Margot could all but see the thoughts ricocheting through her mind. She wasn’t being sacked—Lady Hambro would be the one to deliver that news, if it were so. The possibility always existed that he’d simply selected her for a small job of some sort—but why would Margot be on hand for that?

“It’s your brother. He’s alive,” he rushed to say, not giving Dot’s eyes time to do more than widen a fraction with dark questions. “Alive but in critical condition, I’m afraid. He’s suffered a gunshot to the abdomen. I have no further information about how it happened or the details of the injury, other than that he will arrive in London on Sunday and be taken directly to Charing Cross Hospital, but I didn’t want you to read this news in a telegram.”

Dot’s hands may have been shaking that morning, after spending two nights in a home not her own, but they didn’t shake now. She gripped her brown paper bag, yes, but anyone would have. Her nostrils flared, but only once. And her voice came out even and sure. “Thank you for being the one to tell me, Admiral. Do you know where I can discover information on what train he’ll be on? I’d like to meet him at Charing Cross as soon as he arrives.”

Hall nodded. “I’ll request such details be sent to you as soon as they’re known.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Another thing everyone appreciated about Hall—he knew when to take command . . . and when to delegate. At this point he stepped to the side, creating a clear and obvious path between Margot and Dot. “Know that your brother will be in my prayers and that, unless you have objections, I’ll ask the others to pray for him as well.”

Dot offered a small but steady smile. “I would appreciate that, Admiral. And I know Drake would as well.”

He left with a nod, and Margot knew he’d go and do exactly as promised. He’d find Montgomery—their own Fighting Padre, as they’d taken to calling him when he exchanged his clerical robes for a uniform over the summer—and alert the reverend to this latest request for prayer.

Margot slid over to her friend. “I’m sorry, Dot.”

“He’s alive.” She proclaimed it with a nod. And then winced and gave Margot an apologetic look.

Drake Elton of the crooked nose and insightful questions was alive. Sophie De Wilde of the incomparable beauty and unfailing smiles was not. But the two had nothing to do with each other. And Margot was certainly not wretch enough to begrudge her friend that thread of hope. She dug deep until she could pull out a smile. “He is. And God willing, he will remain so.”