But not when it had counted the most. Beside the radio table in the guardroom, near the small pool of Carmichael’s drying blood, they’d found a half-typed sheet of paper, curled as if it had been left rolled in the platen for hours — the unfinished report Jennifer had abandoned during Stoner’s heart attack. Enough had been completed for Best to understand Faust’s role at the Aa Canal, even if he hadn’t been able to decipher Stoner’s spiky handwritten notes by the typewriter. The settings on the radio hinted Best had transmitted the report to Germany.
She’d cried, guilty tears streaking her horrified face. But Faust had shrugged. He’d made his decision when he pulled the trigger.
The old man’s smile flashed, quick, appreciative, and pained. “The signal flimsy, of course, was a forgery, and I congratulate you on your perspicacity.” He sighed. “It’s rather humiliating. The coup de grace was delivered by our carelessness and enemy action, and all our cleverness counts for naught.”
“Actually, your cleverness saved my life.”
Stoner froze. “I don’t understand.”
“You and Clarke taught me to distrust the Nazis, which is why I didn’t go with Best. For a while there, I was sorely tempted.” A disquieting thought. Best had already transmitted the report when he attempted to convince Faust to return to Germany. If Faust had gone, it would have been to face a savage retribution from the Nazis, and the delivery of such a traitor would have cemented Best’s position in Germany even though he’d abandoned his mission in England. Faust shook the curled, grimy, bloodstained paper from among the clean ones on Stoner’s lap. The typewriter ribbon had seen hard use, but the letters were crisp enough to read. “So the gratitude isn’t all one-sided.”
“I see.” Stoner sagged against the pillows as if tired. But when Faust stirred, the old man again gripped his forearm, holding him still. “However, it’s not sufficient to counteract the harm we’ve done to you. Perhaps we should turn back the clock.”
Faust folded the report and tucked it into his breast pocket. It would remind him of what he’d escaped, and of her. “It’s my turn to not understand, Mr. Stoner.”
“Well, you know, in government offices, nothing is official until a report is filed.”
A tone insinuating — no, downright sly colored Stoner’s voice, as if he intended to not file a report. If he didn’t, then his lousy boss wouldn’t know what had happened at Margeaux Hall. Stoner offered him a shield. Although it wouldn’t be enough to allow Faust to retire into a prisoner of war camp and wait out the war with honor, it would at least protect him from the necessity of bartering military secrets for his life. He wouldn’t have to make a deal with the English government, nor any other devil. Not even the Nazis.
For a hungry moment his hope surged. Treason tasted ugly, he’d found, and not likely it would improve. But only for a moment. “I appreciate this more than I can say. But I’m sticking with my decision. I want to defeat the Nazis. Germany needs a government the rest of the world can trust.”
He drew a shuddering breath. Stoner’s eyes were wary, his hope balanced. Not a sound came from Carmichael’s bed, nor from the outer office where Dr. Harris supposedly worked.
“I don’t believe there’s going to be an invasion, at least not with the plan I typed.”
There. He’d said it. He was officially a traitor. But unlike old Peter Owen, who’d made a deal with Best to support an evil he didn’t understand, Faust understood the evil and knew he couldn’t support it.
Still, it tasted foul. Stoner’s expression, rather than lighting with glee, faded to a sad compassion that hurt almost as badly as Faust’s arm.
“Will you tell Lieutenant Bruckmann what you know?” The old man’s voice was indescribably gentle, as if he spoke to a pain-wracked child.
His last chance to back out. Faust didn’t allow himself to consider it. “Yes.”
Stoner’s hand tightened on his forearm. “Thank you, Major Faust.”
The conversation had lasted long enough. Stoner’s color, not robust when he’d entered, faded to grey. Faust returned the pressure and headed for the door. In the farthest bed, Carmichael’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners and a wide, silly grin on his face. Faust touched the kid’s shin again as he left.
Jennifer slipped through the doorway, so close her scent reached him through the strong infirmary cleanser. Her coral lips barely curved into a smile and a flush of purest rose darkened her alabaster cheeks. Her glance, mysterious and gorgeous, quicker than a bullet, aimed at his center of mass and struck deep in his heart. Perhaps his nascent career was over. His life wasn’t. Instead of yearning for her from Germany, fighting a war he hated and which could only encourage her to hate him, now he could work to undermine her resistance from within.
He hadn’t even known she’d entered the infirmary. He needed to bell this kitty; with her silent step, it was too easy for a man to lose track of her.
She paused, blocking the door and forcing him to pause, too. Before he could back away to give her room, as a gentleman should, she touched his uniformed chest, freezing him in place.
“Major Faust.”
For a moment it stung; he’d offended her somehow. Then she glanced sideways, toward Dr. Harris, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Their cautious intimacy, it seemed, was not for general conversation.
“Miss Stoner.”
Her quick smile lit with gratitude. Then she rolled her lips together and her glorious eyes turned sad. If she magically became any more beautiful, Helen of Troy would have to be knocked off her pedestal to make room.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
Nuts to that. But it didn’t seem the right thing to say. Instead, he glanced down. Her palm — and he knew its softness — rested, ironically enough, atop the red, white, and black ribbon of the Iron Cross that no longer carried any meaning.
He slipped his hand beneath hers and brought her fingers to his lips. Her light floral scent flooded through him like a gift. He kissed the air atop the back of her hand, just his breath stirring the tiny hairs there. She shivered, her breath catching, and her pupils dilated.
“Never,” he assured her.
She froze, jaw slackening. But he couldn’t control his grin and she jerked her hand free. The roses spread across her face, Wyatt’s and Surrey’s banner of love. His breath caught, too.
From his bed, Stoner rumbled.
She brushed past Faust before he could move and sashayed across the ward. But beyond her, Stoner’s watchful expression was jaundiced. Faust turned and left the ward.
Dr. Harris hadn’t moved. His glance, clinical and cold, swept over Faust and pinned him to the door. “You look as if I don’t know how to care for a patient at all.”
Great. Just great. She didn’t need to hear this. Faust closed the door and leaned against it.
“You’ve ripped those flaming stitches again, haven’t you? Major Stoner has a heart attack, Sergeant Tanyon takes two in the torso, Glover and Carmichael get their heads cracked, Lieutenant Bruckmann’s temple sliced open—”
Faust shuddered, his silly grin vanishing. The lieutenant’s head wound had bled more than the two rifle bullets that took down old Peter Owen. But Bruckmann’s wound was shallow, and even now he stalked the ballroom, a bandage wrapped about his head, swearing fluently as he directed Kettering’s engineers in the repairs to Margeaux Hall.
Inexperienced lieutenants were easy to kill. Bruckmann had been lucky. But even at close range, Best had been a lousy shot.
“—well—” Dr. Harris paused. And sighed. “I’ll have no choice but to stitch you back up, I suppose.” The thought dampened any pity he’d started to feel. “And this time, it’s not going to be your arm I’ll put in a sling—”
“What would you have done?” Faust asked.
“—they’ve put you back in the third-floor bedroom, right? I’ll send Cavanaugh along as soon as he can be spared and I warn you, I’ll be right behind him—”
“That�
��s not an answer.”
“How the devil would I know?” Dr. Harris threw out his hands. “How could anyone know, until the situation was upon him?” He dug into the pocket of his smock, strode to Faust, and held out his hand. “Before he left in the ambulance, Sergeant Tanyon asked me to give this to you.”
It was a comb. His fist closed about it. The tines bit into his palm.
Seemed he’d made more English friends than he’d realized. Erhard wouldn’t have understood that, either. “Yeah, I’m back upstairs. I’ll wait there.”
In the sunset room at the end of the corridor, Bruckmann and Kettering stood together. The bandage about the lieutenant’s head sported rusty stains and tilted over one eye, like something from a pirate ship’s crew. Kettering pointed toward the lower floor, his smile gleaming in the morning sunshine but his words too low to carry. His uniform and mustache were as dapper as ever. Beyond them, scaffolding soared along the glass walls of the vestibule. Two soldiers and Wainwright stood at the top, bolting pine panels to the girders. Margeaux Hall would finally honor the blackout regulations.
Let them work; it was his turn to rest. Faust turned the other way, toward the eastern stairwell. But something felt wrong. For a moment he didn’t understand it. Then he realized — for the first time that week, he walked unguarded.
He missed the clumping boots behind him.
And her silent step at his side.
About the Author
I’ve never wanted to be anything except a novelist, so of course I’ve been everything else — proofreader, typesetter, editor, nonfiction writer, photographer, secretary, data entry clerk, legal assistant, Starfleet lieutenant commander, stable manager, dancer — and no, not that kind of dancer. My long-suffering husband is just excited I’m actually using those two degrees, one from the University of Houston Downtown and the MA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. My novels are mysterious, adventurous, and historical, but all sorts of other stuff can leap out of that keyboard without warning.
I live in Humble, Texas, just north of Houston, with two parakeets, the aforementioned husband (who’s more entertaining than the birds), a fig tree, a vegetable garden, the lawn from the bad place, three armloads of potted plants, and a coffee maker that’s likely the most important item we own.
Another great read from Astraea Press
‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him...’ Psalm 28:7
Chapter One
Evanston, Illinois: 1869
I burst into the house. Keeping the flimsy telegram envelope, I dumped half a dozen packages into the maid’s waiting arms. “Where’s Father? I need to speak to him.”
“He’s in the library, Miss Lily. With Mr. Todaro.”
Oh, bother. I didn’t have time to deal with Emil Todaro, my father’s lawyer. He was the last person I wanted to see—but that couldn’t be helped. Thanking Etta, I raced down the hall. Father turned from his roll-top desk, spectacles perched on his thin nose and hands full of rustling papers. Todaro rose from an armchair with a courteous bow. His silver waistcoat buttons strained over his belly and his balding head shone in the sunlight. I forced myself to nod in his direction and then planted a quick kiss on Father’s leathery cheek. The familiar scents of pipe tobacco and bay rum soothed my nervous energy.
“I didn’t expect you back so early, Lily. What is it?”
With an uneasy glance at Todaro, I slipped him the envelope. “The telegraph messenger boy caught me on my way home.” My voice dropped. “It’s from Uncle Harrison.”
Father poked up his wire rims while he pored over the brief message. His shoulders slumped. “I’ll speak plainly, Lily, because Mr. Todaro and I were discussing this earlier. My brother sent word that George Hearst intends to claim the Early Bird mine in a Sacramento court. Harrison believes his business partner never filed the deed. He needs to prove our ownership.”
“Hearst holds an interest in the Comstock Lode, Colonel.” Todaro had perked up, his long knobby fingers forming a steeple. The lawyer resembled an amphibian, along with his deep croak of a voice. “His lawyers are just as ambitious and ruthless in court.”
Father peered over his spectacles. “Yes, but I have the original deed. I didn’t plan to visit California until next month, so we’ll have to move up our trip.”
“Oh!” I clasped my hands, a thrill racing through me. “I’m dying to visit all the shops out there, especially in San Francisco. When do we leave?”
“We? I meant myself and Mr. Todaro.”
I stared at the lawyer, who didn’t conceal a sly smirk. “You cannot leave me behind, Father. I promised to visit Uncle Harrison, and what if I decide to go to China?”
“Lily, I refuse to discuss the matter. This trip is anything but a lark.”
“It’s a grueling two thousand miles on the railroad, Miss Granville. Conditions out west are far too dangerous for a young lady,” Todaro said. “Even with an escort.”
“The new transcontinental line has been operating all summer. Plenty of women have traveled to California. I’ve read the newspaper reports.”
“I’m afraid the Union and Central Pacific cars are not as luxurious as the reports say. You have no idea. The way stations are abominable, for one thing.”
I flashed a smile at him. “I’m ready for adventure. That’s why I’ve considered joining the missionary team with Mr. Mason.”
Father scowled. “You are not leaving Evanston until I give my approval.”
“You mean until you dissuade me from ‘such a ridiculous notion.’”
“Need I remind you of the fourth commandment, Lily?”
“No, Father. We’ll discuss this later.”
My face flushed hot. Annoyed by being reprimanded in front of Todaro, I ignored the rest of the conversation. I’d always wanted to see the open prairie and perhaps a buffalo herd chased by Indians, the majestic Rocky Mountains and California. California, with its mining camps, lush green meadows and warm sunshine, the cities of Sacramento and San Francisco that had to be as exhilarating as downtown Chicago. I’d pored over the grainy pen-and-ink drawings in the Chicago Times. Uncle Harrison, who’d gone west several years ago to make a fortune and succeeded, for the most part, would welcome me with open arms. I plopped down on an armchair and fingered the ridges of the brass floor lamp beside me. Somehow I needed to persuade Father to allow me to tag along on this trip.
When Mr. Todaro’s bulky form disappeared out the door, Father glanced at me. “All right, my dear. Let’s discuss this business about California.”
Heart thudding, I stood up. “Why do you need Mr. Todaro, Father? I don’t trust him one bit. Uncle Harrison has a good lawyer in Sacramento.”
“He insisted on accompanying me. Emil has a quick mind in court.”
“Maybe so, but—”
“I wouldn’t be alive if not for his help. He pulled me out of a heap of bodies at Shiloh, remember. I know you don’t like him, Lily, but I will keep him as my lawyer.”
Frowning, I swallowed further protest. True enough, I disliked him. Something about the bulbous-nosed, oily man sent shivers up my spine. I crossed to the window, remembering the time I’d seen Todaro aim a kick at my pet lizard in the garden. Telling Father about the incident now would make me sound childish and petty.
Etta carried in a silver tray of refreshments and set them on the table between the desk and the leather sofa. I sank into the soft cushion with a whoosh. My feet still hurt from my downtown shopping venture and several hours of errands.
“I bought the handkerchiefs you wanted, Father, and that brass letter opener. I found a pearl brooch at Marshall Field. The silver setting looked inferior, though.” I plucked up a golden-crusted pastry filled with creamed chicken and dill. “My seamstress had no open appointments today, and I couldn’t find one straw hat that I liked at any of the millinery shops.”
“If you’re serious about China, you’ll have to give up your notions of fashion.”
; “I suppose,” I said, licking a spot of gravy from my thumb.
“That young man has filled your head with nonsense, in my opinion.”
“Charles is dedicated to God. The China Inland Mission has accepted him, did I tell you? Now he’s raising funds for his passage.”
“You’ve never been dedicated to working in Chicago among the poor. Charity begins at home,” Father said. “Your mother was devoted to the Ladies’ Society at church.”
“Her charity circle sewed clothing and quilts. I can’t even thread a needle.”
“So we agree.” Father snagged a handful of candied almonds. “You need to gain valuable skills here in Evanston, or at a finishing school, before you run off to China.”
“I’m too old for school! I’ll be twenty in a month—”
“Ripe for marriage, then, and giving me grandchildren. I’d rather dandle a baby on my knee than read letters about you starving in a foreign country. I’m not going to allow you to wed Charles Mason, either. He might be full of the Spirit, but he’s more interested in using your inheritance for his own purposes. I never detected any love in him for you.”
His final words stung. I couldn’t protest much, either. Charles was a decent man, a hard worker, dedicated to his calling, but admiration wasn’t the best foundation for a love match or a lasting marriage. Father might be right about Charles’ interest in my inheritance, too, which nettled me. I changed the subject.
“Tell me about the Early Bird mine, Father. Is it like the Comstock Lode?”
Deal with the Devil Page 51
