His feet came to a halt halfway up the first flight of stairs. He lifted his eyes to De Wilde’s. “Does he believe this rubbish? That I am in league with the Bolsheviks? That I conspired with them to kill my own fiancée so I would have a plausible excuse for leaving Russia and coming here?”

He could scarcely see through the haze of fury. Was it not enough that they had killed her? Must they now accuse him of the crime?

Because it was them. He knew it was them. It wasn’t enough that the soviets had forced him from his home. Now they would seek to ruin him here, everywhere, by claiming he was the very thing he hated, the very thing that they knew he’d be working against.

The thing the British government would distrust.

De Wilde didn’t nod, didn’t shake her head, didn’t even shrug. She just held his gaze for a long moment with that ageless look of hers. And then she said, “DID will see the truth. But that doesn’t mean he can always convince others of it. You’ll have to help him with that part. Give him the evidence people will demand.”

Evidence? How was he to provide evidence of anything other than the story he’d already shared? He’d come here with nothing but a ruby ring and a photograph he’d already turned over. Everything else had been lost to him. He had no proof but his word, and if that was called into question . . .

Clarke clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Chin up, old boy. It’s a bunch of rot—sensationalism, nothing more. The next big offensive and everyone will forget it again.”

Zivon jerked his head in a nod and skimmed the rest of the article. Whoever wrote it claimed to have an anonymous source for the information—a source that had presented “irrefutable proof” of his underhanded plot and his association with top-level Bolsheviks.

He was a bit surprised they hadn’t tossed in a few accusations of being in league with the Central Powers for good measure.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Zivon pulled in a breath that did little to calm him and refolded the newspaper. He couldn’t quite manage a smile, even for his friend or colleague. But he could appreciate that they still flanked him on the stairs. They hadn’t abandoned him—at least not yet.

At his floor, Zivon bade Clarke a low farewell and continued into the corridor with De Wilde. It was no more abuzz than usual. No one pointed or stared. But he felt conspicuous as he aimed himself for Hall’s office rather than the room in which he usually worked, De Wilde peeling off at her door with a nod that he took for support.