thousandth time, Jack’s memory conjured the night long ago when he’d nearly lost his life. At Lady Bassett’s costume ball, he had bungled his assignment to shadow the disguised enemy agent when he was pleasantly diverted by a lovely goddess in green, allowing his target to escape.
Jack left the ball then, intent to salvage his assignment with MI5 and follow Chaplin. As he reached the London docks, he’d watched his suspect board the Irish merchant ship Acionna as she made ready to weigh anchor. He followed, and while the ship cruised toward the mouth of the Thames, he searched belowdecks for his quarry.
The spy had managed to elude him, but Jack found his lairwith Chaplin’s signature bowler hat tossed upon the bed. A thorough search produced a map of the Naval Yards, along with a letter addressed to James Heeren, Acionna ’s cargo supervisor, and written on Swan’s Tea Room stationery. At first, the correspondence seemed innocent—shipping instructions written and signed by Patrick Mabry, the tea room’s owner. But then Jack held it up to the heat of the lantern and saw code written with invisible ink and penned in between the lines of the letter.
He’d pocketed the evidence and returned above deck in time to see Chaplin dive overboard. The ship was nearing the mouth of the river, but because Jack had to preserve his newfound proof, he could only watch in frustration while the spy swam for shore. And in the next moment, his world went black.
Jack reached with a finger to trace the still-tender flesh around his eyes, then drew a line along the ragged scar at his cheek. The explosion had knocked him senseless; he awakened in hospital days later to learn he was one of only four survivors. The cargo ship had secretly carried munitions and was torpedoed by a German U-boat.
With his precious evidence destroyed in the blast, Jack was left scarred, blinded, and bitter in the knowledge he’d been lured onto the Acionna. Never would he forget Chaplin’s backward glance as he boarded her, or his subsequent escape seconds before the explosion.
Patrick Mabry had written the code. Perhaps he and Chaplin were one and the same man. Now his daughter was here . . .
“Milord?”
A faint knock sounded at his bedroom door. “A moment, Townsend,” Jack called as he quickly replaced the mask. His household staff was under strict orders never to intrude without first gaining permission. Leaving the balcony, he returned to his rooms.
Whatever her reasons for being at Roxwood, tomorrow couldn’t arrive soon enough.
He wanted Grace Mabry gone.
———
“Marcus, we need to talk.”
“Jack?” Through the crackling line, Marcus Weatherford’s sleepy exhaustion seemed to vanish. “I thought you’d forgotten how to use a telephone! It’s been months, man. Good grief, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Near dawn, I imagine.” Jack hadn’t slept. Too many questions about Patrick Mabry’s daughter and her presence at Roxwood needed answers.
“It’s three thirty in the morning.” Marcus’s tone turned tense. “Jack, what’s wrong?”
“Does something need to be wrong when I call, Marcus? Other than the obvious?” Jack said irritably.
“At this hour, yes.” Marcus sounded exasperated. “Benningham, you’ve disappeared off the map. No one’s heard from you since you left hospital. Even your father calls me. And when I telephone to try to find out how you’re doing, I have to speak to that old watchdog, Edwards.” He paused. “Is he dead? Is that why you’re ringing me at this unholy hour?”
“Edwards is fine. I’ve called for another reason.” Jack relayed to his best friend the encounter with Grace Mabry.
“Mabry’s daughter working for the Women’s Forage Corps could be legitimate, but you don’t think so, do you?” Marcus said.
“And neither do you. As I recall, MI5 doesn’t believe in coincidences.” Hesitating, Jack said, “Marcus, I think Patrick Mabry sent her here
Jack left the ball then, intent to salvage his assignment with MI5 and follow Chaplin. As he reached the London docks, he’d watched his suspect board the Irish merchant ship Acionna as she made ready to weigh anchor. He followed, and while the ship cruised toward the mouth of the Thames, he searched belowdecks for his quarry.
The spy had managed to elude him, but Jack found his lairwith Chaplin’s signature bowler hat tossed upon the bed. A thorough search produced a map of the Naval Yards, along with a letter addressed to James Heeren, Acionna ’s cargo supervisor, and written on Swan’s Tea Room stationery. At first, the correspondence seemed innocent—shipping instructions written and signed by Patrick Mabry, the tea room’s owner. But then Jack held it up to the heat of the lantern and saw code written with invisible ink and penned in between the lines of the letter.
He’d pocketed the evidence and returned above deck in time to see Chaplin dive overboard. The ship was nearing the mouth of the river, but because Jack had to preserve his newfound proof, he could only watch in frustration while the spy swam for shore. And in the next moment, his world went black.
Jack reached with a finger to trace the still-tender flesh around his eyes, then drew a line along the ragged scar at his cheek. The explosion had knocked him senseless; he awakened in hospital days later to learn he was one of only four survivors. The cargo ship had secretly carried munitions and was torpedoed by a German U-boat.
With his precious evidence destroyed in the blast, Jack was left scarred, blinded, and bitter in the knowledge he’d been lured onto the Acionna. Never would he forget Chaplin’s backward glance as he boarded her, or his subsequent escape seconds before the explosion.
Patrick Mabry had written the code. Perhaps he and Chaplin were one and the same man. Now his daughter was here . . .
“Milord?”
A faint knock sounded at his bedroom door. “A moment, Townsend,” Jack called as he quickly replaced the mask. His household staff was under strict orders never to intrude without first gaining permission. Leaving the balcony, he returned to his rooms.
Whatever her reasons for being at Roxwood, tomorrow couldn’t arrive soon enough.
He wanted Grace Mabry gone.
———
“Marcus, we need to talk.”
“Jack?” Through the crackling line, Marcus Weatherford’s sleepy exhaustion seemed to vanish. “I thought you’d forgotten how to use a telephone! It’s been months, man. Good grief, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Near dawn, I imagine.” Jack hadn’t slept. Too many questions about Patrick Mabry’s daughter and her presence at Roxwood needed answers.
“It’s three thirty in the morning.” Marcus’s tone turned tense. “Jack, what’s wrong?”
“Does something need to be wrong when I call, Marcus? Other than the obvious?” Jack said irritably.
“At this hour, yes.” Marcus sounded exasperated. “Benningham, you’ve disappeared off the map. No one’s heard from you since you left hospital. Even your father calls me. And when I telephone to try to find out how you’re doing, I have to speak to that old watchdog, Edwards.” He paused. “Is he dead? Is that why you’re ringing me at this unholy hour?”
“Edwards is fine. I’ve called for another reason.” Jack relayed to his best friend the encounter with Grace Mabry.
“Mabry’s daughter working for the Women’s Forage Corps could be legitimate, but you don’t think so, do you?” Marcus said.
“And neither do you. As I recall, MI5 doesn’t believe in coincidences.” Hesitating, Jack said, “Marcus, I think Patrick Mabry sent her here
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