Beloved Beast. Karyn Gerrard

us through different clandestine channels.”

      Luke washed down a mouthful of mashed potatoes with a sip of beer. “Wait, isn’t there an actor named Otto Kroger?”

      “You mean Otto Kruger, similar but not the same. Anyway, concerning our Otto, he became suspicious and we decided to pull her out. Miss Browning escaped to Switzerland with the assistance of the SOE.”

      Luke cut into his mutton. He briefly contemplated joining the Special Operations Executive, or “Churchill’s Secret Army,” but working in occupied Europe was a little too dangerous for Luke’s taste though he admired those who did the espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance needed in war-torn Europe. “If Miss Browning managed to escape, how is it the Nazis are only discovering her existence now?”

      Fred washed down a mouthful of vegetables and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “There’s the rub. We’ve been told, through channels, Kroger’s wife discovered the affair and reported it to the SS like the good little Nazi frau she is. A couple of agents from the SOE kept the couple under surveillance and sure enough, the owner was snatched up by SS officers. We’ve since lost track of him. Probably killed or thrown into a concentration camp. Regardless, we are assuming they have a description along with her false name. Why else would they be looking for a female agent in England? Though how they know her location is worrying. Kroger knew nothing.”

      “Are you sure? Pillow talk can go both ways,” Luke interjected.

      “I’m as sure as I can be. It took Miss Browning several months to find her way to England. We dyed her hair back to its natural color and it’s grown out since then. They must have tracked her in some way. How much they know and for how long, we have no idea.”

      Luke did not like the sound of this. “She could be under surveillance as we speak.”

      “Highly unlikely, but yes, I suppose it’s possible. We’ve only gained possession of this information recently and it is maddeningly vague. We’d better bring her into my office tomorrow and start making plans for relocation.”

      “Do you have her address? I will swing by on my way home and check the place out before curfew.” Luke popped a piece of mutton in his mouth. Delicious.

      “Not far from MI-6 actually. A small flat on the top floor facing the street, twenty-four Dartmouth Street, in Westminster.” Fred reached into his suit jacket pocket and slid a small photograph across the table, facedown. “This is recent, keep it with you.”

      After taking another sip of his beer, Luke turned the photo over. The black and white photograph showed an apparent beauty with near-perfect features. The woman could be a film star. No wonder she was able to seduce information out of the hapless German.

      “Attractive, isn’t she?” Fred winked as he placed a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

      Yes. Attractive. No doubt the reason she was used as a honey pot. But there was also sadness in her eyes and a touch of melancholy in her reluctant smile. Something hitched in Luke’s chest. An awareness. His heart thumped at a fast pace. No. He did not want to feel anything toward this beauty. Not empathy and certainly not…desire.

      Thirty minutes after he finished his meal and said farewell to Fred, Luke found himself parked on Dartmouth Street gazing up at the top flat. The windows facing the street were cloaked in darkness meaning she might not be home. However, the blackout curtains could be drawn. The West End had not escaped Nazi air raids; some of the worst damage from 1940 and 1941 was still evident in various streets around Westminster, including the Admiralty and Buckingham Palace itself.

      Reaching under his shirt collar, he pulled the gold chain out and clasped the ring hanging from it in his right fist. The ring had the Madden crest engraved in it along with the saying Propria virtute audax which meant “daring in the cause of virtue.” As Viscount Ravenswood and heir to the Earl of Whitestone, he once wore the ring on his left pinkie finger indicating his status as a peer of the realm. A lifetime ago. Two lifetimes if one were to be accurate. Now onto his third, he wondered how many more he would have to endure?

      Could he be immortal? He had no earthly idea. What’s more, Reed couldn’t be sure. It was either immortality or he merely aged at a slower pace than other humans. Regardless, he looked the same age of twenty-eight as he did in 1895. Perhaps Reed was right about not destroying his notes. At some point, he should try and ascertain answers to the many still puzzling questions, but with whom? And when? As well, he should read the papers from start to finish.

      Meanwhile, he stored the box in Fred’s safe at his office at SIS. Luke was torn from his thoughts as the ear-piercing low-high wail of an air raid siren filled his hearing. Tucking the chain under his shirt, he winced. With his advanced audible range, the sound caused bolts of pain to slice though his head. As he turned ready to follow the crowd to the shelters, he caught a glimpse of Miss Gillian Browning.

      His breath caught in his throat. She was absolutely stunning. The lady spy was slightly above average height, willowy, and her picture did not do her justice. One advantage of his superior senses is he could see clearly in the dark, and with the lights going out all around him, he could still make out the luminescence of her skin. The dark red shade of lipstick she wore suited her coloring. Her wool coat had seen better days and it was hard to establish if she possessed any curves, but her legs were long and shapely. Her hair was as golden as a setting sun, her eyes as blue as the ocean. Miss Browning—Gillian—must have been heading toward her flat, but now did an about-face and followed the crowd.

      Luke fell in step behind her, far enough back to remain inconspicuous, but close enough to keep an eye on her. He tilted his chin slightly and inhaled. Chanel No. 5. Was it she who wore the alluring scent? It was not easy to acquire expensive French perfumes, perhaps a gift from her German lover?

      Strangely, she did not enter the public shelters set up in the basements of buildings. Ah. She was heading for the St. James Park Tube Station. The London Underground still ran when it could despite delays the past couple of years due to the war. Acting as de facto shelters, tube stations came in handy during air raids such as this. Some of them were designated as permanent shelters. Air Raid Precaution wardens directed people in an orderly manner toward the various shelters. Luke stayed with Gillian, entering St. James Park and heading down the stairs with the rest of the crowd. Damn, he’d left his gas mask in the car, but since the Blitz ended, few Londoners carried them.

      Stale, smoky air slammed his nostrils as Luke descended the stairs which had him wishing he did bring the mask. It would also conceal his face, though in this dim light, not many would see him anyway. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat as he scurried along. On the platform, people wandered about, holding a thermos of tea or clutching family heirlooms. Some took this in stride, others looked utterly frightened.

      Gillian found an empty folding chair and sat, clutching her purse tight. Luke stayed in shadow, watching her closely. More people filed in carrying blankets and pillows, and they quickly staked out a section of the platform in case they would have to stay the entire night. The lighting below was dim with certain sections darker than others. Where they were located, it was shadowy enough he could remain hidden.

      How stoic the lady spy looked, sitting ramrod straight on the chair. Luke wouldn’t describe her outward demeanor as cold or standoffish, more like guarded. God, he was completely transfixed by her beauty. Even her wariness and caution caught his interest. An old woman shuffled past. Gillian immediately stood and offered her chair.

      “Bless your heart, dearie. My old bones need a rest and no mistake.” The woman grunted as she sat, then reached in her bag and pulled out some knitting. The needles clicked at a fast pace. Apparently she didn’t need any light to accomplish her task.

      Should he make himself known? Why not? They would be introduced tomorrow anyway. Luke glanced around, located another folding chair, and carried it toward Gillian and the old lady. “Please, take this chair, miss.”

      Chapter 3

      Gillian turned toward the source of the husky, masculine voice. Heavens.