A Pretty Deceit Page 12

  For all the annoyances of being hounded by photographers and reporters, and instantly recognizable to much of the London population, there were many advantages to our status as celebrities. Though, I suspected Sidney and Max’s status and wealth would have also done the trick.

  At the risk of angering some of my wide array of acquaintances, I’d elected to invite only my closest of friends living in London, and Max, it seemed, had done the same. All told, there were only fourteen of us, but a merry lot we were. I laughed more over dinner than I had in months, and I knew I looked smashing in my new emerald-green drop waist gown, which Sidney’s gift perfectly complemented.

  In fact, all the ladies appeared lovely in their silks and beads, strands of pearls and gem-encrusted corsages, and headbands sparkling in the light of the chandeliers hanging from the soaring white paneled ceiling. Max’s sister, Livia, made a particular impression on me. Although we’d yet to meet, I’d heard Max speak of her and her two children. Her husband had served with the expeditionary force and had been killed during the initial disastrous retreat in the autumn of 1914, leaving her a young and wealthy widow.

  In most ways she was a feminine foil for Max, possessing the same soft gray eyes and sharp nose, albeit with more delicate features. Her pale brown hair was also several shades darker than her brother’s butterscotch blond, which she hadn’t yet dared, or perhaps didn’t wish, to bob. However, beneath her gentle, muted coloring lay a vibrant personality. The epitome of artless charm, she was never at a loss for a conversational gambit, and teased her younger brother with such warmth and ease that it was obvious the pair were close. It also made me wonder about their mother, for the late Earl of Ryde had seemed like a rather cold and calculating man.

  “Max tells me that you and your delightful husband visited Nettlestone briefly some weeks past,” Livia remarked as we sat sipping champagne, referring to her brother’s estate on the Isle of Wight. “I wish I’d known. I would have motored over from Newport.”

  Much as I was enjoying her company now, I was glad she hadn’t. Her presence would have only made an already awkward encounter even more so, as we’d accused their deceased father of the foolish plot of attempting to smuggle drugs to the Irish rebels in an effort to foil their plans for revolution.

  “It was a rather spur-of-the-moment decision,” I replied with a shrug.

  “Well, you must return sometime so we can properly entertain you,” she urged with a smile before turning to watch her brother as he finished descending the red carpeted staircase with Daphne on his arm. Both seemed exhilarated from their dance in the foyer above. The sounds of the orchestra playing a lively waltz floated down from above, a soft accompaniment to the clink of crystal and silver, and the rumble of voices as diners enjoyed their meals.

  Livia’s head tilted to the side as her expression took on a more somber cast. “Max hasn’t invited many guests to Nettlestone. Not since the war. I worry about him in that big, rambling manor all alone.” She turned to look into my eyes, searching for something I was not willing to give. “I’m glad he’s become friends with you and Mr. Kent, however that came about.”

  I gestured with my glass toward where the two men now conversed as they approached us, Daphne having taken up the offer to dance from Max’s friend. “Max was Sidney’s commanding officer for a time.”

  Her lips curled into a smile. “Which still doesn’t answer my unspoken query,” she murmured, clearly unwilling to be placated with half-truths. “But have no fear, I have no intention of pressing the matter. I recognize well enough when there are things that are best left unsaid. You forget, my father was the holder of a great deal of secrets. Many of which I doubt he needed to hold so close to the vest,” she added dryly. She gasped suddenly, holding up her hand. “Which reminds me . . .”

  I watched as she rummaged around in her handbag before removing a faded white envelope from within. Then she turned and held it out to her brother, who accepted it with a grin.

  “From Lucy?” he asked, naming his young niece.

  “No, Father.”

  Max halted in opening it, glancing up at her in shock.

  She nodded. “He gave it to me a few weeks before he passed with strict instructions not to deliver it to you until your twenty-ninth birthday. I know it’s absurd,” she continued in response to her brother’s continued astonishment. “But you know how he was. He never explained anything to us he didn’t have to. Anyway, I realize your birthday isn’t until Friday, but I figured the date is close enough.”

  Max stared down at the envelope almost as if it were a cobra about to strike.

  Livia frowned, clearly not understanding his reaction. Not like Sidney and I did. We exchanged a look of strange foreboding, but also anticipation.

  She stepped forward to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, dearest. Did I do wrong?” She lowered her voice. “Should I have given it to you later?”

  Max inhaled a swift breath, seeming to recall himself. “No, Liv, it’s fine you gave it to me now. I’m just . . . a little surprised, that’s all.”

  None of us commented on what an understatement this was. Not when we were so curious to discover what was inside that envelope.

  Max broke the seal and pulled out the paper within before slowly unfolding it. His brow furrowed as he perused the contents and then separated the first sheet from the second to do the same. When he lifted his gaze, it was to seek out mine. “It’s written in some sort of code,” he declared in a sort of baffled horror.

  CHAPTER 10

  I stepped forward hesitantly to peer over Max’s shoulder. He was right. It was definitely a code, written in neat blocks of jumbled letters. Which meant only one thing. The late earl hadn’t wanted just anyone to read it. Not if he’d given it to his daughter before he died with such strict instructions for its delivery. Not if he was going to such lengths to mask its content.

  “Code?” Livia stated in confusion. “Why ever would Father do such a thing?”

  Whatever the contents were, they must be important. My heart quickened at the thought that this could be the information we’d been looking for.

  My gaze immediately sought out George, who had been listening to this exchange with interest from the neighboring table. As one of the foremost cryptographers working in 40 OB for Naval Intelligence during the war, George would crack the code far quicker than I could. There wasn’t a code yet that had defeated him, no matter how canny.

  He dipped his head once. “Whatever you need.” But when he began to rise to his feet, I urged him to remain seated with a gesture of my hand.

  I turned to Max and held out my hand, the look in my eyes encouraging him to trust me. Although he was unaware of the actual role George had undertaken for Naval Intelligence, he did know that I had worked for the foreign division of the Secret Service. I’d been forced to disclose as much during the course of our investigation on Umbersea Island some months past, and he and my husband were still the only people outside of fellow Military Intelligence personnel who knew the true nature of my war work.

  Max vacillated for but a moment, the depths of his eyes reflecting uncertainty and even fear, as if he had not yet fully confronted what it might mean if our suspicions proved true. But then his jaw firmed and he passed me the document with a sure hand. I felt the weight of his faith in me settle over my shoulders.

  I swiveled to return to the table where my handbag lay, surreptitiously sliding the letter into the front of George’s coat as I passed his chair. “Put this in your inner pocket,” I instructed him, and then placed the empty envelope inside my beaded reticule, hoping that anyone watching us would think I’d maintained possession of the letter.

  Meanwhile, Sidney had beckoned Crispin forward, clasping a hand on his shoulder and speaking into his ear. Like most artillery officers, Crispin had suffered some hearing damage from the repetitive percussive firing of the massive guns used to hurl shells at the enemy miles away. “I need you to escort Bentnick to our flat and stay w
ith him there until we return. Can you do that for me?” The look the two shared was deathly earnest. “I’ll make sure Miss Wrexham returns home safely,” he assured him, referring to Crispin’s fiancée seated a few feet away.

  “Aye,” he replied. “Just let me explain the situation to Phoebe.”

  There was no need to caution him about discretion. He would tell her as much of the truth as he could and no more.

  One look at George’s pale face told me he’d overheard their exchange. We weren’t taking any chances. Not when someone had broken into Max’s town house just a few days earlier. Making a show of trying to make it look natural that I was tucking my handbag securely under my arm, I returned to Sidney’s side.

  Having observed all of this with wide eyes, Livia now stepped closer to her brother. “Max, what is going on?” she hissed. “Why did you give Father’s letter to Mr. Bentnick? Why are you all acting like there are spies all around us?” Her eyes blazed with fury. “And don’t even think about swinging the lead.”

  It seemed so incongruous to hear soldiers’ slang emerge from her lips that I felt the sudden urge to grin.

  It appeared Max felt the same way, for the somber lines of his face softened. “Come on, Liv. I’ll take you back to the town house and explain on the way.”

  She appeared at first as if she would argue, but then agreed. Our parting was somewhat stilted, and while I was sorry to have upset her, especially after such a pleasant evening, I really couldn’t fault her for her sudden reserve.

  Once Max and Livia and then George and Crispin were sped on their way, Sidney and I circulated among our remaining guests, attempting to extricate ourselves without revealing more than necessary. Fortunately, they all seemed to be having a splendid time, and though they protested our departure, I knew they didn’t really mind it. Rather than leave with us, Phoebe Wrexham even elected to remain with a group of her friends also dining and dancing at the Savoy.

  Etta and her beau, Goldy, decided to depart when we did, for her first set at Grafton Galleries that evening was scheduled to begin soon anyway. She looped her arm through Sidney’s as they climbed the stairs toward the foyer, her mink stole dipping low to reveal the smooth mocha skin of her back. Goldy grinned and offered me his left arm before reaching over to secure it with his gloved right hand. Having suffered burns to the right side of his torso during an aeroplane crash, he never removed it in public.

  Before he could launch into a discussion of his latest efforts on behalf of his family’s aviation company and enthusiasm for the development of passenger air service, I seized the opportunity to ask him something I’d wanted to since Saturday. “Goldy, are you familiar with RAF Froxfield?”

  “Sure.” He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “It’s on the border of Berkshire and Wiltshire, isn’t it? They flew ‘Ninak’ light bombers out of there during the war.” He turned his head to regard me. “Why?”

  “Do you know if they had more crashes than average?”

  “You mean, in and around the airfield?”

  I nodded.

  He frowned. “Well, I believe they conducted quite a bit of training there, and crashes sort of come with the territory. Minor ones, that is. But . . . no, I can’t recall ever hearing anything particular about the place.”

  I thanked him and was prepared to drop the matter, especially as we were now crossing the foyer, which echoed with the music of the orchestra, but then another thought seemed to occur to him.

  “Wait! Is that the airfield where there are rumors it was built over some ancient barrow or tomb?”

  “Yes. What do you know about it?”

  He shook his head, but his chuckle of amusement belied his answer. “Not much. But I remember one of my buddies from the Ninety-ninth telling me how some of the locals had worked themselves up into a lather. Some woman claiming she was a druid priestess even tried to gain access to the site so that she could lay the spirits to rest, or so she claimed.”

  Before I could respond, Etta turned to buss my cheek, and soon we were saying our goodbyes and waving them into the first taxi so that Etta wouldn’t be late. I fluffed my collar up against the chill and turned to speak to Sidney, when I felt a sudden sharp tug on my arm.

  “Hey!” I shouted as a man in a dark overcoat and hat dashed down the pavement with my handbag.

  Sidney turned in alarm, and then realizing what had happened, prepared to set off in pursuit. But I stayed him with my hand.

  “Don’t bother. He’s long gone by now.” At this hour, the street would be filled with people bustling to and from their evening entertainments. “Besides, he’s going to be disappointed when he discovers the only thing inside is an empty envelope.” I sighed, glancing in the direction he’d disappeared. “Though I was rather fond of that handbag.”

  “What about the rest of the contents?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “A lip salve and some face powder can be replaced.”

  One of the Savoy’s doormen stepped forward to apologize about the thief loitering on their pavement, and Sidney assured him we bore them no ill will. It would be all but impossible to spot such a crook when he had been dining in their restaurant, posing as a regular patron. For how else had he known about the envelope stuffed in my handbag? It certainly wasn’t a coincidence I’d been targeted.

  We climbed into our taxi and set off down the Strand. I wrinkled my nose in aggravation. “I’m more miffed I didn’t notice the fellow following us. I allowed myself to be distracted.”

  “Did you? Or were you actually hoping Ardmore’s man would try something?” Sidney ruminated wryly, clearly anticipating the latter.

  “Well, I admit the thought did cross my mind.” I smoothed my skirt over my lap. “What better way to discover if Ardmore is having us surveilled, and how extensively?”

  “Don’t you mean, what better way to tweak his nose?”

  I shot him a look from under my lashes. “Darling, if he’s in any way annoyed by this, it won’t be at me.” I sat back, crossing my legs at the ankles. “Sadly, I get the impression he enjoys the challenge I present. He’s far more likely to be pleased.” I frowned at the blur of lights passing outside the cab window. “And determined to heighten the stakes.”

  Sidney’s hand clasped mine. “This isn’t a game, Verity,” he grumbled into my ear.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” I snapped. “But Ardmore seems determined to make it so. It’s not as if I can refuse to play. Not with the death toll already this high, and the ending stakes, I fear, even higher.”

  He scrutinized my face, seeming to try to study every square inch of it as shadows flitted in the depths of his eyes. “Well, then, perhaps Ryde’s letter will be our ace.”

  “Maybe,” I murmured, unable to shake the uneasiness that had settled over me. “But somehow I fear we’re not playing at something as simple as pontoon or twenty-one. I don’t know if it’s possible to best him by simply holding the better hand.”

  Sidney’s neck straightened, seeming to be much struck by this metaphor. “You think he’s playing something more like brag.”

  I nodded slowly. “I’m not sure it’s possible to best him without drawing him out into the open. If we charge at him with all the information we possess, then he’ll fold and wait for a better hand. Unless there is irrefutable proof somewhere, something he cannot twist or deny . . .” I rubbed my brow wearily. “And the longer I contemplate all this, the less convinced I am that such a thing exists. Then I don’t know that there is a way to beat him without bluffing him first.”

  Sidney lifted his hand to cradle my chin between thumb and forefinger, dragging my gaze back to his. “Then perhaps all those games of brag I played while at ease behind the front, waiting to be called up the line again, weren’t for naught.” The corners of his lips twitched upward at the feebleness of his joke. Then his voice turned more serious. “We’ll get him, Verity. You’ll see. You don’t have to bluff him alone.”

  I wrapped my fingers around
the skin of his strong wrist where it emerged from his crisp white shirt cuff, staring up at him in gratitude. “Then let’s hope my gambit with the envelope back there was worth it, and whatever Max’s father decided to write in code is as important as he thought it was.”

  * * *

  When we returned to our flat, I was relieved to discover George and Crispin had arrived some thirty minutes earlier without incident. I peered into the study to find George with his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his dark head covered in tight curls bent over the desk as he worked out the cipher. I knew better than to interrupt him, and from the looks of the pot of tea at his elbow, it appeared Sidney’s valet, Nimble, was already seeing to his needs. So I slipped away quietly.

  Upon learning it would likely be several hours before we learned anything, Crispin elected to return to the Savoy to rejoin his fiancée. I shook my head fondly at his departing figure. For all his capabilities and strengths, patience was not one of them.

  Max joined us soon after, his face drawn and worried. I urged him into the drawing room and asked Nimble to prepare us our own pot of tea. Though he’d only been part of our household for a few weeks, I was already glad to have him. He’d served as my husband’s batman during the war, and contrary to his sobriquet, was far from nimble. Much of the time I knew where he was in the flat at all times, for I could hear his clumping footsteps, though I knew he tried to walk softly.

  At first, this attribute drove our widowed housekeeper, Mrs. Sadie Yarrow, to distraction, but quickly she came to appreciate it. As a woman of somewhat of a nervous disposition, who hated to be snuck up on, she needn’t worry about that ever happening with Nimble. Once she looked beyond his large size and the scars blistering the left side of his face near his hairline and his partially missing left ear, and was able to appreciate his reserve and kindness, they’d seemed to settle into a mutual regard for each other. A few days earlier I’d even overheard Mrs. Yarrow teasing Nimble for letting his hair grow too long, and offering to cut it for him.