His wife held out her hand, which made Adelaide blink in confusion. “I am Evelyn Lorenz, my Lady.”
Belatedly, Adelaide took the woman’s gloved hand and shook it with an inexpert grip. She caught an overly strong whiff of bergamot and spices from the woman’s sachet. “I…ah…hello.”
Siegfried Lorenz merely beamed at his wife’s forwardness, unaware of the social gaff.
Boyd gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “The world beyond one’s door can be an interesting place.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Lorenz said, with a chuckle.
“What brings you to England, Mr…I mean, Herr Lorenz?”
“Oh, Siggy is a distant cousin to Edward,” Evelyn Lorenz said, with a light trill.
“I am an industrialist,” Lorenz added, with a proud note.
“What is an industrialist?” Adele asked, genuinely curious.
“A captain of industry,” Boyd said. “Although I’m not quite sure what that means, myself, except that it must involve steam and oil and dirty windows.”
Everyone gave polite laughs, while Adele stared at the portly industrialist. Surely the German agent would not be German himself? Wasn’t that simply too obvious?
But he was a stranger to her, one of only seven, while everyone else in the room Adele could not bear to think of as a possible traitor to Britain. It was simply too distressing.
Boyd adroitly manoeuvred Adele about the room, until she had met and spoken with the other five strangers, which was made easier because four of them were couples, and one couple were accompanied by their debutante daughter, who was only sixteen years old.
The other couple were well into their sixties and after three minutes of conversation, Adele realized that Baron Upton was a friend of her father’s. Regardless of her personal thoughts concerning her father and his many friends, Adele rather doubted any of them, her father included, would betray England.
By the time the dinner gong sounded, Adele felt useless and out of sorts. Knowing that someone around the dinner table was coldly arranging the murder of the King of England destroyed what little appetite she’d had.
IT WAS A RELIEF TO be shown to her room by a maid in a starched apron and cap, very much later that night. Adele walked about the Persian rug between the bed and the wardrobe in tight little circles, squeezing and flexing her hands.
She was letting Melville down. She was not a spy. She couldn’t even hold a conversation with these people without Boyd’s arm to hold and his presence to make them talk. She was pitiful. And the King was still in danger, because she didn’t have a single suspicion about anyone.
Adele refused to consider Herr Lorenz as a suspect. It was a conceit to think that because he was German, he was a terrible man capable of killing another. She had known many Germans in Cape Town, all of them of sterling character.
Surely, an agent who had managed to keep his identity from Mr. Melville would remain safely unrevealed by her poor investigation?
The knock on her door was soft, designed not to be heard by the occupants of the adjoining bedrooms.
Adele pulled her peignoir in close about her throat and opened the door.
Boyd Waterman leaned against the doorframe, his smile making his moustache bristle. “Hello again.”
Adele looked along the passage in either direction. It was deserted. “Boyd, whatever are you doing here?”
He stepped into the room. “You know why I’m here.” He whipped his arm around her and pulled her up against him. “Mmm… You smell very good indeed.” His moustache pushed against her face.
Adele gave a squeak and shoved on his shoulders, leaning away from his mouth. “Boyd, let me go!” She shoved harder.
“Give it up, old gal,” he breathed. “There’s no need to pretend. Hold still.”
Adele struggled harder. “I mean it, Boyd. Let go!”
He paused from trying to kiss her and frowned. “You mean it?”
“Yes, damn it!”
His eyes widened. “Well, really…”
Adele shoved at his chest once more.
Then Boyd laughed and his arm tightened. “Keep your modesty if you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you need attention now you’re a widow. So protest all you like. I know you’re eager.”
Adele sucked in a breath that felt as if she was inhaling all the air in the room. On top of the little irritations and injustices this evening had handed her, along with her growing sense of failure, this was the last and utter straw.
She curled up her fist, leaned back and twisted, then swing with all her might for the bridge of Boyd’s rather large nose.
The crack her fist made sounded very loud—even louder than her thundering heart.
Boyd staggered back, his hand to his nose, which instantly streamed blood.
Adele let out a shocked breath and shook her hand. “Hugh was right. It’s better when you tuck your thumb in.”
“You broke my nose!” Boyd’s voice was muffled and wet.
“You’d better go to the bathroom and run water over your nose. You don’t want people asking how you got it.” Adele’s heart was slowing. Cool calmness replaced the frantic panic which had been building, along with a growing sense of satisfaction, as Boyd reeled and grunted in pain.
Adele took his shoulders, turned him toward the door and pushed him through it. Boyd staggered along the passage, his free hand guiding him along the wall.
Then she raised her hand and examined the knuckles. One of them was scraped. They all hurt. Her whole hand did, actually.
“Ice,” she decided, and marched in the direction she thought the kitchens lay.
Ice…and time to think.
THE INTERCONNECTED KITCHENS WERE DARK, the staff long since
