child a “small soldier.”
He wondered if Johanna’s father ever offered for Moira’s hand, or if he’d simply abandoned the woman to return to his daughter Jewel in Havrincourt.
Colin tried to imagine seventeen-year-old Johanna crossing the sea to arrive alone in France after her mother’s death. She’d been eking out a living in Paris mending uniforms at the age when he’d been at Harrow School in London, preparing for his examinations and playing rugby.
It was by Providence she’d met the Moreaus, who truly seemed concerned for her welfare. Many young women would not have been so fortunate.
“Here you are, monsieur. Bon appétit.”
The waiter set his meal down in front of him, and Colin’s stomach rumb
led. Hours had passed since he’d last eaten, and he murmured a prayer of thanks before he reached for the sandwich and tucked in with gusto. While he ate, he considered the time he and Johanna had wasted traveling south to this place. Why had Lacourt sent them all the way to Toulouse?
He would call Paris in the morning and get some straight answers—a seemingly difficult achievement with these French. No other recourse was open to him, except to go home, and he’d resolved to stay for Jewel’s sake. Of course, not knowing if Kepler was the man in the photograph made his odds of finding her in this place nearly impossible.
The well-dressed couple passed by his table, and when Colin looked up, they smiled. The rest of the room had cleared out.
“You certainly take your time. The restaurant is empty.”
His mood lifted at the sight of Johanna. She carried two cups of steaming tea and set one down in front of him before taking the opposite chair. “In fact, you are the last person here.”
“No longer true since you’ve arrived.”
She rolled her eyes. “Have you considered the poor cook may wish to go home?”
His response was to raise his teacup in gratitude before sipping at the hot brew. She eyed him from across the table, shaking her head, and Colin watched as a lock of golden-blond hair loosened from her pinned coif to fall against her shoulder.
He almost grinned.
She must have noticed the direction of his gaze; she hastily tucked the loose strand behind a pearl-bobbed ear.
“I thought you would be fast asleep by now.”
She shrugged. “I thought to come down and keep you company, at least for a time. After all, we have to keep up the appearance . . .”
“Of a loving husband and wife?”
He did smile then, and her cheeks flushed pink. “Did you accomplish your errand?”
His humor faltered at the reminder of his failure to complete the MI6 assignment. Colin didn’t like having to carry the secret information on his person any longer than necessary. “I’m afraid the party I wished to see was not at home.”
He was glad she didn’t question him further.
She sighed, idly stirring her tea. “We’ve not had much luck since our arrival, have we?”
“No indeed.” Once more he lifted the cup to his lips.
“So you’ll telephone Henri tomorrow?”
He nodded. “And he’d better have a good answer. If not, I will contact London.”
She leaned forward in the seat, her expression earnest. “Well, I support your decision. I cannot imagine why Henri would send us here for no reason, especially after Isabelle said he was taking a great risk doing us this favor. I do not know him well, but I trust my friend, and she’s a very good judge of character.” She sat back again. “Truly I don’t know what to make of it.”
She eyed his empty plate. “How was your meal?”
“Simple fare, but good.” The sandwich bread had been coarse, convincing him the rationing laws had spread as far south as Toulouse. “How was yours?”
When she didn’t answer, he gave her a pointed look. “Did you eat?”
“I wasn’t hungry. Probably too much greasy food on the train.”
Colin thought she seemed restless. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Please don’t worry. If I need to eat, I’ve got sugar biscuits I pilfered from Isabelle’s friend at the pâtisserie. I’ll be fine until breakfast.”
A sudden yawn escaped her, and she slowly rose from her chair. Colin stood as well and could see now that she was completely worn out.
“I fear I shall fall asleep right here at the table if I don’t retire.” She offered him a wobbly smile. “I’m sure you will get things settled with Agent Lacourt tomorrow, and we will continue our quest. Until then, I bid you good night.”
Moving around the table, Colin took her hand and brushed her fingers with a kiss. “For appearances.” He winked as he whispered the words, and then released her. “Good night, Johanna.”
She stood staring at him a long moment. “Good night . . . Colin.”
Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She finally turned to leave the empty restaurant, and Colin realized he liked hearing his name on her lips. He was glad they had reached some measure of accord, even if they hadn’t spoken of it. He also enjoyed having her company on this trip. There was more to Johanna Reyer than he’d first imagined.
Again he took his seat, having decided the cook would still be cleaning the kitchen for a while. Besides, he wasn’t ready for sleep. The three days of shelling in Paris had brought on his nightmares full force.
He continued sipping the Pekoe, savoring the black tea’s strong flavor. He wondered if Johanna had packed it along for their trip.
Colin became vaguely aware she hadn’t drunk from her cup. He hoped she wasn’t feeling ill. If things went according to plan tomorrow, they could resume their search for Jewel and Kepler. Should he speak with Lacourt first . . . or bypass the Frenchman and send a coded telegram to Jack in London? He could get directions to the British attaché in Toulouse. . . .
The room began to shift, and Colin lowered his tea as he reached out with his gloved hand to try to steady himself against the table. His eyelids grew as heavy as rocks, and the faint sound of a rattling dish reached his ears as his cup fell back against the saucer.
Blinking slowly, he stared into the tea, the world around him spinning. He began falling . . .
. . . and slumped unconscious over his empty plate.
Colin awoke the next morning, his head aching like an anvil struck by a hammer. With a groan, he blinked against the bright light as he lay unmoving, taking in his surroundings.
Gold brocade curtains, soft white walls. A secretary desk of dark wood along the opposite wall. His hotel room in Toulouse. Raising his hand to shield his eyes, he noticed he was still in uniform . . . all the way down to his boots.
He lifted his head slightly, issuing another grunt of pain. What was happening? His foggy brain tried to recall the previous night. He remembered the hotel restaurant and Miss Reyer speaking with him. And afterward, the room spinning . . .
Had he been drugged? Colin swallowed at the bitterness in his mouth and, despite the searing pain at his temples, gingerly raised himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Why would someone drug him?
Gambette’s document! He plunged his hand inside his tunic pocket and howled in panic. The dispatch was gone!
A further search revealed the photograph and his passport were also missing. Colin’s heart raced as he tried to swallow past his parched throat. He glanced toward his portmanteau and saw clear signs of tampering. His room had been searched as well.
Rubbing his temples, Colin tried to ease the incessant throbbing against his brain so he could think. Who had done this?
He remembered staring into the tea. Johanna had brought them each a cup, yet she hadn’t touched hers.
His head shot up, and the pain made Colin grit his teeth. Had she drugged him?
He rose from the bed, Gambette’s document foremost in his mind. Jack’s warning of days ago rang in his pounding ears. “Until you learn more about Miss Reyer’s situation, please be on guard. . . .”
Was the J. Reyer on the Allied enemy watch list in fact Johanna Reyer? Issuing a growl that was part groan, Colin swayed across the room to his door. He shook his pounding head to clear the cobwebs before he flung the door open and strode across the hall to bang on her door.
No answer. He checked his watch, squinting at the small face. Nearly noon. He’d been out cold for hours!
Colin pounded on her door again, anger in his fist as he recalled that MI6 warned him about “green” soldiers being duped by female spies in Paris. He’d been reduced to a naïve schoolboy. How had he allowed himself to be so completely taken in?
It made sense now why Lacourt had led them astray. The Frenchman must have had his suspicions about Miss Reyer and was using Colin in some kind of scheme to set a trap.
His fist went to the door once more, and suddenly it opened just wide enough for a face to peer out at him. “Colin, it’s you! What’s wrong?” Her expression conveyed concern. “Why are you trying to break down my door?”
“Please allow me to enter. I wish to speak with you.” His tone rasped with anger and pain. “The jig is up as they say, because I know exactly what you are about.”
“You do?” She wet her lips before glancing back into her room. “I’m . . . I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She was definitely hiding something. Leaning close, he hissed, “If you don’t let me in now, I shall have to force the door open.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “I . . . I cannot do that.” She raised her chin. “I’m not yet dressed.”
She cracked the door a few inches wider. Colin saw her dressing gown wrapped tightly about her. “You seem decent enough to me, Mrs. Mabry. Now, shall I force the door, or break it down?”
“No, please!” She glanced behind her. “Give me a moment. I’ll let you in.”
He flexed his fist, looking around the empty hall as he waited. Once she reopened the door, he strode inside. “I was drugged last night, and my room was searched.”
“Oh dear! Are you hurt?” Her worried gaze traveled over him as she closed the door.
“I demand the return of my documents.” Ignoring her concern, he blinked against the incessant ache in his head. “I was right, after all. You are a spy for the Boche.”
“What?” Her pink lips parted slightly, eyes wide. “Have you got a fever, sir? And what documents are you talking about?”
He stood close to her and noted for the first time that she wore her clothing beneath the dressing gown. Was this another of her tricks? “My passport and a . . . dispatch that you took from me after you slipped something into my tea last night so I would pass out.”
“You’re mad!” Color suffused her face, blue eyes shooting sparks. “Why on earth would I drug you, or search your room? To what purpose? And I didn’t take your passport or your . . . your dispatch or whatever it is you think I’ve stolen.”