On wings of devotion, p.3
On Wings of Devotion, page 3
Keep your head. That had never been his forte. He forced air in through his nose, out through his teeth, and stomped over to the window, yanking the blackout curtains away a few inches so he could look down into the dismal winter street.
Calm. Calm. After a few more seconds, he turned slowly back to face his mother. “Is he married?” Why else wouldn’t he be at liberty to save Cass from ruin, when it was his fault she’d landed there?
Camden’s fingers tightened on the curtains. He’d been no saint in his own life, to be sure—but he’d also never dallied with a girl from a good family, one who had principles and expectations.
Of course, Jeremy never failed to point out that avoiding girls who recognized the sin didn’t alleviate the sin itself.
Mother cleared her throat. “Not yet. But he’s betrothed.”
“What of it?” Camden jerked the curtain back into place, largely just to have something to tug. “Tell him to break the engagement and—”
“You think I haven’t tried that already?” Her voice shook. Her hand, as she lifted it to brush away a stray tendril of dark hair, shook too. And worse, she didn’t even check the cleanliness of the sofa before she sat down, wilting onto a faded cushion. A sure sign that she wasn’t herself. “He refused. Said it was complicated. That if he did that, he’d soon be forced to sell his estate, wouldn’t be able to support his own family, and Cassandra would be in dire straits anyway.”
Camden snorted. “Obviously not a very innovative chap if the only solution he can find is a fiancée. One with money, I presume?”
Mother nodded. “Rebecca,” she said of her closest friend, “recalled reading of the betrothal in the papers just before the war. The woman inherited a staggering sum from a spinster aunt. Keeps company with the nobility, though her own family is several generations removed from a title.” A shrug lifted her shoulders and then let them sink down into a despairing slump. “I cannot quite believe I’m asking this of you, Phillip, but . . .”
She focused on the model airplane he’d splintered to bits in the throes of a particularly dark night a few weeks ago, then swung her gaze slowly up to where he stood. Her fingers spread flat against her legs. Bracing herself. “I think we need your particular brand of convincing to move this fellow to do the right thing.”
Despite it all, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well now. Never thought this day would come.”
And there, there was the matching grin on his mother’s face. She did a bully job of hiding it most of the time, but he’d come by his mischief-making honestly. “He had the gall to cite you as one of the reasons he couldn’t wed Cass.” She lifted her chin, pure maternal protectiveness in her eyes. “It would serve him right if the very reputation he obviously fears convinced him of the wisdom of doing the right thing, wouldn’t it?”
She stood, all trembling gone, and glided over to him. Her fingers were warm and strong as they wove through his. “Strike a little terror into his heart, Phillip. It would do him good.”
Who would have thought he’d find reason to laugh in this situation? He nodded toward the tiny kitchenette. “If you can find the kettle, why don’t you put it on? I’ll clear the table. We’ll have a plan by nightfall.”
A shade of relief colored her smile now. “I knew I could count on you.”
“When it means playing the bully? Absolutely.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. He couldn’t tell her not to worry—he couldn’t assure her that he’d manage what she wanted. But he’d try. She’d known he would. He gave her a gentle push toward the disaster of a kitchen. “What do we know about this bloke?”
His mother scurried away, though she recoiled just enough upon entering the kitchen to show him that her spirits were on the rise. “He’s a good man, overall. I’ve met him several times and have always been struck by that. From a good family with an estate in Gloucestershire. Despite being the eldest son, he joined the navy directly before war broke out, just after his engagement. He’s a diver now.”
Interesting. Or it would be, if the clod hadn’t taken advantage of his sister. “Stationed at Portsmouth, I assume?”
Mother nodded and made a face as she reached with two fingers toward a handle protruding from behind a stack of plates. “Are you human or swine, Phillip Camden?”
“You’re my mother. You tell me.”
A dish towel came sailing his way and smacked him directly in the face. She always had had perfect aim. And the towel reeked. He tossed it to the floor and swore himself to a trip to the laundress first thing tomorrow. “How did Cass even meet him?”
“In town. We’ve mutual friends.” A long sigh joined the sound of water rushing from the tap into the kettle. “But she must have sneaked out at some point. Or lied to me about some of her outings. I am not so irresponsible a mother that I would knowingly let my daughter be alone with a man. Despite all evidence to the contrary.”
Camden stacked the old dishes on the table and tried not to wince on her behalf. With her eldest gone, her second son deemed a villain by the press, and her daughter in a precarious position, Jeremy was the only one left to really prove her truly excellent mothering. “What’s his name? Do I know him?”
“I suppose it’s possible your paths have crossed somewhere or another. Edmund Braxton. His grandfather was a viscount.”
Camden gathered a fistful of dirty cutlery and let the name roll about in his head. “I don’t believe I know him, though the name sounds a bit familiar. We likely have some shared acquaintances. What of the fiancée?”
“Miss Arabelle Denler.”
That struck a louder bell. He waited for its peals to fade into something sensical, letting his brows draw into a frown. “That sounds more familiar. Do you know anything about her?”
The tap water was still running. Apparently Mother wasn’t above sullying her hands with dish soap when the circumstances demanded it. “I made it my business to learn what I could. She lives here in London, in Westminster. Her father is Lawrence Denler—the explorer. He’s discovered a few ruins in Mexico that earned him a place in the Explorers Club. He claims to be hot on the trail of Atlantis.”
“Interesting.” He’d always wanted to do a bit of exploring. To fly over the few remaining wilds and see what there was to be seen.
The stack of plates and bowls wobbled a bit in his hands, and the letter in his pocket scalded him through the fabric of his uniform. If Mrs. Lewis prevailed, he wouldn’t be free to dream of such things much longer.
He couldn’t quite meet his mother’s eye as he deposited the dishes in the sink full of suds. Losing Gilbert in Gallipoli had torn her to bits. What would it do to her if she lost him to a firing squad? No medals of heroism to soften the blow. No sure knowledge that he’d died trying to save others.
He could still see his big brother’s eyes—snapping and superior as he bossed him around. He could still see the combined exasperation and amusement on Gilbert’s face as he declared no fewer than a dozen times, “You’ll either be a hero or a villain, Phil. Try to pick the right one, will you?”
Camden opened a few cupboards until he came up with a reasonably clean dish towel. “Do we know anything else about this Miss Denler?”
“She works at a hospital somewhere in London.”
Hospital. That was it. He picked up one of the dishes his mother had just washed and gave it a swipe with the towel. “Charing Cross. With Brook Stafford.” A breath of laughter seeped out. “That’s why her name sounds familiar—those noble friends of hers are mine too. The Staffords. We’re attending a dinner party together tomorrow.”
“God be praised. He must have had His hand in that.” Mother clasped dripping hands to her chest, her eyes wide. “You can speak with her, tell her what’s happened. Convince her to end the relationship.”
“Maybe. Though that’s hardly dinner conversation—or so my mother would say.”
“Odd, my son has never let such propriety bother him before.” She beamed at him. “At the least, it can be a way to forge an acquaintance so that you can approach her another day without causing her alarm.”
“But I’m so good at causing upstanding young ladies alarm.” He had only to grin at them through a window to send the gawkers scurrying back like schoolgirls caught out by their teacher. Well, most of them. The one figure in the window the other day, the tall, dark-haired one, hadn’t scurried or seemed the giggling type. He hadn’t been able to make out her face, but her posture had remained erect and unapologetic. Challenging, even.
His mother ignored him. “Jeremy will be home soon on leave. Cass would like it if he could marry them.”
“She’s sure it’ll happen?” She’d always been too optimistic for her own good. It had probably never once occurred to her as she let the reprobate talk her into a compromising situation that it wouldn’t be all sunshine and daisies if she gave in.
“She wasn’t. Until I said I’d have you help convince him. You know she thinks you capable of anything.”
Sweet little Cass. He dried another plate and stacked it atop another in the cupboard. “Tell her not to worry. I have a feeling I’ll be an ace at ruining an engagement.”
And he couldn’t help but chuckle at the flicker of uncertainty in his mother’s eyes. “Don’t be an ogre, Phillip. Miss Denler is an innocent in all this.”
“It’s this Braxton bloke who made himself an ogre.” And frankly, he wasn’t sure what he thought of such a man becoming his brother-in-law. “Don’t worry, Mum. I won’t do her any lasting harm. Just free her of the man who didn’t play her true anyway.”
The kettle whistled, drawing his mother away from the sink with a shake of her head. She had more strands of silver in her hair than when last he’d paused to notice. His fault, no doubt.
Well, and Cassandra’s. Some of the blame surely went to his sister this time.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Philly.”
He grabbed the tin of tea from the shelf. “I don’t believe in regrets.”
Or at least he hadn’t room in his life for any more of them. Heaven knew the ones that plagued him each and every day were enough for any man.
Admiral Hall didn’t just stare at a person. He blinked at them in a way that made the nervous tic look like the ticking clock of judgment. Because it made him want to squirm, Camden instead stood stock-still, hands clasped behind his back, chin raised.
Military discipline had never been what drew him to the Royal Flying Corps—that had been the airplanes, pure and simple—but a bit of it had been drilled into him.
The Director of the Intelligence Division, fondly called DID by everyone under his command, just kept on staring and blinking from behind his desk. “I never thought I’d see the day, Major, when you came to me asking a favor.”
And it galled him to do so now. He swallowed. “Dire circumstances, sir.”
“More dire than your own execution, apparently, because you still seem a bit irritated on occasion at my interference with that.” Hall’s lips twitched up.
Because if his old friend Drake Elton hadn’t insisted Hall recruit him to the intelligence hub of Room 40, it would all be over now. All the guilt, all the pain, all the hatred. He raised his chin another notch for good measure. “Far more dire, sir. My mother has asked me to make a trip home when I have a few days’ leave.”
“Ah well. One mustn’t argue with one’s mother.” The admiral grinned and leaned forward. “You haven’t had more than a single day off in a week since you joined us, Camden. By all means, take a few days’ leave to attend to family matters. I can approve up to a week.”
A week with no work to occupy him. No puzzles to distract him from his own mind. He nearly cringed. But then, maybe Cass’s troubles would provide distraction enough. He may well know tonight what he was really up against when he met Miss Denler. “Thank you, sir.”
“You are quite welcome. Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”
Camden saluted and took the hint, leaving DID’s office and stalking down the busy corridor until he could slip into the room to which he’d been assigned last autumn. After they let him out of the storage closet where they’d originally jammed a desk for him. To spare the others his company, they’d said.
He jerked his chair out from his desk and slumped into it.
His nearest neighbor shot him an arch look. “Problem, Camden?” De Wilde had a column of figures scratched onto her paper, a new intercept before her. She’d have it cracked in minutes.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Had to ask Hall for a favor. Asking for favors puts me in a foul temper.”
“Everything puts you in a foul temper.”
“That is blatantly untrue.” He opened the container he’d fetched from the pneumatic tubes before spotting Hall walk by and drew out his own telegram to turn from encoded German message into plain script. He flashed De Wilde a smile. “Pretty girls put me in a lovely frame of mind.”
She was pretty, this sole female cryptographer of the intelligence hive. But he only pointed it out to irritate her. In part because she was involved with that old friend, Elton. And in part because she was just so much fun to irritate.
Her scowl was predictable. “Number twelve, Camden.”
She’d long ago educated him on her list of ways to discourage flirtation. Number twelve, if he recalled aright, involved itching powder and a man’s underthings. He made a show of wincing. “You’re a cruel creature, De Wilde.” He pulled a copy of a codebook forward.
It wasn’t flying airplanes, this work. No wind whipping about him, no blue horizon, no gun’s trigger under his hands, ready to shoot through his prop and take down an enemy craft. The rush of adrenaline, the quick reflexes, the victory that sang through him every time he got to add another tally mark to his downed-enemy count . . . all those things were missing from his life now.
But it was still better than what he deserved. Better than anything he’d hoped for after his entire squadron went into the sea in a fireball. All but him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to rid them of the horror, though it did no good. That image would remain burned onto the back of his eyelids for all eternity. He forced them open again and got to work.
Nonsense words. Numbers. Moving it all around in whatever way the codebook told him to do, putting it together again. The hard part had already been done today, as soon as the new day’s codes began coming in at midnight, by whoever was on the night shift. They were the ones who had the hard task of finding the new variance. All the day shift had to do was use it.
He’d miss his own night shift this week if he was in Portsmouth instead of the Old Admiralty Building. What a shame.
The squeak of the mail cart’s wheels drew his attention when he had only a few words left to go. His stomach knotted. He had no reason to get any post here at the office. None. But that hadn’t stopped the letter from coming to him yesterday.
And it didn’t stop Commander James from walking in again a few minutes later with another rectangle of white held out to him, and with censure in his eyes.
As if Camden wouldn’t have been happy to toss the letter to the stove’s hungry flames. He snatched it from his superior’s hands with a near growl that was the closest he could come to a thanks and ripped it open.
He knew the handwriting by now. Mrs. Lewis. Widow of one of his pilots whose bones now rested at the bottom of the Channel. He’d looked upon this script nearly every day for months. Today’s variation on the theme was short.
You’re one day closer to your end.
He balled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket with the other rubbish. For once, Mrs. Lewis had it wrong. His end had come the same day as her husband’s. He was drifting ever farther away from it, into the expanse of nothingness.
“Everything all right?”
He ignored the concern in De Wilde’s tone and stood. He knew she considered herself his friend. But eventually she’d figure out that it wasn’t just that he didn’t want any friends right now—he needed not to have them. Because his friends had a bad habit of ending up dead. “Just ducky.”
He tossed his decrypt into a basket for the secretaries to type up and grabbed another intercept. One more, and his half day would be over. He’d go home, dress for dinner at the duke’s, and try to be pleasant for a few hours—for Cass’s sake.
His end may have come the day his squadron died. But his sister wouldn’t be meeting hers any time soon. Not if he had anything to say about it.
3
ZÜRICH, SWITZERLAND
Diellza Mettler drew in a shaking breath as the curtain closed, holding her pose until the last sweep of the stage lights turned to shadow. Then she scrambled off the stage to make room for the next cabaret act. One of the other girls stood in the wings, holding a warm robe into which Diellza gratefully shoved her arms after she’d set down the ostrich-feather fans she’d hidden behind in her dance. Her sheer costume didn’t just leave little to the imagination of the men in the audience—it also provided precious little warmth on a cold February night.
Aurora smiled and nodded toward the stage. “Quite a reception.”
Diellza didn’t turn back. Frankly, she scarcely heard the cheering and catcalls still filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. Any pleasure with her performance tonight had paled when she spotted that one particular face in the audience.
She managed a smile for Aurora, though, and tied the belt snugly around her waist. “Are you finished for the night?”
“Thankfully.” Aurora led the way out of the wings, into the hallway that connected the stage to the dressing rooms. She had already changed back into her dress and coat, a sure sign that she’d be leaving within minutes. “Did you want to grab a bite to eat? I’m famished.”
Diellza saw the face again. Honey-blond hair. Brows that were twin lines above eyes of ice blue. The scar that slashed across his forehead, from his hair’s part to his ear, adding interest to a face that might otherwise be too pretty for a man.
