Running low on arguments, I scrounge for another and note our surroundings. “Surely you ought to be resting instead. Taking some time—”

“I’ll rest,” he snaps, “when this bloody war is over!”

At my flinch, he pulls back. The frustration coloring his face just as soon pales. “My apologies.”

I accept easily with a nod.

Expelling a sigh, he relaxes his hands on his lap. “With every passing day, ever more of our devices are blown. Our lads behind the wire, the underground operatives, they are all dependent upon our work.” He meets my eyes. “The more success they achieve, Miss Vos, the higher chance my boys make it home.”

His sons.

Goodness. He speaks so rarely of his personal life that I’d nearly forgotten.

“I understand,” I say, though falsely. I can only attempt to fathom the constant everyday worries of a parent, let alone during wartime.

Even so, the thought of his secret shelves of gadgets brings me back to my initial question. To even contemplate his proposal, I need the whole picture.

“Your parcels in the bunker, the cases of jam and marmalade… I saw you at night giving some away. Why?”

He lifts a brow, surprised, then answers sheepishly. “Goods for trading.”

“Trading—for what?”

“Priority. For iron, silk, a great many other materials we have required from our suppliers.”

Like my tins from the cannery, I mentally add.

“Greasing the wheels,” I translate, and he agrees. Again he appears sincere, but I retain my guard. “If that’s all it was, why not just tell me?”

Sudden indignance pinches his voice. “The business of compromising ethics is not suitable for a fine lady.”

I barely contain a snort; our endeavors pertain to war, not tea with high society. But then, he does tend toward the dramatic. “And the bunker? Which of my ethics would that have jeopardized?”

He mulls over the challenge. “I suppose,” he says, “I had grown accustomed to my privacy.”

Truthfully, to that much I can relate.

“Major Hutton,” a stout nurse barks from the doorway. “It is time for your bath.” She sends a glower toward me, an order to exit, just as Hutton touches my coat sleeve.

“Ponder my offer, Miss Vos. Please.” His hand quivers, making me question the hazards of him continuing work in any capacity. And yet, he at least deserves a modicum of consideration.

“I will.”

Chapter 39

In the lounge bar of the George, I wait on the bench along the wall, my mind swimming. Upon my return, the inn’s cook, cheery over my moving about, insisted on whipping me up a Spam sandwich. Only then did I realize I’d gone the day without eating. But then, who could blame me?