‘When did you lose your manners, old girl?’
‘About the time I realised you didn’t deserve them.’
He moved to the sideboard, chuckling.
‘What do you want, Matthew?’ I demanded. ‘Assuming, of course, it was you who sent for me.’
He looked at me over his shoulder, one brow raised.
‘What makes you think that was my doing?’
‘Wasn’t it?’
Ice clinked into the crystal glass and he didn’t bother hiding a smug smile.
‘Of course it was. Do sit down, old girl. Surely you can’t fault me for watching out for my family?’
I shook my head. ‘You can’t have it both ways. You told me that the moment I married Philip, I was divorcing my family. Well, I married him. Stick to your side of the bargain.’
He held up one finger. ‘Your mother’s words, my dear. Not mine. I did make that clear at the time.’
‘And because you were her lackey, you’re now blameless?’
‘Is that really the question you want to ask me?’
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve already asked it – you just haven’t answered. Why am I here?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘You dropped out of sight a few years ago.’
‘Not my decision,’ I growled, allowing him to relieve me of my pistol and put it on top of the piano. He was right; I wouldn’t shoot him. Yet. And I didn’t need a gun to disable him.
‘So he forced you?’ He raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. ‘And here I thought it was mutual. So where is the loving husband now?’
‘At the bottom of the Atlantic.’
‘Sorry about that, old girl. You should have said.’ His voice was sympathetic, but Matthew was well connected and would have known about Philip’s demise, maybe even before I did. ‘You didn’t have to cut us all off, you know.’
‘What did you expect?’
Matthew waved his hand, the long fingers dismissing my ire.
‘Better judgement, since you ask. First there was that incident with the Christie girl’s boat. And if that wasn’t mad enough, you had to start running with the Baker Street Irregulars. Yahoos,’ he sniffed. ‘What they don’t blow up, they shoot. You could have at least chosen Six or the Foreign Office if you wanted to be a spook. I could have arranged something.’
As if I would have asked him for anything.
He stepped closer, holding up a long strand of my hair.
‘Whatever possessed you to colour it?’
I pulled away. ‘Not many redheads in France.’
‘Not enough redheads anywhere.’ He smiled, flashing strong, if slightly long, white teeth. ‘You do realise if you’d gone blonde, you’d be a dead ringer for Veronica Lake?’
It was a familiar jibe, and one that didn’t deserve an answer.
‘It’s brown until I find the first hairdresser with a bottle of dye.’
He hummed a reply. ‘I wouldn’t do that just yet, if I were you.’
My eyes narrowed as my head began to throb at the base of my skull. ‘Why not?’
He flashed a polite smile. ‘Be a dear, get a bottle of wine and share a glass with your old godfather.’
‘Do you really need to remind me of family obligations? Remember, old boy, that I don’t have them any more.’
I left the room, giving myself the space to think. My father often referred to his protégé as ‘the Spider’, noting that Matthew wasn’t just drawn to intrigue – he orchestrated it. And now he expected me to become a willing pawn in his schemes? Not bloody likely.
‘Lisbet?’ His low voice called from the other room. ‘I do hope you haven’t shimmied out of a window.’
‘Stinking Spider.’
I rummaged through the kitchen for a bottle and corkscrew. As my hand closed around the little metal device, I saw Alex open a bottle with the dead German’s jackknife. I had few options on that day, no connection to the Resistance, no way to get us to safety. Just instincts, and his death was a reminder of how that had worked out.
My options weren’t much better now. Alex was dead. Philip was dead. The only ‘friend’ I had in this country was my godfather – a man my father had trusted, and whom I had trusted, until he relayed Lady Anne’s ultimatum. But he needed something, and as long as I was useful, he would protect me. Contrary to his claim, I wasn’t family – I was an asset.
Grabbing two crystal wine glasses from a cabinet, I returned to the parlour, determined to show no weakness. Put the bottle and glasses down on a coffee table, and looked around for the first time. The room was small but well appointed. A brocade sofa the colour of double cream was flanked by two matching armchairs. Across the room, under an oil painting of a grandee, was the piano. It had seen better days but despite the humidity, it was still in tune.
‘You always played well.’
‘Yes? Well, I’ve played a different sort of piano for the past year.’
‘Ah, yes. The wireless.’
His bland tone confirmed that he knew what I did for SOE, and the cloak-and-dagger nature of my arrival – and his – gave an indication of what he wanted. I played along.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked.
‘You do.’ Matthew handed me a glass and raised his own in a silent toast. ‘Tell me about France.’
‘Why?’
He was silent, his black eyes locked on my face as he waited for me to continue.
‘It’s all classified. I’m sure you’re aware that I signed the Official Secrets Act.’
‘I’m quite sure my clearance is sufficient.’
‘I’m quite sure it is.’ My polite smile matched his. ‘Have someone look it up.’ I sipped the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. ‘What do you want me to tell you? What it feels like to be shot? To shoot someone? It’s different from a distance as opposed to close up, you know.’
‘I know.’ His quiet voice took the wind from my sails.
‘There
