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  Hope lit her expression. “Oh yes, he’s the man your sister will marry!”

  He nodded. “Are you ready to leave this place?”

  In answer, she covered his hand where it rested against the marble railing. Surprised, he felt her warmth penetrate his skin, and for a moment his mind flashed to her softness beneath him as he’d sheltered her during the bombings the other night.

  “I knew you would not give up on my sister, Lieutenant.”

  She smiled at him before retracing their steps, and as Colin walked beside her to the exit, he refocused on the task at hand, praying Jack would agree to handle the situation with the Deuxième Bureau using the utmost diplomacy. From all accounts, Jewel was being held hostage in a part of France Colin knew little about, and while he’d joked with Miss Reyer about getting in the last round with Lacourt, the worst thing he could do was alienate the Frenchman.

  Isabelle stood out in front of the café’s busy terrace, waving a bright handkerchief as Jo drew up with the Triumph and parked alongside the curb.

  As Jo and the lieutenant disembarked, Isabelle’s dark eyes narrowed and she smiled, glancing between the two of them. “I saw your motorcycle outside the Bureau when I left, but you were nowhere to be found. Where did you slip off to?”

  The feline smile broadened, and Jo’s cheeks burned with unexpected heat. She removed her goggles. “We . . . did a bit of sight-seeing. Why?”

  Hearing her own defensive tone made her glare at her French friend. Why did Isabelle imagine an attraction when she knew the real reason the lieutenant had come to Paris?

  Yet the details of the air raid two nights ago had been constantly in Jo’s thoughts: the way the lieutenant had shielded her, his body pressing her against the floor. His intimate gaze in those few seconds after the bombs had stopped, as she breathed in the spicy scent of his cologne.

  You’re a fool, Jo. She forced herself to recall the minutes before that, when he’d been reading her sister’s diary. It was obvious from his reactions that he was still in love with Jewel.

  Jo felt another prick of guilt, thinking back to their conversation at the Dôme. While she’d told him the truth—she and Isabelle had shared all they knew pertaining to finding her sister—Jo hadn’t been forthcoming about Jewel’s increasing regard for Kepler.

  Still, her sister’s last diary entry was dated months ago, and from what little Henri had relayed to her and Isabelle, there was no indication a marriage had taken place. As far as Jo was concerned, Lieutenant Mabry still had every chance to win back her sister’s affections.

  Her conscience appeased, she tugged off her gloves. “Isabelle, why are you here?”

  Her friend tucked the handkerchief into her leather purse and withdrew tickets from a local theater. “Do you enjoy the cinema, Lieutenant? They are showing L’Enfant de Paris at the Gaumont tonight at seven.”

  He frowned and glanced at his watch. “I thank you for the invitation, Miss Moreau, but I have other business to take care of.”

  Isabelle waved the tickets at him. “I urge you to attend, Lieutenant. You will find the experience very enlightening.”

  Jo gripped her gloves. She’d seen the film months ago and found the story of an orphaned girl whose father was missing in the war too painfully close to her own predicament. What was Isabelle thinking? She knew Jo had been uncomfortable watching the film before, so why did she insist now? Unless . . .

  She stared at her friend’s hand. Four tickets.

  Jo reached to pluck two from Isabelle’s grasp. “We’ll meet you in the lobby of the Gaumont at six forty-five, won’t we, Lieutenant?” She gave him a meaningful look. “It’s several blocks from here. I can drive us.”

  He looked about to object, but Jo shook her head, and he hesitated. His dark brows drew together as he darted a look from Isabelle back to her. “Fine. Now, ladies, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

  The women watched him stride quickly toward the hotel’s entrance. When he disappeared behind the glass doors, Jo glanced at Isabelle. “Henri is coming tonight, isn’t he? He’s going to give us the location?”

  Her friend’s catlike smile returned as she held up the two remaining tickets.

  “How did you convince him?”

  “He likes me.” Isabelle shrugged before her humor vanished. “You understand he takes a great risk, Jo. Can you imagine what would happen to my dear Henri if it was discovered he sent two innocents after a suspected Boche spy? What if something happens to you?”

  “Isabelle, Lieutenant Mabry is hardly a fledgling. You told me yourself he is a war hero.” It was true, Jo hadn’t eavesdropped—the solid wood door to Agent Lacourt’s office prevented her from hearing any clear conversation. But her friend had relayed the exchange she overheard while serving their tea. “I’m sure he will take the utmost care.”

  Worry deepened the lines in Isabelle’s face. “I know how much it means to you to find your father and now your sister. But this is no game. Captain Kepler could be a dangerous man.”

  Jo’s anger flared at the stark reminder. “Why doesn’t the Bureau simply arrest him? That way my sister could be back in Paris by now.”

  “I am not supposed to know that kind of information, mon amie. However, I believe the Allies have Kepler under surveillance and do not wish our office to interfere, at least for now. Perhaps they wait to trap him.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “And it is possible your sister does not yet know your father’s location, so you must have patience as well as prudence.”

  Jo hadn’t considered the possibility. Her shoulders eased. “You are right, my friend.”

  Isabelle placed the remaining tickets in her purse. “How did the lieutenant react to Jewel’s . . . impression of Captain Kepler?”

  Jo stared at her gloves. She’d shared the diary with Isabelle shortly after reading it herself. Only her friend knew everything her sister had written down. “He does not know.”

  “But the diary . . . ?”

  She met her friend’s curious gaze. “I blotted out a few . . . er, particulars near the end.”

  Isabelle gave her a severe look. “I think you do him a disservice, Jo.”

  Jo raised her chin. “What if I had shown him all that she wrote? Do you think he would still be willing to go with me?” She compressed her lips. “I did what was necessary.”

  So why did she feel guilty?

  “And just what do you plan to do once you find her . . . with Kepler?”

  Jo let out a sigh. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Well, mon amie, you had better start.” She reached to touch Jo on the shoulder. “I must return to the office. Will you give me a ride?”

  Jo nodded, and as her friend climbed into the sidecar, she started the engine and dismissed Isabelle’s disturbing question, thinking instead to the coming evening.

  Where in France would Henri Lacourt send them? She would need to pack the proper clothing, of course, and drive out to speak with André and say good-bye to her Little Corporal.

  Excitement fluttered in her chest as she drove toward the Bureau.

  Their quest was about to begin.

  CHAPTER

  7

  PARIS, FRANCE, APRIL 13

  Contact George Petit, Hôtel Blanc, Toulouse.

  Colin stared again at the cryptic note on the back of the photograph before flipping it over to gaze at the face of a dark-haired stranger with deep-set eyes and a thick moustache.

  Late last night at the café, he and Miss Reyer mulled over the picture Lacourt had passed to him at the cinema earlier, before the Frenchman slipped out with Isabelle.

  Was this the face of George Petit . . . or Werner Kepler? With the head turned slightly to one side in the portrait, Colin couldn’t see the right ear to determine a scar.

  Whoever he was, the man was apparently in Toulouse—a bit more than “south of Paris.” Hours in fact, by train. Colin would have preferred more substantial information, but he had no rea
son to doubt Lacourt’s reliability. Monsieur Petit must know how to contact Kepler and Jewel.

  He looked up from the photograph and out the café window. The breakfast crowd had thinned, leaving the outside terrace looking nearly deserted in the wake of the usual throng patronizing the place.

  Miss Reyer agreed to meet him here at 1100 hours this morning, but already she was late. Instead of irritation, however, Colin’s pulse quickened, wondering if she was all right. Despite her habitual tardiness, he’d come to realize after three nights of air raids by Gotha bombers that she could at any time fall victim to a deadly barrage falling from the sky.

  He tried to reassure himself she was merely late; twenty to thirty minutes past any given hour seemed to be her magic number. Soon the two of them would be bound for Toulouse, leaving Paris and its destruction far behind.

  He returned the photograph to the inside pocket of his tunic, alongside the other document he’d acquired earlier that morning. He had stopped in at the MI6 office in Paris to update his message to Goodfellow, requesting his corporal notify Lord Walenford of his forthcoming travel plans and extended stay in France.

  While he was there, the desk chief asked if Colin would courier a dispatch to an aeronautics engineer in Toulouse, a Monsieur Gambette. The Frenchman was aiding in a secret project underway just outside of Paris—a fake City of Light.

  Colin still marveled at how a decoy city was being built a few miles to the west, intended to draw the German Gotha bombers away from the real capital.

  It was a brilliant plan. As workers secretly constructed a replica of Paris, including a Champs-Élysées and a Gare du Nord railway station, no detail was overlooked. Mock railroad tracks, factory buildings, even phony trees were added to make it seem more authentic. Imitation cannons and camouflaged tanks added to the ruse, and once Monsieur Gambette received the document with dimensions from chief designer Fernand Jacopozzi, he would supply the materials to build a replica plane hangar and planes.

  Because the project’s completion was critical, MI6 had agreed to aid the French. With Colin’s clearance through MI8 and his imminent departure for Toulouse, he’d been asked to assist. He had readily agreed to receive such an important assignment.

  The MI6 desk chief had also warned him to be aware of potential spies as they traveled through France. Colin debated whether or not to share his real reasons for going south, but Lacourt had taken a risk by giving him the tip, and Colin certainly didn’t want to betray the agent. He also knew that if MI6 forbade him to go, he would not disobey an order.

  Better he should ascertain the situation first. If the woman with Kepler wasn’t Jewel, he need not interfere and could simply accomplish his task with Monsieur Gambette.

  A taxi pulled up to the curb outside, next to the café’s terrace. Colin held his cup of Darjeeling halfway to his lips as he watched a woman step from the cab, her rather large gray hat with ostrich plumes complementing a tailored gray-green striped traveling suit and gray gloves. Signaling the driver to wait, she approached the café’s window glass. Yet it wasn’t until she tilted her head upward that he recognized her dark blue eyes and fair features beneath the hat.

  She waved a gloved hand at him.

  Once again he was startled by her transformation. Colin even forgot his annoyance. Slowly he rose from his seat, reaching for the leather portmanteau at his feet. As he’d already checked out of the hotel, he started toward the exit.

  She reached it first and held the door for him.

  He had to admit the hat was quite fetching. “Miss Reyer.”

  “Lieutenant.” She glanced at the portmanteau. “Oh good, you are ready to leave.” She turned and beckoned the driver standing beside the cab. The short, stooped man with bargeman’s cap and a cigarette dangling from the edge of his mouth ambled over to take Colin’s luggage.

  “Shall we?” Her eyes sparkled, cheeks blooming with color as she took his arm. He could sense her excitement at the prospect of finally meeting her sister. And he would see Jewel.

  His heart drummed with anticipation—or was it uncertainty? God, it seemed, had put him back on a course of action, and already Colin was trying to become accustomed to the idea of having a wife. Yet as his glance darted to his prosthetic, he wondered what Jewel would now make of him as husband material.

  He recalled her words in the diary: her dreams and memories of their time together; her pleasure in being able to do things for him, like caring for his wounds and making certain he received the treats she brought back from the Boche after singing; even the warmth of his lips when she’d kissed him, and the subsequent pages describing her love.

  Would Jewel’s feelings for him be the same as those she’d penned onto the page . . . or would she find him wanting?

  It seemed likely he would know the answer in a matter of hours.

  Colin opened the cab door for Miss Reyer, then followed her inside. Once his bag was stowed, the driver slid back behind the wheel. “Where to?”

  Miss Reyer issued the instructions. “Take us to Gare d’Austerlitz, if you please.”

  The cabby grunted his assent, and the taxi lurched forward.

  “We can still catch the noon train and arrive in Toulouse in time for dinner.” She wore a hopeful look, and Colin noted her small gloved hands twisting in her lap. Without thinking, he reached to steady them, and she gave him a surprised glance before he could pull his hand back.

  Her expression softened. “Truly, I’ve waited so long for this moment, Lieutenant.”

  “I know.” His smile was hesitant, as common sense warned him they could still reach a dead end. The woman with Kepler might not be Jewel.

  Leaning back against the seat, Colin gazed out the window as the taxi drove south along the avenue de l’Opéra. Passing the majestic Palais Royal, they eventually traveled along the banks of the Seine and the site of the impressive Musée du Louvre. Farther along rue de Rivoli, he saw the cratered remains of Saint-Gervais Church, which, mere weeks before on Good Friday, had been the first direct hit from the Boche’s big Paris gun. The explosion killed almost ninety and injured hundreds more.

  The morning had been quiet so far, but seeing the church reminded him once again that the city would soon feel another daily assault from the superguns, and at night the air raids would resume. He’d lain under his hotel bed each night curled in a ball while sirens blared with the coming explosions, preferring the bombs to being trapped in a cramped, dark cellar with other guests. Colin prayed the fake city of Paris would work for the big guns as well as the Gothas, bringing peace to other soldiers affected by the constant shriek of mortars and artillery blasts.

  The railway station proved to be a hive of activity. While Colin paid the driver, Miss Reyer retrieved a large embroidered kit bag from the seat beside her and went inside to arrange their tickets.

  As soon as he entered the terminal, Colin spotted her striking figure beside the ticket window, where she was speaking with a female conductor. Scores of Allied soldiers on furlough and crowds of Parisians leaving on holiday or escaping the city packed the space.

  Colin wondered how many of them were spies.

  Large groups of children were being herded toward the platform by white-capped nuns and Red Cross workers, obviously being sent away for their own protection. Seeing the many nervous, tear-streaked little faces struck a pang of sympathy. He’d been told earlier by the desk chief that, since the bombings began in March, thousands of Paris refugees had already fled to Orléans.

  Miss Reyer returned with tickets. “We can board now. The train is filling up, so we’ll likely need to sit in coach.”

  The driver had brought their luggage—Colin’s portmanteau and Miss Reyer’s two hatboxes and small steamer trunk. Colin hailed a porter, and they started toward the platform.

  “We’re on our way.” Exuberance radiated from Miss Reyer’s features. “Soon we’ll be in Toulouse and can seek out George—”

  He reached to press a finger to her lips. “Le
t’s just call him our friend, shall we?”

  She blinked at him in surprise, and Colin paused over the soft contours of her mouth before dropping his hand. He took a breath. “There are spies all over France, and I imagine they also ride the train. We must take care in discussing anything involving our journey south.”

  She lowered her gaze and smiled. “Of course, how thoughtless of me.”

  “It’s all right.” His attention drifted back to the pretty mouth he’d silenced only moments ago. Watch yourself, man. Clearing his throat, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  They stepped inside the crowded car, and Colin was amazed to spot two seats at the very back. At least they wouldn’t need to worry about eavesdroppers sitting behind them.

  He ushered her down the aisle, and once they were both ensconced in the plush velvet seats, he watched her take the utmost care fitting the kit bag down beside her feet next to the window. “Have you got eggs in there?”

  He intended the remark to induce another smile, but her startled glance told him he’d failed. “I . . . no, of course not. Why would I have eggs?”

  “I was only jesting, Miss Reyer.” Why was she nervous? His gaze narrowed. “What have you got in that bag?”

  “I . . . I carry my cosmetics and perfumes with me. The glass atomizers are fragile.”

  He could tell when she was lying . . . or at least, not giving him the whole truth. “And . . . ?”

  She waved a gloved hand through the air. “Oh, this and that. A woman’s personal items.” She reached to crack open the bag. “Would you like to take a look for yourself?”

  He recoiled at the idea. “That won’t be necessary.”

  She smiled and sat back against the seat. “I’ve asked Isabelle to call ahead and secure our rooms at the hotel. Connecting rooms, of course.”

  He’d barely digested the statement when she leaned over to whisper, “I should also mention that you and I are a married couple on this trip.”

  At that moment, their conductor—the same female from inside the train terminal—moved along the aisle to their seats. “Tickets, s’il vous plaît.” She smiled. “Is your seating confortable, Madame Mabry?”