“We’ll get to that,” he said with a warm smile. “Please, tell me first about this story of yours.”
She dropped her hands onto the marble tabletop. There were no warning signs flashing, like there’d been with Evan, though she knew well that she couldn’t rely solely on intuition to judge a man’s character. But if Alexander was willing to tell her his story—and she hoped he was—then she needed to tell him the basics of what she’d found.
“I’m afraid there’s not much of a way to cushion this,” she said. “I believe Lady Ricker operated a safe house for Nazis during World War II.”
His face didn’t register the sort of shock she’d imagined. “That’s not new information for the family.”
“The Rickers know?”
“Of course,” he said with a nod. “Janice did a lot more than just operate a safe house.”
Before he expounded, the server stepped up to the table with a plate filled with fruits and cheeses. Then he brought a pot of Darjeeling tea. Alexander, it seemed, had already ordered for them.
She smeared the creamy Brie on flatbread while their host poured the tea. “I come here often,” he said, splashing milk into his cup. “It reminds me of home.”
“You’re from England?” Quenby asked as she stirred a cube of sugar into her tea.
“Kensington. I lost the British accent during my freshman year at an American high school.”
“Did the other kids beat it out of you?” Lucas asked.
“They teased it out of me, I suppose. I wasn’t confident like my parents at that age. My mother, on the other hand, clung to her accent until she passed away.”
Quenby waited, hoping he would expound on his mother, but instead he said, “My dad stayed back in London when we moved to the States, but his absence didn’t make much of a difference in our lives. My parents separated when I was very young, and I didn’t see much of him after that.”
Over English tea and finger sandwiches, Alexander began to tell them his story.
“My mother kept me so entertained that I hardly missed my father. She worked as an actress in London, but she always wanted to leave England.”
Perhaps Brigitte became someone else in her adult life. An actress who could move people to laughter and tears. Perhaps the stage took away some of her own pain. For the Brigitte in Quenby’s mind had grown into a woman who was fiercely courageous and strong. Mr. Knight had said she loved to pretend. With a new name, perhaps she’d hidden herself in plain sight on the West End.
“My mother hated the cold of New York and the drudgery of the movies in Hollywood. She ended up performing on the stage at Disneyland for a season. When Disney built the Magic Kingdom, we moved to Orlando.”
Quenby’s heart beat faster. “What was your mother’s name?”
“In London, she was known by her stage name, Eliza Cain.” He took another sip of the milky tea. “But her real name was Rosalind.”
He looked across the table as if Quenby should recognize the name, and she tried to hide her disappointment, wiping the crumbs off her lips with a cloth napkin.
“Was Rosalind related to Lady Ricker?” she asked, feeling foolish for not knowing where this woman fit into the Ricker family.
He nodded slowly. “Rosalind was Janice Ricker’s oldest daughter.”
Quenby blinked, processing this new information. “I’ve read extensively about Lady Ricker and no one ever mentioned Rosalind.”
“That’s because Janice didn’t tell anyone about her. In fact, she tried to kill her.”
Quenby shuddered. “Why would she try to kill her daughter?”
Alexander glanced out the window as a couple clothed in matching tennis outfits walked by. “Janice didn’t work with just anybody in Germany, you see. She collaborated with Rosalind’s father. The man who became my grandfather.”
Quenby blinked, stunned. “Lady Ricker had a lover in Germany?”
He nodded. “She and Oskar met when she was touring in Europe, while she was still married to her first husband. She became a devout, albeit secret, Fascist who was focused on helping Oskar first and then Hitler and the Third Reich at any cost. Unfortunately, when Rosalind returned to England, she knew too much. My grandmother couldn’t risk having anyone find out what she was doing.”
“How did Lady Ricker and Oskar communicate?” Lucas asked.
“Through a wireless.”
“And perhaps through the letters.” She told him what they’d found under the floor of the Mill House. “Brigitte believed the letters were coded.”
This time he looked stunned. “I didn’t think anyone else knew about Brigitte.”
Foamy waves lapped the beach outside Jacksonville as Quenby buried her toes in the warm sand, her jacket doubling as a towel underneath her. Lucas leaned back on his elbows beside her, bare feet crossed over his jeans.