Bouncing Betty by Liliana Hart (english reading book .TXT) 📕

Just as the servant was leaving, another maid walked into the breakfast room with a beautiful bouquet of red roses. There was a note attached.

“Maybe he hasn’t gotten the news yet,” I said to Esther, looking at the roses as if they were poisonous. “Someone who’s just been told that half of his prisoners are gone probably won’t be in a flower-sending mood.”

“Good point,” she said. “Maybe his officers are still trying to decide who should be the bearer of bad news. I wouldn’t want that job. Wagner is known for shooting the messenger. Literally. What does the card say?”

I took the card from the maid and turned over the expensive stationery in my hand. And then I slid my finger under the flap and opened it.

“He wrote it himself,” I said, recognizing his handwriting. “He says he’d like to take me on a drive along the coast this afternoon and get to know me better. That I have consumed his thoughts since the moment he laid eyes on me. That definitely doesn’t sound like a man who’s just been given bad news. But it does fit his profile. Wagner considers himself a romantic, and he wines and dines his conquests lavishly.”

“Until he gets tired of them,” Esther said warningly.

“Then I just have to make sure he doesn’t get tired of me,” I said, pushing back from the table. “He’s sending a car for me at one o’clock. I’d better go get ready. A soak in the tub sounds like exactly what I need.”

“You should probably work on getting that stupid grin off your face too,” Esther said. “A man like Wagner is going to recognize that look, and he’s going to realize he wasn’t the one who gave it to you.”

I chose my clothing carefully, going with a navy and polka dot dress that nipped in tight at the waist and accentuated my generous bosom. The sleeves were capped and the skirt floated around my knees flirtily. I paired in with a jaunty navy hat with a large white flower on the side and white gloves. I slicked my lips with red and touched my cheeks with rouge. My lashes were thick and dark, so I’d never used mascara.

There was a knock at the door, and I looked at the clock, noticing there was still plenty of time before the car arrived to pick me up.

“Come in,” I said, moving to the table where I’d laid my knife, carefully sliding my handbag on top of it so it was concealed.

Margueritte poked her head in the door and said, “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but Mr. Smithers would like to see you in his office.”

“Thank you, Margueritte,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”

She nodded and closed the door, and I quickly tied the knife to my garter and practiced pulling it a couple of times to make sure it was in a comfortable spot. It was the only thing my father had given me before he’d sent his only daughter across the ocean to live with strangers. In fact, it might have been the only thing he’d ever given me. I couldn’t really remember.

I didn’t know why I was thinking of my father now, but it wasn’t the time. Wild Bill Holmes had never brought anything but misery to anyone he ever came across, unless they were making him money. Then he could be a real delight. But having him in my thoughts was a distraction, and I couldn’t afford any distractions. Wagner wasn’t a stupid man, and I knew he was studying me as much as I was studying him.

I’d never been called to George Smithers’ study before. I assumed that Esther had told him about my plans for the afternoon and he had specific instructions for me. George was my host, but he was also my direct contact for mission assignments. He’d been in my debriefing along with Graham and two other men who didn’t tell me their names.

I knocked on the heavy walnut door and he opened it himself, ushering me inside. George was a big man who carried a slight paunch around his middle. He reminded me of a walrus with his bushy mustache, squinty eyes, and bald head, but his mind was brilliant.

He closed the door behind me and then went directly to the bookcase behind his desk, pulling on a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. There was a soft click and the bookcase swung open.

“Come,” he said softly, ushering me through the opening and into the dark tunnel. I heard a match light behind me and saw him put flame to wick in an oil lamp, and then he closed the bookcase behind him.

I’d been told the tunnel had been in existence since the Revolution, and those who’d known of its existence were considered the official secret keepers, who had been passed from generation to generation.

There were several different paths to take, and then others that had been blocked with stones. It smelled of earth and the sea, and I was careful not to brush up against anything so as not to muss my clothing.

It was no more than a five-minute walk since the Smitherses lived close to Number 1 Dorset Square. I’d made the trek several times before to the Alliance headquarters, so I knew to watch my step toward the end of the tunnel as it inclined slightly.

George knocked twice on the wall in front of us, waited several seconds, and then knocked four more times at a slightly faster tempo. There was an answering knock from the other side and then George knocked once more. The knock from the other side had been a question of sorts. It was asking if the person on the other side was there of their own free will or if the enemy was with them. One knock in answer meant everything was as it should be. Two knocks meant that all hell would break loose the second the door creaked open.

The door on