The Iron Storm by CW Browning (best fiction novels to read .txt) 📗

was right. If the Nazi war machine made it all the way to Paris, France would be in Hitler’s hands. The thought was a black one. Most of Europe would be under Nazi control, and the only country left standing would be her own.

And what could her tiny island hope to do against the full might of an unstoppable foe all alone?

Ainsworth Manor, England

There was a moon out, occasionally obscured by fast moving clouds, illuminating the gray flagged stones of the terrace that stretched behind the drawing room. Henry went through the opening of the low surrounding wall and paused to glance back over the dark south lawn. He would have wished for a moonless night if he had the choice, but he had to play the cards that he had been dealt. At least the bright light from the moon made the electric torch he carried in his coat pocket unnecessary. He could see quite well without it, not that he would have needed it to find the drawing room door. He’d been here enough over the years to know it well. Of course, that had been when Robert was alive. Things were different then.

He supposed things were different for everyone now, he reflected as he crossed the patio to the door. War had a tendency of changing everything, and of putting everything into sharp focus, fine-tuning priorities, and making the parties and gatherings they had all enjoyed a thing of the past. Most of the men and women in his generation were now serving their country in the RAF or the WAAFs. Then there was the navy and the army. Now they were even going off to become Land girls, something he thought was the height of ridiculousness. He’d heard that Lady Morganston’s daughter had gone to work on the farms. Preposterous. This war was making a mockery of the class system in all its glory, and Henry thought it would only lead to trouble in the end. A peer of the realm had no business digging in the dirt with the commoners. It just wasn’t done. Nor was it necessary. There were plenty of the lower classes who could do the manual labor needed.

He supposed it was the fault of the patriotism sweeping the nation. As soon they declared war in September, everyone wanted to do their bit. Even Evelyn Ainsworth had joined the WAAFs. Utter nonsense. She should be home with her mother, especially after Robert’s death.

Henry pulled a long metal tool from the inside pocket of his coat and slid the end between the door and the jam. A second later the door gave way and he pulled it open silently. With one final look around, he slipped into the house.

Madeleine and Agatha would be fast asleep, and with any luck they would remain that way. He wasn’t worried about the ladies of the house. He was more concerned with that butler. He’d nearly caught him last time when Henry had come and searched the Study and the Library. A light sleeper, that one was, and he was the one who could undo everything. If he saw Henry, he would recognize him instantly, and that would be curtains for his career and his freedom.

Henry left the drawing room door ajar and was just turning away to begin searching the room when movement caught his attention. He turned his head and felt his heart quicken at the sight of a tall man moving across the lawn near the terrace. A gardener, by the looks of it, but what kind of gardener was wandering abroad at this time of night?

He moved away from the door, watching as the man paused suddenly next to the terrace and looked at the house. Damn and blast! He’d seen the door!

Henry turned and moved swiftly across the drawing room to the door leading to the corridor. He was just slipping silently out of the room when he heard heavy footsteps running across the terrace. The man was coming to investigate, as any good servant would. Double damn and blast!

He knew there was a coat closet not five feet from the drawing room door. He’d watched the footmen get his coat from it any number of times, and now it was his only hope. Henry moved along the dark corridor, his eyes adjusting to the inky blackness, until he reached the door. He wrenched it open and slipped inside quickly, pulling the door closed behind him. A second later, the drawing room door was thrown open and he heard footsteps in the corridor. They were coming towards the closet.

Henry held his breath and stood perfectly still inside the door, his hand on the handle. Once the man passed the closet, he would crack it and take a look. Not seeing what was happening was worse than listening to the footsteps just outside the door. They didn’t pause or miss a stride as they passed the closet, and Henry exhaled in relief.

Cracking the door silently, he peered out into the darkness, watching as a circle of yellow light danced along the corridor. The gardener had a torch, which was unfortunate because it meant that Henry couldn’t sneak away in the shadows. Instead, he would have to wait until the man had crossed the great hall and gone towards the Study on the other side. An irritating delay, but it couldn’t be helped. Henry watched as the man reached the hall and shone his light around the vast emptiness. Suddenly he turned to his left, almost as if he’d heard a noise there, and raised the torch higher to illuminate the area. The light from the flashlight extended to light up his face and Henry sucked in his breath sharply. He knew that face. That was no gardener. That man worked for MI6!

He watched, stunned, as the man finally turned to cross the large hall, moving out of sight towards the Study. What the hell was a man from MI6 doing at