The Tuscan Child
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PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN’S IN FARLEIGH FIELD “Well-crafted, thoroughly entertaining.” —Publishers Weekly “The skills Bowen brings . inform the plotting in this character-rich tale, which will be welcomed by her fans as well as by readers who enjoy fiction about the British home front.” —Booklist “In what could easily become a PBS show of its own, Bowen’s novel winningly details a World War II spy game.” —Library Journal “This novel will keep readers deeply involved until the end.” —Portland Book Review “In Farleigh Field delivers the same entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.” —New York Journal of Books “Well-plotted and thoroughly entertaining . With characters who are so fully fleshed out, you can imagine meeting them on the street.” —Historical Novel Society “Through the character’s eyes, readers will be drawn into the era and begin to understand the sacrifices and hardships placed on English society.” —Crimespree Magazine “A thrill a minute . highly recommend.” —Night Owl Reviews, Top Pick “Riveting.” —Military Press “Instantly absorbing, suspenseful, romantic and stylish—like binge- watching a great British drama on Masterpiece Theatre.” —Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author “In Farleigh Field is brilliant. The plotting is razor sharp and ingenious, the setting in World War Two Britain is so tangible it’s eerie. The depth and breadth of character is astonishing. They’re likeable and repulsive and warm and stand-offish. And oh, so human. And so relatable. This is magnificently written and a must read.” —Louise Penny, New York Times bestselling author “Irresistible, charming and heartbreakingly authentic. Rhys Bowen’s knowing voice transports Downton fans into a riveting family saga—a compelling journey through history, loss, honour and love. When war gets personal, every heart is in peril.” —Hank Phillippi Ryan, author of Say No More ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN In Farleigh Field CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES Evans Above Evan Help Us Evanly Choirs Evan and Elle Evan Can Wait Evans to Betsy Evan Only Knows Evan’s Gate Evan Blessed Evanly Bodies MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES Murphy’s Law Death of Riley For the Love of Mike In Like Flynn Oh Danny Boy In Dublin’s Fair City Tell Me, Pretty Maiden In a Gilded Cage The Last Illusion Bless the Bride Hush Now, Don’t You Cry The Family Way City of Darkness and Light The Edge of Dreams Away in a Manger Time of Fog and Fire ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES Her Royal Spyness A Royal Pain Royal Flush Royal Blood Naughty in Nice The Twelve Clues of Christmas Heirs and Graces Queen of Hearts Malice at the Palace Crowned and Dangerous On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781503951822 (hardcover) ISBN-10: 1503951820 (hardcover) ISBN-13: 9781503951815 (paperback) ISBN-10: 1503951812 (paperback) Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant First edition https://t.me/bestsellers_book This book is dedicated to Piero and Cajsa Baldini, who made my recent Tuscan experience so wonderful and provided insights for this book that only natives of the area could give me. My thanks as always to my brilliant agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe; the whole team at Jane Rotrosen; and most especially to Danielle and the whole team at Lake Union, who gave me the chance to write the book I had always dreamed of writing! And finally, as always, to John for his love and support. CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE HUGO CHAPTER TWO JOANNA CHAPTER THREE JOANNA CHAPTER FOUR HUGO CHAPTER FIVE JOANNA CHAPTER SIX HUGO CHAPTER SEVEN JOANNA CHAPTER EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER NINE JOANNA CHAPTER TEN HUGO CHAPTER ELEVEN JOANNA CHAPTER TWELVE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTEEN HUGO CHAPTER FOURTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER FIFTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER SIXTEEN HUGO CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HUGO CHAPTER NINETEEN JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JOANNA CHAPTER FORTY HUGO CHAPTER FORTY-ONE HUGO CHAPTER FORTY-TWO JOANNA AUTHOR’S NOTE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE HUGO December 1944 He was going to die, that was quite obvious. Hugo Langley tried to examine this fact dispassionately. The left wing of the Blenheim bomber was on fire and flames licked at the cabin. Behind him, his navigator, Flight Lieutenant Phipps, lay slumped forward over his instruments. A trickle of blood ran down one side of his face, seeping from under his flight helmet. And Gunner Blackburn was already dead, shot in the rear gun bay by the first wave of Messerschmitts. Hugo wasn’t sure whether he himself had been hit. Adrenaline was still pumping so violently through his system that it was hard to tell. He stared down at his blood-spattered trousers, wondering if the blood was his own or came from Phipps. “Bugger,” he muttered. He hadn’t wanted it to end this way, this soon. He had looked forward to inheriting Langley Hall and the title someday, enjoying the status in the neighbourhood as the squire, Sir Hugo Langley. He thought briefly of his wife and son and found that their images stirred little emotion. She’d be all right without him. She could go on living at the Hall with the old man until she found someone else, which undoubtedly she would do. His son, that strange, quiet little boy, would be too young to remember him. They’d talk of him as a hero when in reality he was a bloody fool, a sitting duck. This was a bombing mission that should never have been flown. Everyone knew the Blenheims were outdated, slower than the enemy planes. And in flying north from his base near Rome to reach his targets at the rail yards in Milan, he would have to fly over a hundred miles of German-occupied territory. He tried to assess the situation rationally. The Blenheim couldn’t make it back to base even if he could get the old crate to turn around, which wasn’t likely with one engine on fire, one wing now useless. But he certainly wasn’t going to sit there and go down in flames like a cooked chicken. He glanced out of the windscreen and tried to assess the terrain below but could see nothing. The night was as black as pitch. Cloud cover above. No moon. No stars. No lights down below. But there was also no sign of enemy planes, unless they were still tailing him. He suspected they had decided he was finished and was no longer worth bothering with. From their last reported position, he guessed he must be well over Tuscany by now. Maybe even north of Pisa and into territory still controlled by Germans. Hilly, wild country. There was a chance he could hide out and make it safely to the coast if he could somehow parachute out without the chute going up in flames. It was a chance worth taking, anyway. He fumbled to release the glass hood of the cockpit. The latch came free, but the hood wouldn’t budge. For a moment, he felt pure terror—that he’d be trapped in here to be slowly roasted or plummet to earth in a ball of fire, whichever came first. He pushed with all his strength and felt the glass hood finally yield and slide backward. Instantly, the flames licked at him. “Go on, do it,” he urged himself. He glanced back at Phipps. “Sorry, old chap,” he said, “but I can’t take you with me.” His fingers, encased in their thick leather gloves, refused to obey him as he took off his flight helmet with the oxygen supply attached. Immediately, breathing seemed to be hard, but he was not flying that high, and it could have been just panic. He reached for his parachute and attempted to strap it on. It felt as if he was frozen in time, as if life had been reduced to slow motion. Eventually, he felt the harness snap shut. Trying not to rush, he attempted to stand, feeling pain shoot through his left leg. Damn. So he had been shot. Not much chance of running and hiding, then. Still better than being burned alive or crashing with the plane. With any luck he would land in territory no longer controlled by Germans. They had been driven back to what they called the Gothic Line, running across the peninsula just north of Pisa, and the Italians were no longer their allies. Having lived in Italy once, Hugo doubted the ordinary people ever had been incredibly pro-German or pro- war. He hauled himself up and out until he was crouching on the good wing, out of reach of the flames, holding on for dear life as the wind buffeted him.