One London Night Read online

  One London Night

  Denise A. Agnew

  Published 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-072-9

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2014, Denise A. Agnew. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  War Time London, 1940

  A time when uncertainty festers within even the strongest of men.

  A time when fear rules everyone’s lives.

  A time when love dares to defy the devastation of war.

  After years away, American war correspondent Sylvie Hunnicut returns to England determined to put aside tumultuous memories and muster the courage to cover the war in Great Britain. Guilt she harbors over a horrible accident that permanently injured childhood friend Alec Kent threatens to destroy their relationship. Secret longings for him remain in her heart, even if he wants nothing to do with her.

  Alec Kent's disability works against him in serving his country, until he signs on with the Auxiliary Fire Service. Sylvie's return brings to the forefront Alec’s hidden love for her and a determination to prove himself to his disapproving father.

  But war promises to destroy the possibility of love and bring a great city to its knees.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my parents, Margaret Alene Crawford Stone (August 17, 1921-November 10, 2006) and my father Robert John Stone (May 9, 1918-February 7, 2002). They lived through World War Two, and while they were Americans, their many tales about living in that era inspired me. My father served in the 10th Mountain Division and in 3rd Ordnance. One of my uncles, Dale Crawford, served in the Air Force as an aircraft mechanic in England during the war and rumor has it met some distant relatives while there.

  I also dedicate this book to the people of Black Forest, Colorado, who suffered through a wildfire ripping through their forest in June 2013. I grew up in Black Forest. My old house was spared, but over five hundred homes were destroyed.

  To me they are all people who weathered a storm of vast proportions and came out on the other side, survivors all.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my critique partner, Selena Robins, for her wonderful critique and great friendship. Thank you to Gail Northman and Donna Louise Hackett, both of England, for keeping my dialogue and British culture references in tiptop shape.

  Thank you to friends Stacy Chitwood, Arlene Van Belle, and Kathleen Wells for encouraging me to always write the books of my heart. You ladies are the best buddies ever.

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, September 7, 1940

  Huntingdonshire

  Near Huntingdon, England

  “Citizens of England, indeed, all of Great Britain, call it the phony war as they wonder when the German machine will descend on their country. Many still remember the terrible loss of five thousand lives during German raids in the Great War,” Sylvie Hunnicut said as the hired car she rode in rumbled down the narrow country lane and took the next curve at high speed.

  “What did you say there, miss?” The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, and she met his look.

  She shifted her pocketbook on her lap and glanced at the hard-sided suitcase near her feet. “Thinking out loud about my piece.”

  “Piece?” His accent was thick and dosed with skepticism.

  Travel weary and feeling grimy, she said, “I’m a war correspondent.”

  She braced, used to most men’s negative reaction to her career choice.

  “Ah…” He drew the sound out, nodding his head all the while. “What paper miss?”

  “New York Herald Tribune.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Most people haven’t in England.”

  Tall trees and hedgerows threw shadows across the car as sun broke through clouds for a few seconds. She gritted her teeth. The road was barely wide enough for two cars, but the English took their roads the way they seemed to take the war, with a fearlessness she considered both commendable and idiotic. She hadn’t been in England for years, but even so, she should have expected the craziness.

  As the miles rolled by, she thought back to when she’d been an impressionable, bullheaded girl. She’d only been fourteen, and her neighbor Alec had been giving her driving lessons without her grandparents’ knowledge. But it was the dare he’d given her that had changed everything forever. Neither of them had a care in the world that day. Around them the world had turned uncertain, but they hadn’t flinched or worried. Youth had given them wings. She closed her eyes and felt the happiness from the summer. From being fourteen and carefree. Her eyes snapped open and she swallowed hard. No time to dwell on the horrible ending to a glorious time. No point on thinking about it at all. She couldn’t change the past.

  The taxi driver’s motoring skills notwithstanding, she tamped down apprehension and concentrated on writing her next article. In her head.

  He took the next corner even faster than the last and then slowed to a crawl as he came to the long lane leading into Chestville Manor.

  The taxi driver turned the car into the driveway and then spit out a curse as he brought the vehicle to a jarring halt. Sylvie flew forward with a gasp of surprise and grabbed at the seatback in front of her. They’d come within inches of a head-on collision with a green, shiny car.

  “Bloody hell!” The driver pounded on his steering wheel. “Sorry, miss.”

  Speechless, she watched as the other driver gestured with one hand. She held her breath as she wondered if he would create a scene. Fortunately he backed up, his skill at handling an automobile apparent. When they pulled into the circular driveway, she half expected the other car to take his leave. Instead, he followed their taxi.

  Sylvie’s mind ran in a muddle. “I think that man is angry.”

  “He ain’t goin’ away, is he?”

  Her attention was snagged by the beautiful view of Chestville; it dominated an open area surrounded by trees and farmland. Her ancestral home, it was an architectural jumble of Jacobean to Georgian and modern patches, and rose three stories in front of her. The taxi came to another quick halt.

  Not eager to meet up with an irate driver, she exited the car slowly. Before she could haul out her suitcase, the taxi driver opened the opposite back door and grabbed the case.

  That’s when she dared to look at the man exiting the green Bentley.

  Her mouth opened in shock, and not only because she knew the tall, muscular figure. This man had matured, grown into a fine example of extraordinary manhood. He was easily over six feet with medium brown hair too long for fashion and curling around his ears. Sun hit him from the side and gave his hair a reddish hue. His face seemed cut from granite, a rugged combination of hardness and pure masculine beauty.

  Unlike many Englishmen she’d known, Alec Kent had the countenance of a warrior. Dark, deep eyes caught and held hers. But his right eye stole her attention. Scars dotted the area above his eyebrow. Rather than solid brown, his iris was slightly lighter than the other eye and a bit cloudy. Unwanted memories rose to the surface, and she ruthlessly shoved them down. Images flew into her mind of blood running down his face, his hand covering his e
ye and a sound of pure pain tearing from his throat.

  “Sylvie?” Deep and rough around the edges, his voice matched him. Uneven, unpredictable, and maybe a bit dangerous.

  She lost her grip on the suitcase and it thudded to the ground. “Alec. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Something flashed over his face as if the whole encounter made him uncomfortable, and he couldn’t wait to escape the estate.

  He stepped forward, invading her personal space. “I didn’t expect to see you here, either. I knew you were coming, but…”

  He let the words disappear, and curiosity kept her going. “Why are you here?”

  “My parents invited your grandparents to Kent House.”

  Now that did surprise her.

  “I see yer in good ’ands, miss,” The cab driver said. “I’ll take my leave now.”

  She ignored him, still stunned to see Alec. Sylvie heard the cab driver clear his throat, and she realized he’d unloaded her other suitcase from the trunk and both cases sat nearby.

  “Oh, yes.” She fumbled in her frame pocketbook until she located the right amount for the fare and handed it to cab driver. “Thank you.”

  As the driver departed, her curiosity made her ask Alec, “Your parents invited my grandparents to dinner? Never thought I would hear that in a million years.”

  He shrugged, and his broad shoulders moved under a thick brown sweater. Tailored navy pants hung in elegant form on his slim hips.

  “You’ve grown so tall,” she said.

  He snorted a soft laugh. “You haven’t seen me since 1932.”

  His tone implied thinly-veiled contempt, and it struck right where it counted. Her throat tightened as memories struck hard and fast. Swallowing the pain of that day in 1932, she glanced away. What was done was done. She couldn’t travel back eight years and change anything.

  “You know my parents.” One corner of his handsome mouth quirked upward. “They’re making the big gesture.”

  “Oh?”

  He heaved a weary sigh. “Long story.”

  With them it always had been. Long, difficult, and fraught with ups and downs. Yet she’d missed him. Heaven help her, she’d missed him.

  “Quite the greeting you gave me back there with the…” She gestured to the car. “The vehicle.”

  “It’s not any vehicle.”

  “So I see. But I don’t know a thing about cars.”

  He tried a smile, but it didn’t fully form. “You and cars make a dangerous combination.”

  Anger touched her, swift and unexpected. “You were the one driving a hundred miles per hour.”

  His mouth tightened, and then loosened into a smirk. “You know what they say about women and sailing ships. Maybe the bad luck extends to any conveyance.”

  She made an exasperated sound but couldn’t think of one thing to say in her defense. Shame mixed with guilt and regret into a noxious soup. His gaze traced up and down her body in a sweep, assessing everything about her. She’d received plenty of male attention over the years, but this look was raw with either sexual interest or utter contempt. She couldn’t be sure which. In that moment she ached with longing and anger, a combination that hurt deep in her belly.

  One side of the large double doors creaked open and Old Barton the manservant exited the manor. Barton Fredrick had to be almost seventy-five, but his wrinkled face and full head of white hair looked no different than it had years ago.

  “Barton.” She smiled and lifted the smaller suitcase, eager to escape Alec’s attention. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Miss Sylvie. Very good to see you again. Here, give me that. We have your old room made up for you.”

  She heard the Bentley’s door open and close, and dared to glance at Alec. He settled into the driver’s seat, threw her one look, restarted the car, and was off. A cold breeze danced through the trees and raced down the road as if chasing him away.

  Drawing in a shuddering breath, she followed Barton into the manor house. Determined to ignore what had happened between her and Alec, she crossed the threshold. Little had altered in the three years since she’d last seen the place. Everything was tidy, with chintz and lace curtains and dark wood furniture. She took in the two-story foyer with the sparkling chandelier. In truth her grandparents hadn’t spent much on the upkeep, and signs of wear crept in here and there.

  From the time she’d come here as a child each summer, sailing the fourteen days with her hired companion, she’d always found the old home magical with its nooks and crannies. Sylvie stared up the center staircase at the stained-glass window depicting the dance of angels. Sadness touched her. This old place was wearing out, and she felt as if time was racing, racing forward faster than she wanted.

  With a start, she realized Old Barton was watching her with a concerned expression.

  “Everything all right, miss?”

  “Of course. Where are grandmother and grandfather?”

  “They went into Huntingdon but should be back shortly. I’ll carry these up for you.”

  He made his way upstairs, his gait painfully slow, and she hesitated before following him. “Where are Ruby and Jillian?”

  Ruby and Jillian had been maids in the household since they were very young.

  Barton almost missed a step but kept on trudging. “Both are Land Girls working on the Kent property.”

  “Oh dear,” she said in dismay. “My grandparents must have been angry that the girls would work there rather than here.”

  Barton had proven the most respectful and discreet servant, but his honesty was unflagging. “Truthfully, miss, they seem to enjoy being over there more than here.”

  “I see.”

  Immediately her mind went into high gear. She’d heard of Land Girls before, and an idea to write a story on them went into her mental filing cabinet. With so many men fighting, a lot of farm labor wouldn’t get done without hardy women working the land. She suspected the two maids found working away from her extremely demanding grandparents a nice change of pace. Quite a few parents were going insane wondering what their wayward daughters were doing as Land Girls.

  The stairs creaked as they climbed, the stone walls covered with photographs of two hundred years of ancestors. She followed Barton down the hall to the second bedroom on the left. Little about the room had changed; the coverlet on the four-poster bed and the draperies were different. A draft passed through her hair, and even the sweater she’d worn under her jacket didn’t seem warm enough. An ache settled deep in her heart, a melancholy understanding. Whenever she came here, she always longed for something, but she never knew what. Maybe a return to innocence and the summer days she’d spent here, joyful and content in a way she’d never experienced since.

  “Tea?”

  Barton’s voice jerked her to attention. “I’m sorry?”

  “You must be famished, miss. I can have a tray brought up.”

  As if on cue, her stomach protested the fact she’d had nothing to eat for more hours than she could remember. “That would be wonderful, but I’ll wait for my grandparents.”

  When he left, she pulled off her shoes and let them thump to the floor, and then chucked her jacket on a chair back. The fireplace wasn’t lit, and she resigned herself to cold, humid temperatures. It wouldn’t be any worse here in than New York City.

  Rubbing her arms, she walked to the full-length mirror in one corner of the room and stared at her rumpled reflection. No wonder Alec had looked at her with a combination of thinly-veiled contempt and interest. She looked, using her mother’s terminology, as if she’d been pulled through a knothole backwards. She patted her hair, which stood up in more than one direction. What did she care if he liked the way she looked? That ship had sailed long ago and with no chance of coming back. Any relationship she had with him had sunk like the Titanic.

  She turned away from her reflection and reached for her suitcase. Before long she’d stripped off her stockings and slipped into comfortable slacks that
matched her jacket and sweater. She’d barely settled in her old room when she heard several voices downstairs. She drew a deep breath, shoved her feet into her shoes, and decided facing her grandparents without hesitation made the most sense. She knew what they thought about her life choices in the last few years—she’d just have to work around their undeniable disapproval.

  Before she even reached the stairs, she saw her grandmother on the first step. Susan Oldfield Hunnicut was still the most beautiful woman Sylvie had ever seen, with a mass of frosted hair piled upon her head in a style that had been fashionable thirty years ago. She wore a tailored gray herringbone suit with a white ruffled blouse. Though only a couple inches above five feet tall, Grandmum held court like a queen. A thunderous frown creased the woman’s amazingly youthful face.

  “Grandmum.” Sylvie smiled in genuine affection.

  Susan returned her broad smile, the spark in her eyes erasing whatever had caused her to glower. “Darling child! I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

  Sylvie hurried down the stairs. They hugged, and Grandmum kept the embrace going for some time. Tears bit at Sylvie’s eyes. She drew back and Grandmum held both her hands.

  “My dear,” she said, blue eyes suddenly serious. “You look too thin. And whatever are you wearing?”

  Sylvie almost grimaced. “I expect I’ll turn brittle with starvation. I hear there’s a war on and rationing as well.”

  “We will try to feed you enough you don’t blow away in a storm.”

  “Cook still making those nasty meat pies that have no flavor? I just might starve.”

  Grandmum rolled her eyes. “Don’t be cheeky, Sylvie. It’s not ladylike.” Sylvie towered over her grandmother, but the old woman reached for Sylvie’s jacket and plucked at the broad shoulders. “Well, I do suspect this is what they wear in America these days. Women are rather more…aggressive there.”

  Susan never asked, she stated.

  Sylvie nodded. “You could say that. Don’t worry. I have dresses and even stockings. Shocking, I know.”

  “I hope you have several pair of knickers. You won’t find much here.” Grandmum sighed and brushed at one shoulder of Sylvie’s suit. Her eyes held an uncharacteristic sadness. “I know you’re used to men allowing you to do whatever you want in the United States, darling. But don’t test your grandfather. He’s in rather a mood these days.”