To Love a Traitor

Wounds of the heart take the longest to heal.

When solicitor’s clerk George Johnson moves into a rented London room in the winter of 1920, it’s with a secret goal: to find out if his fellow lodger, Matthew Connaught, is the wartime traitor who cost George’s adored older brother his life.

Yet as he gets to know Matthew—an irrepressibly cheerful ad man whose missing arm hasn’t dimmed his smile—George begins to lose sight of his mission.

As Matthew’s advances become ever harder to resist, George tries to convince himself his brother’s death was just the luck of the draw, and to forget he’s hiding a secret of his own. His true identity—and an act of conscience that shamed his family.

But as their mutual attraction grows, so does George’s desperation to know the truth about what happened that day in Ypres. If only to prove Matthew innocent—even if it means losing the man he’s come to love.

Warning: Contains larks in the snow, stiff upper lips, shadows of the Great War, and one man working undercover while another tries to lure him under the covers.

To Love a Traitor

JL Merrow

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the ordinary men and women who showed extraordinary courage during World War One—whatever form it may have taken.

With grateful thanks to Erastes, Penelope Friday, Charlie Cochrane, Elin Gregory, Blaine Arden, Susan Sorrentino, Pender Mackie, Kristin, VWC and of course, my editor Linda Ingmanson.

Chapter One

December, 1920

“Marmaduke! Marrrrrmaduke!”

The coaxing calls in a rather pleasant light baritone were accompanied by the jarring bang of a tin. George stood under a street lamp, shivering in the chill December air, and peered at the address he’d jotted down on a little scrap of newspaper. Yes, this was it: Allen Street. And number twenty-one must be…right where a broad-shouldered but slender man was standing silhouetted in the doorway, banging a tin dish against the brickwork.

George gazed at him for a moment, trying in vain to make out the man’s features, then roused himself to speech. “Excuse me, is this number twenty-one?”

“Yes! Are you here about the room? Come in, come in, it’s perishing out here.” It was quite disconcerting to hear such a friendly voice coming out of the shadows that veiled the young man’s face. “I say,” the man added with a touch of concern, “you haven’t seen a black cat around here on your travels, have you?”

A cat? George had been expecting a dog, though he supposed there was no reason to, really. He raised an eyebrow, then recalled that his own expression was most likely equally invisible to the other and indicated the dimly lit street with a wave of one hand. “There could be several dozen hiding out here for all I know, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Yes, I suppose they are rather well adapted for concealment. Beastly nuisance, these dark afternoons. Still, come on in, I’ll take you to Mrs. MacPherson. I’m Matthew Connaught, by the way.” He extended his left hand for a handshake.

Momentarily startled into immobility, George cursed himself for an idiot and tried to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. The man’s right arm was missing below the elbow, his shirt sleeve pinned up neatly to cover it. “George Johnson,” he said hurriedly, giving Connaught’s hand an awkward shake.

Any hopes that his hesitation might have gone unnoticed were swiftly dashed. “I’m afraid I lost the other hand at Passchendaele,” Connaught said with an easy smile, his face now revealed by the soft glow emanating from the doorway to be as personable as his voice. “They fitted me up with a tin one after I came home, but the wretched thing was more bother than it was worth. Still, awfully good of Jerry to realise I was left-handed and aim for the right, that’s what I always say. Here, let me take your hat and coat.”

“Thank you.” George shrugged off his coat and handed it to Connaught to hang on the stand, feeling more than somewhat uncomfortable to be doing so—after all, the man had only one arm. But Connaught seemed to manage perfectly well, holding the coat draped over his truncated arm while reaching for George’s hat.

The outer vestments now disposed of, Connaught led George down a narrow, tiled hallway. The kitchen at the end was small and cosy-looking, spotlessly clean except for a pile of potato peelings on a folded sheet of newspaper, no doubt part of the preparations for the evening meal. The room was inhabited by a still-handsome lady of middle age with a comfortable figure, her glossy chestnut hair pulled back into a simple bun. She raised her eyebrows on catching sight of George, but favoured Connaught with a small smile.

“No luck finding Marmaduke, I’m afraid,” Connaught said cheerfully, “but I’d wager you’ll be better pleased with who did turn up, in any case. Mrs. MacPherson, this is George Johnson. He’s come about the room.”

Recognising his cue, George stepped forward and offered the lady his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacPherson. I hope the room is still available?” It’d better be.

Mrs. MacPherson nodded. “It is. You’ve a problem with your present lodgings?” she asked cautiously.

By which she presumably meant, had they chucked him out, perhaps for some heinous crime such as non-payment of rent or whistling on a Sunday? “Oh, I’ve been staying in an hotel.” George shrugged. “I’ve only lately arrived in town.”

Mrs. MacPherson folded her arms. His recent arrival in London seemed from her expression to be a black mark against him. “So you’d be looking for employment, would you?”

“No, no—I’ve got a position,” George hastened to reassure her. “I’m an articled clerk with Forrester & Lindley—the solicitors, you know. I started there a couple of weeks ago. Jolly interesting work, actually,” he added with a smile. “What with the war, some people’s affairs are in a fearful muddle. It’s rather satisfying to sort all that out for them.”

The arms unfolded themselves. “Well! Would you like to see the room, then?”

She made as if to untie her apron, but Connaught forestalled her with a grin. “I’ll take him, Mrs. Mac—wouldn’t want to interrupt your wonderful cooking. I dare say I can answer any questions he may have.”

In the brightly lit kitchen, Connaught had revealed himself to be a handsome young man with soft brown hair that tended towards a curl and what seemed to be a permanently sunny expression. He and George were much of a height, but George fancied he had the advantage by perhaps half an inch. Connaught’s accent marked him out clearly as officer class, and George could imagine he must also have been a popular one.

No doubt his orders had been obeyed without question. And now it was George’s turn to follow where he led—but he was damned if he’d be blinded by good looks and charm. No, he’d reserve judgement on the man until he had an idea what lay behind that gilded exterior.

They went up the rather creaky wooden stairs to a small but cheerfully furnished room that overlooked the street at the front. It held a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and, George was pleased to see, a writing desk and chair.

“Well? What do you think? Does it meet your requirements?” Connaught asked eagerly. He might have been a small boy impatiently—and confidently—awaiting his father’s approval of his latest model ship or school report. The thought was bitter. Any confidence a young George might have had in similar situations had inevitably been dashed the minute his father had grudgingly deigned to extend his notice to his younger son. Paternal fondness had been in limited supply, and all of it bestowed upon the elder son and heir.

His chest tightening with all-too-familiar emotions of shame and loss, George turned away and pretended to examine the room more closely, as though he were short-sighted and had omitted to bring his spectacles. “It seems very suitable,” he said, turning around slowly.

There were a couple of cloyingly sentimental paintings of large-eyed children on the walls, but George supposed he could learn to live with them. Connaught intercepted his gaze. “Ghastly things, those, aren’t they? I have to confess, when I moved in, they were in my room, but as this room was empty at the time, I transplanted them here. So in all fairness, if you really can’t stand them, I’ll take them back.”

His expression was such a perfect mix of determination and thinly veiled horror that despite himself, George had to smile. “I was just thinking I could probably get used to them, but I’d honestly rather not have to. Tell you what,” he added in a spirit of fairness. “If I take the place, why don’t we split them between us, so we’ll each have only the one wall we’ll have to avoid looking at?”

“Excellent plan—and far better than I deserve,” Connaught said cheerfully. “My room’s right next door, by the way, so if I snore too loudly just bang on the wall. Now, you must have some questions—and quite possibly ones you’d sooner ask me than Mrs. Mac—so fire away.”

George was sure there must be all sorts of things one should ask about upon moving into new digs, but with Connaught’s merry blue eyes upon him, he couldn’t for the life of him think what they might be. “Er, are there any house rules I should know about?”

“Oh, only the usual. Clean up after yourself, no hanky-panky with the maid—not that you’re likely to be tempted; she’s older than Mrs. Mac—and no overnight guests. Unless they’re feline, of course. Marmaduke gets special dispensation, on account of being rather a good mouser. Although I do have to remind Mrs. Mac of that on frequent occasions, such as when she finds cat hair all over her best white shawl.”

“Well, I suppose one can understand that. Er, is there a Mr. MacPherson?” George imagined some dour Scot conversing, on those rare occasions when he unbent far enough to notice his fellow men, in gruff, unintelligible monosyllables.

“Sadly, no longer with us. Although in fact he never was—with us, I mean. He was a redheaded, full-bearded, kilt-wearing Highlander, by all accounts, and Mrs. Mac lived with him in wedded bliss in some frightful place up in the wilds of Scotland, but when he died just before the war, she upped sticks and moved back down here. She’s got a sister who lives three streets away—you’ll want to avoid the kitchen when Mrs. Evans comes round for a cuppa. The gossip would make your hair curl, believe me!”

George found himself wondering drily if Connaught’s hair had been straight when he came to live here, and reprimanded himself for the frivolity. The fellow’s good mood was annoyingly infectious, damn it. “Have you lived here long?”

“Me? Oh Lord, let me see… Nearly six months now. I came to town for work, of course. I write advertising copy—all those newspaper advertisements for ladies’ corsetry and Scientific Reducing Belts for men, that sort of thing.”

“Do you only deal with underpinnings?” George couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, this is what I keep asking my lord and master, but every time something comes in for unmentionables, old Carpenter says ‘Give it to Matthew, it’ll be right up his alley!’ You must call me Matthew, by the way, if we’re going to be living together. No need to be all formal.”

Must he? That wouldn’t make his task any easier. Then again, perhaps it would. “Matthew. Thank you—and I’m George, of course.” George looked into Matthew’s open, cheerful face and struggled to think of another sensible question. “Are there any other members of the household?”

“Mrs. Mac has a daughter who lives here—she’s Miss Lewis, not Miss MacPherson, by the way, to save confusion later. The Highlander was Mrs. Mac’s second husband. Between you and me,” Matthew said, leaning disconcertingly close with a conspiratorial grin, “I think she’s on the lookout for number three. That’s why she advertised for a single gentleman. But don’t worry, she’s not the predatory sort. At least, I’ve never been made to feel uncomfortable.”

“If she’s left you alone, I very much doubt I’ll be in danger,” George said wryly.

Matthew gave him an odd sort of look but didn’t say anything. “So, will you take it?” he asked after a moment’s silence.

Of course he would, but for appearances’ sake, George cocked his head and pretended to consider the question. “Well, the rate’s reasonable, the place seems clean, and the company congenial. Yes, I rather think I will.”

“Excellent! Let’s go and tell Mrs. Mac the good news.” Clapping him familiarly on the shoulder, Matthew led the way back down to the kitchen. “He’s going to take it, Mrs. Mac!” he called from the doorway.

She nodded as if she’d expected no less. “Will you be paying monthly or weekly?”

George suspected that was a veiled enquiry as to how long he might be planning to stay. “Oh, monthly, I think,” he said, anxious to get off on the best possible footing.

And indeed, he was certain he could detect a definite softening in her demeanour. “I’ll require a deposit of one week’s rent—I hope that won’t be a problem?”

Had the rent been much higher, it might have been, on a clerk’s stipend, but since evening meals were included, George thought the salary from Forrester & Lindley could just about stretch to it. “No, no problem. I’ll go to the bank on Monday.”

She nodded, turning away to check on a pot that bubbled noisily on the range—then turned back, as if a thought had just struck her. “Oh, and one more thing—are you a musical man, Mr. Johnson?”

George frowned in confusion. “Ah—I don’t play anything, if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” Matthew said with a merry smile. “The previous tenant was a trombonist with the Salvation Army. He had an unfortunate tendency to practice hymns early in the morning.
Very
early in the morning. Nice enough chap, but I can’t say too many tears were shed when he departed upon his promotion. To Major, I hasten to add, and not to Glory. We aren’t so hard-hearted as to rejoice at anyone’s untimely death.”

Mrs. MacPherson gave a genteel little snort. “Far be it from me to speak ill of a God-fearing man, but there are some deaths that would be less untimely than others. I’m all for doing one’s Christian duty to help those less fortunate, but when it comes to depriving folk of a decent night’s sleep, that’s where I have to put my foot down, Mr. Johnson. Now, will you be staying for supper with us tonight? Don’t you worry, Mr. Connaught,” she added fondly to Matthew, “there’ll be plenty to spare.”

George was relieved to hear he wouldn’t have to struggle through any more overpriced, overcooked hotel food. “Oh, that’d be awfully decent of you, Mrs. MacPherson. And will it be all right if I move my gear over tomorrow?”

She gave him a look. “After church, I presume you mean.”

“Oh yes, of course,” George lied hastily.

“Well then, perhaps you two gentlemen would like to have a read of the paper while I get on with cooking?” she suggested.

“That’s Mrs. Mac’s polite way of telling us to sling our hooks,” Matthew hissed amiably to George in a very audible whisper. “Come on, I’ll show you the sitting room.”

As they turned to leave, the landlady opened the back door to take out the potato peelings, and a large black shape darted past her skirts to throw itself at Matthew. “Marmaduke!” he cried in delight. “What have you been up to all this time, you old scallywag?” He gathered up an unlikely amount of cat in his one good arm, and sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, deposited his furry burden upon his lap, where it sat purring and kneading at his legs with its paws. “I hope you haven’t been fighting again, you naughty boy.”

His landlady harrumphed. “You ought to take him to Mr. Nelson at the chemist’s and get him seen to. That’d stop him wandering the neighbourhood and getting into fights.”

“Mrs. Mac! How can you even suggest such a thing? Cover your ears, Marmaduke. We won’t let the nasty lady cut you off in your prime, no, we won’t. Now, what did I do with your dish?”