Page 81 of The Bachelor Spy
She paused. Tipped her head in that direction, almost imperceptibly. Then continued wrapping the bandage, made a sympathetic comment about how difficult the fighting must have been, and moved on to check Captain Anders’ fever.
Had she been listening? Waiting for information to pass along to Smith? Or whoever she was meeting at the ruins?
“Lieutenant Blake?” Private Jenkins interrupted his thoughts. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ten minutes. Must be riveting stuff.”
Blake glanced down at the book in his lap—one of Grace’s detective novels, ironically.The Mystery of the Blue Train.Rather apt, given the circumstances. “Just lost in thought. The complexity of the plot, you understand.”
“Right.” Jenkins grinned knowingly. “Nothing to do with watching the nurses, then?”
Blake’s attention snapped to the young private. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. Half the men here fancy one nurse or another. Can’t blame you for looking.” Jenkins winked. “Though between you and me, I prefer the younger ones. Nurse Rivers has a lovely smile. Always has time for a chat.”
Rivers certainly enjoyed the patients’ attention—she and Nurse Reynolds were always laughing with the soldiers, brightening the wards with their youthful enthusiasm. Excellent cover for intelligence gathering, really. Who would suspect the sweet, bubbly volunteer?
“Unlike some others, I might add, sir.” Jenkins glanced meaningfully toward Nurse Wilson, who was now consulting with Dr. Shaw across the room, her expression as stern as ever.
Blake kept his face neutral, though inwardly he cursed. If Jenkins had noticed his surveillance, had others? Blast it all, he was getting sloppy. Or perhaps spending half the night kissing Evie had addled his brain more than he’d care to admit.
Worth it, though.
“Did you know Nurse Wilson speaks German?” Jenkins continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Heard her translating something for Lieutenant Ashford the other day. Some letter from a German friend of his from before the war.”
Blake made a noncommittal sound. “Useful skill,” he said carefully. “Especially with German prisoners sometimes brought through.”
“Suppose so. Though some of the men think it’s odd, her having German family and all, but working for England. Her grandfather came from Bavaria. Name used to be Wilhelm before they Anglicized it to Wilson. Can’t say it sits too well with some of the men.”
Blake knew a few men in similar situations. German ancestors. Immediately suspicious. Unfair, when they were as English as he was.
Still. The coincidence niggled at him, making Nurse Wilson even more suspect.
“She appears focused on helping wounded soldiers like us,” he offered, even if he didn’t fully believe it. “Since she is a British native, from what I’ve heard.”
Jenkins sniffed. “Aye, it’s just when you’ve seen what the Boche can do …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Well, keeps us on our guard, don’t it?”
“Certainly,” he answered, standing to his feet. “Looks like Dawson could use some water from the way he’s coughing.”
Which wasn’t a great deal more than usual for anyone who’d breathed in chlorine gas, but it was opportune. Dawson’s cot stood very close to the small desk Wilson used throughout the day.
Clever placement—Dawson had bandaged eyes and a missing left arm. He couldn’t see what Wilson was doing at her desk, and with his injuries, he couldn’t pose a physical threat if he somehow discovered something suspicious.
After glancing across the room to where Wilson had moved to change Private Connelly’s bandages, he poured a glass of water from the pitcher nearby, carrying it to Dawson.
“Private Dawson,” Blake said pleasantly, settling into the chair beside the cot. “How are you managing today?”
“Lieutenant?” Dawson turned his head in Blake’s direction. “Is that you, sir?”
“Indeed, it is.” He guided the man’s hand to the glass of water. “It sounded as if you could use something to help with that cough.”
“Kind of you, sir.” He took a drink.
“And are they treating you well otherwise? Keeping you comfortable?”
“Oh yes, sir. Can’t complain. Nurse Wilson’s a bit stern-like, but she’s gentle with the bandages. Not like some who pull and tug without thinking.” Dawson shifted slightly. “And the younger nurses are always cheerful. Makes the days pass easier.”
Blake let his gaze drift casually across Wilson’s desk as he spoke, keeping his body language relaxed and conversational. Medical journals stacked neatly. Patient charts. A few personal items—his attention stopped on a silver angel necklace.
Coincidence that the woman they thought was the Midnight Angel wore such a necklace?
