Frankly, she might do the same to him, if she were queen of the land.

But it was a good plan, if they wanted to both keep Director Grey safe and find out who might be trying to kill him.

Chances were that no one would make an attempt on his life during a royal ball, anyway. And then she’d have a night of dancing with her own personal prince.

She was downright brilliant, if she had to say so herself.

The waiter returned with fresh coffee and set a croissant and scrambled eggs in front of her. “Anything else, ma’am?”

She looked at him. Nice looking young man, lean, he wore a black apron, black pants and a white oxford with RL emblazoned on the breast pocket.

“Do you know where I might find a wedding dress around here?”

“Oh, there are many such shops, especially in new Dunholm.”

“What about in old town? Any vintage shops there?”

“There is one. Simply called Shop Vintage. It has everything, and a few years ago, Princess Daffy found her blue ball gown there. It’s on main street, in the hamlet.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” She turned to her eggs and opened the book.

When she’d finished reading last night, Angelica was in real trouble. The SS had rounded up partigianos in Lucca and was questioning—and executing them—one by one. She’d sneaked into town to see if her brother was among the captured, but didn’t see him.

But her questions had raised the attention of the Obergruppenfüehrer, who saw her in town.

And had followed her back to the house to confront her.

Chapter 18/Portami a casa: un ricordo della resistenza italiana

Of course I am afraid of him. He is a big man, tall, with a presence that raises the skin on my neck, turns my stomach. Thus far, he has left me alone to cook, clean after him, but I know better.

He watches me.

Probably, waiting for a reason to force me into something tawdry.

It’s been nearly a month since Fred has left me. I now know the truth. Despite my prayers, he will not return. Of course not. It is too dangerous.

He has his duty. His life. And I have mine.

It was a foolish dream.

One that feels even more simpleminded when the Obergruppenfüehrer darkens my kitchen door.

I am kneading dough, my hands floured and thus I am helpless when he walks over to me and grabs my wrists. He speaks in German, of course, but I feel that he must see right through me, read my eyes because he looks at me with such suspicion.

“You are looking for your brother.”

His words are in English, and they jolt me. So much that I yank my arm back, breathing hard.

“He is with the resistance?”

I freeze because a faint hope whistles through me. What if he doesn’t know? I could…I—