“Why would anyone from our party wish to cause me harm?” Lord Astley’s quick, deep response reverberated among the group. He did have a remarkably pleasant voice, and that counted in Grace’s book. Words meant a great deal and spoken in his velvety tones, only made her crave chocolate for some reason.
“Until we’re certain, we should all keep our eyes open.” Mr. Blake shot his friend a look. Ah, Mr. Blake had a solid head on his shoulders.
Two incidents? And aimed at Lord Astley? Highly suspicious.
“We’ll have the grounds searched.” Mr. Whitlock gestured toward Cooks. “And I must decide what to do with Cam.”
Grace caught her gasp in her hand. Cam wasn’t the culprit. The stable boy never was. No, no, no. Hadn’t these men read their fiction? Her movement incited the strangest sounds from the board on which she lay, but before she could scoot away from the edge, the wood beneath her made a resounding crack. In one massive crash, Grace fell through the loft floor and into a pile of hay below.
“What in heaven’s name!”
“Is it the rogue?”
“I say!”
Well, if she was going to fall into a bed of hay in front of a group of men, at least she was wearing breeches instead of a gown. Another argument in favor of breeches.
She sat up and once she’d brushed straw and hair from her face, found herself looking up into a group of unhappy men. Cooks even had a pitchfork in hand, pointed at her.
“Grace?” called Mr. Whitlock.
“Miss Grace!” Elliott’s polished accent lilted.
“Grace Ferguson.” This from Lord Astley, who didn’t sound surprised at all.
Grace opened her mouth to respond then closed it again, attempting to work up a logical reason she’d just fallen from the stable loft during a private discussion about scandal. “A haystack, how fortunate.” That sounded noncommittal enough.
With a quirk to his lips, Mr. Blake offered a hand. “A new reading spot, Miss Ferguson?”
“Not as effective without a book, Mr. Blake.” She wiped her hand against her breeches and placed it in his with a smile, as he raised her to her feet. “Though a possible daydreaming nook, I should think, once the boards are mended.”
“Curiosity will be your downfall, dear girl.” Mr. Whitlock lost some of the bite in his reprimand. “I’ve always told you that. You are forever finding yourself in places you shouldn’t be.”
“Quite literally my downfall this morning, wouldn’t you say?” She dusted off her breeches and sent a smile to her audience, her gaze finally landing on Lord Astley. “Perhaps Lillias shouldn’t hear of my latest esca-pade. She’d be mortified.”
A very appropriate use of the word at this point.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Lord Astley narrowed his eyes, staring down at her from his towering height.
“It’s a good thing I am, or you might have made a grave mistake on poor Cam’s part.” She held her head high and walked to the saddle.
“A mistake? What could you possibly know about this?”
Mr. Whitlock waved away Lord Astley’s exclamation. “Not to contradict you, Frederick, but Grace is quite the amateur sleuth. Those horses that were stolen?” He gestured toward her. “She’s the one who found a clue to the thieves, just with a little bit of her snooping about and that unrelenting imagination of hers.”
“Unnerving to have such a busybody about, if you ask me.” Cooks sniffed.
Well, no one did, Mr. Grumpy Goose. But Grace kept the response inside, all the more determined to prove her point. “One only needs to look a little closer.” She knelt by the saddle and examined the strap. Aha, exactly as she’d thought it would look from the evidence in one of her mystery books. Slit and then ripped.
“I appreciate Miss Ferguson’s youthful and inventive mind, but you can’t really suppose she’d—”
“Lord Astley.” She broke into his doubt with a glare. “If you will note, the saddle strap was not sliced all the way through. Only part of the way.” She turned the strap around for the men to view. “The smooth section suggests the work of the knife, but this more ragged, stretched part?”
“The cut working its way out as Freddie rode the horse.”
“Yes.” She nodded to Blake. “It’s exactly how the Duke of Darber was murdered to make it appear like an accident.”
“Who on earth?” Mr. Whitlock scratched his head. “Is he someone you knew from across the pond, Frederick?”
“Fiction.” Lord Astley added, holding Grace’s gaze. “The Duke’s Dissent.”
All annoyance for the dashing earl dissipated into utter appreciation. Any man who spoke in fiction was certainly worth forgiving. “Exactly.” She rewarded his excellent deduction with a smile and turned her attention back to Mr. Whitlock. “And it’s perfect because the actual crime can happen hours before the results, so the perpetrator has plenty of time to disappear from the scene, which is likely what happened here and will cause a nuisance in uncovering the truth.”
“I should be concerned about the workings of that mind of yours, Miss Grace, if I didn’t know you had such a sweet heart.” Mr. Whitlock shook his head. “But you’re right. I see it now.”
“That does narrow down the possible suspects, don’t you think?” She stood and pushed back her hair, her fingers pricking on a few pieces of hay. “It would have to be someone who knew Lord Astley’s morning routine and had ready access to the stables without causing suspicion.”
“Cooks, come with me. We’ll start a list and give notice for certain servants to keep watch.” Mr. Whitlock turned to Lord Astley. “You need to see to your ankle.”
“I’ll take a ride about,” Blake offered. “Though, if Miss Ferguson’s conjectures hold true, our suspect has had plenty of time to disappear.”
It felt rather nice to be taken somewhat seriously now and again. “Not to add concern, but perhaps someone should subtly interview the guests.”
“The guests?” Mr. Whitlock’s bushy brows took flight.
“She’s right.” Blake sent her a nod. “They would have access, but it’s going to take subtle investigating. Might I offer my skills in that instance?”
“Blake is rather proficient at getting information from people without them even knowing,” Lord Astley added.
“Very well. I’d be grateful for any help in the matter,” came Mr. Whitlock’s reply.
Grace sent a curtsy to the group and stepped back toward the stable doors, locking eyes with the earl. “Well now, as Lord Astley has so kindly reminded me, I must return to the house before I’m missed.”
She veered to leave.
“Miss Ferguson.”
Grace paused and pivoted back to Lord Astley. “Yes, my lord?”
“I would appreciate you keeping this bit of information to yourself.” His dark eyes narrowed, intense. “We wouldn’t wish to cause any undue concern without proof.”
“You have nothing to worry about, my lord. Lillias isn’t fond of mysteries.” She pinched her hands together with purpose. “And I have every intention of keeping your wedding on schedule and your bride happy. Surely nothing worse could happen than a possible murder attempt.”
Grace scanned the bookshelves, glancing through her favorite titles. What would he like? Oh! Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff, but it was in French. She tilted her head and examined the binding. Well, of course an earl would know French.
She moved down the row of bookshelves. Aha! The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers. Espionage. Perfect. And perhaps it would encourage his own solution to his current mysterious plot. She placed the second book on top of the first and quickly slipped up the winding staircase to the library balcony in search of the Arthur Conan Doyle selections. Was The Earl of Notham in Mr. Whitlock’s collection? Several people attempted to kill that particular earl, and he outsmarted them all. Definitely a good choice for Lord Astley’s self-preservation.
“The hall is clear,” a harsh whisper—female—slit the ominous silence from the direction of
the secret stair.
Grace’s body stilled. Was that Lillias’s voice?
“Hurry. You can’t be seen.”
Grace slipped closer, listening into the darkness of the stairway entry.
“Come tonight, Lillias.” A male voice emerged next, urgent.
Who on earth could he be? Not Father, from the youthfulness in the man’s tone. And what single man would dare tread in the women’s bedroom hallway? Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock ensured single men and women were judiciously separated on opposite sides of the house to keep from impropriety, as Father explained it. Though Grace still wasn’t fully aware of all the shades of such impropriety to which he referred.
“You’re asking too much, my dear.” Her sister’s voice staggered with pitiful sobs.
Grace rushed to the shadows of the secret stairs to help, but the male voice halted her in her steps. “We have only days to make a lifetime of memories. Please, come to my room again tonight.”
His room? Again! Grace’s palm flew to her mouth, barely catching her gasp. Lillias visited this man in his room? At night?
That wasn’t appropriate by any standard she’d ever read, unless for illness, birth, or when someone’s bed was on fire.
“I don’t know if I can.” The plea in her sister’s voice drew Grace a step closer.
“You found a way last night and the night before, and even this afternoon.”
Grace nearly dropped the books in her hands. Lillias was supposed to be in town visiting a friend this afternoon before dinner with Lord Astley.
Lord Astley! Her eyes grew wide. Her sister was marrying Lord Astley in a few days and spending the night with… Whom? She knew his voice. Her mind grasped for a face to match.
“I have loved you for years, Lillias. Give me these last hours! If we must live an ocean apart, I’ll not make you quit us so easily.”
For years? The voice clicked into place, and Grace dropped back against the wall to catch her weight. Anthony Dixon, their neighbor in Richmond.
“Easily?” The word tore from her sister with such agony Grace reached for her own throat in empathetic pain. “I leave my soul here with you when I go. I must do this for my family. For us. It’s the only way.”
Grace shook her head, trying to make sense of it. If Lillias loved Anthony Dixon, why would she agree to marry Lord Astley? Surely a title wasn’t worth this subterfuge and heartache.
“For us?” His tenor trembled like Grace’s ragged breaths. “How can your choice to marry another man be for us?”
Silence greeted his question, followed by the sound of a muffled sob. “I’m with child, Tony.”
Air stopped in Grace’s throat.
“No one can know. If Father breaks the contract with Lord Astley, he’ll be ruined. There’s no other way. I have to marry as soon as possible so no one will ever know.”
Grace’s stomach coiled until she bent from the pain. Poor Lillias. Poor Anthony. She squeezed the books to her chest. Poor Lord Astley.
“How…how could you do this?”
“I was going to back out of the agreement last month, but then I discovered…my situation. Father needs this alignment to solidify some of his business dealings, but I need it to keep from ruining my family’s reputation. If I don’t marry Lord Astley soon, he’ll know the baby isn’t his.”
A baby? Grace’s vision glossed over with a rush of tears. A lie?
“Lillias, you’re carrying my child and my heart.” Anthony’s voice grated with raspy emotion. “You’re choosing to separate us forever.”
Grace squeezed her eyes closed, quelling a whimper. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Lord Astley and Lillias were supposed to live a fairy-tale future. Grace sent a look to the ceiling, the magnificent library painting of curious onlookers peered down to her from their lofty spot above, and she closed her eyes against their blank perusal. The only answer came from divine intervention beyond the painted ceiling, and Grace prayed that God would unleash a way of escape. God, whatever it takes, please make a way to redeem this broken thing. For Lillias, Tony…and for Lord Astley.
Chapter Seven
“Whatever happened to you at dinner last evening, Grace?”
Grace had avoided everyone until the next afternoon, strolling through the gardens and crying out for heavenly wisdom for this very earthly catastrophe. It seemed like a travail too large for even the assistance of fictional characters, though she did attempt a cursory view of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which only left her feeling worse.
Her stomach twisted in nauseating knots, swinging her determination between keeping the secret for the sake of her sister and bringing out the truth for the sake of Lord Astley. By all accounts, he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this deception, but what would happen to Lillias if the truth surfaced? To her father? Lillias had said Father would be ruined.
Grace had never known such a dilemma in all her life. Her poor book of Psalms looked much more worn for the wear, and the pages in her prayer book crinkled from the unavoidable dripping of tears.
She’d always tried to do the right thing, even if she’d bumbled it. Truth and goodness gave a great deal of hope to the world. But how on earth could God mend such a broken situation? Was there even a way without irreparable damage? She knew He was in the business of heal-ing hearts and situations, but this seemed a monstrous task by every human account. It was all very well and good to kill giants with stones and rain fire from heaven, but earls and fortunes and middle-class busi-nessmen were terribly absent in the Bible. Please help me, Lord. Show me how to make things right.
Her heart squeezed within her chest as she looked across the room at her sister. There was nothing else to do but for Grace to relinquish her fight. “I know, Lillias.”
Truth won. It had to.
“Know?” Lillias continued applying powder to her face from her dressing table.
“About Anthony Dixon.” Grace forced volume into her words.
Lillias’s gaze flashed to Grace through the mirror’s reflection. Something flickered in her eyes. “What in heaven do you mean?”
“I know about Anthony and the deception.”
Her sister stared at her for a second longer, and her steady expression melted. “I knew it was bound to come out at some point.” She pressed her fingers into her crinkled forehead as she leaned forward against the dressing table. “He didn’t truly want to hurt anyone. He’s not the sort. He was jealous, you see.”
Grace paused her forward motion. Jealous? What was Lillias—
“If he’d been in his right mind, he’d never have considered it at all, Grace. You must understand. He even attempted to dispatch the saddle altogether, but one of the stable hands came in before he could hide it, and there you go.” Her gaze came up, pleading. “I was going to leave him in less than a week. Forever. He was trying to create more time for us, because it’s all we have left. He would never have wanted to kill Lord Astley. And he tried to make things right. You have to believe me.”
Mr. Dixon was the man who tampered with Lord Astley’s saddle! Grace stepped closer, redirecting the conversation from her previous plan. “And did Mr. Dixon try to run Lord Astley over in the village too?”
“What? Of course not. He had no idea who Lord Astley was before meeting him here, and if you recall, Anthony arrived a day later than everyone else. So he couldn’t have.” She turned from her mirror, her eyes red-rimmed. “As I told you, jealousy got the best of him with the saddle. It was a one-time offense, and he attempted to make things right. We must keep this to ourselves, Grace.”
“His jealousy could have cost a man his life. If Lord Astley hadn’t been such an avid rider or as strong of build, things could have turned out much worse.”
“I know. It’s such a horrible thing.” Lillias pinched her eyes closed and brought out her handkerchief. “Poor Anthony. Poor Lord Astley.”
“You cannot marry Lord Astley, Lillias. Not with these feelings you have for Mr. Dixon.”
“I must.” Lillias straightened in the chair, chin up. “It is the right thing to do for Father and for me.”
“But what about Lord Astley? What about Mr. Dixon’s heart?”
“So I should undo everything Father has planned just because of Anthony’s lapse in judgment?” Lillias stood, this time with fire in her eyes. “Really, Grace, you are too pious for your own—”
“I know about the baby, Lillias.” Grace’s throat burned, but she continued. “Mr. Dixon’s baby.”
“What?” Lillias blinked and released a puff of air from her parted lips as if she’d been hit in the stomach. “What on earth are you talking about, you ridiculous girl?”
“Stop it.” Grace marched forward, her voice shaking. “Stop lying and trying to justify your wrongdoing.” The same tears that had threatened her eyes all morning rose to the surface. “You can’t go through with this wedding. It isn’t right.”
Lillias’s plastered smile descended into a snarl. “It isn’t right?” Her laugh took an uncharacteristically sardonic turn. “No, none of it is right, but it must be done. I don’t live in your fairy world, Grace.” She pressed her finger against her chest. “I am the eldest. Raised to marry a man who will advance our family. I’m not allowed to have love. Or dreams. Or a happily-ever-after. Because I must forfeit it to save—”
“Your reputation and Lord Astley’s title are not worth this.”
Lillias turned her head away and walked to the nearby desk. “Someone of our standing has little else but her status and reputation.”
Grace shrank down on the bed. “There must be something we can do.”
“Don’t you think I would have thought of it, if there was another way? I cannot salvage my reputation and Father’s finances without this. The cost is too great.” She snatched a paper from the desk and slapped it onto the bed beside Grace. “Besides, everything’s already announced. There’s no going back.”
Grace stared down at the headline on the local paper: “One of the Illustrious Ferguson Daughters to Wed English Aristocracy.”
“Plans can change, Lillias.” Grace trailed her fingers over the words, emotions raking her voice to a whisper. “They must, reputation or not.” Her fingers curled into a fist. “Surely in your new situation, you will want to be with Mr. Dixon. After all, he should have some say about his own child, don’t you think?”
The Mistletoe Countess Page 7
