“An odd choice for a royalist, no?”
“Not really, although he did overthrow the king and install a republic. Don’t you dare smile that socialist smile at me, young lady,” Churchill said and disappeared behind a cloud of cigar smoke. “What I say next is an official secret, so I could hang you if it gets out.”
Caitrin’s fingertips brushed her neck in the most graceful of gestures. “Never a word.”
Churchill waved a hole in the cigar smoke to see her. “Just a few weeks ago, a convoy of British ships left these shores, braved German U-boats, and crossed the Atlantic, carrying all of our country’s gold and wealth. In that month, the U-boats sank fifty-seven of our ships, and the loss of just one gold vessel would have been disastrous. We all remember the Laurentic.”
“I don’t.”
“No? In 1917, she was carrying gold to Canada and hit a mine off Malin Head on the coast of Northern Ireland. Three hundred and fifty-four of the crew successfully abandoned ship but then unfortunately died from exposure in their lifeboats.”
“I was three years old, and that was the year my brother Evan was killed in France.”
“My sympathies. We lost so many good men. Fortunately, our ships all crossed the Atlantic without harm, and the nation’s treasure, billions of pounds in gold, is now locked safely away in a Montreal bank vault.”
Caitrin was silent. Her eyes met his and held, and Churchill was aware that he had been intently listened to. She had heard and absorbed every word. It was an unusual feeling, and he sensed that, if asked, she could have repeated everything he had said verbatim.
“I did it, alone. I took the gamble and accepted the responsibility to save England and the British Empire,” he said. “The loss of only a few ships with their gold would have brought the country to its knees. It was solely my idea and a perilous one.”
She leaned toward him. “And your next perilous idea, Sir? The one that involves me saving my country? Our country.”
And with that reply the decision was clear to him. The search was over. Caitrin Colline was the one.
4
Churchill gestured to Walter Thompson, who rose to his feet, slipped out of the room, and closed the door behind him. Once the sound of the bodyguard’s footsteps had faded away, Churchill repeated Caitrin’s words to her. “You said, our country.”
“Our country,” Caitrin echoed. “I do not get teary-eyed at hearing ‘Land of Hope and Glory,’ will never wag a flag at the king or queen, and the sooner the House of Lords is abolished, the better. We have different backgrounds and aims, Prime Minister. That does not make us different. In my way, I am just as British as you are in yours.”
“And I believe as a member of the constabulary your job is to protect, regardless of rank or prejudice.”
“Yes. Royalty, gentry, or even a dog.”
“Even a King Charles spaniel?”
She grinned. “Even him.”
“Good. Operation Fish—”
“Fish?”
“That was the name given to the transport of Britain’s treasure to Canada. It required hundreds of people to make it a success and keeping it secret was a minor miracle. But word has now gotten out, and the Germans will be ready for a second attempt. That means our next operation—”
“It has no name?”
“Not so far. However, it must be different and will require the services of just two.”
“Me and?”
“Your husband.”
“I am not married.”
“Not at this moment, but for this operation you will need to be.” He put up a hand to stay the conversation as footsteps grew louder outside. The door opened, and Thompson ushered in a young man. He was about Caitrin’s age, had a ruddy outdoors complexion, a shock of unruly blond hair, and wore a tailored yet threadbare Norfolk jacket.
Churchill stood, as did Caitrin, and said, “Caitrin Colline, let me introduce you to your new husband, Hector, Lord Neville-Percy of Marlton.”
Caitrin stared in amazement at Hector while Churchill continued, “Hector, meet your new wife, Caitrin Colline, Welsh firebrand, antiroyalist, and future destroyer of England’s aristocracy. That would be all of them, including you.”
“How do you do?” Hector said in a clipped English accent and put out his hand.
“How do I do what?” Caitrin laughed. “Hector, Lord Neville-Percy of Marlton? Couldn’t you have taken just one name and shared the rest with your chums? What does your mum call you: Hecky?”
“What does your mum call you?” Hector replied, once he had recovered from her taunting question. “Cat-ty?”
“Operation Cat,” Churchill said with a finger snap. “That’s a splendid name. Now both of you sit down and behave. We’ll deal with this first issue and have ourselves a bloody class war later.”
They all sat, Caitrin shooting sly glances at Hector, who was staring fixedly ahead at the duck painting.
“As husband and wife—”
“If we are supposedly to be married, can it be as Mr. and Mrs. Colline?” Caitrin said. “I could never be Mrs. Neville-Percy.”
“That’s quite certain,” Hector muttered.
“What!” Caitrin glared at him.
Churchill compressed his lips to hold back a smile. This poor man has no idea what a whirlwind he’s about to encounter. “As I explain the task further, Miss Colline, you will come to understand it would be best for the success of the operation if we use the Neville-Percy name.”
