A Pretty Deceit

by Anna Lee Huber

  However, the chief problem with Ardmore’s missive hadn’t been his provoking comments, but the acknowledgment that perhaps I should have been the one expressing my gratitude to him for stopping Scott from killing me, as well as possibly Sidney, Max, and Alec. If not for Willoughby’s aerial daring and Smith’s sharp-shooting, I held no illusions the confrontation could have turned out quite differently.

  Pushing these uncomfortable thoughts to the back of my mind, I turned the conversation to another disturbing topic. “What of the bomb that killed General Bishop and his staff? Were there any survivors?”

  “C assured me the matter would be investigated.” He kicked a stray acorn fallen into the path from one of the trees overhead. “I gather there was an investigation of some sort at the time of the incident, but it stalled due to lack of or conflicting evidence.”

  I assumed that conflicting evidence was my and Scott’s contradictory reports. The fact that shells had fallen in the area soon after, and then the army had been forced to retreat farther from the Germans’ continued advance had muddied any physical evidence that might have been available.

  Though I knew it was useless to blame myself for neglecting to recognize that shelter had been blown up by a bomb and not a shell, that I’d been fortunate enough just to survive and escape any severe injuries, I still couldn’t help but mentally castigate myself. I prided myself on my observation skills, and yet in a moment when I’d needed them most, I’d failed to utilize them sufficiently, too distracted by my own grief and self-pity over Sidney’s reported death. Though C didn’t say so, or perhaps Alec simply hadn’t repeated it, I knew the chances now of uncovering the culprit who’d planted and detonated that explosive were slim to none. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try. After all, C and Alec weren’t my only sources of information.

  As if recognizing this, Alec tipped his head toward me. “Have a care who you send Ryde to ask information from at the War Office,” he advised me. “If your bomber is the same man as that traitor you were warning Bishop of, then he might still be haunting the halls of Whitehall.”

  I repressed a scowl at his having already anticipated my intentions to ask Max to do just that, perfectly aware of the risks. “Haven’t you been cleared for active duty yet?” I groused. From what I could tell his shoulder seemed perfectly healed.

  Far from insulted, Alec’s expression turned arrogant. “Eager to get rid of me, are you?”

  “Like a bad haircut.”

  He chuckled. “Say what you like, Ver, but I know you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

  And dash it all, if he wasn’t right. I would miss him. And worry for him. For he’d always been too brash for his own good. Given the state of affairs, he was most likely to be sent to Ireland, and who knew what trouble he might get himself into there?

  Almost as if to illustrate this point, his attention shifted to the trio of men striding toward us from Downing Street. We had turned onto a side path to stroll toward Horse Guards Road, passing beneath the shade of the trees lining the rim of the park. “Well, I’ll be damned. It can’t be?” He narrowed his eyes. “But so it is. Now what are they about? It can’t be anything good.”

  “Who?” I asked, trying to tell whether I recognized any of the men, whether I should recognize them. But to my eyes they appeared like rather ordinary gentlemen in three-piece suits and dark overcoats. The only thing about them that stood out to me was the fact that the other two seemed to subtly defer to the tall, broad-shouldered man on the right.

  Alec glanced at me, and I could tell he was debating whether to speak. “Mark the one on the right well,” he finally said. “That’s Michael Collins.”

  I struggled not to react. “You mean, the Irish revolutionary?”

  He nodded. “And their Director of Intelligence, from what I hear.”

  “But I thought no one knew what he looked like?”

  “Some of us do,” he answered obliquely.

  I could only wonder what that meant. “But isn’t he wanted by the authorities?” And yet he was here, in the heart of London, walking by the prime minister’s lodgings. “Should we follow them?”

  “I will.”

  I arched my eyebrows in silent challenge.

  “You’re too conspicuous, Ver,” he replied unrepentantly. “I know in Belgium during the war you ground dirt into your hair and made yourself dowdy to pass by unnoticed, but in your normal garb you’re much too arresting. There’s no way they wouldn’t mark a lovely woman following them about. They’ve already marked you.”

  I didn’t turn my head to see if this was true, having already recognized the truth in what he said. There were times when attractiveness worked to one’s advantage and times when it did not.

  We turned left down Horse Guards Road, shadowing them on the opposite side of the street, and I knew he would expect us to separate at the intersection with The Mall if not sooner.

  “What of the other two men? Do you know who they are?” I asked, curious how much he knew.

  “Liam Tobin and Desmond Fitzgerald.”

  “Intelligence officers?”

  “Of a sort.”

  I recognized that answer for what it was. I wouldn’t hear any more from him about it. The fact he’d revealed what he had was purely because he thought I might need to identify them in the future, and recognize them for what they were. This, more than anything, confirmed to me he was already preparing to go to Ireland, and that he thought I might be headed there as well before the end. It wasn’t a possibility I was yet willing to face, still hoping we might foil Ardmore by other means. That his maneuverings didn’t involve the Irish rebellion. But what else could it be?

  “Sidney and I are going away for a time,” I told him as we neared the point of our separation. “At least until after the anniversary of the armistice and all the memorials they’ve scheduled are passed.”

  Neither of us wanted to face that milestone in the public spotlight. Some might find meaning and relief in marking the day in the ways that were planned, but for others it was too much. Too raw. Too painful. Too haunting.

  Alec understood this without words. “Then I’ll wish you safe journeys until we meet again.” That he would be gone from London when we returned went unstated, but I inferred it anyway.

  I lifted my hand to touch his cheek briefly as we came to a stop near the corner. “Be safe,” I told him earnestly, wondering if he had anyone else to tell him so. If he had anyone who worried when he didn’t.

  His dark eyes burned with an intensity that left me feeling guilty for somehow inspiring it. I walked away swiftly, refusing to look back.

  * * *

  I found Sadie and Nimble in the midst of flurried preparations for our removal to our cottage in Sussex. Though Sadie would remain behind to mind our flat and whatever secrets she was hiding, Nimble would be accompanying us and all our sundry baggage. I had no intention of traveling light this trip. Sadie claimed that Lord Ardmore had not approached her again, and I hoped that our absence from London would convince him blackmailing her for information was a nonstarter.

  I retreated to our bedchamber, intending to change into my traveling clothes, and discovered Sidney standing in the middle of the room, staring up at the painting of the bluebell wood he’d bought me two days after our wedding. His gaze flicked to me and then back to the artwork, as if there was something he was trying to puzzle out. I moved to stand beside him, wondering what it was he was analyzing so intently, and if it was even related to the painting.

  “You told me once,” he began softly, “that you considered getting rid of this after you received the telegram informing you that I was missing and presumed dead. That it was too painful to look at because it constantly reminded you of me.” His gaze when it shifted to meet mine was searching. “Why didn’t you?”

  I tilted my head, studying the bright blue flecks of paint, the play of light and shadow. “I suppose because, at first, it was beyond my ability to remove it. I simply didn�
��t have the will.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat at the memory of the dark, fathomless pit of those early days. “And then . . . then the idea of not having it there was as painful as the memories it awoke.” My voice grew hoarse. “I knew if I moved it, even if I hung something in its place, I would always know what should have been there. And that would hurt more than the initial reminder.”

  He didn’t look at me, and something in his posture told me my touch would not be welcomed at the moment. I understood why when he next spoke.

  “Do you think it cowardly of me not to remain in London? To not stand on Whitehall with all the dignitaries for the anniversary commemorations?”

  “No, I don’t,” I told him firmly. “Who made you feel so?”

  “Your mother telephoned.”

  Of course.

  “And my uncle Oswald.” The Marquess of Treborough. “They don’t understand why we don’t intend to remain. Why I’m not grateful for the honor.” He sank down on the bench at the end of our bed.

  “You upheld your honor by fighting for your family and this country for four bloody years,” I snapped in fury as I sat beside him. “No one has any right to ask more of you.”

  “Yes, but it’s not as if I can ignore the moment is passing. I’ll mark it all the same wherever I am, whether I’m on a stage in front of thousands or sitting on our terrace.”

  I gazed into his eyes, seeing the despair and bewilderment marked there, and reached for his hand. “It takes just as much courage to mark the moment alone as it does to mark it in front of thousands,” I told him, knowing how he both longed for and dreaded it in equal measure. “The only difference is that in front of a crowd you are doing it for them. Alone you are doing it for yourself.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “But I won’t be alone?”

  I smiled tenderly. “No, wild horses couldn’t drag me from your side.” My smile slipped away, remembering the hundreds of friends, family, acquaintances, and colleagues I’d lost. Remembering my brother Rob. “I’ll need you, too.”

  He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me to his side. We sat that way for some time, leaning on each other, listening to the sounds of Nimble moving about in the next room. When Sidney finally spoke, it was in a voice that almost sounded normal.

  “Your mother wanted to remind us we promised to come for the holidays.”

  I sighed. “As if I could forget.”

  “And she wanted to wish us a happy anniversary.”

  I looked up in surprise. “That was nice of her. Though it’s not until tomorrow.”

  His lips quirked. “I didn’t correct her. Especially not when she began thanking us for handling your aunt Ernestine’s difficulties. Apparently she’s been singing our praises and is traveling to Yorkshire to visit your parents next week.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “You mean thanking you. My mother would never give me that much credit. Nor would my aunt.”

  “Yes, well, I told her it was all your doing.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Which she didn’t believe. Probably called you an adorably doting husband.”

  He didn’t contradict this. “At least your cousin fully appreciated the truth.”

  “That’s true,” I replied, softening. It had been difficult leaving Reg. Though I swore I would never let so much time pass between visits again, and I’d already honored my promise to him by sending two boxes filled with books written in Braille.

  “I know you worry about him out there in Wiltshire with only his mother for company,” Sidney said, correctly interpreting my expression. “So I hope you won’t mind that I invited him to join us in Sussex.”

  I turned to him in pleased surprise. “You did?”

  “Ryde, as well. We’ve still got that key of his we found out at Burgh Castle to puzzle out. And your George and Daphne.”

  I hardly knew what to say.

  “It will be a lopsided party, but I don’t think they’ll mind.”

  I grasped his face between my hands. “Sidney, I think that’s the most wonderful thing!”

  “Yes, well, it didn’t seem right to let any of them spend the anniversary of the armistice alone. And I knew it would please you.”

  I pressed a kiss to his lips. “Oh, you are the dearest.”

  “I suppose you’ll want to invite Xavier, too.”

  “No,” I said, trying not to let my worry for him show. “I’m sure he has other plans.”

  He searched my eyes for a moment. “Does he?”

  But I could not, would not say any more.

  “Well, in any case, I’ve warned your friends not to appear on our doorstep until at least All Saints’ Day.” He pulled me closer, speaking a hair’s breadth from my lips. “I’ve waited five years to spend a wedding anniversary with you, and I will not be rushed or interrupted.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, I’m selfish. I want you all to myself. So turn that delightful mind of yours away from all things mysterious and macabre, and focus your thoughts solely on me, for I will not be sidetracked by mayhem or murder.”

  I laughed. “These things are hardly under my control.”

  “So you say.”

  “Well, then I suppose you’ll simply have to keep me sufficiently diverted.”

  A roguish glint lit his eyes at this gauntlet being thrown down, and he set about reminding me of how very diverting he could be.

  Don’t miss the first book in the

  Verity Kent mystery series . . .

  THIS SIDE OF MURDER

  The Great War is over, but in this captivating new mystery from award-winning author Anna Lee Huber, one young widow discovers the real intrigue has only just begun . . .

  England, 1919. Verity Kent’s grief over the loss of her husband pierces anew when she receives a cryptic letter, suggesting her beloved Sidney may have committed treason before his untimely death. Determined to dull her pain with revelry, Verity’s first impulse is to dismiss the derogatory claim. But the mystery sender knows too much—including the fact that during the war Verity worked for the Secret Service, something not even Sidney knew.

  Lured to Umbersea Island to attend the engagement party of one of Sidney’s fellow officers, Verity mingles among the men her husband once fought beside, and discovers dark secrets—along with a murder clearly meant to conceal them. Relying on little more than a coded letter, the help of a dashing stranger, and her own sharp instincts, Verity is forced down a path she never imagined—and comes face to face with the shattering possibility that her husband may not have been the man she thought he was. It’s a truth that could set her free—or draw her ever deeper into his deception . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  You might question whether this is all a ruse, whether I truly have anything to reveal. But I know what kind of work you really did during the war.

  I know the secrets you hide. Why shouldn’t I also know your husband’s?

  June 1919

  England

  They say when you believe you’re about to die your entire life passes before your eyes in a flurry of poignant images, but all I could think of, rather absurdly, was that I should have worn the blue hat. Well, that and that my sister would never forgive me for proving our mother right.

  Mother had never approved of Sidney teaching me how to drive his motorcar that last glorious summer before the war. Or of my gadding about London and the English countryside in his prized Pierce-Arrow while he was fighting in France. Or of my decision to keep the sleek little Runabout instead of selling it after a German bullet so callously snatched him from me. In my mother’s world of rules and privilege, women—even wealthy widows—did not own motorcars, and they certainly didn’t drive them. She’d declared it would be the death of me. And so it might have been, had it not been for the other driver’s bizarre bonnet ornament.

  Once my motorcar had squealed to a stop, a bare two inches from the fender of the other vehicle, and I’d peeled open my eyes,
I could see that the ornament was some sort of pompon. Tassels of bright orange streamers affixed to the Rolls-Royce’s more traditional silver lady. When racing down the country roads, I supposed they trailed out behind her like ribbons of flame, but at a standstill they drooped across the grille rather like limp seagrass.

  I heard the other driver open his door, and decided it was time to stop ogling his peculiar taste in adornment and apologize. For there was no denying our near collision was my fault. I had been driving much too fast for the winding, shrubbery-lined roads. I was tempted to blame Pinky, but I was the dolt who’d chosen to follow his directions even though I’d known they would be rubbish.

  When my childhood friend Beatrice had invited me to visit her and her husband, Pinky, at their home in Winchester, I’d thought it a godsend, sparing me the long drive from London to Poole in one shot. I hadn’t seen either of them since before the war, other than a swift bussing of Pinky’s cheek as I passed him at the train station one morning, headed back to the front. All in all, it had been a lovely visit despite the evident awkwardness we all felt at Sidney’s absence.

  In any case, although Pinky was a capital fellow, he’d always been a bit of a dodo. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d survived the war simply by walking in circles—as he’d had me driving—never actually making it to the front.

  I adjusted my rather uninspired cream short-brimmed hat over my auburn castle-bobbed tresses and stepped down into the dirt and gravel lane, hoping the mud wouldn’t damage my blue kid leather pumps. My gaze traveled over the beautiful pale yellow body of the Rolls-Royce and came to rest on the equally attractive man rounding her bonnet. Dark blond hair curled against the brim of his hat, and when his eyes lifted from the spot where our motorcars nearly touched, I could see they were a soft gray. I was relieved to see they weren’t bright with anger. Charming a man out of a high dudgeon had never been my favorite pastime.