“Miss Vos.” The private’s tone suggests she’s repeating herself. Beneath the brim of her cap, Lenora Walsh shoots me a quizzical look from the driver’s seat of the truck while steering us carefully down a cobblestone street in the darkness. Our partially masked headlamps are only so helpful.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, is there something troubling you?”

Has it been that obvious?

I prop up a smile. “Not at all.” From the slight gravel in my voice, I realize it’s the first I’ve spoken since leaving headquarters at least an hour ago. In London’s East End awaits a large quantity of—I’ve forgotten—oh, yes, men’s grooming supplies. We’re to retrieve them from a warehouse once I confirm they’ve been properly rigged. “I’m just a bit tired.”

She’s unconvinced by my answer. I detect it in her eyes before they reaffix on the road, but she doesn’t prod further. Then again, there’s probably no need. After my afternoon of warning the half-dozen recipients of the cans I’d proudly distributed, word of my colossal failure has surely reached the ATS “lovelies.” And they’re not exactly ones to keep opinions of others to themselves.

Come to think of it…that does make me wonder.

If the two ever observed a questionable act, even by a higher rank, would they let it be known? Similarly, would Private Walsh? As Hutton’s driver, she’s witnessed many of the man’s excursions firsthand.

If I’m ever to probe, this is my chance. My role at MI9 could fast be coming to an end.

“Private Walsh, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I begin casually, “about your working with Major Hutton. Has anything about him struck you as…odd?”

Her lips tighten, but not quick enough to contain a snip of a laugh.

I laugh a little myself—“odd” being an understatement. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I sense her guard lower a notch before she offers, “From the start, Colonel Crockatt did give me fair heeding that the major was rather mad and of my need to humor him.”

A savvy answer. She suggested her own opinion without actually giving it. “Gracious, I wish I’d received the same advice.” When she smirks, I ask, “Anything else?”

She ponders. “The day I introduced myself, the major informed me that if he’s ever in uniform, which he hoped to God wouldn’t be often, that he might fling me up a salute, but I’d be forbidden from reciprocating.”

“Forbidden—why?”

“He claims it’s ‘undignified, unnatural, and unwomanly.’” She rolls her eyes, emphasizing the absurdity of what might well have been intended as his show of reverence for femininity. “Likewise, he makes no secret of my driving skills taxing his nerves, saying nothing of Private Leary, who drives like a bloody maniac.” She appears to catch herself and awkwardly murmurs, “Excuse the moaning.”