A Jewel In Time; A Sultry Sisters Anthology

by Barbara Devlin

  His presence sent a shiver down her back, which she disguised by rising from her seat, moving to the newly awakened fire. There was something about him...something compelling.

  Under her shirt, the jeweled pendant shifted against her skin. It was a warm and reassuring weight. Somehow, she’d get out of here.

  Grace had been well trained, and her self-defense skills were superb. Unfortunately, even if she could take out both Frau Shemper and the manservant, there was a guard in the hall, and another patrolling the lower floor. Yet another guard walked a beat in the garden, with one at the gate, and at least one at the end of the drive, which she could see from her windows.

  “Come, now, Fräulein. You must be hungry, yes?”

  Grace realized she’d been staring off into space. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Frau Shemper, for bringing dinner up yourself. You must be very busy with such important guests to tend.”

  “Ja, ja.” Frau Shemper beamed at the implied compliment. “But you, too, are an important guest, Fräulein.”

  Knowing it was useless to remind the woman she was a prisoner, Grace sighed.

  “Danke. The stew smells heavenly. I believe I’ll continue to enjoy my book as I eat, Frau Shemper.”

  Under Frau Shemper’s approving eye, Grace took a seat at the little table, taking up the napkin to put in her lap.

  “Good, good. I will send Franz back for the tray in three-quarters of an hour, yes?” The woman beamed more broadly as Grace picked up the spoon. “Enjoy, yes? Good. There is much for me to see to before our other guests arrive.”

  She bobbed a curtsey before she bustled out of the room. The manservant gave Grace one more penetrating look as he too backed out of the door with a bow. The lock turned once more and the only sound in the room was the crackle of the freshly stoked fire.

  Grace hurried to the door, dropping down to peer under the gap. Frau Shemper’s sturdy shoes were nowhere to be seen, but the manservant’s well-worn boots and the guard’s highly polished Hessians were visible. She strained to hear what the two men were saying.

  Something about his boots tugged at her subconscious, but she pushed it aside as she strained to hear their conversation.

  “...back for the tray?”

  “Half’n hour or so,” the deeper voice had a rough quality to it, as if the manservant had a rasp in his throat. His German must be a local dialect as it was guttural and hard to understand.

  “Be sure to take all the silverware,” the guard joked. “Don’t want her attacking you, now do we?”

  There was some kind of growling response from the manservant. The guard answered in kind, low and masculine, but she couldn’t catch the words. What she did catch was the tone and the way both men laughed.

  Grace sat back on her heels, frowning. That was the kind of laughter men shared when they were making ill remarks about a woman.

  Damn. This was quite the pickle.

  She returned to her stew. It was delicious, and she ate every scrap. She would have eaten it even if had it been horrid. Food meant strength. When she escaped, she might not safely find food until she was back across the border into France. Better to eat as heartily as she could now.

  She stared out the window at the tall pines, simple cutout shapes outlined in contrast to the cold winter sky. There was a dusting of snow on the ground, and Grace could see mountains in the distance. The location of the lodge, miles over the German border, was a mystery. But she’d counted the time, and speed, from the border post to the lodge. She had figured twenty miles give or take a few miles.

  If she could get out and away, she could manage twenty miles. It wouldn’t be easy, but to escape this? Oh, yes. She could do it.

  What could Hitler want with her? With the jewel? She didn’t want to think about the diary. She prayed it was still in the lodge, that she could find it. Though not as ancient as the brooch, it told only the stories of the women in her family who’d possessed the jewel through the centuries.

  It was a story book, but a precious one. Those stories, magical or not, were her history, her people. She couldn’t be the one to break that chain and lose the book.

  She smiled as she poured a cup of tea and prepared it to her liking. The journal’s stories were fanciful, full of love and longing and angst.

  Even her aunt’s entry...Grace hesitated over that memory. She knew her aunt and uncle’s story. And the entry told all that, and so much more.

  Still. They were stories. Fables.

  If it were only that, well, it wouldn’t be so dangerous. Unfortunately, she’d used it to create a code system. She stored her notes in it, and had given her father the key to the code and told her aunt that if anything happened to her, Standish must see the book before it was passed on to the next oldest Corvedale daughter.

  “Lovely thoughts, Grace,” she chided herself. She wasn’t dead yet, and the lock on the bedroom door was ridiculously simple. She could pick it in less than a minute.

  That thought had her setting the wine aside. Still, she couldn’t resist reading the label

  For other meals, she’d been served wines from Alsace-Lorraine, close to Moselle, which Germany and France had traded back and forth in successive wars through the centuries.

  This, however, was a regional French vineyard she’d visited. One closer to the German border.

  “That bastard,” she said, slapping the bottle onto the table. It was clear, now, how Hitler had heard about the brooch. This vintner’s wife had asked about it two or three seasons back. On her visit there this year, in July, the vintner himself brought up the legend of her jeweled brooch.

  “Now I know. Dammit,” she cursed softly. She was furious with herself. She’d told the story as a way to gain the confidence of the vintner’s wife, to build rapport. She’d hoped to tap the woman for information. She had, over the last few years, gained the wife’s trust. That trust was signified by an invitation to the youngest daughter’s wedding to a neighboring vintner in the spring.

  During the July visit, she’d garnered significant information about troop movements and the illegal billeting of German soldiers in homes not far from the vineyard. She knew the build-up heralded the invasion of France. The information was vital, so she couldn’t regret what she’d said to get it, but...

  She lost track of time, as she sat brooding by the fire. The heavy tread in the hallway and subsequent scrape of the key in the lock startled her. She rose, expecting Frau Shemper.

  The manservant was alone. He left the door open and Grace assessed her chances.

  “I wouldn’t try it, Lady Corvedale,” the man said, his voice low and controlled. He spoke English!

  An American! Within seconds she recognized the tenor of the accent, if not the exact area of that vast, raw country.

  “What did you say?” As she watched, he transformed, standing taller, looking leaner and less bulky as he stood straight. His shoulders, already broad, were even bigger when he stood up to his full height, his posture exact and erect.

  “Don’t try to jump me and I won’t have to hurt you.”

  She sneered, bluffing. It could be a trap.

  “As if I were considering it? What do you take me for, sir?”

  “A smart, dangerous woman.” He chuckled to soften the words, but kept it to a whisper of sound. “I recognize someone sizing up a target. Let’s just say Lord Bittebrug won’t get his brandy, shall we?”

  “Why would an American care?” she hissed, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow.

  She moved to the table, putting the empty tea things back onto the tray. That let her edge over and keep him on her left. That put the table between them, gave her weapons.

  His words were a good opening gambit, but she was suspicious. Her letter had been intercepted, without a doubt. How else would the Nazis have caught her?

  “Ah,” he replied, taking a step closer, watching her with the one, dark, fierce eye. “An American would care if he knew your brother, and had gone with Char
to Portsmouth to win a shilling.”

  “Many people know him. He’s quite social, inviting near strangers to come along and see horses, or cars, or views.” She dismissed that. That too could have been extrapolated from the letter.

  The chuckle returned. “Yes, he is all that. Remind me to tell you about the horse he conned me into buying. I’m going to name it Shippingston.”

  Surprise hit her, and she reached up to grip the jewel in an unconscious gesture. The feel of it reassured her, its heat warmed her hand.

  How close to the fire had she been sitting for it to be so warm?

  Watching her warily, the man picked up the teapot and poured cold tea on the floor.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Hush,” the man hissed, cocking his head. When no sound came from the hall, he continued. “Char told me you’d take some convincing, and Standish, your father, said more than that. He said to remind you that he used to call you MJ, or Tappit Hen. Something about your fondness for port wine.”

  Startled, she backed away. Damn! She’d left a potential weapon--the heavy wine bottle--on the edge of the table. It was too far for her get to it, if he advanced. But...

  “There are others who would know that,” she hedged, but she grew surer by the moment.

  Exasperated, the man added, “Standish said you have a birthmark on your inner thigh,” he snapped. “It’s shaped like a crown.”

  Shocked, she gaped. Only her father would be gauche enough to use that as an identifier! She wasn’t sure Char knew it existed.

  There was a noise from the hall and the irritation flared in his gaze. “Damn. Not enough time.”

  “You’ve come for the tray,” she said briskly, and loudly, in English. “Now take it and go.”

  “Yes, Fräulein,” he said, in the same rough German he’d spoken earlier when talking to the guard. He dropped his shoulders and limped heavily to the table, deliberately knocking the napkin and silverware to the floor. He was picking them up, and wiping the wooden floor when the guard poked his head in.

  “Franz?” the guard called to him, ignoring Grace.

  “Ja, I knocked over the stupid English tea,” he groused in his guttural dialect, mopping at the floor with the napkin to clear the spilled tea.

  The guard laughed and said something about clumsiness around beautiful women.

  “Ja.” The man, Franz, picked up the large tray as if it weighed nothing. His posture remained stooped and painful as he turned to go. The stoop made him appear bulky and heavy, rather than tall and lean. How did he do that?

  “Gute Nacht, Fräulein,” he said, bowing over the tray, and, while his back blocked the guard’s view, he gave her a saucy wink.

  “Gute Nacht,” she managed. What the hell was going on? Was he a rescuer or more danger?

  Hand at her throat, clutching her secreted brooch, she watched them leave. The guard nodded, but there was a gleam in his eye she did not like. Not one bit. As a businesswoman, one learned to distinguish appropriate interest from that which was not.

  This was not.

  The guard was an obvious foe. But...did she now have an ally?

  The door closed and locked, and Grace rubbed her hands up and down her arms to settle the goose bumps. This was a dangerous dance. The newly stoked fire blazed up and she moved closer, finally feeling warm.

  The encounter was bizarre. Who was Franz? Was he really from Char? He was no manservant, or gardener, or huntsman, that was certain.

  She looked at the table, and froze. The bottle now sat in the exact center of the table. She’d set it down near the edge, in the clear space beyond the tray. She had kept the bottle and glass, and not only as a potential weapon. She’d wanted a glass of wine before bed. Sleep wasn’t easy to come by when you were a captive, and the wine helped. A little.

  Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bottle. Had he left a note?

  Beneath the dark green glass something glittered, despite the low light. A ring had been positioned to exactly fit where the deeply indented punt at the bottom of the bottle would hide it.

  Not just any ring.

  It was hers. The last time she’d seen it, it had been in the vault at Dale Manor, their country estate. Her father lived in London most of the year, as did Char. Someone would have had to have gotten the ring from the country house for a very specific purpose.

  “Or it’s been stolen,” she muttered to herself, not believing it, even as she said it. Stealing the gem, only to bring it here, would be too complex a plot, even for her suspicious mind.

  She slipped it on. The fifteenth century gem, set in gold, slipped on easily. Originally a man’s signet ring, it was one of her favorites, and had been since she was a child.

  The American really was a messenger from Char and her father. This, and knowledge of the birthmark, were enough proof.

  Hitler would arrive within twenty-four hours. That changed the game, and the security situation. Her new American ally needed to strike now and get her out.

  She was still pondering it as she dressed for bed an hour later. There were enough sheets to tie together to get her down from the second story window. The bed was heavy enough to use as a tie-off.

  She was still eyeing it when there was a tap on the glass of the second story window.

  Chapter III

  Grace spun in place and stared. There at the window, motioning impatiently for her to let him in, was the manservant, Franz.

  What in God’s name?

  She reacted instantly and raced to open the large casements to allow him to enter. A part of her considered leaving him hanging on the window ledge, by whatever contrivance he’d gotten himself there. But he’d proved his bona fides. She had to trust him.

  Dressed in all black, his face soot-covered and darkened, he quickly pulled the ropes he’d used to rappel down from the roof off to one side, securing them in the ivy. He shut the windows quickly, and pulled the curtains.

  The scars looked worse, somehow, covered in the concealing coal dust. Now, there was no eye patch to conceal that the accident, whatever it was, had transected, but miraculously hadn’t taken, the eye. Both piercing, nearly-black eyes met her gaze, and once again, he winked.

  Putting a finger to his lips, he walked to the door, neatly avoiding a creaky board as he did. He pressed his ear to the crack between the door and jamb, listening for the guard.

  He nodded, and turned back to her. The look in his eyes was appreciative, but he quickly looked away.

  “Get a robe, will you?” he said.

  She’d forgotten her state of undress in her haste to get him in, unseen. Blushing, she snatched the robe she’d put on the foot of the bed and belted it on.

  “Who are you, really?” she said, infusing her voice with ice.

  “Shhh,” he shushed her, easily dropping to the floor as she had, to peer under the crack. “Gregor is still out there,” he whispered when he stood back up.

  “Gregor?”

  “The guard. We have to keep our voices down, unless you’ve become known for talking to yourself.”

  “I most certainly have not,” she defended in a near-voiceless whisper.

  He moved impossibly close, speaking as quietly as she had.

  “My name’s Robert Dixon. Call me Dix. I’m an American, as you guessed. I’m a friend of your brother’s and I know your father, as I work for him at the Home Office. Sort of,” he said the last with a quirky grin. “I’m here to get you out.”

  A dozen emotions ran through her mind, but she zeroed in on the one she most needed. Closing her eyes, she let go the first, immediate, swell of irritation and fury she’d felt for him, and for his winking, high-handed attitude.

  “Thank you.”

  He looked surprised. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Am I annoyed that my superiors think I can’t get out of this on my own? Of course.” She dismissed that with a wave of her hand, an unconscious mimic of her father’s habitual gesture. “But not so much that I won’t ta
ke help. Especially in the face of Herr Hitler’s arrival.”

  She gave him a minute scan, noting the weapons scattered over his person, as well as the husky physique she’d noted--and reluctantly admired--earlier. “I’m glad you’re armed. I’m not.”

  “Necessary, I assure you. They’re expecting those important guests, including der Führer, as you say. It’s getting busy around here. We have to get out while we can. Tonight.”

  “Yes. Most definitely,” she agreed. “I can’t leave until I get the diary back, however.” She turned to the wardrobe, pulled out trousers and boots, preparatory to dressing for the hike they were going to take. “It’s in the Library, or was. We have to get that first.”

  “Diary?”

  “Family heirloom,” she offered that excuse. She didn’t know this man. Even if he worked for her father, he could still have Nazi sympathies, or not be as close-mouthed as someone needed to be, given the information she’d written in the book.

  Before he could say another word, there were voices in the hall.

  “Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Where can I hide?”

  “Under the bed,” she said, “Quickly!” She shoved the clothes into the wardrobe, and motioned for him to roll under the high, old fashioned four poster. A half-a-dozen people and their children could hide under that wide expanse, much less one big American.

  “No way. Where else?” he said, in a flat, hissed whisper.

  “That’s it,” she replied, furious and afraid as the voices came closer. “The wardrobe is barely deep enough for a coat. The curtains are too obvious, you’d be easily seen. The bed or nothing,” she insisted, shoving at his shoulder to make him drop to the floor.

  “Dammit,” he cursed, startling her with his vehemence. “Just my luck.”

  With reluctant speed, Dix dropped and rolled under the bed. She smoothed the fabric skirting on the side of the bed, and hurried to be sure she’d secured the latch on the window.