CHAPTER ONE
LONDON
JANUARY 1941
In the last war, your father was spying for the Germans.
They were not the sort of words one wanted to hear in the midst of a war with Germany. Indeed, they were not words one wanted to hear at the best of times. They had been haunting me since my mother’s closest friend had uttered them in October, and they were on my mind as I sat at the breakfast table on this frigid January morning.
My grim family history was the sort of thing worthy of Shakespearean tragedy—or perhaps a Greek tragedy like the one that shared my name. My father had been murdered before I was born. My mother, convicted of the crime and condemned to death, had given birth to me in prison. She’d been sentenced to hang, but the influenza had claimed her instead.
She’d died proclaiming her innocence, and I’d grown to adulthood determined to prove it. That was why I had gone to see her friend. I’d hoped she would be able to aid in my quest to clear my mother’s name. Instead, I’d opened a Pandora’s box of long-hidden secrets and lies.
My father had been passing information to Germany and had likely been, for reasons still unknown, killed because of it. The who and exactly why were still a mystery. Whatever the case, my mother had kept his secret, willing to go to the gallows rather than reveal that her husband had been a traitor to his country, rather than put the rest of her family at risk.
It was a secret that had weighed heavily on me ever since. Because what was I to do with this information? Should I pursue what I had learned, attempt to find my father’s true killer in the face of what I now knew? Should I attempt to clear my mother’s name at the expense of blackening my father’s?
I knew there was a trunk of my father’s belongings in the cellar, but I’d had yet to work up the fortitude to search it for the clues I suspected might be there. In truth, I was afraid of what I might find.
Because, if my mother hadn’t murdered my father, it meant someone else had. But who—and why? Had the English killed him because of what he was doing, or had it, perhaps, been the Germans because of something he knew?
We were in our own war with Germany now; it didn’t seem like the ideal time to bring up mysteries from the last one. I was caught in a sort of quagmire of indecision.
At least the Germans had stopped dropping bombs on our heads every evening. After fifty-seven consecutive nights of bombings, we’d had a brief holiday reprieve. No bombs had fallen on England on Christmas or Boxing Day. It was difficult to be grateful to the Germans for anything, but I was thankful for the chance to celebrate in peace.
Celebrate being a relative term. Christmas, which had always been my favorite holiday, had been a challenge this year. It wasn’t the lack of the usual festive foods, the shortage of new decorations, or the makeshift presents that made the holiday feel empty. None of those things mattered in the least.
It was that my cousins were gone. Raised practically as siblings, the boys and I had never before spent Christmas apart. This year, Colm was in Torquay, a mechanic at the RAF base there. And Toby was … well, we still didn’t know where Toby was. Every day that passed without word chiseled away a little bit of our store of hope that he had survived at Dunkirk.
We had all tried to be merry in their honor. Nacy, the housekeeper who had raised us with as much love as any mother ever had for her own children, prepared her famous spiced punch and Christmas pudding. We sang carols, Uncle Mick’s lovely baritone ringing cheerfully through the house. We’d even played a few games as we sat around the fire, and there had been a rousing speech from the king on the wireless. But it had been difficult, all the same, and a part of me was glad it was over.
Perhaps next year, the boys would be home. Perhaps next year, the war would be over and we could truly celebrate.
All these thoughts weighed on me as I listlessly stirred the porridge Nacy had made for breakfast that morning. She made the best porridge in all the world—even with the tightness of rationing—but I’d found the turmoil of my emotions had left me with very little appetite the past few weeks. I’d done my best to hide this from Nacy, but she was not an easy woman to fool.
Wasting food was a sin in our family, even before the war, so I had tried to conceal my decreased appetite by taking smaller portions and eating as much of them as I could.
I was chewing a small bite and glancing listlessly at Uncle Mick’s paper across the table when a headline caught my eye: DARING DINNER PARTY ROBBERY.
My interest piqued, I read the article across the table.
A dinner party at the Mayfair home of diplomat, nightclub owner, and noted man-about-town Nico Lazaro was the scene of a surprising incident this past Friday. The meal—luxurious by all accounts—was disturbed, not by Luftwaffe bombers, but by a gang of hold-up men who stormed into the house demanding valuables from the startled guests. Present at the feast were such notables as the Countess of Molford, who was relieved of an emerald necklace, and acclaimed actor Daniel West, who is now short one pair of gold cuff links. Scotland Yard is investigating and intends to quickly take the thieves into custody: “Society cannot be allowed to crumble during wartime. After all, when we have prevailed and our country is once again free of the threat of tyranny, citizens must be assured that law and order will prevail.”
I frowned, read the article again. That was odd. Not the robbery in itself, though something about it did seem a bit strange. What struck me as curious was that, while we were certainly not friendly with every criminal in London, we should have heard rumors of something along this scale. We knew most of the best thieves in London, being among the best ourselves.
Criminals were not, of course, wont to take one another into their confidence, but rumors spread. The theft of jewelry from a countess and a famous actor was the type of thing people in our circles would talk about.
“Did you hear anything about that?” I asked Uncle Mick, pointing at the paper.
He folded the newspaper and looked at the article. “I read about it.”
“No, I mean did you hear anything about it. Through the … usual channels?”
“Can’t say that I did, Ellie girl.” He looked up at me with a grin. “I’m not exactly in the center of things at the moment. Word has spread that your old Uncle Mick has taken to the straight and narrow, and it’s brought me down a bit in the estimation of some of our associates.”
We hadn’t committed a burglary—indeed, a major crime of any kind—since we’d begun working with military intelligence. My involvement in the dangers of espionage work had given me the thrills that thieving had once provided, but I sometimes wondered if Uncle Mick missed his old way of life. He’d been at it for a lot longer than I had, after all. He had longtime associates—even close friends—in that world. For the first time, it occurred to me how difficult it must have been for him to turn his back on all of it.
“Do you miss it, Uncle Mick?” I asked.
“It’s hard for a leopard to change its spots,” he said. “But even a leopard grows gray with old age.”
“Does it?” I asked. “I thought them spotted until the end.”
“I didn’t say the spots were gone, lass.” He winked at me and then rose from the table. “I’ll be in my workshop if you need me.”
“All right.”
He left, and my gaze returned to the newspaper on the table. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something felt off about the whole thing.
But perhaps it was just that I, too, was a leopard who missed flaunting my spots a bit.
I stirred my cold porridge.
“Are you sick, Ellie?” Nacy asked, coming from the kitchen and moving to my side to press the back of her hand against my forehead.
“No, I’m quite well.” I gave her my best imitation of a cheery smile. “I’m just a bit tired this morning.”
“And what’s been the reason for the rest of the food you haven’t been eating these past few weeks?”
I ought to have known she had noticed my lack of appetite. Nacy never missed a thing.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really! Just not hungry.”
She looked down at me, her expression suddenly both intent and gentle. “Ellie … You and Felix … you aren’t … expecting a little surprise, are you?”
Felix Lacey was my closest friend and confidant, and something a bit more besides. We’d been hovering at the intersection between camaraderie and romance for the past few months, neither of us anxious to give a definite name to our relationship. But it seemed Nacy had drawn her own conclusions.
It took me a moment to understand what she was asking, and when I did, I gasped in shock. “Nacy!”
“These things happen, Ellie. If there’s anything you want to tell me, you needn’t be afraid to do so. It will all come out all right in the end.”
“‘These things’ may happen, but they haven’t happened to me,” I protested.
“All right, all right,” she said. “No need to get your feathers ruffled. I only meant it wouldn’t be the first time a baby’s come along a mite before it was expected. I just wanted you to know that you can always come to me if you’re in trouble.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But I don’t anticipate I shall ever come to you with that particular dilemma.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I’m still not entirely sure Felix is the right fellow for you. Of course, you’re old enough to make up your mind on that score. But, whatever man you choose, it’s best to buy the ring before needing the cradle.”
“Yes, thank you, Nacy,” I said, now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I will certainly remember that.”
She went off to the kitchen, and I forced myself to finish the bowl of cold porridge, as though that would put the matter to rest.
I had never imagined she might make such an assumption. Granted, Felix was often at my flat late into the night, and she’d once seen him leave in the morning after he’d fallen asleep on my sofa. Despite appearances, however, we’d done nothing more than while away the evenings kissing to the strains of orchestra music on the gramophone.
And, truth be told, I’d been less encouraging of Felix’s kisses the past few months, ever since the events of my last assignment and the information about my father that followed hot on its heels. He seemed to understand my inner turmoil and hadn’t pressed the issue, but I knew we’d need to discuss things sooner or later.
There were so many things unresolved in my life. Of course, my personal problems were minor on the scale of what was going on in the world, of what was going on in my own city. We’d been bombed night after night for weeks, and thousands of people had lost their homes, their families, and their very lives. Despite my uncertainties, I knew I had a great deal to be thankful for.
Nevertheless, I was beginning to get that restless feeling again, the feeling that I should be doing more to help. I hadn’t heard from Major Ramsey, the military intelligence officer who had recruited us as skilled thieves in service of our country, in nearly three months. Our mission in Sunderland in October, while technically a success, had had some unforeseen outcomes that I suspected were the reason for his silence. Or perhaps he’d just had no need of thieves since then.
Thieves …
I looked back down at the article in the newspaper.
Was it possible…? I wondered suddenly if Major Ramsey had found some other set of criminals to do his bidding. Did this robbery have something to do with espionage? If so, perhaps there was a way that I could help. If nothing else, it could prove to be just the distraction I needed.
There was only one way to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
I left the house before I could think better of it, but the doubts began to sink in faster than the chill from the icy gusts of wind that enveloped me on my way to the Tube.
This winter was the coldest I could remember. It seemed unfair, somehow, that we should have to contend with both the Nazis and this weather. Perhaps the Germans had brought it with them. Perhaps it swept down from the Alps and followed in their wake as they marched across Europe.
As I caught my thoughts rambling on about the weather, I was forced to admit, if only to myself, that I was nervous about visiting with Major Ramsey. Things had been rather emotionally fraught the last time we’d been together. Our mission in Sunderland had ended with his being shot four times. In fact, we’d both come perilously close to dying.
Shortly before that, we’d shared an ill-advised but extremely passionate kiss, which we’d agreed should not be repeated.
We’d said goodbye in a hospital room, and the major had made it clear we’d not be seeing each other again unless it became necessary. Even the influence of morphia had not prevented him from nixing the possibility of a romance.
No, that door was closed. And rightly so. Attraction aside, we were ill-suited in almost every conceivable way.
Nevertheless, there were clearly some unresolved feelings there that were likely to lend our reunion an added layer of discomfort. There was also the added weight of the secret I was carrying about my father’s work for the Germans.
I certainly couldn’t confide this bit of information to the major, couldn’t let him know that my family had past ties to Germany. I’d proved myself to him time and time again, but some part of me still suspected he didn’t entirely trust me. I was a thief, after all. A thief from a family of thieves. And also a family of spies, it turned out.
But none of that was relevant to why I was going to see him today. This was strictly a professional visit, and I meant to keep it that way.
I reached his Belgravia residence—a lovely town house in keeping with his posh roots—which served as his office, and rang the bell. I was pleased to see the street was still undamaged by recent bombings, though the ever-present sandbags were a reminder of the imminent threat. A moment later the door was opened by Constance Brown, the major’s secretary.
“Miss McDonnell,” she said in her customary pleasant-yet-professional tone. “How nice to see you again. Won’t you come in?”
I stepped inside, glad to be out of the cold. If this unusually frigid winter persisted, I was going to need a warmer coat. My boots also left something to be desired, I realized as I tried to wiggle some feeling back into my numb toes. I had never been keen on clothes shopping, but now I wished I’d been a bit more extravagant before the war started.
“What can I do for you?” Constance asked, turning to me in the foyer. She did not ask to take my coat.
“Is Major Ramsey in? If he has a moment, I’d like to speak to him.” I didn’t like the vaguely uncertain note in my voice.
I was sure I didn’t imagine the slightest pause as Constance considered her answer. Ever efficient, however, she didn’t hesitate for long.
Copyright © 2024 by Ashley Weaver
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