Excerpt from An Unlikely Spy by Rebecca Starford, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Margaret keeps us on our toes, don't you, dear?"

The girl looked back at her mother doubtfully.

"How old is she?"

Julia stared at Evelyn, her jaw a hard line. "Five next month." She threaded her fingers together. "We've been lucky. I never thought ..." She trailed off, gave a shrug. "But I do like this part of town," she said, sitting up straighter. "I don't live in London anymore. We're in Kent these days and very happy there." She shook her head. "Why am I telling you? I suppose you already know. But we do like to come up to London, don't we, Margaret? The children's park over at Coram's Fields is marvelous." She paused. "You're locals, I take it? You and your ... husband?"

"No, we're not ..."

The pianist had stopped and Evelyn could see the waitress watching them from behind the counter, her curiosity plain as she toyed with a loose apron thread. Even the man in the corner had lowered his newspaper to peer at them. Could they sense it too? Evelyn wondered. The disquiet in the room? It was practically crackling.

"We're not married." Stephen finished the sentence for her, and Evelyn felt him edge away, a cool space flourishing between them.

Julia nodded. "I always thought I might run into you. Though I expected you to have left England years ago."

"I did think about it. But one thing led to another. Work, you see ..."

"Ah, yes. Did you stay on long, in the end, at the War Office?" Julia brushed at some nonexistent crumbs on her dress, her eyebrows arched. "Anyway, now I know where I can find you, we must get together for a proper catch-up. I think that's long overdue, don't you? Perhaps the next time we're down. Like I said, we're on our way to meet Margaret's father." Julia was smiling, but there was no feeling in her eyes. "I don't think you ever met him. He certainly knows about you."

The hairs on the back of Evelyn's neck bristled. "Well, it's been lovely," she said as she stood up. "But we really should be going."

She looked at Stephen; this time he understood and rose to his feet with her.

"What a shame! I should have liked to talk more." All conciliation, Julia began fishing through her leather handbag. "But look, before you go, let me give you something. I picked it up at the stall across the street. It was such a coincidence to find it there. I'm sure you'll remember it."

It was a postcard, a reproduction of Judith in the Tent of Holofernes, and as Julia passed it across the table Evelyn felt her stomach lurch. She didn't know the gallery had the painting—the Randalls must have sold it after the war. She stuffed the postcard inside her bag as Stephen drifted off to settle the bill.

"It reminded me of a story I heard years ago ... Anyway, I've dozens of the things in the kitchen drawer at home, but I keep buying another every time I see one. We visit the gallery when we're in town, though I'm not sure why I keep returning to that ghastly place." Julia was clutching the back of the chair, her fingers as bloodless as talons. "You always did like art, didn't you, Evelyn? And books. Clever as you were. You always thought you were so much cleverer than the rest of us. But it didn't quite turn out that way, did it?"

Evelyn took a step back. The room seemed to tilt. Around them the bar was starting to fill.

Stephen returned, and she felt his hand on her arm, though it wasn't clear if he was steering her toward Julia or away from her.

"Turned to smoke and ashes, has it?" Julia was staring at the half-eaten rock cake.

Evelyn glanced at the door. Two dozen paces, maybe less. She could make it. She took another step, conscious of the pressure building behind her eyes. The room had begun to spin and the tables roared—wild, jabbering voices. She could hear Stephen talking, his voice floating toward her as if she were trapped under water, the pale light above the surface gradually dimming, and the next thing she was aware of was his grip around her elbow as he guided her past the bar, the off-key notes of a new prelude ringing in her ears.

* * *

Stephen walked her home. After the scene at the Hotel Russell, neither of them had much desire to go to the pictures or find somewhere to eat. They made their way in silence, Evelyn one pace behind, trying to make sense of what had just happened and how she might explain it to him. But when they reached her building on Flaxman Terrace, he stood on the curb, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. She couldn't tell whether he was angry or not; he was looking at her in the same way Margaret had as they left the bar: as if she had done something to humiliate all of them.

Excerpted from An Unlikely Spy by Rebecca Starford. Copyright © 2021 by Rebecca Starford. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.