“Did you pick that dress out…?” He whispered weakly, realising for the first time how pretty the girl under his guardianship actually was. Not much shorter than Thorne himself, her brown eyes and lustrous dark hair were perfectly complimented by an A-line evening dress of emerald green lace that did nothing to hide her figure.
“I did…” Rupert replied, not seeing anything at all wrong with his choice of wardrobe.
“You do know she’s fourteen, right…?”
“Mmm-hmm,” came the unrepentant reply, “and she’s going to a State function with Royalty present,” Gold went on to point out. “Would you prefer I’d had a potato sack prepared…?”
“N-no…” Thorne managed to reply eventually as she drew close, “but… Jesus…! She looks about twenty for Christ’s sake… I’ll have to spend the rest of the bloody night beating off every eligible bachelor in the room!”
Did you really just say that…?
Thorne took a moment to consider what he’d just said, shot a sidelong glance at Gold to check if he’d picked up on it, then gave a faint shrug and an inward sighed of relief as he realised the 21st Century terminology had slipped straight past his PA.
“You wait ‘til you see Eileen, then…” was all Rupert could suggest, an almost evil grin on his face.
“I think I’m actually scared…” He managed to fire back quickly as his ward drew within earshot.
“Uncle Max, you made it…! Eileen and I were getting worried they’d lost you somewhere!”
“Sorry, Kiddo…” he grinned, mostly hiding his vague unease at her far-too-mature appearance. “Official stuff always takes way too long. Really glad you came out with us tonight, though,” he added, his smile genuine now. “How have you been enjoying it so far?”
“It’s been amazing…!” She exclaimed with obvious excitement. So many wonderful things to see! So many amazing people! This place is incredible!”
“So I see,” he nodded slowly, his own smile widening as his own mood was buoyed by her innocent enthusiasm.
“…Music and food and dancing…!” She went on, lost in the effulgence of youth. “Eileen let me sip some champagne…! It was awful…!” She added quickly, noting the sharp glance that remark drew from an already-overprotective Thorne.
Yes, because you can’t stand a drink at all… that voice in his head pointed out with no small amount of sarcasm. Pot… have you met my friend, Kettle…?
“Just you remember that too, young lady!” He suggested sternly, trying hard to look serious in spite of himself. “Have you seen Miss Donelson by any chance?” He added, casting his eyes once more about the ballroom. “I have something rather important to discuss with her.”
“Oh, aye…?” Eileen enquired from just behind his right shoulder, having approached completely unnoticed. “And what might that be…?”
“We need to find somewhere…” he began quickly, but his words trailed off into nothingness as he turned and his eyes actually took in her dress and appearance.
Standing a little shorter than Thorne, Eileen wore a figure-hugging, navy blue sheath dress that reached barely below her knee, complete with arms bare at the shoulder and an almost-plunging neckline. Cut in a style that bordered on plain for an evening dress, the colour and design nevertheless somehow served only to accentuate her pale skin and exquisite features.
Her dark hair hung down her back in long tresses, the overall effect complimented by the simplicity of a pair of small, diamond-encrusted earrings and lipstick of a deep, lustrous red. Other than barest hint of some extremely subtle eye shadow, it was the only make up she was wearing so far as he could tell. That she would’ve been considered too thin by the standards of the time meant nothing to Max Thorne as the sight of her standing there in that evening dress reminded him of exactly how stunningly beautiful Eileen truly was.
“Max, you’re staring…” Rupert pointed out in a faint whisper as his boss stood motionless for a second or two, mouth hanging slightly open almost in awe.
Briony giggled softly at the sight like the teenage girl she was, and even Donelson herself couldn’t help but notice the way Thorne continued to gaze at her, reddening faintly with a self-consciousness brought on by such intense attention but nevertheless deciding silently that she didn’t mind at all.
“Max Thorne lost for words,” She managed in the end with a wry smile of her own. “I think that may be an accomplishment in itself…”
“You… look… incredible…” he breathed softly, barely loud enough for her to hear as he turned to face her properly and took both of her hands in his. It had been a long time since he’d seen her wear anything other than uniforms or casual clothing, and the surprise was such that his tone was one of simple, straightforward and open honesty with not a single hint of his usual, characteristic sarcasm of dry wit. “…Just… beautiful…”
“And you are being far too charming, Mister Bond,” she countered, continuing to blush and trying to hide a sudden and rather unexpected desire to swoon over those frank, unfiltered compliments as she made a vain attempt to deflect the conversation with humour of her own. “…It must be the tuxedo…”
“Sod the tuxedo,” Thorne replied, blinking for a moment as he gathered his thoughts and finally dragged them, kicking and screaming, back down to earth. “I can’t have you wandering about looking like that…!” He added, not sure where the sudden display of awkward gallantry was coming from but deciding to go with it. “Turn my back for a moment, and some strapping young officer-type will try to steal you away!”
“What was that Beyoncé song?” She asked cheekily, raising her left hand and waggling four delicate, slender and – more importantly – ringless fingers with long, exquisite nails painted the same deep, blood-red as her lips; nails that flashed faintly in the light above as the moved.
“‘Faust alive’, Max…?” Rupert suggested, deciding to force Thorne back onto topic and inwardly beginning to tire of what he considered to be excessively levels of adoration over a woman, regardless of the high level of esteem in which he personally held Eileen Donelson.
“Oh, bollocks…!” Max blurted, his thoughts snapping brutally back to the problem at hand as his coarse response also somewhat deadened Eileen’s mood. “Thanks for reminding me!” He turned his gaze back to Gold for a moment, adding: “And what are you still bloody doing here anyway? I need that message sent yesterday…!”
“Well, pardon me for helping then,” Rupert sniffed melodramatically, the whole thing mostly for show as he stifled a faint grin and made an exaggerated attempt at mincing off in a huff, muttering all the while. “Personal driver… dogsbody… tailor… hairdresser… nursemaid… I don’t know why I bother… ”
“Keep up your bloody whingeing and ‘Rule Number One’ can be very easily set up…!” Thorne muttered back sourly, making sure it was too low for Gold to hear as the man disappeared into the crowd, heading for the far end of the room.
“So it would seem you really so have something important to tell…” Eileen observed with a raised eyebrow, remembering the Python sketch to which he was referring from her childhood and more than a little surprised at his words. “Important enough to elicit remarks like that…?”
“Were you being rude to Rupert, Uncle Max?” Briony demanded immediately, following the conversation and ready to defend Gold in an instant.
“It’s not my fault you have an eidetic memory,” he countered, ignoring Briony’s indignance for the moment and a little embarrassed at being caught out. “Never mind that anyway… I bloody-well do have something important to tell you…”
He gently took Eileen’s arm and guided her into a corner of the room, his teenage ward tagging along behind with a quizzical expression on her face. Looking about, Thorne spied an orderly nearby in regimental dress and summoned him over with a single wave.
“Corporal, I’m Air Vice-Marshal Max Thorne; I believe the Princess wishes to meet my ward here, Briony Morris… I unfortunately have some pressing b
usiness to attend to… would you be so kind as to escort Miss Morris over and introduce her?”
“Of course, sir!” The NCO shot back immediately, snapping to attention.
“But… Uncle Max…!” Briony protested weakly, suddenly overwhelmed by the unexpected news that she was about to meet the current heir to the British throne.
“You’ll be fine, Kid… she’s a teenager too, and a pretty down-to-earth one at that when you get to know her...”
“Miss… if you’ll step this way…?” The orderly invited, gently taking her arm and guiding her away…”
“I just came out of a meeting with The King and the PM,” he continued, ignoring Briony’s glare and continuing protests as he glanced about to ensure they weren’t being overheard. “There was a manufactured ‘border incident’ last week in Northern Ireland, which they believe Dublin was responsible for. The Yanks have landed military forces in the Republic of Ireland at Dublin’s request as a result, which they also believe was the intended outcome of the original incident…”
“They’ve what…?” Eileen gasped in surprise, as shocked as he had been upon hearing the news. “How could they be so stupid…?”
“That’s not the half of it…” He continued with a mirthless smile, sarcasm lacing his words. “They also have reports that the American forces there have taken someone into custody… someone going by the name of Samuel Lowenstein…”
There was a moment of stunned silence as Eileen’s brain processed that information and came up wanting of any kind of coherent reply.
“What… how…?” She began slowly, blinking in a double-take as she struggled to absorb it all. “He was supposed to be dead…!”
“Yeah, that was pretty much how I reacted,” Thorne nodded with a grin, once again glancing around as if suddenly paranoid of eavesdroppers.
“But, that means that…”
“Yes.”
“And we could…”
“Yes…!”
“When do we get him?” She asked finally, cutting to the crux of the matter.
“Well, that’s where it gets a little tricky,” he conceded with a grimace. “As you know, the Yanks have been a tad pissed at us lately for dragging our heels on exchanges of technology, particularly in the case of nuclear research. We know they’re at least two or three years behind us at Los Alamos at the moment, and they know it too. Menzies is worried they’re going to use Lowenstein as a bargaining tool… they’ve got Halifax waiting to talk to the president about it as we speak, to discuss terms regarding some kind of exchange.”
“Do you think Lowenstein knows…?”
“No idea,” Thorne answered honestly, “but I do think it’s damn sure worth finding out! That’s why I sent Rupert packing earlier – he’s going to rally the troops and get the rest of Hindsight heading back here for a rendezvous… if we do get something out of Lowenstein, we’ll need to be ready to act immediately.”
“And they’re sure it’s him?”
“As sure as they can be; the confirming reports came from bloody Kransky himself, who managed to get himself captured by the Krauts in Northern Ireland…”
“Oh, no…!” She exclaimed, her stomach lurching for a moment in fear that Kransky might have been in danger.
“It’s okay – the jammy bugger’s fine. He’s already been busted out: they got him across to the Republic about a week ago, although his current whereabouts are unknown. Oh…” he added, suddenly recalling another point, “…and just FYI, we believe the Krauts have also detonated their first A-bomb off the north-west coast of Scotland, so that’s even more reason for us to get hold of Lowenstein as soon as possible!”
“I don’t know if I can process all this,” she replied with a shake of her head, almost feeling dizzy with the overload of information. “In one meeting, you’ve just been told the Americans have landed in Ireland, the Germans have tested a nuclear device and we’ve found out that Samuel Lowenstein is alive and may soon be within our grasp?”
“I was so stunned I couldn’t even swear…”
“I’d almost believe that,” she retorted with a grin, acknowledging Thorne’s own admission of his penchant for the liberal use of foul language.
“Well to be fair, there was a king present,” he added.
“Mmm, you said… what was it like, meeting George the Sixth?”
“Okay, I guess…” he mused, pretending to be momentarily lost in thought. “A bit of an anti-climax, actually… I think I was expecting Colin Firth…”
“Silly bugger…!” Eileen burst out with a snort, slapping him playfully on the shoulder in annoyance as he chuckled at his own joke.
“Mister Thorne, what are you doing, hiding over there?” The sound of the Princess’ voice cut gaily through their own conversation, effectively ending it for the time being as she approached with the NCO and an awe-struck orderly in tow. “And who is this lovely young lady you’re keeping all to yourself?” That Eileen was almost exactly twice Elizabeth’s age made little difference in the scheme of things when one was royalty, acting in the King’s current absence.
“Oh – ah – Ma’am, may I present Captain Eileen Donelson, RN,” Thorne began with a stammer, executing a short bow in recognition of the Princess’ arrival.
“Your Highness,” Eileen murmured, wide-eyed and easily as awe-struck as Briony as she executed her own very rudimentary attempt at a curtsey, possibly the first in her life.
“Is this the lady you have the good fortune of escorting tonight, Max?”
“Yes, Ma’am… I do have that honour,” Thorne grinned, composing himself and seeing another opportunity for gallantry that even he recognised was somewhat out of character.
“Well, it shouldn’t do for the pair of you to be absent when I talk to this gorgeous niece of yours about what we discussed earlier,” Elizabeth declared, dismissing the corporal with a nod as Briony’s face registered suspicion for the first time.
“What did you discuss earlier, Uncle Max…?” She asked softly, her eyes narrowing slightly from a position where the Princess couldn’t see.
“My dear, I discovered this evening that you’re still to decide on a school for next year,” the Princess continued, “and I absolutely insisted that Max allow you to come and study with my sister and I… we’ve never anyone of our own age about, and it would be absolutely wonderful to have you!”
“Oh…!” Briony gasped, her face a strange combination of excitement and sudden horror as she realised the ramifications of what had just been suggested. “Oh, no… no, I couldn’t…” She blurted, completely forgetting the crash course on protocol Rupert had given her that morning and making Thorne wince visibly.
“Why ever not?” Elizabeth demanded bluntly, not at all offended but just not ready to accept any refusal.
“But… but, Your Majesty…” she managed finally in a soft, fragile voice, as if bring forced to reveal some personal humiliation that was already painfully obvious. “I’m… I’m…”
“You’re ‘from the country’…?” Elizabeth cut in, well aware of what Briony had been about to say and deftly diverting her away from any further embarrassment. “I’m sure that won’t matter at all, my dear, and I’ll not hear another word on the subject! Now, sir…” she continued, turning back to Thorne as if the matter was entirely settled, “I’ll not have the pair of you hiding over here away from the crowd like this, when there are so many people you both should meet. There’s a band coming on and it’s time we brightened things up a little. Are you going to ask the lovely Captain Donelson to dance, or shall I be forced to make it a royal decree?”
“Ma’am,” Thorne smiled, becoming well-versed in recognising when he was beaten, “that too would be an honour.” He turned back toward Eileen and raised his elbow for her to take. “Shall we, captain…?” The look he gave held far more genuine emotion that she’d seen in him for a long time, and she flushed pink once more as she awkwardly reached out a slender hand and placed it on his arm.
“I think I should be delighted,” she managed eventually, lowering her eyes self-consciously as the Princess looked on expectantly, clearly pleased at the minor spectacle she was orchestrating.
“Ma’am…” Thorne nodded, bowing slightly again in acknowledgement as the pair passed and moved out toward the centre of the ballroom floor.
“Night and day, you are the one…”
The famous Cole Porter tune filled the air as an accomplished big band played on the smallish mezzanine level above the south end of the ballroom. The singer, a tall, reed-thin fellow his early forties stood out front before a stand-mounted RCA microphone and ran through the lyrics in what might have been called ‘crooner style’, had the term not already fallen into disrepute during the early-1930s. He was trying his best, but the performance was still mildly grating to Eileen’s perfectly-trained musical ear, causing her to wince visibly here or there as she picked out some particularly bum notes.
“It’s no matter, darling, where you are… I think of you…”
“Do you think this was a set up?” Thorne wondered aloud as they spun in each other’s arms, moving about the dance floor with all the others in a steady rhythm.
“If it was, it could do with some work,” Eileen muttered back with a wry smile. “He’s murdering Sinatra’s version of this…”
“You’d have done it better,” he nodded, referring to Eileen’s own prowess behind a microphone.
“You could do that better,” she chuckled lightly, no offence meant or taken. “And as fine an amateur as you are, you’re no crooner…”
“Still…” he countered, “My dancing’s probably just as bad as his singing, and I can think of worse things to be doing on a Saturday night. At least I have you in my arms, which kinda makes up for the crummy performance.”
“What has gotten into you, Mister Thorne?” She whispered into his ear from close range, her head on his shoulder as they danced. “You have not been yourself tonight, and that is definitely not a bad thing.”
“Must be the tuxedo,” he suggested, lowering the position of his right hand slightly and taking the opportunity to gently caress the middle of her back through the thin material of the dress. That the deliberate action felt far more like real intimacy than anything crude both surprised and pleased Eileen greatly, and it was all she could do in the moment to control the faint gasp of excitement that rippled through her as a result.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 27
