Far Side of the Sea

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Far Side of the Sea Page 12

by Kate Breslin


  She waved a hand across the room. “Turn this place upside down if you like, but you’ll see that I’m innocent.” Abruptly she marched to the bureau and began dumping out the contents of each drawer onto the floor. She opened her luggage and hatboxes and then went to the bed, pulling back the coverlet. Finally she tossed the pillows at him. “Well? Are you going to help, or just stand there as my accuser?”

  Her angry expression belied the hurt in her eyes. Colin hesitated, staring at the disarrayed clothing on the floor and at her open luggage. She’d even dumped her reticule’s contents onto the bed, now bereft of its cover.

  Johanna’s argument began to penetrate his pounding skull. Why would she steal his passport and, for that matter, drug him when she needed his help in identifying her sister?

  His clear thinking began to return, and he reflected on the effort she’d taken to get him to come to Paris on this elaborate pursuit. Suddenly the involvement of the Moreaus and Lacourt made his whole imagined scheme seem a bit fantastical.

  Last night, he’d taken his meal downstairs. Had the tea been drugged . . . or the food?

  He shifted on his feet as new uncertainty assailed him. If it wasn’t Miss Reyer, then who? Colin considered the swarthy hotel clerk. The MI6 desk chief had warned him to watch out for spies on their journey. Was the enemy entrenched in Colin’s hotel as well?

  Gambette’s document. Another groan rose in his throat. He must get back to Paris as quickly as possible and warn them of this breach.

  “I need to go. I’m finished here.” He turned on his heel to leave.

  “Wait!” Miss Reyer called to him. “Surely you are not giving up? We cannot abandon the search, not yet!”

  But Colin was already imagining his upcoming court martial as he reached for the door.

  “Please, Colin, don’t leave me! I promise you, I didn’t do any of those things.”

  He heard the anguish in her tone and swiveled around to face her, wincing at the pressure behind his temples. “I’m only going as far as the British attaché here in Toulouse. By some miracle, I hope to obtain a new passport and contact Paris.”

  He swung around again, opened the door, and headed down the hall, the pain in his head battling his anxiety at the gravity of his situation. Right at this moment, some enemy spy held secret information on the fake city of Paris. Once the Boche realized what the French were up to, it would mean countless more Parisian deaths!

  Colin’s thoughts had moved from a court martial to envisioning his firing squad when he glanced up to see Petit’s approach from the opposite hall, his trolley full of luggage. When the two men reached the birdcage elevator, the lanky porter let Colin go first before following with the trolley.

  Petit whispered to the elevator boy, then handed him a franc. The child dashed out, leaving the porter to close the doors and operate the controls. The elevator began its descent.

  “I believe these belong to you, monsieur.”

  A hand shot out at him from behind the luggage trolley, and Colin staggered at the sight of the photograph, his passport, and the MI6 dispatch for Gambette. Snatching the documents from the man’s grasp, he hardly dared breathe as he glanced at the seal on the dispatch.

  Still intact. Colin closed his eyes, offering up his silent thanks. To think what might have happened . . .

  He stuffed the paperwork inside his tunic pocket and glowered at Petit. “What in blazes are you about, man? First you drug me, then nearly give me heart failure by stealing my papers!”

  From behind the trolley, the porter shrugged. “There are enemy spies everywhere, monsieur. I had to make certain you are who you appear to be.” His dark eyes held humor. “You notice I did not tamper with your dispatch?”

  “That does not excuse you.” Colin’s scowl deepened. “Tell me who you work for. And let me see your passport, George Petit.”

  This time Petit flashed a grin, and when he spoke, all traces of French disappeared. “Well now, I can’t do that, Lieutenant. You’ll just have to trust that we’re both on the same side.”

  Colin blinked, his anger diverted. “You are an American?”

  Petit nodded. “Texan, born and bred.” His amusement fled as he pinned Colin with a sharp look. “The man in that photograph. What’s your business with him?”

  Colin recovered from his surprise. “It’s Kepler, isn’t it? I have no business with the captain, only the woman in his company. I’m here to see Jewel Reyer.”

  A low curse issued from the man behind the luggage trolley. Petit looked angry. “I see Lacourt has been sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “That may be, but if she is Jewel, I know the woman. If she is not, Mrs. Mabry and I will be on our way.”

  The elevator had reached the ground floor. Petit opened the doors before he eyed Colin with an appraising look. “Are you certain you can identify her?”

  “I can.”

  The porter nudged the trolley out first. Colin followed, and as he passed him, Petit spoke in a low voice. “That’s good to know, Lieutenant. I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning.”

  Colin watched him push the trolley toward the hotel’s exit, his confusion over Petit’s last words mingling with a new sense of anticipation. Miss Reyer . . . Johanna was right.

  It seemed they were about to continue the quest.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Colin’s stomach growled as he strode into the hotel lobby a half hour later, his assignment complete. Grateful to have delivered the sealed document into Monsieur Gambette’s hands, he was suddenly ravenous.

  He wondered if Miss Rey . . . if Johanna had already eaten, and as he walked toward the elevator, he decided to invite her to join him downstairs for a meal. She could enjoy whatever the menu had to offer while Colin made do with humble pie.

  Shame heated his face as he recalled again his outrageous claims against her. He owed her more than an apology after accusing her of drugging him and stealing his documents. Of being an enemy spy.

  It would be a miracle if she even answered her door.

  Upon reaching their floor, it occurred to him that he’d been in the same clothes since yesterday. Colin ran a hand along his jaw. A shave was in order as well. He spent the next thirty minutes—a record time for him—washing up and changing into a fresh shirt before he walked across the hall to her room.

  He was about to knock when he noticed the hotel courtesy card, Prière de ne pas déranger, hanging from her doorknob. He hesitated. Clearly Johanna did not wish to be disturbed. She could be napping . . . or still fuming over his rude behavior earlier.

  He turned away, intending to go back downstairs. Guilt halted his progress, however, and he faced the door, determined to incur her wrath if necessary in order to make his apologies.

  Touching his knuckles to the wood, he gave the door a light rap. No answer. He knocked a bit harder. Still no answer. With a sigh, he headed for the elevator. Likely she knew it was him and chose to ignore the summons.

  Downstairs, Colin continued to berate himself as he headed toward the restaurant. Nearing the front desk, his spirits rose at the sight of her walking toward the hotel exit.

  He glanced toward a few hotel guests seated in the lobby before he hailed her. “Johanna, sweetheart, please wait!”

  She paused, turning long enough to glare at him before she swung forward again and kept walking. The abrupt movement caused her large hat to become unmoored and tip to one side.

  Once more Colin’s gaze darted to the curious faces of the guests. So much for keeping up appearances. He smiled at them, giving a light shrug before he summoned his courage and rushed to catch up with her. “Mrs. Mabry, darling, people are watching—”

  “So what if they are?” she hissed at him, her feet still moving forward. “Let them witness you accusing me of more crimes.” Hurt laced her voice. “Such as trying to poison you, or . . . or stab you with a dagger—”

  “My dear Johanna, please.” He reached out and gently cla
sped her shoulder, and she came to a halt, as though frozen in place. “I have been a complete fool and most humbly beg your forgiveness. My behavior this morning was . . .”

  “Unforgivable?” She’d turned her head slightly, allowing him a glimpse of her profile. Colin stared at her soft lips, now pursed, and noted how well their fullness fit with the rest of her delicate features. He swallowed. “You are right, it was most unforgivable. Impossible, in fact.”

  She swiveled around to face him, her gaze searching his from beneath the skewed hat. At last she spoke, and the anger in her voice ebbed. “As Napoleon would say, ‘The word impossible is not in my dictionary.’” She dipped her head, and the hat shifted another inch. “So, I suppose I can forgive you.”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t help smiling, not only because she’d absolved him, but because she had quoted Bonaparte in order to do so. Colin didn’t think he’d ever met a more extraordinary woman. Just as he had the previous night, he took her gloved hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Would you allow me to show my gratitude over lunch?”

  Again she went still for a moment before her smile emerged. “It’s a good start.”

  Passing back by the lobby, Colin met the knowing grins of two older gentlemen seated beside their wives and was relieved to know his exchange with Johanna had been taken as nothing more than a simple lovers’ quarrel.

  Inside the restaurant, the headwaiter led them to a table near the window. Once they were seated, Johanna began removing her gloves.

  “I saw the Do Not Disturb sign on your door and thought you might be resting.”

  She paused with a glove in her hand. “I . . . dislike having strangers in my room when I am not there.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Like the maid?”

  She nodded. “I am particular about my housekeeping.”

  “I see.” Colin winced as he recalled the way she’d torn her room apart earlier that morning, just to prove to him her innocence.

  “After learning your room was searched last night, I decided to discourage whoever it might be from trespassing into mine.”

  He found that bit of logic naïve. Did she really imagine a mere sign would bar an intruder’s entry? Colin let the issue ride, choosing instead to enjoy their truce. “Where were you headed before I stopped you?”

  She continued removing the other glove. “I thought to visit the Place du Capitole. Since we arrived in the dark last night, I decided today I would take a walking tour of La Ville Rose.”

  After setting her gloves on the table, she reached up and removed her hat. “Do you know why they call Toulouse the Pink City?”

  Colin shook his head absently, observing the way her blond hair glinted in the light from the window. “I’m certain you wish to tell me.”

  “I have been told it’s the brick. The many buildings and churches in the city are made from a terra-cotta stone that gives off a pink hue. And the ochre in the tiled rooftops lends a rosy color as well. Hence, Pink City.”

  She placed the large hat in the empty chair beside her before turning her attention on him. “So tell me, did you apologize because you finally came to your senses, or have you found the true culprit?”

  He admired her directness. “Yes and yes.”

  One blond brow lifted. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Why don’t we have lunch first. Afterward we can enjoy a stroll outside without risk of being overheard.”

  “Agreed.”

  Their waiter soon returned, and they each ordered soup and sandwiches. After finishing their meal, they left the hotel on foot and walked along rue Léon Gambetta for a few blocks until they reached the enormous town square of Place du Capitole.

  Colin gazed across to the capitol building, a majestic brick edifice covered in white paint. “Not much of La Ville Rose to see here.”

  “Yes, what a shame. I thought the terra-cotta color of the buildings we passed along the way quite pretty.”

  They continued deeper into the cobbled square, noting a few horse-drawn carriages and several trucks and motorcars. On the far side of the arcade, an electric tram ran on a steel track along the perimeter, while at the other end of the square, an open market flourished, flocks of dark umbrellas spread over the stalls to offer shade from the sun.

  “So tell me.”

  “George Petit was the culprit.”

  “What?” She turned to him, the brim of her hat brushing his shoulder. “The hotel porter drugged you?”

  Colin noted her fascination yet hesitated to say more. Could he trust her?

  Again he considered the genuine hurt he’d seen in her eyes when he’d wrongly accused her that morning. Plus Johanna had the support of Agent Lacourt of the French Secret Service, as well as French Army Intelligence at the dovecote at Vernon. If she wasn’t trustworthy, why was he here? He leaned in. “Petit’s a spy after all. And he knows Agent Lacourt.” Colin relayed his conversation with Petit in the elevator.

  “He’s an American?”

  Colin nodded. “The Yanks brought over their own secret service last year, along with fresh troops. It seems Petit is one of them.”

  “When did he say he would get back to you?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  They walked on past the arcade and the rose-and-white facades of other government buildings to reach the end of the square. On the next street, a small group of men in faded gray uniforms manned brooms as a pair of gendarmes stood by.

  Colin grimaced. Boche prisoners. So much for leaving the war behind. Yet as he eyed the men, he couldn’t help noticing their frayed clothes and subdued expressions as they swept the street.

  “They look fairly beaten down, don’t they?”

  As Johanna gave voice to his thoughts, he turned to her and nodded. “I am grateful to be able to walk the streets without having to go up against these men.”

  “Indeed.” Her smile held understanding. “Shall we head back toward the river?”

  They continued on past the prisoners. For a while neither of them spoke, and Colin found he enjoyed their companionable silence. Once they reached the banks of the Garonne, he gazed out at the dark greenish waters, breathing in the musty smells of wet earth. The blue sky overhead held only a smattering of white clouds, and the spring sun felt warm against his shoulders—uncomfortably so in the woolen uniform.

  Behind him, the city hummed with the sounds of life—motorcars and trams, even the distant squeal of a train’s whistle. “It has been some time since I’ve not heard gunfire or bombs.” He glanced at her, smiling. “I believe I could get used to this.”

  “What about London?”

  “I try to avoid that noisy city as much as possible. Too much like Paris, except not as many bombs.”

  “If you rarely visit, I suppose you do not frequent Swan’s Tea Room?”

  “I’ve been to the establishment once since my return from Ireland. It was the time my father offered me a position. I turned him down.”

  “Why is that?” Her blue eyes held interest. “Do you have an older brother to inherit the business?”

  “No, Grace is my only sibling. My reasons for rejecting the proposal had more to do with the position my father offered. As floor manager, I would be forced to parade among the guests, greeting and seating and enduring their curiosity over my battle scars. And I would have to smile at them through the entire ordeal.”

  She grinned. “I cannot imagine you holding your temper for two seconds in such a position.”

  He chuckled. “I admit, the job was too daunting to consider. Fortunately, my brother-to-be, Lord Walenford, offered me a less conspicuous post in the seaside town of Hastings.”

  “Hastings? Why, the Battle of Hastings was the birthplace of English feudalism. William the Conqueror was a general like Napoleon, and equally driven to command all of Europe.”

  Colin was amused. “William was crowned King of England. A bit higher up the ladder than a general.”

  “Ah, but Napole
on became Emperor of France. I think an emperor trumps a king.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You win.”

  She laughed as well, and it was a wonderful sound. He realized in the four days they had known one another, she hadn’t laughed before now.

  “So you like Hastings?”

  He met her amused countenance. “I found the town somewhat quieter than London, but that was before the siege guns began raining down upon your Paris.”

  Her smile faded. “You can hear the guns there?”

  “Water is a good conductor of sound.”

  “And yet, you chose to come to Paris to meet me . . . to meet Jewel . . . after receiving my message?”

  Seeing her astonishment, Colin’s humor faded. “Having to leave Jewel in Havrincourt, and later, believing her dead, has haunted me.” His voice softened. “You, Johanna, gave me the chance to redeem myself.”

  ———

  Jo didn’t know what to say. When had she ever done something so noble? In truth, Colin’s praise made her uncomfortable, knowing she was becoming increasingly drawn to the man who was here for her sister.

  She kept thinking about the way he’d called her “sweetheart” and “darling” and pressed a light kiss to her hand. It’s all a ruse, Jo. She had no business being attracted to him, regardless of Jewel’s feelings for Kepler. Jo felt more like a heel than a heroine. “You are a man of honor, Lieutenant Mabry. I am certain my sister will agree once we find her.”

  His brow creased as he studied her. Likely from surprise over her formal address. Jo longed to change the subject and asked about his life in Hastings. “What kind of work do you do for Lord Walenford?”

  “Much like yours, Johanna, though I know little about pigeons. I simply decode the messages they bring over from France.”

  A thought suddenly struck. “You decoded my message, didn’t you?”

  An edge of his mouth lifted. “Imagine my surprise.”

  She reached to fidget with her collar. “Yes . . . well. Do you know why the pigeons return to the dovecote?”

  His smile widened. “I know they are trained to do so.”

 

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