The Sea Before Us Read online

  “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.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “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.

  33

  “Come along, Wyatt. I am determined that you shall have fun this evening.” Dorothy charged up Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” His voice trailed behind her.

  They’d spen
t the afternoon at Fairfax & Sons, where Wyatt recorded all the invoices from Mr. MacLeod’s most un-forthright company. The invoices started in early 1941, only a handful and for small amounts, as if he were testing the waters. Slowly they increased and spread to new departments. Thousands of pounds flowed into Mr. MacLeod’s pockets each year.

  Dorothy’s pace increased. How dare that man betray Papa and profit from his old friend’s grief? Papa was too distraught to notice the problem, much less investigate.

  The scoundrel hadn’t counted on the tenacious hunches of Wyatt Paxton.

  But now the American had less than two hours of sunlight remaining in his last leave before D-day. “You deserve some fun after a dreary day slogging over books.”

  “I like slogging over books. But you—you deserve a reward for sitting still while I slogged.”

  Heat flowed up Dorothy’s cheeks. She’d enjoyed that more than she should have. Wyatt cut a fine figure at work, his broad shoulders bent over the desk, his sleeves rolled up, and his face intent as he analyzed. And the best moments, when he’d glanced her way and raised that slow smile, self-conscious in his love for her, but unapologetic.

  “At this rate, we’ll see the whole city in ten minutes flat.”

  Dorothy spun to him. “Am I walking too fast for you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned at the buildings she’d ignored, his arms wide. “Show me the sights. Tell me about them. Tell me your family stories. Tell me make-believe stories.”

  He wanted to hear her chatter? Her leg muscles melted. He loved her as she was. All her life, she’d tried to earn Papa’s love. For the past four months, she’d tried to earn Lawrence’s love. And without trying at all, she’d gained Wyatt’s love. It was baffling and wondrous.

  But she was staring at him like a ninny.

  She whirled around and saw her surroundings for the first time since they’d left Holyrood Abbey. “Oh yes. On your left is St. Giles, the High Kirk of Edinburgh, where John Knox used to preach. Isn’t it splendid? And that’s the Mercat Cross—not the original, but it’s still nice.”

  Wyatt gazed up at the massive cathedral and whistled. “I don’t know if I’d ever get used to having so much history around.”

  “Then let’s fill you up before we send you back to the history-barren desert of Texas.”

  “It’s not desert where I come from. Hills and trees. Prettiest land you’ve ever seen.”

  She liked hills and trees. “No cactus?”

  “No cactus.”

  Regardless, she could never leave Papa. She continued up the street. “Come along. Let’s—oh! A kilt shop.” She grabbed Wyatt’s arm and pulled him inside, breathing deep the smell of wool.

  She flipped through the racks of kilts, rich with color and heritage. If only she knew more about tartans.

  “Here.” She pulled out a Royal Stewart and held it to Wyatt’s waist. The red plaid complemented his naval officer’s jacket, so deep in blue it was almost black. “A souvenir? You’d look quite smashing.”

  He took it from her and inspected it. “Only if you buy one too.”

  “Aye, laddie.” Of course, they were both playacting. Neither had the money or the clothing coupons to buy such a garment. She darted to another rack with kilts for ladies. “I’ve wanted one ever since I saw Greer Garson wear a little kilt in Random Harvest.” Someone had once told her she looked like her favorite actress, a high compliment.

  What a beautiful tartan—gentle blue shot through with bright threads of red and yellow. She held it up and whirled to face Wyatt, her free hand raised like a highland dancer.

  “Aye, a bonny look on you, lassie.”

  Dorothy stared, then laughed. Wyatt was wearing a green plaid tam-o’-shanter, and he’d rolled up his trouser legs and draped the Stewart tartan around his waist.

  An elderly salesman peered over the racks at them with a concerned look, and he made his way over.

  “Wyatt!” she said in a fierce whisper. She hung her kilt back up.

  Wyatt unwrapped the plaid from his waist and returned it to its hanger.

  “May I help you?” the salesman asked.

  “Admiring your fine merchandise, sir,” Wyatt said.

  The salesman frowned at Wyatt’s head. “So I see.”

  Dorothy snatched off the tam-o’-shanter, set it back on the shelf, and led Wyatt out of the shop. “Good day, sir.”

  The door swung shut behind him. “Where to next, lassie?”

  She faced him on the pavement. “The cas—Wyatt, your trousers.”

  He struck a pose like a model in a men’s suit advert—except his trouser legs were still rolled up. “When in Scotland, do as the Scots do.”

  Dorothy laughed. “You silly goose.”

  A flash of that sheepish smile, and he bent to fix his trousers.

  Mum had always told her life was dull, so you needed to fill it with exciting people. Dorothy had followed that creed all her life. Or had she? Quiet Gwen. Quiet Johanna. How she loved bringing fun into their lives.

  Did she need an exciting man—or a man willing to join in her adventures?

  “All better?” Other than mild wrinkling around his shins, he looked fine. Better than fine.

  “Jolly good. Off we go.” Dorothy strode along, prattling off information and stories. But her mind was elsewhere.

  Yes, Wyatt loved her, but could she love him? Should she? His confession had turned her world inside out. Falling in love with him might mean leaving England and all she loved.

  So why did all the reasons she ought to love him crowd out the reasons she shouldn’t? As Papa had begged her to do, she’d seen his merits. He was kind and honest, and he did the right thing even when it hurt. He was humble enough to admit his sins and dedicated enough to make amends. He’d even taken her melancholy father under his wing. And his faith was strong and resilient.

  He was quiet but not dull. Steady but not stodgy. And she enjoyed his company immensely.

  At the end of the Royal Mile, they passed the Tolbooth Kirk, where Johnston Terrace dipped down to the left to Mr. MacLeod’s treacherous lair, but they continued to the right. The road narrowed to medieval width, then opened up to the broad expanse of the Esplanade with Edinburgh Castle looming before them in the late-afternoon light.

  “Incredible.” Awe lit up Wyatt’s face.

  She wanted to keep that light there for a lifetime, but could she?

  The Esplanade funneled into a narrow bridge that led through the portcullis, flanked by medieval statues. The delicious smell of damp stone enveloped her as they passed through.

  “That’s the Half-Moon Battery.” She pointed to the massive rounded wall before them, built of rough, irregular blocks and topped by cannons.

  “Incredible,” Wyatt repeated.

  Up the curving cobblestone road, through another portcullis under the Argyle Tower, and she dashed to a low crenelated wall. “One of the best views in the British Isles. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  Wyatt ran his hand over one of the cannons. “Wow. A long way down.”

  “This represents the limits of my fearlessness.” With her fingertips pressed to the stone, she stood at arm’s length from the edge. The castle stood high on a sharp crag, the steep cliff repelling invaders from three sides.

  He stood beside her. “What am I looking at? Is that New Town below us?”

  “Yes, and the Firth of Forth beyond that, and the Highlands on the far side.”

  “Incredible.”

  The sun was beginning to set. Tomorrow she’d return to Southwick House and Wyatt to Greenock, and soon he’d go into battle. She might never see him again. And what if something happened to him? How could she endure it?

  All those times she’d resisted the impulse to lean into him, but now she let herself relax to the side, resting against his shoulder, her heart pounding.

  But Wyatt bent over and set his elbows on the wall.

  Dorothy winced, but what did she expect? He had no idea how he was
tugging at her heart. Should she tell him? Would it be appropriately honest or ridiculously impulsive? Most important, what was best for him?

  He sent a smile over his shoulder. “What’s next?”

  If only she knew. She gazed around and pointed along the wall. “That’s the One O’Clock Gun. It’s been silenced by the war though. It doesn’t quite feel like Edinburgh without that resounding boom after lunch.”

  “That must be something.”

  “The Naval and Military Museum is this way. I don’t know if it’s open, but you’d like it.”

  “Worth a look.”

  The path narrowed between two stone walls, and she smiled. At the lowest point of the wall, right above her knees, she hoisted herself up. The path descended, but the wall stayed level. “I used to love walking these walls.”

  Wyatt grew shorter and shorter. He smiled up at her. “The little daredevil balancing on the seawall.” He raised one hand, prepared to catch her.

  She paused, her toes above his head, and her throat thickened. “You always protect me.”

  His face grew serious. “I—I try.”

  He’d never deliberately endanger her, never coax her to do something that terrified her or that violated her morals.

  Careful to keep her skirt modestly about her knees, Dorothy sat down on the wall. “Would you help me down, please?”

  “Sure.” His voice sounded brusque, but he rested his hands on her waist.

  She set her hands on his shoulders, so strong and capable. Could she ever love him?

  “All right, then.” He didn’t look her in the eye. “Ready?”

  Yes, she was ready. She scooted forward, and he lowered her to the ground. He stood close, but not close enough, and he kept the bill of his cap low, obscuring his eyes.

  He eased back.

  No! Not now. Not when she wanted to fall for him, wanted to tumble into oblivion. “Thank you.” She stretched up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his warm, rough cheek.

  As she settled down to her heels, his eyelids opened, revealing eyes as hazy with longing as when he’d sung to her in the conservatory, but with pain crimping the edges.

  Everything inside her turned every which way, what was false becoming true, what was true becoming false. Only one certainty remained—she loved him and she couldn’t let him go.