The Bachelor Spy (A Freddie and Grace Mystery #5)

Prologue

Stephen Blake had been trailing the presumed spy most of the voyage—first to secure his target, and then …

to strike. Every clue pointed to the fact that the gregarious businessman Donald Leaman was none other than Albert Stein, a German informant ferrying English war secrets straight to the fatherland.

Unfortunately, every opportunity Blake had found to confront the man had been thwarted: too many watchful eyes, too much pomp and luxury for a clean cornering. With the Lusitania‘s transatlantic voyage ending in less than a day, his time to complete this mission was slipping away.

Worse, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed himself.

Only a limited few knew of his operation to uncover a ghostlike informant who’d used their “ordinary” position to gain extraordinary intelligence—from transfer stations, casualty clearing posts, even a general’s bunker at the Western Front.

The spy had proven maddeningly elusive, slipping through every trap British intelligence laid with almost theatrical flair.

But what did they know? Stein was the spy’s last contact. And Blake was tasked with finding out what he knew.

The Lusitania was hardly Blake’s first ship, but certainly it was the grandest. It felt as though Claridge’s, the famous hotel in London, had taken to the sea, complete with its extravagant marble floors and its crystal chandeliers, with champagne in the air and ease all around.

Just after luncheon, Stein had excused himself early and started down the grand staircase toward the lower decks. An odd choice for a first-class passenger, especially so near the end of the trip and with his companions urging him to remain for cards.

So, of course, Blake followed.

Deck by deck, corridor by corridor, until the music and chatter faded into the deep measured thrum of the engines.

Occasionally, Stein cast a look behind him but never appeared concerned enough to stop his descent. This was certainly a planned meeting.

The elegance of the upper floors gave way to simpler decor, narrower corridors. Second-class accommodations. Stein stopped before a cabin door. His knock held an unnatural rhythm—three quick raps, a pause, two more. After only a beat of silence, a murmur from within responded.

Stein’s immediate whispered answer? “Octavia.”

A code word, no doubt.

The door opened. Stein slipped inside, but before the door could click shut, Blake rushed soundlessly forward and caught it with his fingertips.

Perfect.

He released a self-satisfied grin and then pressed himself against the corridor wall, listening through the crack over the hum of the ship’s engine.

The cabin was small—voices carried easily in the confined space—and the faint scent of cigarette smoke drifted through the opening.

“You’re late.” A man’s voice, crisp and impatient. Something about the cadence nagged at Blake’s memory, but he couldn’t place it. English, certainly. Kentish?

Blake frowned. He could overpower Stein easily—the man was more socialite than combatant, the sort who’d probably never thrown a proper punch in his life.

But this unknown fellow, clearly in charge and confident enough to smoke a cigarette while conducting treason?

That suggested either experience or exceptional stupidity.

Blake hoped for the latter but suspected the former.

“It was difficult to get away without raising suspicion,” Stein replied, his accent thickening into full German. “Blake is on this ship.”

Blake’s pulse quickened. So Stein knew he was being followed.

“I know.” The other man’s tone didn’t waver. A long exhale followed, as if he were breathing out smoke. “We’ve been watching him to ensure he didn’t wreck things.”

We?

Who?

Blake’s mind raced through the passenger manifest, through his team members, through every face he’d seen on this voyage. That voice …

“But with that in mind, we need to move quickly,” the Englishman continued. “What do you have for me?”

A rustle of papers. “The Midnight Angel’s next assignment. She’s to embed herself in a convalescent hospital—but not in France this time. There is too much interest in her there.”

Blake’s breath caught. She was called the Midnight Angel? The informant they’d been hunting for months. And she was a woman.

“Italy, then?”

“Nein,” Stein answered simply. “A place much closer to your front door, mein Herr.”

England? A convalescent hospital in England?

“Perfect,” the Englishman murmured. “Wounded officers talk too freely around nurses they think are angels of mercy.”

“Clever, no?” Stein’s voice held a note of pride. “No one suspects the nurses. They’re invisible, really. Moving between stations, tending to generals and privates alike. She’s already proven invaluable.”

“This is excellent information, Stein.” A pause. “And you’ve given it so freely. Too freely, I’m afraid.”

Blake froze. He knew that tone—the shift from curiosity to finality. The Englishman was finished with Stein. The German had served his purpose, been found wanting, and now … had become a liability.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Stein had to be taken alive—had to be questioned, catalogued, and wrung dry of every detail about the Midnight Angel and her network before—

He drew his revolver and pushed through the door.

The scene materialized in a horrifying instant.

Stein stood near a narrow desk, documents scattered before him. And holding a gun already drawn, already aimed at Stein’s head with casual confidence, stood Evan Montgomery.

Blake’s breath squeezed closed in his throat.

Montgomery? His colleague. His friend. The man he’d trained with in Scotland, shared terrible army rations with in the trenches, trusted with his life on half a dozen missions across the Channel.

The man whose sister Blake had been half in love with for six months but was far too professional to mention. The man who was, apparently, a traitor.

Well. That complicated things.

“Blake.” Montgomery didn’t flinch, didn’t lower the weapon. Something cold and calculating flickered in his eyes. “I was wondering when you’d make your entrance. Always did have impeccable timing.”

“What are you—?” Blake’s own gun came up, but his mind struggled to reconcile what he was seeing. This was rather like discovering one’s vicar running a smuggling operation. Unexpected and deeply unnerving. “Put the weapon down. We can sort this—”

“I’m afraid we’re past sorting things, old man.” Montgomery’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Some secrets are worth killing for. Surely you understand that.”

Stein’s eyes widened.

“Wait—”

The gunshot cracked through the tiny cabin.

Stein jerked backward, a bloom of crimson appearing at his temple. Papers fluttered around him as he quietly crumpled, dead before he struck the floor.

“No!“ Blake lunged forward, but it was too late. He trained his revolver on Montgomery again. “What have you done?”

“What was necessary.” Montgomery lowered his gun with infuriating calm, as if he’d just completed routine target practice. “The question is, Blake, what are you going to do about it? Shoot me? Your friend? Your teammate?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That will look splendid in the report.”

“Why?” Blake’s attention kept alert, despite the incomprehensibility of it all. “We … we are on the same team.”

“Were,” Montgomery corrected, shrugging a shoulder with remarkable nonchalance for a man who’d just committed murder. “Sometimes one must follow the most lucrative option.”

No. Montgomery was helping the enemy? Blake’s entire understanding of reality was rapidly requiring revision.

Inconvenient, that.

Before Blake could respond, footsteps pounded in the corridor outside.

“Evan?” A woman’s voice, breathless. “I heard a shot—”

Evie Montgomery, Evan’s twin, burst through the door. Her revolver was drawn with the skill of someone who’d been doing this long before most women were allowed anywhere near intelligence work. A family trait passed from father to children.

Her dark auburn hair was pinned back from her face beneath a stylish, fitted straw hat with a single flower at one edge that matched her rose-colored day suit.

Those sharp, perceptive eyes—so deep blue they were nearly violet—swept the room in an instant, taking in her brother, then Blake with his gun raised, then the body on the floor.

She was easily as clever as her brother. Dangerous when thwarted. Looked absolutely devastating in rose, which was really quite unfair considering the circumstances.

“Evie, thank God.” Montgomery’s entire demeanor transformed, his voice tensing with barely controlled panic that would have fooled anyone who hadn’t just seen him commit cold-blooded murder. “It’s Blake. He’s the traitor.”

Blake spun his attention back to Montgomery. “I’m what now?”

“He’s the one we’ve been looking for, within our ranks all along. I followed him here—he killed Stein before I could stop him. Before I could gather any intel. He was about to shoot me when you arrived.”

Blake’s stomach dropped to somewhere near his boots.

Possibly lower. He was fairly certain it was attempting to relocate to the floor below.

He’d walked directly into a perfect trap.

“That’s not—Evie, you can’t possibly believe—” He kept his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers. “You know me. You know what I am.”

Something flickered across her face—doubt, perhaps, or pain—but her brother moved between them.

Montgomery, curse him, must have seen it too.

“Don’t listen to him, Evie. He’s been playing us both. Why do you think he was so interested in your work? In getting close to you?” Montgomery’s voice dripped with manufactured hurt. “He knew I suspected him. This was his way of keeping tabs on our investigation.”

“No, Evie—” But how could he compete with the silver-tongued words of her own twin?