Christophe extricated himself, placing his flute beside Claudine’s and making his way to the door. Her teeth bit into her lower lip as she trailed behind him. Schüller opened both doors on the right side of the Peugeot, settling Claudine in front and sliding into the back, pressing his knee against mine.
It was going to be a long night.
*
‘He’s handsome,’ Claudine hissed once the men were out of earshot. ‘Charming and well placed. Please be civil!’
‘I am being civil.’
After all, I haven’t stabbed the pompous bore yet, I silently added.
With a half-smile frozen on my face, I watched the room. Bronze silk curtains complemented the enormous oil paintings: nymphs and satyrs, lords and ladies, young men and old, with uniforms dating back to the Great War. It could have been one of Lady Anne’s drawing rooms.
‘For pity’s sake, Solange! He’s eligible! Make an effort, will you?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Please!’
‘Stop meddling.’
She gave me a filthy look and waggled her fingers, urging me in the Austrian’s direction. He stood at a makeshift bar in the corner, flanked by Christophe and another man.
‘Oh, very well.’
She was right – it wouldn’t do to be a wallflower; there was always the chance I could learn something interesting. I accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, and listened to snippets of conversation. Congratulations were being exchanged, but I had yet to learn what for. Perhaps the major knew.
‘Fairly imminent, from what I’m hearing,’ the man beside Christophe said. He was the man I’d seen the first night in the casino. The one who had pointed his young friend in my direction. I strained to catch the gist of the conversation before they noticed me. ‘The only question is whether it will be Sicily or Sardinia.’
‘Sardinia,’ Schüller declared. ‘Most certainly. And the Führer agrees. Troops have already been sent to reinforce the island.’
A laughing couple edged past me, causing me to miss his next sentence. All I caught were the words ‘Marine’ and ‘Something something Major Martin’. Martin? That didn’t sound like a German name. Perhaps a German spy? I sidled closer.
The older man sipped his drink. His eyes were unfocused, but his words were sly.
‘Graf seems certain Sardinia is a bluff, that it’ll be Sicily.’
‘What does Graf know?’ the Austrian laughed. ‘Surely not more than the Führer!’
‘No, I wouldn’t think so.’ The man paused, seeing me hovering. Schüller smiled. ‘Ah, Frau Verin, I see you couldn’t wait for a drink?’
I raised an eyebrow and held up my glass of champagne.
‘Then it must be my company you’re after,’ he smirked, settling his free hand on my bottom.
I ignored their amused looks as I shifted out of the major’s reach, intrigued enough by their conversation to ignore his bad manners.
‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you.’
‘No, my dear,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you. A Viennese waltz is playing, and I am certain the Herr Major would like to show you off.’
‘Thank you, Herr . . . ?’
‘Von Hoyningen-Huene. Enjoy your dance.’
I forced a smile and held out my hand. ‘Herr Major?’
‘Haydn,’ he corrected.
He nodded to von Hoyningen-Heune and, placing my hand on his arm, led me on to the dance floor.
‘This soirée,’ I began, my curiosity getting the better of me. ‘Is it for any particular reason?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He pulled me close as we twirled around a rotund couple, the woman glittering in diamonds, her gown straining at the seams. The man’s upper body bulged over the top of what must be a corset.
‘Because at every turn, people are congratulating each other. It’s either that, or we’re at a wedding reception and the happy couple are nowhere to be seen.’
Another officer danced past, paused and smiled at Schüller.
‘Well done, Herr Major.’
Schüller inclined his head and I saw an opportunity for a quid pro quo.
‘Is it my company he’s congratulating you on?’
His blue cat’s eyes danced. ‘As well.’
Clearly he was enjoying being privy to something I was not. Either he’d tell me in his own time, or someone else would. Claudine, no doubt, would have all the relevant details by the end of the evening.
We danced in silence, pausing as one man after another met Schüller’s eyes. He basked in their adulation. I stifled a yawn, hoping Claudine was as bored as I was.
‘We concluded a successful venture yesterday,’ Schüller finally offered.
‘Venture?’
That was a strange choice of words. I’d expected ‘battle’ or ‘campaign’. Venture?
‘One that went according to plan. Again.’ He slid his hand down my back.
Picking the gossip out of Claudine was a better option. I saw her crossing the dance floor, so I made my excuses and followed her to the lavatory.
‘Are you having a good time, Solange? I saw you speaking with the ambassador earlier. Isn’t he charming?’
‘Who?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Huene. Germany’s ambassador to Portugal. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. I also don’t know why everyone is stopping us every three feet to congratulate Major Schüller.’
‘Didn’t Christophe tell you?’ Claudine asked, leaning close to the looking glass to inspect her face.
‘Christophe didn’t tell me anything. Your husband barely talks to me.’
She dusted her face, masking the signs of exhaustion.
‘Christophe never talks to anyone. Don’t take it personally.’
‘I’m not. But your major is playing I-know-something-you-don’t-know, and it’s driving me mad.’
She grinned. ‘So he is getting to you. I’m so pleased!’
I gritted my teeth. Schüller was getting to me, all right. If Christophe wanted to take an easy bet, he’d put his money on me slapping the Austrian before the evening was out.
‘How can you not know!’ a bejewelled matron exclaimed. ‘And you with the Herr Major! A marvellous victory, our Luftwaffe sank two Allied ships the day before yesterday, and another one yesterday!’ She leant in close. ‘He received personal congratulations of the Fliegerführer Atlantik!’
Focke-Wulfs over the cliffs of Cabo de São Vicente. A burning convoy. Mangled bodies in the sea. Whatever else was happening with the smuggling, here was another threat: someone was informing the Luftwaffe of Allied ships leaving port, and I’d bet anything the
