In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Send Malcolm in the moment he returns.”

  “He is already here, Your Lordship. He is waiting in the antechamber outside.” Greyson cleared his throat. “I felt it best to give you this telegram before he entered.” He withdrew a crisp envelope from the inner pocket of his white waistcoat.

  “Thank you, Greyson.” Thomas opened the message. His eyes flew to the bottom of the page where he immediately recognized the scrawling signature of Prime Minister David Lloyd George.

  His servant turned to leave but paused at the door. “You should know, your Lordship, that your son is not alone."

  Thomas’s face darkened as Greyson’s implication became clear. He tossed the note onto the oval mahogany table before him. “So be it.”

  By defying his father and bringing his whore to their estate, Malcolm had declared war. And war was a game Thomas played only to win.

  Steele squared his shoulders and spread his legs apart, his mouth settling into a grim line. The father was gone, replaced by the commanding officer who would achieve his objective, no matter the cost. “Send him in.”

  MALCOLM’S FIRST THOUGHT upon entering the room was that his father had abandoned his retirement and returned to the army. There was no trace of the indulgent parent now. This man glared with eyes that seemed to rip through his body, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable.

  For the first time in his life, Malcolm felt fear in his father’s presence. He licked his lips and sneaked a glance at Leila who stared at Thomas with widened eyes.

  She had good reason to be nervous. Her last meeting with Sir Thomas Steele—the night of Malcolm’s wild party—had been nothing short of a nightmare. Malcolm balled his sweaty palms into fists, ignoring the racing of his heart. He would not be intimidated again. Not now that she was his wife.

  “When I told Greyson to admit you, your woman was not included.” His father’s voice had the warmth of a floor tile in the dead of winter.

  “She has as much right to be here as I.”

  “This is a family discussion.” Thomas thrust a finger in Leila’s face. “She is not welcome in my home.”

  “It’s okay.” Leila patted his wrist and turned for the door. “I’ll leave.”

  “No.” Malcolm felt the back of his neck grow hot. He moved closer to his father, every muscle taut.

  “This woman is now my wife!” His arm curled around her waist. “I love her, and you’ll just have to get over whatever problem you have with her. Father.”

  He added the word as though it were an afterthought. For a moment he had indeed forgotten that this man, who now seemed ready to pound him into the floor, was his father.

  Thomas’s face paled. “You... married her?”

  “Malcolm, really, I think the two of you should discuss this without me.” Leila pulled away from her husband. “I’ll wait outside.”

  She blew Thomas a kiss then waggled her fingers. “Good luck, Old Man.” Then, with a confident smile, she tossed her head and swaggered out of the room.

  LEILA STRODE QUICKLY down the hall, her agile mind moving even faster than her long legs as she analyzed the situation that unfolded around her. While Malcolm battled with his father, she would put her time in the Steele mansion to good use.

  The servants, except for the oversized gorilla Thomas had called Greyson, appeared to all be asleep. By insisting that he meet with Malcolm alone, the old Scrooge had unintentionally given her the perfect opportunity to ferret out information that Germany would find useful.

  The words of her handler, Werner Jaëger, rolled through her mind.

  Thomas Steele leads the Bank of England. He is a friend of both the Prime Minister and the head of British intelligence. Infiltrate his home. Discover what he knows. Do not fail me.

  She glanced behind her, making sure that no one followed, then slipped into the aperture of a wide, dimly-lit corridor.

  Thomas had demanded Malcolm meet him in the drawing room which meant that, if he followed popular trend, his private study would be on the same floor.

  Leila paused abruptly, noting the plush beige carpet yielded to glossy hardwood floors. She slipped off her scarlet shoes and slowly made her way forward on stocking feet. Mahogany walls towered around her in solemn silence, ornamented with the heads of robust stags and a few electric lamps.

  “Where are you?” She squinted through the gloom. She had no idea how long the battle between Malcolm and Thomas would last, but the subtle voice of experience whispered that she had only a few moments to find what she sought and return to the hallway outside the drawing room.

  She paused mid-stride as a trio of immense portraits that hung on the wall opposite a sweeping staircase came into view. Her eyes widened as she stared, transfixed by the images of the men who made up the Steele bloodline.

  She moved closer. Brown hair fell loosely to the first man’s shoulders in the style of the French, framing an oval face. An inscription in the lower right corner caught her attention. Jacques Steele né Durand.

  She recoiled as though the painting were about to grab her by the throat and strangle her. Durand?

  Hurriedly she glanced at the succeeding portraits.

  John Steele.

  Thomas Steele.

  Evidently, the founder of the family had changed his name from Durand to Steele. A shiver snaked down her spine.

  Focus Leila. The thought struck her like a bullet. She had a mission to accomplish and couldn’t afford any more distractions. Malcolm was distraction enough.

  Malcolm.

  His portrait was not on the wall with his ancestors. Why not?

  She ground her teeth in frustration. Durand. The name clanged around in her skull, a memory from her own past. She inhaled deeply and tore her eyes away from the painting. She had a job to do.

  “YOU DEFY MY ORDERS, marry that woman, and bring her to my home?” Thomas had long ago cast aside any semblance of calm.

  “Your orders, Father?” Malcolm’s face darkened. “You’ve left the army, remember? I’m not one of those stupid soldiers who jump at your every command!”

  “Malcolm,” Thomas breathed deeply, trying to regain control of his emotions. “Your dissolute and irresponsible conduct disgraces our family name.” He gestured to the window. “Men are dying out there. They’re falling like rats on the battlefield while you spend your nights chasing women and drinking yourself senseless. Where is your sense of shame?”

  He began to pace, but his eyes never left his son’s face. “It is our tradition to place the heir’s portrait next to those of his ancestors. Three generations of Steeles are on that wall. But I will not give you that privilege. Is that what you want? Is it?”

  Malcolm flinched but thrust his chin forward. “It’s a new age, Old Man. People are recognizing that the world’s miserable enough as it is without a bunch of stuffy rules to dictate how we live. ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die.’ Isn’t that somewhere in the Good Book?” He rubbed his hands together. “You talk about men dying. Well, I’m going to live life to the fullest.”

  Thomas grabbed the note that lay discarded on a table and waved it in Malcolm’s face. “I have just received a letter from the Prime Minister. He writes that it is shameful for my son to remain at Northshire while millions of Britain’s sons are volunteering to fight for hearth and home. Prove yourself a man, Malcolm, and put on a uniform.”

  He slammed the paper against his son’s chest. “Give yourself a greater purpose than the pursuit of your own pleasure.”

  Malcolm scanned the letter and then shoved it in his pocket.

  “Not for me.” He sniffed and inspected his fingernails. “I’d rather stay home and make love to Leila than sleep in a cold, muddy trench any day.”

  “Think of what you’re doing, man!” Thomas resisted the urge to throttle his son. “Is that the kind of girl God would want you to marry? A half-naked drunk?” He gestured toward Isabella’s portrait. “What would your mother say about
her?”

  “God?” Malcolm’s jaw tightened. “Since when did He ever take an interest in my life?”

  Thomas stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  His son stalked closer, his face twisted with fury. “Where was God when cancer ate Mother from the inside out?” He grabbed the lapel of his father’s jacket. Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted, “Where was God, when we begged Him to spare her life? Did He listen? Did He?”

  Releasing his father’s collar, Malcolm shoved him back. “Is God listening now? If He is, I want Him to know that I spit upon His idea of love.”

  “No.” Thomas staggered backward. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

  Malcolm turned his back to his father and took two steps in the opposite direction. “If God didn’t listen to me then, why should I listen to Him now?”

  Thomas’s anger melted before the harsh reality of his son’s sorrow. “Malcolm, please, don’t do this. Don’t let your anger destroy your faith.” He laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re worth millions of pounds, boy. Surely you can see that this woman’s motives—”

  “The woman has a name, Father.” Malcolm shrugged off Thomas’s arm. “Leila. Her name is Leila.”

  He sneered as he faced his father. “You think you know so much but, when Mother died, you never knew what to say whenever I was around. Why? I’ll tell you why. We had nothing in common.” He pointed to his mother’s portrait. “You always counted on her to raise me while you ran away from home like the coward you are.”

  “I-I was protecting you.” Thomas’s voice faltered. “I was fulfilling my duty to my country... to my family.”

  “What a hero!” Malcolm’s laughter mocked him. “You pitiful old fool.”

  Thomas clenched his jaw. “What do you know about life? What gives you, a selfish playboy, the right to question my sacrifice?” His palm chopped downward. “My orders were clear. Break off your relationship with that woman or be disinherited.”

  Malcolm’s chin jutted forward. “You wouldn’t dare. I’m your only child. I’m the heir of Northshire. You won’t go through with your threat. Who would inherit the estate when you finally die? That pathetic psychopath, Greyson? I can see it now—words of wisdom painted on every corner of Northshire!” His hands flew to his hips. “I’m too old to play your childish games, Father.”

  Thomas was quiet for a moment and, when he spoke, his voice was hollow. “I am not playing, Malcolm.”

  Silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, held the room in its grip.

  “W-what are you saying?” Malcom’s hands fell to his sides. “You mean you’re actually...”

  “You will take the clothes you are wearing and leave my home at once. In the morning, I will draw up the necessary documents legally stripping you of your rights to inherit Northshire and our other assets.”

  Malcolm’s face drained of blood. “N-no! Father you can’t be serious! I mean that’s—”

  “You have lost the right to call me ‘Father.’” Beads of sweat spread across Thomas’s brow. “Until you prove to me that you are worthy to inherit this estate, all your rights and privileges are completely revoked.”

  Malcolm stared at him. “That’s insane.”

  Thomas did not reply.

  “I-I’ll have no money.” Malcolm wrung his hands together. “I’d have to work.”

  He fell to his knees, clasped hands upraised. “Father, I’m sorry. I’ve been foolish. I’ll do better. I swear it.”

  Thomas gazed down at his son. “Get up.” He jerked him to his feet. “You chose to disregard my word and follow your own path. Now, see where your stubbornness will lead you.”

  Malcolm balled his hands into fists, his eyes flashing. “So, you think that by a few strokes of a pen, you can deny that you ever had a son?”

  “No.” Thomas’s voice was calm. Detached. Unfeeling. “The name Steele is still yours, but you will no longer be recognized as my son. You will have no access to the family credit. You will be expelled from our estates. You will have no legal right to act on my behalf.”

  Malcolm’s mouth flopped open.

  “The road you are travelling will lead only to ignominy. I will not destroy all that my ancestors built by handing it over to a reckless, pleasure-mad prodigal.” He pointed to the door. “Now, take your wife and get out of my house.”

  Malcolm reeled as though Thomas had planted his fist into his gut. “Your house?” He leapt to one side, grabbed an ornate Grecian urn from off a nearby pillar and smashed it to the ground.

  “You stupid, stupid man! I’ll hate you till I die.” He spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. “You hear me? I hate you!”

  Hot tears spilled over his eyelids, but he dashed them away. Jerking the door to the drawing room open, Malcolm was about to leave when Thomas’s voice, now choked with emotion, stopped him.

  “If you ever change your ways, then come back home.”

  Malcolm paused for only an instant then, without a backward glance, slammed the door behind him.

  The vibration made a few of the books fall from their place on the shelves. Thomas stared at the broken pieces of the vase for several moments, then slumped to one knee. He knew he had made the right choice, but nothing could have prepared him for the heartache that ripped through his chest with the efficiency of a jagged sword.

  “God!” He clutched his silver hair between his fingers. How he longed to rush after Malcolm and pull him back into his arms! His heart ached to tell his son that everything was forgotten. Sometimes a father must break his son’s heart, so he can show him in the end just how much he cares.

  “Go after him, Father.” He clutched a shard of the shattered vase. “Pick up the broken pieces of his life... and bring him home.”

  LEILA HAD JUST PASSED the paintings when a wooden door, inlaid with swirling patterns of glass, caught her eye. She knelt and peered inside. Light from a glowing fireplace revealed a walnut-stained desk and towering bookshelf that lay adjacent to the opposite wall. This is it. His office. Glancing behind her again, she pressed down on the door’s handle.

  The door swung open on well-greased hinges and she slipped into the office. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest but she breathed deeply, willing herself to be calm. It was not as though this was her first mission. Easy Leila. You were trained for this.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling another twinge of remorse. This might not be her first mission, but it was the first time she had fallen in love. The ring on her finger suddenly felt heavy. Or was that her conscience?

  Malcolm thought their relationship was perfect but, what he called perfection, she knew was a dream—an illusion birthed by an endearing naiveté on his part. Possibly, her insight stemmed from the fact that she knew men better than most men knew themselves.

  She bit her lip as her mind flipped through the pages of her life. Her previous marriage to an abusive monster in Indonesia had ended when her husband had almost killed her in a drunken rage. A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. You’ll never hurt me again, you swine.

  Battered and defenseless, Leila had fled home to Germany aching to find a sense of purpose. She had found that purpose when she had been recruited by Department 3B, her country’s foreign espionage unit, a year before the start of the war.

  Leila had been sent to Antwerp for intense training under the notorious Elsbeth Schragmüller. A woman with a tumultuous past herself, Elsbeth had become her mentor, helping her slowly piece together the fragments of her shattered life while teaching her skills that would make her formidable in the field. Over time, Leila had developed a callous mentality, believing that men were to be used rather than loved. Elsbeth had taught her to overcome her fears—at the point of a gun if need be—and to wield her mind like a weapon.

  She had arrived in England bolstered by a burgeoning sense of purpose and confident in her ability to successfully manipulate the feelings of any man.

&nb
sp; Then she had met Malcolm.

  Leila slowed to a standstill as her mind shifted to their fatal first encounter. She had come to Northshire determined to worm her way into his heart but their first meeting at Malcolm’s party had reawakened a deep yearning for something more, something for which every woman longed but few ever found.

  Despite the overbearing arch of his father’s despotic rule, Malcolm had a real thirst for life that had reignited her own passions. Carpe diem! was a motto he lived as well as said, an attitude that pulled her heart close to his.

  A frown flickered across her face. This was all wrong. She was a spy. Love was a weapon, a tool designed to bring down an enemy, nothing more. But the feelings that clouded her mind and unhinged her senses whispered that love was more... much more.

  The shadows of the Great War hung over the world, steeping humanity in a vortex of depression. She had never so keenly understood that each moment could be her last. In a world of uncertainty, why hold back? One way or another this mission would ultimately come to an end and then what would she have? Another mission? More empty lies?

  Malcolm awakened a sense of colorful liberation that contrasted sharply with the grim shades of gray in which her life had been painted up to this moment. He was a swirling current of fresh air that left her breathless. He knew nothing about her previous marriage and she saw no need to damage the bliss that ignorance offered.

  At least he won’t be hurt by the information I send back to Germany. Great Britain did not mandate military service and the thought of Malcolm volunteering to fight was laughable.

  Opening her eyes, Leila waited until they adjusted to the gloom then padded toward the desk. Three rows of small drawers lined its back frame, but she ignored them. Experience had taught her that classified information was more likely to be found in a bottom drawer than a top one. Her eyes slid to a lower right drawer that protruded slightly from underneath the desk’s writing surface.

  She tugged on it. Locked.

  A faint smirk touched her lips as she slipped a pin from her hair. Within moments, the drawer slid open and she pulled out a stack of papers then shifted closer to the firelight.