“Does it matter?” Though she admitted it gave her a prick, and any joy she’d felt over the find started leaking out. “How will they know what it is? Or find the men with just one photograph to go on? As long as they don’t have the names, we are fine.”
“Right. The names are written on . . .” He flipped more pages. And then hissed out a curse and slapped the passport back to the table.
Her stomach dropped all the way to her feet. “What? What is it?”
“I had a small snapshot also in there. I didn’t want the Prussian writing on the photo of the officers. Seemed a bad idea to have all the information in one place.” He shook his head. “The photo was the only paper I had to offer, so I let him write on it. It’s gone.” He paced a few steps, pivoted. “It has to be somewhere. Somewhere else in the flat.”
“No.” She shook her head, heart thudding. “I didn’t see any photographs. I checked everything.”
“Everything? Every page of every book? Every binding? Every—”
“Everything!” Though, of course, now she doubted herself. She’d flipped through each book, but could a photograph have been stuck between pages and escaped her notice? Could it have been under the insole of a shoe? Behind peeling wallpaper?
Not that his wallpaper had been peeling. She pressed her hands to her temples. “What was it a photograph of?”
He cursed again and then sighed. “The two of us as boys. From our trip to Paris.”
Could it have been with that other picture from Paris? Or hidden behind the oil painting? Or—worst-case scenario—would he carry it with him? She let her hands fall. Whichever the answer, clearly her work wasn’t done.
Not even close.
22
Zivon claimed to be no expert on English garden parties, but from his perspective, this one had been quite a success. He’d been amused to discover that the duchess he’d tried to avoid at the wedding had come, and that she knew Kira Suvorova from her time in Monaco. She had, in fact, been the friend the Suvorovs had come to visit when they were stranded here by the outbreak of war. He’d been touched at the arrival of Father Smirnov and his wife, who reported that she’d cleared all the matushkas and babushkas from his building for him that morning. And he’d been encouraged by the number of his colleagues who had made an appearance too.
Most of them had already left at this point in the afternoon, and as lovely as the day had been, he found himself ready for some quiet. On the other hand, he was also loath to leave Lily’s side. So if Major Camden and Miss Denler decided to linger for another hour, he wouldn’t complain.
The poor young woman had deep circles under her eyes, and she looked like a stout wind could knock her down. They’d arrived late, and Camden had just been confessing to Zivon in an undertone that he was more than a little concerned for her.
Lily moved to her friend’s side and touched a hand to her elbow. “You look exhausted. Have you slept at all in the last two days?”
“Maybe. An hour or two.” Miss Denler tried to give her a smile, but it didn’t last long.
“How are the men in quarantine?”
The nurse shook her head. “Three more have come down with it—and not from the same train the original chaps had been on either. Worse still, Nurse Jameson has spoken to the hospital matrons of other facilities, and this doesn’t seem to be limited to Charing Cross. Others are reporting similar cases of fever and flu symptoms.” She leaned closer. “Other hospitals have had men die who weren’t even showing those symptoms a day beforehand. I’m worried, Lily.”
“Of course you are. We all are.” Lily slid a glance to Zivon.
He nodded, as did Camden. How could they not be concerned? There were always isolated examples of people dying of influenza, of course. But more often than not, that happened to the elderly or to small children. Not to men in the prime of life.
The major slipped an arm about his fiancée’s waist. “And you’ll be no good to any of them if you don’t get some sleep, darling. Come on. I’m taking you home.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me call Sarah or my mother. I’ll do it.”
Miss Denler breathed a laugh and reached out a hand to Lily. “Thank you for inviting us, Lily. Sorry we were late.”
“I’m just glad you could make it. Now go home and rest.”
Zivon bade them farewell too and watched them walk away, wishing he had the right to guide Lily through the door with a hand on her back as Camden did his Arabelle. But it took only a glance at the window to Captain Blackwell’s study, through which Zivon could make out her father’s scowling face, to know that would be a bad idea.
The man stood. No doubt he realized that was the last of the guests other than him and Clarke and was about to come out and thank them for coming, thereby saying without saying outright that it was time they took their leave.
Lily, hand on his arm, nudged him toward Clarke and Ivy. Zivon went along. “Thank you again for doing this for me, Lily. You have made bright a day I thought would be nothing but darkness.”
The way she looked up at him, darkness couldn’t long stand against the flame it lit in his spirit anyway. He’d cared for Alyona. She’d long been like family. He would have cherished her, come to love her as a man should his wife had they wed. He knew that.
But it wasn’t like this.
Ivy’s laughter, robust and free, drew both their gazes to where she and Clarke stood by the vegetable garden, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone else had gone. “I can’t believe you did that! To a commander!”
Clarke grinned too. “Well, it wasn’t as though he was a commander then. Field promotion, you know.”
Lily gasped, pulling Zivon to a halt. He frowned down at her. “Are you all right?”
She spun, eyes bright. “That’s it! That’s where I’ve seen that photograph. They weren’t officers in it. That’s what was throwing me.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, and while she might tell him simply from her current excitement, he didn’t want to put her in a bad place if it was something he oughtn’t to know. “Then . . . good?”
She laughed, popped up onto her toes, and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Lilian!”
Even her father’s furious bark didn’t dim her expression. She just flew over to him, all but bouncing. “I’ve solved it, Daddy! At least, I think I have. I need to get to the OB, to my archives. Will DID still be there, do you think? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Even if he isn’t, I need to see if I’m right. I can send him a note if I must.”
Her father’s expression had shifted during her rambling speech from irritation to indulgence. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Lily White. But if you need to go to the office, I’ll run you over in the car so you can be back before your mother and I need to leave.”
“That would be lovely.” She spun back to Zivon, eyes wide. “Oh, that was rude of me. What a hostess I’m being.”
He chuckled and waved an arm to catch Clarke’s eye. “You are the kindest of hostesses, Miss Blackwell. I thank you again, and your mother, for going to such lengths to brighten my day. But it is time we were on our way.”