32
Edinburgh, Scotland
Saturday, May 20, 1944
What was he thinking? Wyatt peered out the train window. Dozens of platforms funneled into Edinburgh’s Waverley Station. Even if Dorothy decided to come, how would he find her?
The train chugged to a stop. Wyatt scanned the platform for a red-haired Wren—in vain.
He fetched his briefcase from the overhead rack. All right, then. He had a weekend in Edinburgh. He’d see the castle and Holyrood Abbey and the Royal Mile, maybe try some of that famous haggis.
Wyatt stepped out of the compartment onto the platform and tried to get his bearings. Hundreds of people, darting every which way, platforms everywhere. Which way was the exit? Where could he buy a map? Country mouse lost in yet another city.
A woman approached—a redhead in a WRNS uniform, her mouth tiny and her eyes big.
He swallowed hard. “You came.”
“So did you.”
“All right, then.” He put on his most confident face. “Let’s go catch an embezzler. Where’s the office?”
“Oh.” She gazed down the platform, freckles dusting her cheeks. She hadn’t worn makeup. Why not? Because he’d said her freckles were cute? Nonsense. But she did look prettier than ever, more genuine somehow. “The office is a few blocks away, off Princes Street.”
“I’m glad you know your way around, because I’m lost.”
Dorothy turned back with a tiny smile. “Again?”
The teasing cracked through the awkwardness, and he laughed. “Lead on.”
“Right this way.” She strode away, weaving through the crowd like the lifelong city mouse she was.
When the crowd opened up, he came alongside her. “I have one rule for today.”
“A rule?” She glanced up at him. Boy, those freckles were cute.
He nodded. “We’re going to ignore everything I said last week. None of that uncomfortable talk. We’re friends, and I won’t let anything change that. Let’s do our job and enjoy our day. Sound fair?”
With a blink, she lowered her gaze and headed up a wide staircase. “It does.”
“So how was your date last week with Eaton?”
She stumbled, caught herself, and shot him a startled look. “My date?”
He shrugged and continued up the stairs. “I’d normally ask, wouldn’t I?”
Wind swirled down the stairs, and she held on to her hat. “Yes, you would.”
“So how was it?”
“We didn’t get past my front door.”
He studied her profile for a second. “What do you mean?”
“We had a . . . disagreement, and I decided . . .” She let out a single chuckle. “I decided I didn’t want to be seen with him.”
Daylight opened up at the top of the stairs and in his heart, but he clamped down on his joy for her sake. “I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense. None of that uncomfortable talk. Let’s do our job and enjoy our day.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” Outside, clouds muted the sunlight. So Eaton and Dorothy had a tiff. Didn’t mean they were through, and even if they were, it didn’t mean she’d fall for him.
Dorothy stopped on the sidewalk. A park lay in front of them. “Up to your left, that’s Old Town. You can see Edinburgh Castle at the end of the Royal Mile.”
“Wow.” The ridge was crowned with dark ancient stone buildings, more rugged and wild than London’s polite gray polish. “When the recruiter said ‘Join the Navy and see the world,’ he wasn’t joking. Can’t believe I’m in Scotland.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She pointed straight ahead to a tall open structure of Gothic spires in the park. “That’s the Walter Scott Memorial, and New Town is to our right.”
“New?”
“Quite.” She headed in that direction. “Neoclassical and Georgian architecture, late eighteenth century, early nineteenth century.”
“That’s what we call old in my country.”
“Newborn babes.” Another teasing look, and she crossed a wide street that ran alongside the park. “This is Princes Street. If your work doesn’t take long, I’d love to show you the sights. If you’d like, that is.”
“I’d like that.” He’d like that very much. This would probably be his last time to see her, and he wanted to savor it.
“I’m glad. I haven’t been here for years, and I miss it so.” She headed down a street lined with “new” buildings, square and solid, but with plenty of ornate stonework. “How was your week?”
“Busy.” He eyed the passersby and measured his words. “Ran drills, practiced with our fellows on the ground. And you’ll be proud of me—I wrote to my brothers.”
“You did?” Her grin lit up the cloudy day. “But you don’t have all the money yet.”
“Nope. You once told me life is short and family is dear, so I decided not to wait any longer. Besides, I can’t earn their forgiveness and love.”
Dorothy frowned. “I suppose not.”
“And I’m only partly responsible for where they are now. Even with deferments, they might have chosen to enlist. And you have to volunteer for both the Rangers and the Army Air Force.”
“I’m glad you stopped blaming yourself.”
“No more of that.” A pair of American sailors in dress blues passed and snapped salutes, which Wyatt returned. “I’ll mail the letters as soon as we return to Weymouth. It feels good. I’ve apologized and I’m making amends—not to earn their love but because it’s the—”
“The right thing to do.”
He stared at her.
Her eyes had never looked so warm, or maybe it was an illusion caused by the freckles. “You say that a lot, you know.”
He chuckled. “Reckon I do.”
Dorothy smiled and waved. “There’s Mr. Campbell, the manager of the Edinburgh office. Mr. Montague said he’d let us in.”
Wyatt had hoped all the men would wear kilts and tam-o’-shanters, but this man wore trousers and a gray overcoat. At least he wore a blue-and-green plaid scarf.
“My wee lassie.” The elderly gentleman clasped Dorothy’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Look at you, all grown up. How long has it been?”
“I don’t know.” Her cheeks flushed under the freckles. “Six years, maybe seven.”
“Your father has been gone too long.” He turned his gaze to Wyatt.
“Mr. Campbell, this is Lt. Wyatt Paxton,” Dorothy said.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Campbell.” Wyatt shook his hand as the older man sized him up.
“A pleasure.” He unlocked the front door. “Highly irregular having a foreigner look at our books, much less such a young lad. Highly irregular. But Mr. Montague trusts you, and our Dolly trusts you, so I’m glad to have your help.”
Mr. Campbell strode through the lobby. “Well, Lieutenant, I hope you find out what’s happening. We’re losing money, but Mr. MacLeod insists everything’s tip-top.”
“Mr. MacLeod?”
“Head of accounting.” Mr. Campbell unlocked a door.
“One of my father’s oldest friends.” Dorothy’s voice trailed off.
“School chums, weren’t they?” Mr. Campbell swung the door open. “Mr. Montague said to give you free rein, but mind you take care with the books. Mr. MacLeod likes them just so.”
Wyatt glanced around the overheated room. “We’ll put things back exactly as they were.”
“Aye, see that you do. Mr. MacLeod would have a conniption if he knew I let you look at his books.” He frowned. “I wish I could show you where things are, but I’m not familiar with this department.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Aye.” A sharp nod. “I’ll return at noon and check on you.”
After Mr. Campbell left, Wyatt set down his briefcase, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves.
For the first half hour, he surveyed the files and ledgers to figure out the system. Then he pulled files and got to work at a big rolltop desk.
Slowly, he worked his way through each department’s ledgers. Dorothy brought him files, reassembled them neatly, and returned them.
But most of the time, she sat in a chair in the corner. Quiet.
Every once in a while, he could feel that pretty blue gaze, and he’d look up. Sure enough, she was watching him with an unfamiliar expression, but then she’d give him a quick smile and motion him back to work.
Made him uncomfortable. But that unfamiliar look wasn’t pity, only . . . well, he didn’t know what it was. Her gaze penetrating, her mouth turned down a bit, her cheeks pale.
However, he’d come to Edinburgh to study the books, not Dorothy.
He picked up an invoice from Forthwright Business Services. He’d seen a similar invoice earlier and remembered it because of the W in the middle. “Say, Dorothy. Would you please bring me the last file, the one you just put away? Come to think of it, the last three or four.”
She stood and flipped through the file cabinet. “Did you find something?”
“I doubt it.” The invoice was strangely nonspecific. “Just a hunch.”
“Those hunches of yours . . .” She laid four folders before him.
Wyatt spread them in an arc, then opened them. Sure enough, each contained an invoice from Forthwright Business Services. Several, in fact. One per quarter in each department.
“Look. An invoice in this department dated March 6, in this department March 20, April 3, April 17. The same pattern in December and January.”
Dorothy looked over his shoulder. “Each is for well over one hundred pounds.”
“What kind of company provides services needed in all these departments, from procurement to personnel to maintenance?”
“Forthwright Business Services. The name doesn’t tell you anything.”
“Only that the owner can’t spell.”
Dorothy picked up an invoice. “Edinburgh sits on the Firth of Forth. It must be a play on words. And it sounds quite wholesome and honest.”
“A little too much.” Wyatt opened the check ledger and skimmed through. “All the invoices paid, each signed by . . . Mr. MacLeod.”
“He’s head of accounting. Nothing unusual there.” He scribbled down the company’s address. “Do you know where Johnston Terrace is?”
“Oh yes. That’s where we used to stay when we visited.”
“Is it far?”
“About a mile.”
“Let’s pay a visit after lunch. We’ll put in another hour or two of work, and—”
“An hour? Wyatt, it’s noon.”
“It is?” Sure enough, footsteps came down the hall and Mr. Campbell entered.
“How are our two sleuths?” he asked.
“Hungry.” Wyatt slipped the invoices back in place. No need to tell Mr. Campbell about his hunch until they had more answers. “Suppose we could come back later today, around two?”
“Aye. I’ll be here.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Campbell.” Dorothy returned the files to the cabinet.
After the office manager left, Wyatt buttoned his jacket. “Know where we can grab a quick lunch?”
“Oh yes.” Dorothy’s voice lit up. “A little shop on the corner that used to sell the best meat pies. I’m sure they’re full of potatoes now, but—”
“Sounds fine to me.”
After a quick potato-ey meal, they headed out of New Town and up a long curving road that skirted the park—the Princes Street Gardens, according to Dorothy.
Wyatt filled his eyes with the sight of old Edinburgh rising from the ridge above him, but the mystery wouldn’t leave him alone. “Tell me about Mr. MacLeod.”
“Do you think he’s involved?” Dorothy’s eyebrows formed a little tent.
“Don’t know, but didn’t Mr. Campbell say Mr. MacLeod insisted everything was tip-top?”
“Like Papa.” That tent collapsed. “Oh, Wyatt. What if they’re working together?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“But he and Papa were the best of friends.”
“Were?”
At the top of the hill, Dorothy turned right on a cobblestone road. “That’s New College, Edinburgh University.”
Wyatt would have pegged the building a medieval cathedral—nothing new about it at all.
“As for Mr. MacLeod, I haven’t seen him since the last time we came here, 1937 or so.”
“He didn’t come to London?”
“Not that I know.” Dorothy headed up a steep curving road. “I thought it odd. We used to visit Edinburgh every year. And the MacLeods stayed with us in London several times a year. He was such a charming houseguest, full of stories and games. We always had a jolly time.”
The road was banked by moss-covered stone walls and smelled ancient and full of history. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was surprised when they didn’t come for Mum’s funeral, but when I asked Papa, he said, ‘Why would they?’ as if they were mere acquaintances.”
“Strange.”
Dorothy brushed her fingers along the mossy stones. “How we loved it here. Mum and I would go on adventures, darting in and out of the closes, pretending to be princesses and peasant girls and spies for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Sometimes Art and Gil would join us, and they’d play earls and brigands and fierce Highland warriors.”
“Sounds like fun.” As much as Mama adored her three boys, Wyatt couldn’t remember her ever playing with them. “What role should I play?”
A surprised smile, and then she narrowed one eye at him. “Why, a noble knight, of course.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Shucks, not me. Maybe . . . I know. You’re the princess, of course, and the king appointed me his guardian to accompany his fair daughter on these dark and treacherous lanes.”
“A guardian.” Her eyes softened. “And she never saw his merits.”
“Why would she when she’s so far above his pitiful station?” He swept a low bow, one foot poked forward like Sir Walter Scott in the drawing in his schoolbook.
Silence. Then she snickered. “Do you have any idea how silly medieval speech sounds with your accent?”
He straightened and grinned. “I’d love to hear you try on a Texas accent. Reckon you’d sound mighty silly too.”
“Shucks. I reckon I sound mighty fine.”
No, she didn’t, and he burst out laughing.
“It isn’t proper for the guardian to mock the princess.” She flicked her chin, spun on her heel, and turned left onto a wider street. “The castle’s behind you.”
“And beneath me.” Wyatt glanced over his shoulder and let out a whistle at the monolithic castle. “Promise me we’ll come back.”
“After we finish our job.” Dorothy strode past a church with spires piercing the clouds. “What do you think of this Forthwright?”
Playtime over. “They send quarterly invoices to several departments, for some vague service. In each department it probably doesn’t look strange, all spread out, but in the company as a whole, it’s suspicious. Did you notice the invoices were staggered? That means they aren’t paid all at once.”
“Over time, it’s a lot of money.” In front of the church, Dorothy turned right, then right again on the other side. “This is Johnston Terrace.”
He inspected the buildings for numbers. A bit farther and there it was, a building of the same mottled brown stone he’d seen everywhere in town. But no sign hung above the door. “Doesn’t look like a business. Looks like a house.”
Dorothy’s face went completely white except for the freckles. Then she grabbed his arm and marched back the way they’d come.
“What’s the matter?” He craned to look over his shoulder at the house. “Don’t tell me—”
“That’s the house we used to stay in. It belonged to Mr. MacLeod’s parents. When they passed away, he used it as a guesthouse.”
“It’s Mr. MacLeod’s?”
She nodded, her face buckling. “He’s the embezzler, isn’t he?”
Wyatt stopped so he could think. “Sure looks like it. What if he set up a fake business in his guesthouse? He could send invoices to each department at Fairfax & Sons. When the departments send the bills to accounting, he writes the checks—to his own company.”
“Oh, Wyatt. Do you think—could my father be involved?”
“I doubt it. They’re estranged.” Unless that was an act. He gave her hand a reassuring pat. “Let’s see if we can find anything else at the office. I want as much evidence as possible.”
Dorothy’s expression cleared, then settled into the same unusual look he’d seen back in the office. “Protecting the princess . . . and the king.”
“Doing my duty, Your Highness.” Anything for the woman he loved.