The formidable Mrs. Travers bustled into the room and escorted Gillian out, closing the door behind her.
Luke paced about, running his right hand through his hair. “You mean to tell me there are no other safe houses in all of bloody England?”
“And you don’t think the SS and the Abwehr is not aware of most of our locations already? No one will suspect Charlwood.”
“You have gone completely mad,” Luke muttered. “All the Germans have to do is investigate current agents and their former homes and check them off the list one by one. You grew up in Charlwood. Why on earth would you even consider it?”
Fred pointed to the chair. “Sit down, Luke, you’re making me nervous. I doubt the inept spies the Nazis have sequestered in London would be that thorough.”
Luke plunked himself down in the seat Gillian had vacated. It was still warm from her body heat and surprisingly, it in turn warmed him. And aroused him. He’d been aroused through most of her interrogation. Her reactions spoke of a passionate woman who felt things deeply, but fought hard to hide her emotions. He could relate. Besides lying about her sister, no doubt done to protect Miss Simm more than anything, she spoke the truth in everything else.
The fact she’d become besotted with Kroger surprisingly stung, which made no sense at all. Gillian Browning was nothing to him but an assignment. They were much in the same boat, nursing broken hearts in different ways and at different stages. But back to the subject at hand. Charlwood. “I am known. Damn it, I still have family in the area. Give me one good reason why we should hide there?”
Fred reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a file. He opened it and arranged the pile of papers within. “First things first, old chap. It has been a while since we’ve done an update on your extended family. Not in any depth since you left Cornwall. Here’s what we know: Your illegitimate son, Dr. Jeffrey Twington, age fifty-three, lives in Yorkshire with his wife, Nicola. Their children, a daughter—Sandra, age twenty-eight—married last year, and their son, Jeffrey II, is age twenty-five and serving with the RAF. He is participating in bombing raids over Germany.”
As his blood cooled in his veins, Luke’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Why did you not tell me before now my grandson was part of the war effort? And do not refer to Jeffrey as illegitimate,” Luke snapped.
Fred arched an eyebrow. “He is illegitimate according to society. Adopted by the village doctor and his wife in eighteen ninety-two as well you know. But I do apologize. I won’t refer to him as such again.”
His one meeting with Jeffrey, who had been five years old, still caused his heart to ache at the remembrance since he was not aware Jeffrey was his son until later. The boy had been the result of one of his many dalliances in his previous life as Ravenswood. When he reflected back on the man he used to be, it turned his bile. He had not seen Jeffery since the chance encounter by the brook. After leaving Charlwood, he decided to stay focused on the Parker side of the family, cut all ties with the Maddens and their various branches, illegitimate or otherwise. He promised his wretched father he would in exchange for money and the chance of living in peace.
Regardless of the threats, his father did leave him alone, and in return, Luke kept his distance from his family. True to his word, his father saw to the upkeep of Jeffrey and a girl, named Betsy, whom he also fathered from a farmer’s daughter, until the young woman’s death during the Spanish flu epidemic in 1919. Thanks to the old earl, Jeffrey received a topnotch education and the opportunity to practice medicine at prominent hospitals throughout England.
After Luke’s mother died, the Earl of Whitestone remarried and had more children. Luke had two half brothers he knew nothing about. If he were to be honest, he didn’t much care for any of the Maddens. He left his life as Viscount Ravenswood far behind. God. Jeffrey was fifty-three. Where had the years gone?
“Uncle, do you want to hear more? It was by your own instruction you wished periodic updates. I am bringing you up to speed now to prove there is no one in Charlwood who would even remember you. Close to fifty years have passed since your departure.”
Luke arched an eyebrow at his nephew. For a man working for SIS, he could be incredibly naive. “I am the Beast of Charlwood. The stuff of fireside horror stories. I am well aware I’m used to keep children in line. ‘Behave, or the beast viscount will get you.’ I did not leave of my own accord. I was run out of the village.”
“Anyone who witnessed you that day is either dead or long gone from Charlwood. Arrive at nightfall, stay hidden until it is time to go, and all should be fine. And you know why I selected this particular location.”
Crossing his legs, Luke smiled sardonically. During World War I, Reed had an underground tunnel and shelter built on the outside chance the Germans might decide to have a Zeppelin raid over Charlwood. Though eccentric, Reed’s cautious nature contained sound reasoning. Brighton and the south coast were only twenty-six miles away, the idea was not inconceivable. Reed did not order a small shelter; he commissioned an elaborate underground tunnel system exiting into a secluded area near the River Mole, a tributary of the Thames. “Have the tunnels been kept in good repair?”
“Yes, since Mum and Dad moved to London, I have kept a staff on to keep the place in good order. Repairs, a coat of paint, that sort of thing. I proposed it be used as a safe house as soon as the war started and SIS agreed. They’ve paid for the upkeep on the tunnels. Even made a few modifications. Like electric lighting and a cache of supplies, including pistols and other provisions. We’ve upgraded the electrical lines as well. It’s ideal, Luke. Better than a grotty flat here in London.”
Fred had a point. The thought of visiting his past caused his stomach to lurch, but how else to banish the wretched memories once and for all? If it were even possible. Here lay an opportunity to do it. He had to try. “I concede Charlwood will serve, but why not transport her from the country right away?”
“We have to be absolutely sure and meticulous in our planning, and arranging transportation is becoming increasingly difficult the longer the war drags on. Now, let me continue on the Maddens. As you are aware, your father passed eleven years ago, and the present Earl of Whitestone, his oldest son and your half brother, is currently not at the Whitestone estate. His mother is not well and as a result, the entire family is here in London at the townhouse.”
Fred turned the page and continued. “William Madden, his wife, Edith, and their two sons, William Junior and Arthur, along with William’s younger brother, Marcus, are in residence in Mayfair. They will be watched closely and intercepted if they head toward Charlwood.”
Luke felt nothing in hearing of his immediate family, as he didn’t when Fred had told him of his father’s passing. Well, perhaps he cared a little. “How old are my half brothers?”
“Let’s see, William was born in nineteen ten, which makes him thirty-three. His sons are both under the age of seven. Marcus was born in nineteen nineteen, which makes him twenty-four.”
God, his father must have been elderly when Marcus was born. “My youngest brother did not join the war effort? Though I am not surprised, the Maddens were always a selfish lot. Seems they still are.”
Fred cleared his throat. “Actually, old chap, The Honorable Marcus Madden did sign up. Became a commando in the Royal Navy. Lost part of his leg at Dieppe last year.”
Luke groaned and slumped in his chair. Now he felt like a first-class heel. “Brave lad,” he murmured.
“By all accounts, he was following in your notorious footsteps, a decadent playboy who lived
