Page 29 of The Number of Love
She put down her pencil and looked up.
Hall crooked a finger.
A bit surprised at how much energy it took just to stand up, Margot followed him out into the corridor and then down it, to his office. He sat, not behind his desk but on its edge. And he looked at her.
If he meant to measure her, she’d make sure his ruler had an accurate reading. She edged her spine straight, her chin up, and willed her eyes to project only ability. A dozen defenses sprang to her tongue, but she wouldn’t volunteer them. She’d wait for him to admonish her first, so that she knew which of her reasons would best convince him to let her stay.
“You have become good friends with Dorothea Elton, have you not?”
Thatwasn’t what she’d expected him to say. Not sure what his angle was, her brain scrambled. But she could offer only the truth. “I have, yes.”
“I thought so. I must ask a favor of you.”
Redirection, perhaps? A ploy to get her to pay attention to something else, anything else? Margot lifted her brows.
Hall let out a slow breath. “I have just received word that her brother has been critically injured. He’ll be arriving at Charing Cross Hospital in a few days.”
Margot’s spine sagged. Drake Elton, of the broken nose and insightful questions, injured? It shouldn’t hit her that hard after a whole five minutes in his company, but it did. He did so easily what she struggled to do at all—connect with people, quickly and correctly. It should have insulated him, somehow, against such things.
And then there was Dot.Poor Dot!
Her stomach soured a little more than it had already been. PoorDot and stupid Margot—assuming this was abouther. It wasn’t, and she was a selfish wretch to have assumed it would be. She cleared the regret from her throat. “What can I do?”
“I realize that in times of war, bad news often trips over itself—that in the grand scheme, it is not surprising that her brother would have suffered such an injury while she is trying to be there for you and your family. But I am also aware that Miss Elton’s emotions are ... fragile.”
Margot bristled on her friend’s behalf. “They most certainly arenot.”
Hall’s lips turned up. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, my dear. I only say it to indicate that I wish to be mindful of her state and not spring this on her in a way that will injureher.”
Her chin edged back up from where it had sagged. “I am not questioning your motivations, DID. Just your assumption.”
The turning of his lips grew to an outright grin. “So you would have had me let the telegram go straight to her, in the hand of a stranger, rather than one of us delivering the news in a way to soften the blow, is that it?”
“Zero.”
The admiral blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“The number of times you’ve let anyone in Room 40 receive difficult news from the War Office by the hand of a stranger.” A week ago, she would have given him a cheeky smile. Today she could only manage the quirk of a brow. “Of course I’m not saying to treat her withlesscare than anyone else. But she needn’t be handled with kid gloves. She isn’t an egg.”
Obviously still amused, Hall spread his hands. “Her brother said—”
“Then her brother’s an idiot.” She hadn’t thought he was. Had in fact been sure hewasn’t. But everyone was an idiot about something, and apparently Lieutenant Elton’s something was his sister.
The admiral laughed outright at that. “You ought to visit him in hospital and tell him so, my dear. Might get his dander up enough to rally him.” He stood up again and tugged the hem of his uniformjacket back into place. “At any rate, I wanted to let you know what news I will be giving your friend during her lunch break, so that you might support her—to whatever extent she may require, be it much or little. I trust you don’t object tothat?”
Rather than answer straightaway, she let the actual news sink in, dig down. Let her brows sink with it. Drake Elton, injured and on his way to Charing Cross. “How bad is he? Will he live?”
His rapid blinks told her nothing, nor did his face. “That, I think, depends on the strength of his will and the grace of the Almighty. He took a gunshot to the abdomen.”
Margot winced. “Eighty-seven percent.”
Hall lifted his brows.
“The mortality rate of gunshot wounds to the abdomen.” She wasn’t sure where she’d read or heard the number—probably a newspaper or magazine that someone had left lying about.
“A statistic I pray you will keep to yourself.”
She’d physically bite her tongue, if necessary. “Any mitigating circumstances?”
