His Majesty's Hope(73)

“What are you doing here, Fräulein Hoffman?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” Maggie lied. “I thought I’d come downstairs for some cooler air.”

Herr Oberg looked down on her. “I couldn’t sleep, either,” he said at last. “We seem to suffer from the same affliction.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. In the darkness, given her state of undress, it seemed a forward, even possessive, gesture. The touch of his hand on her shoulder burned. Maggie kept completely still, not meeting his eyes. “Get some sleep, Fräulein Hoffman,” he said finally. “I’m having a few important guests over on Saturday night. I would like you to sit at the foot of my dinner table and be hostess.”

Maggie’s mind raced. She remembered that he’d mentioned the possibility earlier. “Wouldn’t that honor fall to your daughter?”

“Alexandra is in no condition to be seen,” he said. “You—you will be splendid.”

She had to get away. “Yes, Herr Oberg,” she said, making her way back to the door to the servants’ staircase.

“Wear something pretty,” he called. “If you don’t have anything suitable, my daughter surely has something. And there are gowns and jewels that belonged to my late wife—have my Alexandra show you those. They would suit you well.”

“Yes, Herr Oberg. Good night,” Maggie said as she reached the door and opened it, bolting up the stairs, her heart in her throat. Play hostess at a Nazi dinner? Wear a dead woman’s jewels? Oh, which ring of hell are we in now?

Maggie went back to her room, her head spinning. She felt as if her cover might be approaching its expiration date.





Chapter Fourteen


Freddie knelt by David’s still body until the ambulance arrived. One of the onlookers found David’s wire-rimmed eyeglasses, which had fallen during the attack, miraculously unbroken. He handed them to Freddie, who slipped them inside his breast pocket. Without his spectacles, David’s face looked young and intensely vulnerable.

The ambulance finally arrived. “You know, we have bombs falling almost every night,” one of the medics grumbled, adjusting his steel helmet. “It’s not like you lads need to go out looking for trouble.”

Freddie looked up with a grim face. “Trouble found us.”

The other medic was examining David’s wounds. “Stab wounds to the abdomen. Can’t tell how deep, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Let’s take him in.”

“Where?” Freddie asked.

“Guy’s Hospital has a few open beds last I heard. We’ll try there.”

“You’ll try there?”

“Lots injured this week—all the beds are full.” The medic and his partner lifted David onto a stretcher and moved him to the back of the ambulance. “But we’ll make sure he’s all right and they get all the glass out, of course.”

The low, forlorn wail of the air-raid siren sounded. “Oh, hell,” the first man grumbled. “Damned Blitz—come on.”

Freddie prepared to board, too. “Wait—are you family?” the first medic asked.

“I’m—I’m a … friend,” Freddie said.

“Look, sir—if you’re not immediate family, the best thing you can do is go home and contact his next of kin. Then come to the hospital.”

The ambulance door slammed closed in Freddie’s face.


Freddie knew he had to call David’s parents.

He took a taxi, infuriatingly slow in the blackout, back to David’s flat in Knightsbridge. He could hear planes overhead and bombs dropping in the distance—the East End, most likely. But there was no time to think. Freddie took the stairs two at a time, opened the door with the spare key David always left on the transom, then ran to David’s study. His desk was a mess, with papers, files, books, and letters everywhere. Freddie turned on the desk light.

“Address book … address book,” he muttered. Finally, he found it, a tiny leather volume, pages filled with David’s flourish-marked script. Hands shaking, Freddie flipped through it, looking for Greene. Finally, he found it: Benjamin and Ruth Greene’s country house in the Lake District.

He picked up the receiver. “Yes, Operator,” Freddie said. “Please connect me.” He gave the number.

A bomb dropped on a building down the street. There was a shattering explosion, which knocked Freddie to the floor. The power failed, but he managed to hold on to the receiver. Freddie tested his limbs—nothing seemed to be broken. Miraculously, the connection was completed.

“Yes, is this Mr. Benjamin Greene?” Freddie said. “Sir, this is Freddie Wright, your son’s … friend. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but David’s had an accident. He’s been taken to Guy’s Hospital, in London.”