A Name Unknown Read online

  The other man leaned his head back. “You read where that author fellow—Wells? H. G. Wells, that’s it. He accused King George of being uninspiring and foreign.”

  “Did he really? What did the king have to say?”

  Rosemary stood, handbag clutched in her hand, knees bent to steady her as the train screeched to a halt. The doors opened, and she stepped off, barely catching Jonesy’s reply.

  “Said he may well be uninspiring, but he sure as blazes wasn’t foreign.”

  Rosemary’s lips curled up as she stepped off onto the tube platform and hurried away. The king had certainly been born and bred in England, there was no disputing that—but what of this Holstein? She’d have to figure it out. Barclay could tell her where to go looking for such information. Probably—unfortunately—some library somewhere with newspapers archived.

  She screwed up her face at the very thought of that. Give her a ballroom glittering with gems ready to be swiped any day. A museum full of the latest security. She’d even learn to drive one of those rumble-throated automobiles if stealing it paid well enough.

  But nothing paid so well as Mr. V. So she’d likely have to suffer days in the library. It wasn’t that she disliked reading, it was just that she preferred reading certain things. Old newspapers not among them.

  Light spilled from the windows of the pub, making her hasten her step. Pauly would have a kettle on and a cup waiting to steep for her. And, today being Tuesday, meat pies. Her mouth watered at the very thought. She’d skipped tea. And luncheon. Breakfast had been a boiled egg. She and Willa had given most of their food to a couple of urchins the night before—after feeding the little ones they claimed as their own, of course—and they both agreed they would rather not dip into their savings to buy more just yet. Willa had need of a new evening gown—some stumbling drunk had ripped hers beyond repair last week—and the silk and beads would cost all they’d put back and then some. Though with this advance payment from Mr. V, that wouldn’t be an issue. Tomorrow they could go shopping.

  But tonight would be meat pies, laughter, a steaming cup, and perhaps even . . . yes. She smiled as she pushed open the door and heard the lively strains of a violin. Willa was playing. With gusto tonight—an energetic tune that sounded Irish to Rosemary’s ears. Her best friend—her sister for more than a decade—grinned at her as she slid through the crowded room but didn’t interrupt her playing.

  Rosemary grinned back and nodded to let her know she’d taken the job from Mr. V. An occasion deserving of an energetic tune and savory pie if ever there was one.

  “Rosie!”

  She headed to their usual corner, where the older members of the family were crowded around two tables shoved together. Her quick glance showed only Retta missing, and Georgie. Retta must have taken the little ones back to her flat after their early meal.

  It was the youngest of this older group who had shouted for her. Elinor, with her rosy cheeks and shining golden hair—she was getting far too pretty, their little Ellie. Pretty was notable, and notable was bad in their line of work. But Barclay was aware of that and had begun using her merely as a distraction.

  Much as it sometimes annoyed her to admit it, he knew what he was about, Barclay did. Even if he was a pain in her posterior. She waved her hello to Ellie and moved to the empty chair beside the oldest of her brothers, greeting him with a punch in the arm and a kiss on the cheek. “I got the job.”

  “Of course you did.” He raised his nearly empty pint. “To a successful day for Rosie!”

  “Cheers!” the group called out, raising their mugs too. A few even stood. Shakily. They must be celebrating something more than her success.

  She motioned them all back down and took her seat. “Good day?”

  “Oh. Oh, Rosie. The best day.” Barclay laughed and drained his cup. Then raised it again. “Another round, Pauly.”

  “You’ll regret that in the morning.” But she smiled. It had been too long since Barclay had grinned quite like that. “Let me guess . . . you stole the Crown Jewels.”

  “Ha!” But he laughed—at least until Pauly poured coffee into his mug rather than ale. Rosemary wrinkled her nose at how those flavors might mix, but after glaring at it for a moment, Barclay shrugged and took a sip. “Not bad, actually.”

  Rosemary shook her head and glanced over her shoulder to watch Willa play. She should have been wearing some overly fine gown while she did so, and be standing up on a stage at a conservatory. Not in a pub in a run-down neighborhood of London, with pipe smoke and curses clouding the air. “If not the Crown Jewels, then what?”

  Barclay chuckled again. “I’ll tell you what—I did it, that’s what. I stole the wedding ring right from the duchess’s finger and slipped it onto the duke’s mistress.”

  “No!” That got her full attention, and she spun back to face her brother with wide eyes. When she’d issued that challenge a month ago . . . “How did you manage it?”

  Barclay wiggled his fingers. “Magic hands, Rosie. Magic hands.”

  “I helped!” Ellie bounced on her seat across the table, blue eyes glittering like stolen gems. “I came up to the duke like I knew him, which of course made Her Grace wonder how . . . as if I’d ever know him like that—he’s so old! He’s fifty if he’s a day.”

  And a known philanderer, which was why it’d seemed like such an amusing challenge when she’d made it—though apparently she ought to have come up with something more difficult. Rosemary narrowed her eyes at Barclay. “Enlisting help is against the rules.”

  “Is not. You’re just a sore loser, little sister.” When he grinned, Barclay was very nearly too handsome, just as Ellie was too pretty. Luckily, he rarely found cause to grin in public. He took another sip of the tainted coffee and nodded toward Ellie. “And a fine job she did too. After I’d done the switch, she went up to the mistress all innocent-like and complimented her on the ring. Loudly. Loud enough to get the attention of the duchess.”

  Ellie’s cheeks flushed to an even rosier shade. “I can’t believe they were all there together, at the same ball. When I have a husband, you can bet he won’t be getting away with having another gal, and certainly not under my very nose.”

  Sweet, optimistic Elinor. Rosie reached across the table to chuck her under the chin. “No man would ever need another but you, little luv. Though I ought to be cross with you for helping this oaf.” She elbowed Barclay in the side.

  He gave her an easy shove away.

  Ellie grinned. “Well, I got to wear Lucy’s new gown—how was I to say no to that?”

  Rosemary laughed, despite the fact that she knew well what was coming.

  “Meat pie for you, Rosie.” Pauly put a plate in front of her and a warm, burly hand on her shoulder. “You been a good girl?”

  She grinned up at the closest thing any of them had had to a father in recent years. “Only on the bad days.”

  Pauly smiled down at her with that easy warmth that meant acceptance, no matter what. The exact same smile he’d given her when she was a mite of nine, rooting through his rubbish. Perhaps there was a God, to lead her to this particular pub’s back alley.

  The music came to a rousing end, earning hearty applause and shouts for more from the pub’s patrons. “Later!” Willa shouted, stepping down from the tiny little stage Pauly had built for her.

  Rosemary scooted her chair closer to Barclay’s so Willa, her straight hair slipping from its knot as it always did when she played, could squeeze into her seat on Rosemary’s other side. “Irish?”

  Willa rolled her blue eyes. “You’ve no ear for music, Rosie. You’re lucky I continue to speak to you.”

  “Speaking of speaking to her.” That impish grin back in place, Barclay drummed his fingers on the scuffed edge of the table, drawing hooting, shouting attention from the rest of their group. “Your turn, Rosie!”

  “No.” With an exaggerated groan, she made a show of resting her head in her hand. Which put her face right over the plate of fragrant food.
Her stomach’s growl was covered by the family’s laughter at least. “It was just my turn two months ago!”

  Never one for mercy, Barclay pointed a finger at her. “You should have chosen a harder challenge for me then, shouldn’t you have?”

  It had seemed hard at the time. Everyone in England knew the duchess was paranoid about theft, crying out over every bump and casual brush. More staff had been fired from their house than could be counted—and the out-of-work maids and footmen always had plenty to say about it. Loudly. No one could steal from the duke’s house; it was battened down tighter than the British Museum.

  No one.

  Except, apparently, Barclay.

  “All right.” She straightened, drew in a large breath, squared her shoulders. “I’ll face it like a man. What’s the challenge?”

  Willa’s laugh burst with cruel glee. “You’ll never do it. Never.”

  “Never. And I shall reign as king supreme.” And would never stop gloating, as evidenced by the way Barclay leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms before him, and cracked his knuckles. “Here it is. I hereby challenge you, Rosemary Gresham, to steal . . .”

  She closed her eyes, grimaced, and waited through the drumming of every set of fingers upon the tables. Only when they stopped did she open her eyes again.

  Barclay was smirking, a single eyebrow lifted. “A manor house.”

  Rosemary just stared at him. “A house? You want me to steal a whole house?”

  He laughed and reached for the mug again. “And don’t try to get clever with me. I’m talking about an honest-to-goodness house, complete with grounds and outbuildings and whatnot. The whole estate. Which you will never manage. Then there will be no more doubt of who among us is the best. I am, hands down. No question. Because never in a lifetime will you pull off this one.”

  Rosemary picked up her fork, pointing it at him rather than her plate. “Don’t be so sure, Mr. Pearce.”

  “Oh, come on, Rosie. Admit defeat.” Willa bumped their shoulders together. “Even you can’t steal an estate.”

  Probably not. But she’d be willing to bet that this Holstein fellow had a manor house. And if he were a traitor and were stripped of his estates . . . well, she didn’t know how that would help her. But who knew? Maybe she could fake her way into his family and have herself named an heir.

  She would tackle this challenge along with her new job. She grinned and forked a bite of pie. “Don’t count me out so soon, luvs. You’ve yet to learn what Rosemary Gresham can do when she sets her mind to a thing.”

  Two

  Southwest Cornwall

  Late May 1914

  Well, he was home. Though for the first time in his memory, Peter Holstein wasn’t entirely happy to walk through the doors of Kensey Manor. The box was heavy in his arms as he trudged down the familiar hall to his study, bringing a measure of comfort.

  It did little to calm the nerves still frayed from London, though. He only had meant to pass a quiet spring there, as he had done in years past. How had it devolved so quickly into accusations and suspicion? As if he were anyone other than who he’d always been.

  But never mind the gossips of London. It was good to be home. No, better than good. It was a blessing.

  He pushed open his study door with his shoulder and paused just inside to breathe in the scent of inspiration—old books, ink, and always a lingering hint of the pipe tobacco Father had favored. Mrs. Teague had scrubbed and polished the room, trying to get rid of that last smell, but Peter was rather glad she had failed.

  Not that he’d ever tell his housekeeper that.

  His desk, old and scarred, was neat as a pin—which likely wouldn’t last till morning—and beckoned him to come nearer. He set down the heavy box upon the waiting surface, but rather than unlatching it, he turned to the window. There was no view in the world quite like this one—looking out at the bald-of-trees bluff that tumbled down into the sea. If he were lucky, a gale would blow in soon. Nothing like nature’s savagery to soothe the beast within.

  And the beast within needed a bit of soothing after this last fortnight in London. Otherwise it would take him a week to set it all aside and focus on his work. A week he really didn’t have.

  “There you are, Pete. I was a bit worried when I got your wire. Was it as bad as all that?”

  Peter turned from the window to see his closest friend striding through the study door with all the ease and confidence Peter had never been able to muster. “G-Gryff. W-Worse.”

  Gryffyn Penrose lifted his brows, that worry of which he spoke darkening his eyes. “Must have been. Anything I can do?”

  Peter shook his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, pulling in a long breath. He let it out again slowly, willing his tongue to cooperate. Reminding himself that he was with Gryff, no one else. “I’ll be, ah . . . fine.” Better. Not exactly eloquent, but not outright stuttering either.

  Nothing betrayed his inner turmoil to his old friend like his stuttering.

  Gryff sank into his usual chair beside the unlit hearth, his brows not smoothing out. “Well, Jenny was glad to hear you were coming home. You’re to join us for dinner tomorrow, of course.”

  Where his friend’s wife would no doubt go on about how thin he’d grown in London and ply him with every sweet he’d ever expressed a fancy toward. He grinned. “Shame.”

  Gryff, well aware of his wife’s methods of welcoming Peter, smiled too. “And Elowyn asks if you’ll marry her, now that she’s older.”

  A chuckle rumbled its way up Peter’s throat. The young Penrose had had a birthday while he was gone, it was true . . . which put her at five. He’d have to remember to bring her the dolly he’d found for her in London. “Not until she . . . she can read.”

  Gryff’s laughter hadn’t yet faded when a quick knock on the door signaled Mrs. Teague’s arrival. She poked her head in, her ample girth following. “The boys have everything unloaded, Mr. Holstein.” He always missed hearing the Cornish say his name when he was in London. The way they dropped the H and made it ’olstein. “And I’ll tell Treeve to bring Cadan with him tomorrow. Will you want your supper in the dining room or in here? Or did Mr. Penrose convince you to go with him tonight?”

  Peter cleared his throat and looked to Gryff.

  His friend folded his hands over the stomach that had once been flat. Before he married the best cook in Cornwall seven years ago. Now . . . not so much. “We’ve claimed him tomorrow,” Gryff said.

  Peter nodded his agreement and patted his jacket pocket. Which hadn’t the letters he’d slid in it that morning. Where had he put them? He must have moved them into his bag, which Benny had already set there, by his desk chair. He headed to it and found the missives, sorting through them until he located the one with Mrs. Teague scrawled across the outside.

  She waited with a smile, holding out her hand for the note as he neared. Wasting no time before flipping it open, she nodded as she read. “I suspected as much—though you be well aware, young man, that you’ll not be holing yourself up in here every evening. Do you understand?”

  He gave an overly serious nod.

  She grinned and reached up to pat his cheek, as if he were still a boy of seven. “It’s good to have you home, Master Peter. Now, back to work I go. I’ll leave you boys to yourselves.”

  After the door clicked shut behind her, Peter took up his spot by the window again. The sky was an unfortunate blue, the wind barely gusting. Why did it always rain when he wanted a walk and remain clear and cloudless when he needed a good storm? “I k-keep making en . . . enemies.”

  “You?” Gryff’s scoffing laugh soothed one of those rough places inside him. “Don’t be silly, Pete—you haven’t any enemies. You’re the single nicest man in England, which is why I would absolutely hate you if you weren’t like a brother to me. Which, hmm . . . perhaps doesn’t prove my point.”

  The comment brought laughter to Peter’s throat and soothed him a bit more. He leaned into the
white-painted window frame and turned to watch his friend. “It’s not m-me. Not really. Just . . . they all . . . they c-call me that German. As if . . . as if I . . .” Giving up, he shook his head.

  Gryff looked genuinely baffled—an odd state for such a quick-witted man. “Where do they—whoever they are—get their information? You are as English as the king himself.”

  Peter snorted. “Their point. They’ve actually . . . they’ve ac-cused me of . . . of . . .” It was unthinkable. Unsayable. “Espionage.”

  “Nonsense.” Gryff rested his chin on his palm, elbow on the arm of the chair. “Well, listen, old boy, don’t let them bother you. Your grandfather may have hailed from Germany, but that shouldn’t matter. You’ve spent all your life in England, aside from a few holidays.”

  But it did matter, apparently. “But they’ve . . . been talking . . . a-b-bout Mother.”

  At that, Gryff rose to his feet. “What sort of talk? A more saintly woman has never set foot in—ah.” For a moment, he clenched his teeth together, making the muscle in his jaw tic. But he was never one to be silent long—it was perhaps why they made a good pair. “Yes, they would be using the fact that your father went back to Germany to find his bride to prove—what, exactly? That he wasn’t fully loyal to England? That you aren’t?”

  Jerking his head in a nod, Peter drew in a long breath through his nose. “And what . . . what am I to say? I don’t . . . that is, I . . . I don’t know why he did, Gryff. But Mother, she . . . she loved England.”

  “Well, of course she did.” Gryff stomped to the hearth and scowled at the mantel. Their photograph rested there, Mother and Father’s. Somehow looking as peaceful and loving in the serious, unsmiling pose as they had been in life. Gryff’s face relaxed as he studied it, no doubt as he remembered how they had always welcomed him as another son. “And everyone always loved your mother. It will surely pass, Pete. There may be a bit of a panic right now with Germany threatening war, but it will calm down. Then everyone will remember who you really are.”

  A stupid assertion that didn’t even deserve a response. Gryff would be hearing in his own head as clearly as Peter did in his that loving remonstrance Mother had always made: No one will know your heart if you refuse to speak, Peter. I know it is difficult for you. But you must try. For your own good, you must try.