He looked again at the gravestone, then dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. Locke had done his country a true service for which he deserved greater thanks than a grave far from home.
Toby settled his hat on his head and turned for the cemetery’s gate. Contacting Miss Locke—Fraulein Locke—was obviously his next step.
* * *
Later that afternoon,after inquiring at the university and, via a harassed but garrulous secretary, confirming that Fellows was, indeed, an Englishman, a professor of history currently on leave due to ill health, and a widower with three young children, Toby made his way toward Fellows’s house, which the secretary had informed him was located on the Lowelstrasse, within easy walking distance of the faculty building.
Toby chose to approach the house through the park on the opposite side of the street. The Volksgarten was a well-kept area of lawns dotted with mature trees. It also boasted a rose garden and, most useful in Toby’s view, a decent-sized replica of the Temple of Theseus situated almost directly opposite the Fellows residence.
The helpful apothecary had mentioned that Fraulein Locke was skilled in nursing and had been an asset to her father’s practice. It occurred to Toby that if Fellows was ill, Locke’s daughter might have a professional reason for haunting Fellows’s house rather than the personal one Toby’s contact had assumed. How that might impact Toby’s plans, he didn’t know, but clearly, it would be wise to learn how matters stood with Miss Locke before making any decisions regarding his way forward.
At that time of day, the park was popular with maids and tutors overseeing young children. Numerous youngsters gamboled about the lawns, and some were making a valiant attempt to fly a kite in the slight breeze.
In keeping with his adopted persona, Toby strolled nonchalantly along the walks, just another businessman taking the air. With his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, he scanned the area, hoping he would be lucky enough to find Miss Locke with the Fellows children and so be able to make contact in an impromptu fashion rather than formally calling at the house.
Fortune favored him. He spotted three children—two boys of about eight or nine and a younger girl, the right ages for the Fellows children—playing on the lawn directly opposite the Fellows residence. A small terrier-sized dog of indeterminate breed was with them, and the children were playing a rowdy, laughing game of catch with a ball too big for the dog to snatch. Not that that stopped the terrier from running and leaping after every throw.
Two women were watching over the children. Judging by the older woman’s dress and demeanor, she was a nursemaid of sorts. The younger woman…
Unless Toby missed his guess, the willowy young lady with light-brown hair tucked neatly beneath an unremarkable bonnet with a wide black ribbon was Miss Locke.
His contact had given him only the vaguest of descriptions, but given the black ribbon and the way she watched the children, Toby felt increasingly confident that he’d found his mark. She was wearing a rather severe jacket-coat and matching skirt in a slate-gray hue suitable for mourning. The outfit looked new and chosen more for its practicality than for being in the height of fashion, yet the result was far from dowdy.
His ambling route had carried him closer to where the children were playing, and as they called to one another and laughed over the dog’s antics, their piping voices reached him; they were speaking in English.
Admittedly, there was an established English expatriate community in Vienna, but three children of the right age, watched over by a lady who could be Miss Locke?
Increasingly certain he’d found his quarry, he assessed the children’s positions, then strolled a little farther along the path and paused.
As he’d hoped, a minute or so later, a wild throw by the younger boy saw the ball soar over the little girl’s head and bounce Toby’s way. He stopped the ball with a booted foot, then bent and picked up the red sphere.
Predictably, the dog reached him first and halted a yard away, head tilting and eyes assessing.
Toby crouched and held out his free hand.
The brindle-coated terrier-cross inched forward, sniffing, then edged closer and, eventually, licked Toby’s fingers and slid its wiry-haired head under his hand.
He grinned and scratched behind the dog’s ears, then ran his fingers down the beast’s spine, reducing the dog to tongue-lolling canine ecstasy.
Of the children, the girl had been much closer and reached Toby next. Without waiting for her to ask, he held out the ball. “Here you are.”
Blond-haired and blue-eyed, the poppet gifted him with a brilliant smile. “Thank you,” she lisped. She reached for the ball, and he released it.
Just then, the two boys came pelting up, and the girl turned to them and declared, “He sounds just like Papa.”
Toby smiled at the boys and slowly straightened. “Is your papa English?”
“Yes,” they chorused, openly studying him.
He’d been careful not to look directly at the lady he assumed was Miss Locke, but with the maid in tow, she was approaching now, and he allowed his gaze to rise to her face.
What he hadn’t been able to see from a distance hit him like a punch. A powerful punch to the senses that left him staring. Mentally reeling.
She wasn’t beautiful in the sense of pretty. She was stunning and striking, her features classically sculpted and lit by an inner vitality that projected feminine strength and power.
To his eyes, she was a goddess-like creature, elegant, confident, assured, and capable, a combination that embodied a challenge that effortlessly claimed every last iota of his attention.
That realization set alarms ringing.
