Her arms closed around the bag. But she couldn’t convince her brows to stop frowning. “Sir—”
“You will, however, upon your father’s request, work from home rather than here.”
At least the sudden fury burned away the threat of tears. “He didn’t!”
Hall blinked at her. “You may feel free, of course, to take home any and all supplies from your darkroom here. After which, your father will act as courier for you.”
Too many thoughts and feelings swamped her for her to make sense of them all right now. Hall’s argument against guilt, his directive, would all have to wait until later to be processed. “This is because of Zivon Marin, isn’t it? And you don’t think that a bit of an overreaction?”
He moved back to his chair. “You’re his daughter, Lily. Of course he’s being cautious.”
The way he sat was a dismissal. One she would have obeyed without a squeak on any other day. Today, she moved forward and leaned on the edge of his desk, much as he had done. “What exactly is it that has suddenly appeared to make you suspect him?”
He didn’t look as though he meant to answer her. But after a moment, he sighed and pulled a manila envelope from a stack of other papers. “This is what I came down to show you yesterday.” He opened the flap, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to her.
She looked at it. But had no idea what it meant. It was Zivon, that much she could clearly see. In dress uniform, bowing over the hand of someone in full military regalia. “I have no idea why this would cast a poor light on him.”
“Because the other man, my dear, is Lenin. Leader of the Bolsheviks.”
That didn’t make sense. The expression on Zivon’s face in the photo was one of respect, even adoration. But he’d never felt that for Lenin. He’d spoken against him—that’s why Alyona had been killed. “No.” She pulled the photo closer to her nose, traced her gaze over Zivon’s outline. She couldn’t see any lines, but that only meant it was well done. If she had magnification, she could no doubt spot them. “That can’t be right. He hates the Bolsheviks.”
“He says he does.” The photo was plucked from her fingers. “And being a socialist is certainly no crime here. But if the truth of his loyalty is so diametrically opposed to what he says of his loyalty—well, then, one must ask why.”
She reached for the image again, though Hall held it back, eyes flashing. Hers no doubt flashed right back. “Let me fetch my loupe, Admiral, and look at it more closely. That’s why you wanted to show it to me yesterday, isn’t it? To check its authenticity? Because you know as well as I that photographs can be falsified.”
He set it on his desk and rested his hand atop it. “I also know that when one’s heart is involved, one is far from unbiased in any examination. I’m sorry, Lily. But I saw how you looked at him last night.”
Her cheeks went hot. “That doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.”
“No, but for now, at least, I’m going to respect Captain Blackwell’s wishes and keep you out of this inquiry. Rest assured that if my other photographer contacts don’t prove as skilled as I require, I will overrule your father’s request.”
Huffing out a breath, she slung her bag’s strap over her shoulder and straightened. “Zivon Marin is a good man, Admiral.”
Hall sighed. “The problem is that good is a bit too relative when it comes to matters of national trust. My agents are good men too—good Englishmen. That certainly doesn’t mean the governments in whose domain they’re operating would agree.”
She didn’t know how to argue without sounding like Zivon’s love-blinded sweetheart. And, frankly, she was all too aware of the photo in her bag with Johanna’s face in it. Proof of her past mistakes in matters of affection.
Maybe Hall and Daddy were right to keep her out of it.
A battle for another day, at any rate. She took out the stack of photos—she’d nearly forgotten them when he gave her bag back to her—and slid them onto his desk. “I understand you have to be cautious. Just please assure me you’ll find someone skilled to look at that. And that you’ll remember the lessons you’ve learned to use so well against your enemies when it comes to this—that the same facts can be used to tell multiple stories, depending on how one tells them.”
He smiled and slid the image of Zivon back into its envelope. “And you tried to say you’re not suited for this work.”
He probably meant the chiding as a sort of compliment. But it weighed heavy as guilt on her chest as she turned away.
Rain had begun to fall by the time she regained the street—and she hadn’t thought to grab an umbrella. She could make a run for the tube, but by the time she got to the nearest station, she’d already be soaked. She could go back and wait it out. Or duck into a café, perhaps. But neither of those options suited her mood. She wanted to go home. Think things over.
A large black umbrella appeared over her head. And the man holding it made her heart patter as fast as the rain in the puddles. Zivon had deep shadows underscoring his eyes that his glasses did little to hide, and his cheeks were pale.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. “I should not be speaking to you, I know. But if you will grant me one last walk, Lily, I will be obedient hereafter.”
She didn’t see her father or Blinker anywhere. And if anyone saw them from a window, it would be impossible to identify them under the umbrella. In answer, she wrapped her hand around the arm holding the brolly. “I’ll walk with you anytime you ask. I don’t care what he says.”
“Of course you care. You should respect his wishes—after this time, I mean.” He grinned, but it looked sad and was too soon gone.
They hurried away from the OB, silent. But she made no argument when he steered them toward Hyde Park rather than going directly to Curzon Street. Their feet found their familiar path, and as they neared the tree beside which they’d talked before, he drew them to a halt.
“Lily.” He shifted so he faced her, the umbrella’s rod between them. “I have caused you trouble, and I never meant to. Your mother is very angry?”
“She is. But that isn’t your fault. I should have told her long ago.” She tried to smile, but she suspected it didn’t look very convincing. “We’ll work it out.”
“I pray you do. But even so. I am so sorry for how last night ended. I am sorry for the anger I directed at you when it belongs to anyone but. And I am sorry for not telling you before of Alyona.”
She wrapped her fingers around his. “I’m glad you told me at all. I can’t even imagine the grief you must feel.”
“It is as much guilt as grief.” His face twisted. “She was killed because of me. A bullet put through her head because of my opinions, my words, my actions.”
“But not your hand.” Her heart twisted to match his countenance. “The guilt rests on the perpetrator, not on you.” But she understood the shake of his head. How could she not? She’d been struggling with the same feelings just minutes ago.
He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “I will not have the same happen to you. I will not put you in danger by associating with me. You mean too much to me.”