by Kate Breslin
Colin smiled his gratitude. “I will, and thanks, Jack.”
“Good enough. Now let’s eat.”
The two men resumed their repast, yet as Colin ate, he mulled over Jack’s words. What if Jewel was the J. Reyer on the Allies’ watch list? It might explain her urgent message. And while he would never believe her culpable of such a heinous crime as treason, Jack had suggested she might not have had a choice. If that were the case, it could mean she was in real trouble.
Colin’s thoughts drifted throughout the rest of dinner, and later, as Lord Walenford’s chauffeur drove him toward the Mabrys’ Knightsbridge home, Colin tried to convince himself that it was all in his imagination, that Jewel was simply anxious to see him again after all this time.
Or was it more than that?
CHAPTER
3
PARIS, FRANCE, APRIL 10
Perhaps he had been lured into a trap.
Seated at a window table inside the café, Colin checked his watch a third time.
This morning, he’d crossed the English Channel, risking death as the Bristol F.2B Fighter carrying him and his pilot were easy prey for any German Jasta squadrons flying along the French coast. After his arrival, he had checked in with the Paris MI6 office as Jack had requested before taking a room in Le Grand Hotel on Place de l’Opéra.
Now Colin awaited his coffee in the Café de la Paix downstairs while his anticipation at seeing Jewel turned to uneasiness as the minutes ticked by without a sign of her.
In the light of day, Jack’s warning about Jewel seemed almost benign. Colin again imagined her inviting smile and the heart-shaped mouth pressed softly against his own. She’d certainly surprised him with the kiss, but he’d been glad of it. He remembered too the sacrifices she and her aunt had made to keep him safe, and his cool reasoning returned, siding with his first impression—that the name Reyer on the enemy watch list was a coincidence.
So why isn’t she here, Mabry? Unwillingly, his thoughts returned to Jack’s other warning, about spies lurking all over the city. The MI6 desk chief in Paris had elaborated even further, telling him the enemy often recruited pretty young Frenchwomen to charm information from any green soldier they came across. Colin was to trust no one.
He might be young, but he took exception to being thought “green.” He’d changed much in two years and was no longer the idealistic recruit clamoring to march off and defeat the Hun. Not that he had regrets about serving his country; he’d been proud to fight alongside his cavalry regiment. But war was nothing like he had imagined. And despite an increase in rank and a couple of medals to compensate for his loss of limb and peace of mind, it was a daily struggle not to be bitter.
Shouts of male laughter erupted behind him, and Colin jerked his head toward the boisterous Allied soldiers at the bar, each dressed in their varying pleated uniforms. He’d also observed dozens of soldiers and French seated outside on the café terrace. Jewel’s assigned meeting place seemed a popular watering hole in the city.
Had it been Jewel who contacted him . . . or some Boche spy intent on luring him to Paris? Though kidnapping in the spy trade was rare, Colin had been educated on the possibility. His father was extremely wealthy, and Grace would soon become a future countess and member of the British peerage.
Colin also considered the fact no one had heard from Captain Weatherford since his departure weeks ago. Both Colin and the captain were connected to Jack Benningham. Was his thinking mere folly . . . or was something sinister going on?
Resisting another urge to glance at his watch, he returned his gaze to the window. Beyond the busy terrace, several older men wearing professional linen suits and straw boaters or derby hats passed each other on the street. Some carried walking sticks while others gripped leather satchels, each striding with purpose as if attending a meeting somewhere or rushing back to the office after a late lunch.
Others, mostly younger men, looked to be uniformed soldiers on furlough. During his cab ride to the hotel, Colin had noticed a number of demobilized soldiers in patched army uniforms begging for change on the street. So different from the starched and polished tunics on the men seated at the bar.
A small cluster of soldiers stood in front of the opera house, Americans by their appearance. Pausing to admire the ornately majestic Palais Garnier, they finally moved on, doffing their hats to a pair of matrons who waved them to come over and view their carts full of pink roses, white lilies, and yellow daffodils. Adjacent to the flower sellers, an outdoor market pulsed with activity as women, most clad in mourning black, carried wicker hampers and made their selections from the remains of the morning’s produce.
Having already surveyed the ladies along the café’s busy terrace, Colin scrutinized the women at the market, trying to see the faces. A year had passed since his time with Jewel. Had she changed so much that he might not recognize her?
His gaze swept back along the opposite end of the street, colliding with the gutted shell of what remained of a multistoried stone building. He’d seen the structure upon his arrival at the hotel, one wall still poised drunkenly beside an enormous pile of rubble while shredded curtains billowed through blown-out windows in the light spring breeze. With such normal activity only yards away, the evidence of war seemed bizarre . . . and a glaring reminder of the shells that regularly hammered the city.
Colin’s pulse thumped at his throat. He’d been in Paris only an hour when he dove for cover on the cab floor as a deafening blast erupted across town. He had yet to experience a direct attack, and the anticipation was as unnerving as the explosion itself.
“A gift from the dirty Boche and their cannon, Lieutenant.”
His attention snapped around to the waiter, who set a steaming café au lait in front of him. The wiry, dark-haired man in a black bow tie and starched white shirt nodded toward the building.
“When did it happen?”
“Two weeks ago, when the shelling started.” His brows veed downward. “Those big guns and the Gotha bombs have pocked the face of my beautiful city.”
He turned his eyes on Colin. “Your amour, she is not coming?”
Colin blinked. “Who said anything about—”
“Ah, but why else would a handsome young soldier sit here all alone and stare out the window when he is not checking his watch every ten minutes?” He flashed a row of crooked teeth beneath his pencil moustache. “I am French, Lieutenant. I know these things.”
Without awaiting a response, the waiter turned with his empty tray and headed back toward the noisy crowd at the bar.
Colin glanced at the man’s retreating form before he gave in to the impulse to recheck the time. 1530. Thirty minutes past the appointed meeting . . .
The growl of an engine directly outside the café drew his attention. A motorcycle with sidecar had backed up to the curb out front. The driver, clad in a leather trench coat and matching motor cap, swung a booted foot over the side to dismount. Gloved hands reached to pull away the riding goggles and then the cap, and Colin stared at the long shank of dark blond hair that escaped to tumble against the upturned collar of the coat. Her coat.
Heart pounding, his eyes darted to the disarrayed knot of golden hair pinned at the top of her head. Jewel!
She spun around and faced the window. Except where she’d worn the goggles, a layer of dust and streaks of mud covered her face. Yet unlike Jewel’s soft blue gaze, a pair of deep-set eyes the color of lapis ensnared him through the glass.
Not Jewel. His disappointment mingled with curiosity as she abruptly turned from him, and it was a moment before he roused himself to see her walking away. He nearly pressed his face against the pane, trying to find her on the café’s busy terrace.
She had disappeared.
His attention returned to the motorcycle. Colin couldn’t imagine the very feminine Jewel ever driving such a machine. Nor had he experienced one himself, preferring a good horse to get him around instead of a petrol-guzzling conveyance.
The lo
ud bell above the café door chimed over the animated voices of customers, and Colin turned to see the mysterious woman enter the establishment. As she strode through the café her muddied leather coat parted slightly, and he was jarred to see she wore dark britches and a tunic along with the boots.
Was she a courier? Since his return to London, he’d learned there were women who wore men’s clothes and worked as dispatch riders for the Royal Navy and the RAF, though he’d never seen one up close.
This woman seemed intent as she scanned the face of each soldier at the bar, then threaded her way through the wall of bodies, dodging a couple of the more inebriated louts who tried to grab at her. She drew her coat tightly together as their whistles and jibes followed, and unexpected anger surged through him. Drunken fools!
Slipping past them, she removed her gloves and surveyed the rest of the café’s patrons. When her gaze eventually came to rest upon him, she briskly closed the distance. “Êtes-vous Lieutenant Colin Mabry?”
Her French accent was slightly off. Colin rose from his seat and answered in French. “I am Lieutenant Mabry. And you are?”
Instead of answering, she tilted her head, and for an instant, her straight nose and high cheekbones stirred in him a memory. She flashed a tentative smile. “I am the woman you came to see.”
“Pardon?” He eyed her with suspicion. “You must be mistaken.”
She shifted on her booted feet. “But . . . you received my message, oui? To remember your promise of love?”
Hair rose along his nape. This woman had sent him the message. Did she seriously believe she could pretend to be Jewel? His lip curled as he stared at her, the warning from the Paris desk still fresh in his mind. He wasn’t about to be taken in by any French Mata Hari. “You’re a liar.”
She blinked and took a step backward before the blue orbs shot sparks. “And you’re a rude clod of a man, sir! ’Tis obvious you’ve not been taught any manners.”
Her French accent might be lacking, but her Irish brogue was perfect. He leaned forward and gave her his most intimidating look. “I know what Jewel Reyer looks like, Miss . . . whoever you are. And you are not her. Perhaps you’re one of those women who spy for the Germans?”
“Did I say I was her?” Both hands knuckled against her hips. Her chin jutted outward. “And what makes you think I’d crawl on my belly to work for the Boche?”
Of course she would deny being a spy. His pulse leapt as he considered another, more dreadful scenario. “Where is Jewel?” He took a step closer, every muscle tense. “What have you done with her? She asked me here, signed that message with her initials—”
“J and R.” She cut him off. “Yes, I know. Those happen to be mine as well. My name is Johanna Reyer, Lieutenant. I am Jewel’s sister.”
He could only gape at her. Jewel never mentioned having a sister.
At his astonishment, her smile returned, and she gave him a sympathetic nod that sent her topknot listing sideways. “I understand your surprise, thinking Jewel contacted you.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “My sister is in terrible trouble, Lieutenant Mabry. She needs our help.”
———
Jo gazed up at the towering man, barely breathing as she waited for his reaction. Thrilled to discover he was indeed Colin Mabry, the man she’d waited months to meet, she tried to ignore his hostility and remember the importance of her plan. Would he help her . . . or decide to turn around and walk out of the café?
Her conscience pricked her as she recalled her remark over his lack of manners. That was no way to coax him to stay, and she hadn’t even apologized for being late.
“Let me see your identification.”
She flinched at the bark in his tone, yet in truth, she could hardly blame his suspicions. Jo at least had been provided with a description of him, but the lieutenant had no clue as to her identity or if she spoke the truth.
Retrieving her passport from her tunic pocket, she was glad she had decided to take her father’s name. Jo offered him the document and noticed for the first time the gloved hand at his left side, slightly larger than his right hand and stiff, unlike real flesh. Was that the reason he’d been sent home?
She observed him while he scrutinized her passport. He wasn’t what she had expected. The lieutenant seemed far more imposing in real life than the written account Jewel had penned into her diary. His broad shoulders, coal-black hair, and clear hazel eyes matched her sister’s impressions of him, of course, yet he seemed older than Jo had imagined, or perhaps it was just that he appeared world-worn. According to Jewel’s notes from a year ago, Colin would now be about twenty-one years of age—a few months older than her sister, and two years older than herself.
His animosity seemed to ebb as he returned the document. “What kind of trouble?”
“Not here, it’s too public.” Instinctively she glanced about the café . . . and met with her reflection in the large mirror mounted along the opposite wall.
Good grief, she looked like a badger! Seeing the twin streaks of mud on her face, she remembered the puddle on her way into town, the size of a lake and one she’d failed to avoid before it was too late.
Her hair looked just as frightful. The once neatly pinned topknot had tilted to one side, and errant wisps of hair draped all around her coat collar. She tried to straighten the crooked bun and turned to him. “The Boche have ears all over the city. . . .”
She paused. Was that a smirk on his face? Her spine stiffened. “We should discuss this in a more private place.”
The light in his hazel eyes dimmed. “Where?”
“My office isn’t too far, and it’s very safe.”
Again his lower lip curled as he stared at her. Was he weighing her sincerity?
Anxiety nipped at Jo’s patience. By some miracle she didn’t deserve, she’d found her sister’s savior. She could now flee Paris, and with the lieutenant’s help, reach Jewel—and their father—before it was too late.
“I assure you, Lieutenant, I am no spy. My sister is in dire need, and every minute we stand here puts her life in greater danger.”
CHAPTER
4
Hop in and we’ll be on our way.”
Colin assessed the leather-upholstered sidecar and didn’t move.
“I wonder, is it the motorbike you object to, Lieutenant . . . or the woman driver?”
Sitting astride the Triumph motorcycle with her cap and goggles back in place, she called to him over the chugging noise of the engine. Her smile suggested mockery as she offered him an extra pair of goggles.
His hackles rose. This Miss Johanna Reyer claimed to be Jewel’s sister. While he’d glimpsed possible similarities in her features, she was a person Jewel had never spoken of during their time together.
How had this woman discovered his whereabouts? It seemed she’d purposely misled him into coming to Paris. She also claimed Jewel was alive and in serious trouble but so far refused to tell him more.
Her passport seemed authentic, but the document could have been forged. She had a distinctive Irish accent, making her place of birth—listed on the passport as Paris—seem suspect. In any case, Colin knew nothing else about Miss Reyer, if that was her real identity.
His jaw clenched as he glanced back at the sidecar. Only a fool would let her cart him off without further explanation—
A sudden explosion vibrated the air, shaking the ground around them. Colin dove for the sidewalk, his heart thundering in his chest, his ringing ears deaf to the shouts and cries of the patrons along the terrace. Dirt filled his mouth, pushing into his nostrils . . . lungs convulsing . . . no air . . . trapped . . .
His chest heaved with coughs before he opened his eyes and saw where he was. Not the tunnel . . .
Thick black smoke snaked upward into the sky from the next block. He sat up slowly, scanning the sea of frightened faces for Miss Reyer.
She was still on the motorcycle, crouched low against the handlebars. Dark blue eyes turned to him, wide behi
nd the goggles, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Where is your office?” His words came out harsh.
She straightened, her mouth still slightly ajar. “The . . . town of Vernon. An hour’s drive to the west.”
Away from the shelling. He clambered up from the sidewalk, snatching the goggles from her grasp. Stepping into the rattling sidecar, he packed his tall frame down into the seat. “Drive.”
She wasted no time. Shifting gears, she released the clutch and adjusted the throttle to propel them forward. Colin glanced at the gutted building as they passed, his breath easing once they distanced themselves from the wreckage.
Regardless of her motives, anywhere she might take him right now seemed better than staying to become a target for the Boche guns.
She drove west along the busy avenue de Friedland, and Colin noticed many tree stumps amid the leafy chestnuts lining the thoroughfare. Likely cut down for firewood, since the war had made coal scarce in Europe. He realized the Parisians must be as desperate for fuel as his own people in Britain.
At the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, sandbags reinforced the arch against attack. He’d noticed other Paris monuments being protected in the same way.
Beyond the arch, they continued on toward Nanterre and Poissy, leaving behind Paris and her damaged extremities for the more rural farmlands of France. Verdant fields rolled out before them, punctuated with white daisies and red poppies, while cottages with orange terra-cotta roofs sprouted among the green. The occasional château could be seen rising among gentle rolling hills, the manors accessible by narrow dirt drives and, unlike Paris, lined with flourishing oaks, maples, and blooming yellow mimosas.
The sun beat down on Colin’s shoulders, and his head grew hot beneath the wool officer’s cap worn backward and held in place with the goggles. Sweat itched his brow, yet the spring air was blessedly cool against his face. He had to admit the drive was pleasant, albeit bumpy. Like riding a horse, only faster and involving a lot more noise.
