Chapter 5 #2
Despite it going against his character, he might very well ask the Almighty for a clear explanation.
Preferably in writing.
Blake paused at the top of the main staircase, scanning the entrance hall below.
A few orderlies moved patients toward the afternoon activity room, the ambulatory ones following at a leisurely shuffle.
Mrs. Powell directed a footman with the efficiency of someone who might do well on the battlefield.
Still there was no sign of Grace.
A flash of dark auburn hair caught his eye in the corridor below.
Her.
Blake’s jaw tightened.
Evie—Helen—moved among the others, carrying a stack of linens toward the servants’ quarters. To anyone else, she’d appear exactly as she claimed to be: a competent housemaid going about her duties.
But Blake had spent more than a year working beside her. He knew how she moved when she was playing a role, the subtle difference in her gait when she was armed versus unarmed, the way her eyes never stopped noting exits and threats even when her face showed nothing but demure servitude.
As she passed beneath his perch at the top of the stairs, she raised her gaze.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.
Something flickered in those violet-blue depths before she looked away and continued on.
But what? Was she trying to sort him out as he was her?
Was she relieved he was alive, concerned he might blow her cover, or worse, fearful he would stop her from completing her treacherous mission?
Blake released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Focus. Find Grace. Deal with the ghost later.
He pivoted toward the library, then paused. Voices drifted from one of the small recovery rooms down the corridor—a woman’s voice, cheerful and encouraging, punctuated by the slower, slightly slurred responses of a patient. Had the woman asked about troops?
Blake moved toward the conversation, intending to investigate, when a firm voice stopped him.
“Mr. Blake.”
He turned to find Nurse Wilson standing in the corridor, her arms crossed, her expression as stern as ever. She’d approached with remarkable silence—Blake prided himself on awareness, yet she’d managed to get within a few feet without him noticing.
Impressive.
And unsettling.
“Nurse Wilson.” He offered his most charming smile. “We meet again.”
“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been quite observant these past few days.” Her dark eyes studied him with uncomfortable intensity. “Are you in search of more distraction, sir?”
Blake cocked a brow and offered her a smile. “War makes many observant, I should think.”
“Hmm …” Her eyes narrowed. “But your observations include walking the corridors at odd hours. Watching the staff. Asking patients seemingly casual questions about their care.” She took a step closer, and Blake caught the faint scent of carbolic soap and something else—lavender, perhaps.
The severity of your injuries appears remarkably… . fluid.
His jaw tensed fractionally before he could control it.
How could Grace’s little mystery and her possible pregnancy have set him off his guard and his skill so thoroughly?
He never had to worry about such things when on the field.
Except, on occasion, when it came to a certain distracting auburn-haired traitor.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Wilson’s voice dropped lower.
“I’ve been nursing wounded soldiers for three years, Mr. Blake.
I know what real injuries look like. How men move when they’re in genuine pain.
How long various wounds take to heal.” Her gaze traveled deliberately to his leg.
“From your paperwork, your ‘injury’ should cause your limp to be much more pronounced, perhaps even require crutches.”
Blake kept his expression mildly confused. “I’ve been fortunate in my recovery—”
“I don’t know who you really are or what you’re doing here,” she continued, her voice quieter but no less intense.
“But I run a respectable hospital ward. If you’re malingering to avoid returning to the Front, that’s one thing.
Cowardly, but understandable.” Her eyes narrowed.
“But if you’re here for some other purpose—if you’re investigating the staff, watching us, looking for something untoward—”
“I assure you—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “I’ve seen men lie about worse things than fake injuries.
But whatever your game is, Mr. Blake, stay away from my nurses.
Especially the younger ones. They’re volunteers doing their best in impossible circumstances.
They don’t need some mysterious ‘patient’ watching their every move. ”
Blake’s mind caught on that. Especially the younger ones. Was Wilson protecting someone for nefarious reasons? Or was this genuine concern?
“I have no ill intentions, toward your patients or your staff, Nurse Wilson.”
“Whatever your intentions, then, if you harm these patients or my nurses, you’ll have more to worry about than maintaining your fictional injury. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” Blake held her gaze. “And I assure you, I am injured.” Just not in a way she could see. “And I am not avoiding returning to active service. Once my doctor”—or director—”releases me, I will happily quit your fine establishment.”
She stared at him a moment longer and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Blake remained motionless.
Wilson had just confronted him. Threatened him. Admitted to watching him. Mentioned protecting her nurses—especially the younger ones. And she’d been at the window overlooking the chapel ruins, something he’d noted earlier in the morning.
Perhaps Evie wasn’t the traitor after all.
Every instinct screamed that he’d just been confronted by the Midnight Angel.
She was warning him off. Letting him know she’d spotted him investigating. Establishing that she was aware, alert, and not to be trifled with.
The confrontation had many of the marks of an operative protecting her cover.
Didn’t it?
Blake’s suspicions grew stronger.
But then what the devil was Evie doing here?
He needed to talk to her. Discover her reasons.
But first—he glanced toward the room where he’d heard that cheerful voice asking questions—he should at least verify what the curious conversation down the hall was about.
Blake moved quietly toward the doorway, positioning himself where he could hear without being seen.
“And what was your commanding officer like?”
The question tightened every muscle in Blake’s body.
“I’ve heard they could be as strict as Nurse Wilson when someone wrinkles a bedsheet.” The chipper voice came again, the sentiment almost humorous if Blake wasn’t on edge about the hospital’s infiltration.
The male mumbled some response, barely audible.
“My brother writes to me, but he’s dreadfully vague about everything,” the woman responded. “The censors, you know.” Then she asked something else, her voice too low to hear.
Blake shifted nearer the doorway, angling to see inside.
A young nurse—who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three—sat beside Lieutenant Hargrove’s bed.
Nurse Rivers, if Blake remembered correctly.
One of the Voluntary Aid Detachment volunteers who’d arrived over a fortnight ago, from what Grace said.
The VADs were full of patriotic fervor and boundless energy that the more experienced nurses found either endearing or exhausting, depending on the day.
Lieutenant Hargrove lay propped against his pillows, his eyes slightly unfocused in that telltale way that suggested he’d been given morphine recently. The man’s leg was elevated, bandaged from a shrapnel wound that had required surgery just yesterday.
“Gallipoli,” Hargrove murmured, his words coming slow and thick. “Heat. Terrible heat. And the flies … couldn’t escape the flies. They were everywhere, on everything …”
“How dreadful.” Nurse Rivers leaned forward and tucked the blanket more securely around Hargrove, her face rapt with interest. “And your regiment—the 29th Division, wasn’t it?
My brother mentioned that division specifically in one of his letters.
Were you involved in the August offensive at Suvla Bay? ”
Blake’s eyes narrowed.
He’d overheard two similar conversations.
One from Evie and now this?
And of course, the question seemed innocent enough—a young woman interested in her patient’s service, perhaps trying to connect through shared knowledge of her brother’s experience.
But it was also the exact sort of question someone gathering intelligence would ask.
“Suvla,” Hargrove repeated, his head lolling slightly against the pillow.
“We landed at night. Thought we’d have the element of surprise.
But the Turks … they were ready for us. Lost half our company on the first day.
Heath was beside me one moment, and then”—he made a vague gesture with his hand—”gone. Just … gone.”
“Oh, how awful.” Nurse Rivers’ voice dripped with sympathy.
She adjusted his pillow, voice dropping as the man clearly fought sleep.
“You’re very brave. All of you.” She sighed.
“And the officers who led the landing—were they experienced men? My brother worries about the young lieutenants they’re sending over now, straight from training. Said it’s a disaster sometimes.”
Blake tilted his head to hear more clearly. Another seemingly innocent question. But asking about officer experiences, about leadership during specific engagements?
That was intelligence work dressed up as friendly conversation.
“General Stopford … command,” Hargrove said, his eyes starting to drift closed. “Though there was talk … talk that he didn’t push hard enough. Should have taken the heights while we had the chance. Turks hold them, and we’re stuck on the beaches …”
“And are all those forces still positioned at Sulva Bay?” Nurse Rivers asked in wonder. “Was it safe there?”