Page 14 of Beloved Beast

“Mr. Frederick Parker.” He pulled out the letter from his side pocket. “You do recognize your sister’s handwriting?” He held it out to her and she took it, looking it over.

“Aye…yes. It’s hers. Has something happened?”

“I think it best you let me in. Explaining in the hallway is not a prudent thing to do. Let’s say I’m with the government.”

“As I thought. You have that arrogant look about you. Fine, come in. Wipe your muddy feet on the mat if you please.”

Fred smirked as he crossed the threshold, wiping his feet as she asked. He glanced about the flat. Not large and sparsely furnished, but clean and tidy. She led him to the parlor and he took a seat, setting his hat next to him.

“I’ll not offer to take your coat nor offer you a cup of tea. You won’t be staying long enough. Say your piece.” Miss Simm removed the kerchief and wavy raven hair fell to her shoulders. Eyes as blue as a summer sky stared at him defiantly.

He pulled out a small billfold and passed it to her. “My government identification.” She frowned, gave it a cursory glance and passed it back. “Read the letter, then we will talk.”

She tore open the envelope and pulled out the note, her frown deepening as she read. “Crikey,” she murmured. “What? ‘The government believes I’m in danger? Both our safeties?’ What bollocks is this? And how do I know my sister did not write this under duress?”

Joan Simm was a little rougher around the edges than her sister and Fred found it appealed to him. Aroused him. “Gillian said to mention the song your father used to sing to you both at bedtime. Before the divorce. “For Me and My Gal.””

A small smile curled about her sensual lips. Easy, Fred, old stick. Stay on task. Stop looking at her lips.

Miss Simm’s eyes misted. “Yes. He did sing it to us both. Fair enough. I believe you’re from the government and Gillian was not forced to write this letter. Now, tell me what this is about?”

It was not SIS’s practice to inform family members of movements and assignments of MI-6’s vast spy network. But he could reveal a little information. “Do you know of MI-6?” She nodded. “Your sister and I are both associated with them. There are Nazis operatives looking for Gillian.”

Joan gasped and dropped the letter. “Bloody hell.”

“Yes. Now you see we have no choice but to move you right away. Today, in fact.”

The annoyance fled and was replaced by an uncertain look of trepidation. Without thinking, he clasped her hand and squeezed it gently. The contact sent another bolt of electric current through him. Joan’s eyes widened as if she had experienced it as well. “I have a place for you to go. It is outside the city limits. It’s with my parents as a matter of fact. They are elderly and in need of care. I will pay you a good wage. Your sister informed me you do not work and live off her generosity.”

Her back stiffened and she pulled her hand out of his. “The corner shop I worked at was bombed out. You try to find steady work. I work when I can, odd jobs…”

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. It was not a judgment on you, merely an observation. With your sister about to leave the country, she can no longer support you. This way, you will have a place to live. A wage. My parents live in a fair-sized Tudor cottage. It’s comfortable and they will be little trouble, I assure you.”

“But my life is here, my life…”

“Your life here is over,” he replied softly but emphatically. “I am sorry.”

Joan exhaled and met his gaze. “What happens next?”

Brave girl. Not only was he attracted to her, but he admired her, too. “When you leave here, you cannot stay in contact with your friends and neighbors. Or any man you may be seeing socially. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I don’t bloody well like it, but I understand. And there is no man in my life at the moment, no worries there.”

Fred couldn’t help it. He was secretly pleased to hear she was unattached. “After I take you from here, agents disguised as employees of a moving company will swoop in and take your furniture and anything you can’t fit into suitcases and put it into storage. Is the rent paid up to date?”

“Gillian brought money to me yesterday; I was to pay the landlord tomorrow for my Duke of Kent.”

“I beg your pardon?” he questioned.

“Sorry. Slang for rent. Habit.”

He smiled broadly at the cockney saying. “Keep it. I will arrange for the rent to be paid for the month and I will give your notice.”

“But…I’ve lived here nearly my whole life.” She frowned.

“Again, I am sorry.” He paused. What else could he say? “I should tell you about my parents. My father is eighty-nine and in failing health. My mother is sixteen years younger than him, but she suffered a stroke last year and is having difficulty keeping up with the housekeeping, though she would never admit it. When Gillian informed me you had first aid training and volunteered, I thought this would be a better setting for you than some grubby safe house in a strange part of England.”

“I cannot go with Gillian, wherever it is she is going?” she asked.