Page 82 of The Bachelor Spy
He continued his scan as Dawson told a story about Nurse Lawson nearly landing in his lap the other day.
A fountain pen with her initials engraved on it, a small framed photograph of a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. Her deceased sister, presumably, from a conversation he’d overheard.
And her medical bag, sitting open atop the desk.
“It can certainly be lively here with all the activities Lady Astley plans,” Blake continued, while his gaze trailed over the bag’s contents.
Bandages, neatly rolled. Surgical instruments, properly sterilized. Medication bottles, all labeled with Wilson’s precise handwriting.
And tucked into the side pocket, partially visible beneath a packet of gauze—a slip of paper with writing that made Blake’s pulse quicken.
Cyrillic script.
Russian.
Blake shifted slightly in his chair, angling to get a better view without being obvious about it. The movement looked natural—just a man settling more comfortably while chatting with a patient.
“Aye, sir,” Dawson was saying. “She’s kept us all busy, but it does help pass the time.”
“Most certainly.” Blake caught a few more details on the document: the word????????(movement), what looked like coordinates, and a date—possibly September.
Why would a British nurse have a document in Russian? Russia was Britain’s ally, yes, but this looked like military intelligence. Troop movements. Dates. Grid coordinates.
And to anyone who couldn’t read Cyrillic—which would be most people—it would immediately spark suspicion. Foreign script. Secret documents. Hidden in a medical bag.
“Mr. Blake?” Brandon’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The butler stood at his elbow, expression unreadable. “Your presence is requested in the morning room, sir.”
“Of course.” Blake stood, tucking the book under his arm. “I’ll be there momentarily.” He turned back to Dawson. “It was good speaking with you, Private. I hope your recovery continues well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As he left, he cast one more glance toward Nurse Wilson. She was bent over Captain Jones, carefully checking a bandage he had around his shoulder.
But her eyes—just for a moment—tracked Brandon’s movement toward the door.
And when she thought no one was watching, her expression shifted into something harder. More calculating.
Blake felt the familiar cold certainty settle in his chest.
There you are.
Chapter 12
Blake walked down the corridor toward the morning room, steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation with Lady Astley about last night’s events. God help him, whatever she’d overheard or concluded would undoubtedly lead to questions he wasn’t entirely prepared to answer.
Though his newest discovery about Wilson only secured her place as prime suspect.
If he’d managed to examine that document in her medical bag more thoroughly, it likely would have provided tangible proof of her involvement in the leaked intelligence. Her German heritage wasn’t the main reason for his suspicion, but it certainly supported all the other evidence: her access to patients, her careful observations, the Russian document, the pattern of intelligence leaks matching her duty schedule, the way her hands had paused—just for a fraction of a second—when Lieutenant Hartley mentioned the 29th Division.
All roads led to Wilson.
And that angel necklace? Simply icing on an already condemning cake. Almost flaunting her role.
As Blake passed the smaller ward—formerly the music room—Nurse Rivers’ bright voice drifted through the doorway. He slowed his pace.
“And you see, that’s exactly what worries me about Gerald,” she was saying, her tone thick with concern. “My brother. He writes so little about what’s actually happening. Just ‘we’re moving positions’ or ‘the weather is dreadful.’ Mother is beside herself with worry.”
“Can’t say much in letters, miss,” came Corporal Davies’ gravelly Welsh accent. “Censors cut out anything useful. Half my letters home look like Swiss cheese, they do.”
