Read Online British Bulldog by Sara Sheridan - Free Book Online

all, at the request of a bona fide British hero. Suddenly, with a pang, she remembered what it had felt like when Jack had died. The loss turned in her stomach and she felt deflated. She had no real right there, either. If she tried to find out personal details about Jack at the Special Operations Executive, they’d kick her out. Of course they would. SOE made no allowances for women like her. Lovers. Mistresses. Friends. It was only blood that counted, and legal ties. A bit of paper was more important than love.
    ‘You’ll have to leave, madam,’ the girl said firmly. She licked a finger and turned over a page, directing her attention back to the appointment diary, though a flicker of her long lashes betrayed the fact that she was watching to see if Mirabelle complied.
    Mirabelle reeled. Her cheeks were burning and the sense of outrage was building like steam in a kettle. ‘Well, really,’ she spluttered. If someone had walked into her office during the war and enquired about a member of staff, yes, she’d have given them short shrift, but there was no reason to be rude.
    The girl looked up slowly. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said flatly, staring towards the door.
    Humiliated, Mirabelle turned on her heel and marched into the freezing street with the words still stinging.
    Outside, the cold air slapped her in the face. Jack’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Her love for Jack was a shameful thing in the eyes of the world yet they had had eight wonderful years together. It was all so desperately unfair.
    Grateful for the drizzle that hid her tears, she turned off Kingsway and passed a beggar sitting in a doorway. He had only one leg.
    ‘Miss.’ The man put out his hand.
    Mirabelle felt suddenly indescribably angry. Why was therenowhere for these men to go? Why wasn’t the damage caused by the Blitz repaired by now? No wonder she felt haunted by the war – it wouldn’t be over until things had been put to rights. She flung a coin at the man and in a flash realised that her fury was directed at Jack’s wife – a woman who had been allowed her grief. ‘He was mine,’ she whispered. The loss curled inwards and it felt raw. What on earth was she doing here digging up this old story? Humiliating herself. She didn’t owe Bulldog Bradley anything.
    Without thinking she turned into the doorway of a pub. Inside, the regular afternoon drinkers shifted in the gloom as if they sensed new blood. She took a deep breath and realised she was the only woman in the place. The urge to scream or cry disappeared, and dismissing any reservations she stalked to the bar and ordered a whisky. When the single shot appeared the smoky taste revived her. She took out a handkerchief and dried her face.
    ‘It’s bitter outside,’ the barman said.
    Mirabelle was in no mood for small talk. She downed the rest of the malt in one.
    ‘Thank you,’ she managed as she pushed the glass back over the bar.
    Suddenly she wanted to be back in Brighton – not here in the tatty, uncaring city. She wanted to run a long hot bath and stare at the crackle-glazed tiles on her bathroom wall and sit in the window afterwards and watch the world go by. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and forget that Bulldog Bradley had left her this troublesome bequest and that she’d written a thoughtless letter to his widow. She wanted to forget all of it.

Chapter 7
    All roads lead home .
    M irabelle slept only fitfully. It was still dark when she opened her eyes and for once she felt at peace. The winter dawn stole slowly over the horizon. The bedroom smelled faintly of orange bath oil. She had finished the last of the bottle the night before, that and the whisky, staying up late wrapped in Jack’s old dressing gown watching the moon, warmed through by the lazy hot water. Now she fumbled for her watch and squinted, trying to focus on the tiny figures etched on the face in gold. It was only just seven o’clock. Outside the long window the streetlamps flickered