Perhaps her imagination had taken an exaggerated turn, but she made her point painfully clear. He’d put her in danger once he’d made her his wife.
“Lucky for both of us, I know how to swim.” She shook her head and turned back to the fire, rubbing her hands together. “Lillias hasn’t the faintest idea, so if you’d married her—”
She looked up at him, the realization sobering their argument to dust.
“Patton would have drowned.”
“And possibly my sister,” Grace whispered, her bottom lip suddenly adding another tremble. Something in him broke. He grabbed her hand and pulled her against him, encasing her in his arms.
If she hadn’t been able to swim, a man would be dead. And if the accident had been worse, Grace could have—
He pinched his eyes closed and rested his chin against her head. “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s my responsibility to keep you safe, and I failed today.”
“I believe, my dear Lord Astley, we have a responsibility to protect each other.” She looked up, those eyes as filled with tenderness as ever. No reprimand. No blame. How had God given him someone he didn’t even know his heart needed so much? “And we are both very much alive, as is Mr. Patton, so I wouldn’t claim it as a failure at all.”
He tugged her back against him, if nothing else to keep her from seeing the water film in his eyes. She was with him. For him. Someone who believed in him despite his failings? He couldn’t wrap his mind around such sweetness.
He breathed a sigh out over her hair. He’d protect her. He’d protect this. With everything in him.
A short time later, wearing dry clothes and sitting in Mr. Quincy’s car, Frederick offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving. They were arriving much later to the house than anticipated, but one of the men from town had gone ahead to Havensbrooke to alert Brandon and the staff of the delay without giving too many details, and Elliott had the unfortunate task of sharing the news with Mother.
Grace pressed in close by Frederick’s side as they rode. She’d remained unnervingly quiet as they’d exited Astlynn Commons for the second time, even leaning her head against his shoulder. Despite the keen eyes of Mr. Quincy in the driver’s seat, Frederick didn’t move her. They’d earned a little indiscretion, and right now she seemed so quiet and compliant beside him, he didn’t want to change the mood. Not after all that had happened.
He breathed a kiss against her hair and sighed back into the leather seat.
She stirred at his side and leaned her lips close to his cheek, as if she meant to kiss him. “Frederick,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea who would want to kill you?”
Chapter Fourteen
Frederick coughed at her question, or that’s what his choked response sounded like. Why was the idea so surprising? Brakes being disabled? Someone attempting to run him over in Whitlock Village? Clearly everything was not as it appeared for Lord Astley of Havensbrooke.
“Either that or Mr. Patton isn’t as adept at his job as you think.”
Frederick snorted his disagreement. “Patton has been with us for five years. He’s quite capable.”
Her thoughts turned to Mr. Patton. No, he didn’t seem the sort to engage in criminal activity, especially since he nearly died in the incident. Facts, Grace. You have no facts to support your theory. And any good sleuth must have facts to pair with her intuition.
“Then my next question would be if he left the car for any extended period of time while in town. Enough time for someone to tamper with it. It doesn’t take long with these automobiles. I had Mr. Lance at Whitlock show me once.”
“Grace.” He pushed the heel of his palm into his forehead. “I know how it appears, but we have no idea what truly happened to the car. It is old by any standards, and until we fish it out of the river, we shouldn’t speculate—”
“It’s highly unlikely someone would wish to kill Mr. Patton,” she continued. “And no one even knows me here, but”—she narrowed her gaze at Frederick—“you’re an earl, so the only logical question is, what happens to Havensbrooke and all of its money if you die?”
“Darling, I think—”
“Because, people plot a murder for three main reasons: jealousy, revenge, or money. Which do you think it could be?”
“Could we forgo this discussion until a later date? It’s been a rather trying day, and I’d prefer to look at this mishap as an accident until the car can be properly inspected. Malfunctions of automobiles happen all the time.”
“So do murders.”
“Grace.”
“Fine. Yes. It’s been a trying day.” She nestled close to his warmth, her hair still damp. “But if another strange occurrence transpires, Lord Astley, I am bound by marriage vows to protect you as much as you are to protect me, so then we shall see.”
His smile budded a little, and his fingers at her shoulder spun into her hair enough to knock off the residual chill. Perhaps he could distract her. Just out the window, sunset hues bowed to a darker shade of evening.
Frederick pointed toward a turn in the road. “We’re coming in quite late, so I’m not certain Mother will be awake, but prepare yourself.” He leaned in close as she searched ahead for the great unveiling, his voice tinged with his own pleasure. “Havensbrooke is just beyond this screen of trees.”
Havensbrooke! Her new home. Grace’s breath stalled, waiting, and in the fading light she caught her first glimpse of limestone, spires, and…turrets? She leaned closer as the view opened to a long lane lined with a variety of mature trees on either side, dusk shadowing the periphery.
Looming towers and jutting rooftops created a conglomeration of angles, chimneys, and pinnacles into the evening sky. Gothic. Grace’s breath held with an immediate shock of mystery. Was it gray or tan…or a mixture of the two? She tried to scan every detail of the ornamental entry as the car approached. It was easily twice the size of Whitlock and much more Jane Eyre–esque. “It has turrets!”
His chuckle tingled down her neck. So close. She closed her eyes to embrace the lovely warmth, remembering how she’d awakened in his arms…in his bed that morning. Sleeping with her sister felt nothing like waking to the strength of a man wrapped around her in such a safe hold. And smelling of amber. Even with her imagination, she’d never dreamed up something so delightful.
She turned slightly, her face close to his in the dark car. “It has turrets,” she whispered.
“Quite romantic, don’t you think?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her lips answered his unspoken request by bridging the gap between them.
“I think you should kiss my neck again tonight.” She whispered to avoid drawing attention from the driver. “It would be an excellent distraction from my thinking of someone plotting to kill you.”
His expression took on a new look, something almost dangerous, and he lowered his lips to graze her ear, sending warmth spilling from his touch southward. “That is an excellent idea.”
Her entire body hummed with such anticipation that her brain went foggy just as the car came to a stop. The door opened, and Frederick stepped out, then turned to offer his hand. She stared at him, piecing together her next actions as if picking them up off a heap on the floor. Take his hand. Put one foot in front of the other. Smile. Walk.
“Lady Astley?”
She blinked and took Frederick’s hand, offering a mock glare. “How can I possibly keep my thoughts under control when you tease me with your”—she curbed her volume—“roguish ways?”
He rewarded her with one of the most unscrupulous grins she’d ever seen. Oh, she did like the idea of a rogue and a hero all wrapped into one.
Grace forced her thoughts out of the glorious haze his voice and lips conjured in her and met the greeting of a dark-haired man of medium height and build, expression as pressed as his livery.
“Good to see you, Brandon.” Frederick nodded to the man.
Ah yes, Brandon, the butler.
In the fading daylight, two rows of servants waited at the entr
ance of the house. Four women and five men, all somber faced and focused forward. The kitchen staff stayed below stairs, of course, but Grace wanted to meet them too.
A stone-faced woman with pale blond-and-gray hair stood next to him, her round-rimmed glasses clinging to the edge of her small nose as if attempting to dive off the end. She looked even less welcoming than Brandon.
Of course Grace probably didn’t make the best first impression. Even though she’d changed into a new dress, she hadn’t had the opportunity to reset her hair, so her shocking spray of unruly curls was likely dangling in all directions around her face, which was still much colder than normal.
Grace’s body sagged ever so slightly—partially beneath the weariness of a long journey and partially from the sudden impossibility of the task ahead. All the rosy ideas she’d conjured on the journey shook with uncertainty. This massive, foreboding house? Servants with allegiances to a dowager, and an entire staff expecting Lillias in all her refinement?
What did it matter if she could swim and solve murder mysteries if she couldn’t be a lady?
She suddenly wondered what Lizzie Bennet felt like when she stepped from the carriage at Pemberley for the first time as Mrs. Darcy. Grace stiffened her chin. If all else failed, she had her faith, her fiction—she looked over at Frederick—and her extremely roguish friend. Surely that would be enough. How horrible could a dowager actually be?
“Welcome home, Lord Astley,” Brandon offered with a tip of his head, his gaze traveling the length of them. He cleared his throat and blinked. “I’m sorry for your…misfortune, sir.”
“Only a bit of trouble with the car, Brandon, but it’s being seen to in the village for now. Mr. Quincy was kind enough to bring us the rest of the way, and Mr. Fawkes is following in the carriage with our trunks, along with Lady Astley’s girl, Ellie.” Frederick drew Grace forward. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Lady Astley.” His introduction tapped her courage up a few notches. “I hope you will treat her with the same kindness and respect as you’ve always given me.”
All eyes focused on her. Grace hoped she smiled.
“I would like to offer our welcome from the full staff, Lady Astley.” Brandon’s posture made Grace stand up a little straighter, his countenance giving nothing away. “We wish to make your transition to Havensbrooke a pleasant one.”
Grace slid her attention to each face. Two of the young maids smiled. Another gentleman doffed his hat, but otherwise everyone remained stoic as statues—distrustful statues.
“Thank you, Brandon.”
“Mrs. Powell will see to your maid when she arrives.” Brandon turned back to Frederick. “And your mother wishes for you and Lady Astley to be brought to her directly, sir.”
Frederick gave a quiet sigh beside her and offered Grace his arm, turning to her. “We can postpone our introduction until morning, if you wish.”
From all accounts, this meeting with Lady Moriah was bound to be unpleasant. Nasty, even. Grace offered him a tremulous smile. “I prefer to get unpleasant things over with as soon as possible, so we might as well do it now.”
His lips pinched as if to control a smile, and then he covered her hand on his arm before turning back to Brandon. “We’ll see her straightaway.” Frederick began to pass but paused. “Mrs. Powell, would you please have tea brought to Lady Astley’s room. I’m certain, after our adventure, she’s not only tired and cold, but hungry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Powell.” Grace hoped for a softening expression, but the woman wore somber like a proud hat.
“Don’t worry.” Frederick bent his head in her direction as they passed through the doors. “She’s much kinder on the inside.”
Grace’s frown unfolded into a chuckle. “I hope underneath all of those frowns everyone here proves to be as charming as you.”
He squeezed her hand and leaned close. “Hold that thought tight in your head, because your good heart is about to be duly challenged.”
With that, he led her through the doors into a large hallway with magnificent arched ceilings and red carpet over stone floors. Two white sculptures stood as sentries on either side of the archway, and Grace stifled another frown. Not even the statues looked happy to see her. She pulled the edge of her glove into a twist. Be brave, Grace.
At the end of the hallway, another arched stone entry opened into a massive room, and Grace dropped the hold on her glove. Beautiful chandeliers hung high above her from a wooden ceiling and splayed soft light into the three-storied atrium of the house. A large fireplace served as the centerpiece in the room, complete with two dark red chairs on either side and evergreen walls framed in oak. Tall archways met the room on all four sides, leading away to other portions of the house, and the main feature of the space was the expansive staircase that wrapped the length of the room, climbing around and around up two levels to a ceiling framed with elaborately designed wooden molding. She couldn’t help but stare.
“The Great Hall,” she breathed, pulling away from him to step to the center of the room. Frederick had praised this particular part of Havensbrooke when he’d told her about the house during their numerous conversations, but his descriptions failed to do it justice. “It is magnificent.”
“I wouldn’t exaggerate such a truth, my dear Lady Astley.” His smooth voice brushed away some of the fear the stone-faced servants left behind.
“But you haven’t decorated for Christmas at all.”
“We still have a few weeks left before Christmas.” He scanned the room and then looked at her as if digesting her sentence. “So there’s ample time for your handiwork.”
“My handiwork?” Grace brought her hands together, spinning about as she took another look at the massive room. “Imagine all the garland, and how glorious a tree would look right here in the middle of the room.”
“I happily give you free rein to decorate as you wish.” He smiled down at her. “Would you enjoy that?”
“More than I can say.” She rushed back to him and placed a kiss to his cheek. “Mistletoe in every doorway so you can’t escape my kisses.”
“I should never wish to escape your kisses.”
Her smile unfurled at the very idea of Lord Astley’s roguish kissing abilities as she surveyed the room again with a more Christmassy mind-set. Oh, they definitely needed an ample supply of mistletoe. “Is the ceiling oak paneled with…with arched windows?”
“It is and will appear much better with sunlight streaming through.” He stepped to her side and pointed upward. “You see the balcony overlooking us from the highest spot?”
“Yes.”
“I believe that particular room will be your favorite.”
She slid her arm through his, drawing near. “Can we see it tonight?”
“Alas, it’s much too late, and the room upstairs”—one brow rose in a teasing way—“I must unveil by sunlight. Particularly for you.”
He turned their steps toward the stairs.
“How do you propose I sleep now?” She squinted to try and make out the place of which he spoke. “I might very well venture off to find it myself, just because of your teasing.”
His palm slammed against his chest, feigning a wound. “And strip the pleasure from me, darling?”
She exaggerated her sigh. “Well, since you called me darling, I acquiesce.”
“Most valiant of you.”
“It sounds as though I’ll need all my strength for the battle ahead, anyway. Why should I waste it bickering with you?” She pulled them to a stop and gazed at the myriad of portraits laddering the walls of the stairway. “Are these your family? Ancestors?”
“Yes, and if I can’t detail all of them, my mother will proudly equip you with enough knowledge and depressing stories to create an entire library of romances.”
“Now you’ve really gotten my hopes up.”
He chuckled and led her through a long corridor on the second level. The cold and dark entry into the south wing seem
ed to seep gloom from the shadows. It probably didn’t help that her damp hair caused an added shiver. If a house could emanate a feeling, Havensbrooke exuded hints of foreboding and…loneliness. Of course that might just be Grace’s continued struggle between embracing her future and looking back at the very long distance between England and everyone she’d held dear for so long.
Electric lights gave a dim glow as they moved down a long corridor with arched doorways on each side, passing decorative tables with expen-sive vases or large paintings of vast landscapes—at one point, Grace even noticed a portrait of a dog—until Frederick finally stopped in front of one of the doors. He gave her fingers a squeeze before he knocked.
“Enter,” came the faint reply.
The first thing Grace noticed was the lighting. Candle and lantern light streamed a golden dance over the room. No electric lights. An elab-orate marble mantelpiece stood at the far end, almost barren except for two silver-framed photographs.
“I see you’ve arrived late.”
The voice pulled Grace’s attention to a chair by the fire where a pale, thin woman sat with a large book sitting atop a blanket covering her legs. She wore a simple cap and held herself as if the back of the chair wasn’t as straight as it should be. Dark eyes—housed within a pale face—narrowed as they settled on Grace, and whatever warmth Frederick’s nearness provided slipped out the top of Grace’s head.
She’d never seen such lifeless eyes. She’d envisioned them aplenty. Every time she read Dracula, but their actual appearance proved more disturbing than fiction. Grace’s heart sank lower at the dreadful realization. This was her mother-in-law.
Heaven help her. Shakespeare’s Queen Gertrude may have nothing on Moriah Percy, the Dowager Countess of Astley.
“What is this I hear of you and the river?” She tapped the floor with her cane.
No “happy to see you” or “glad you didn’t drown.” No introductions.
Frederick took a slight step forward, partially shielding Grace from his mother’s view. “There was no help for it. The car lost control and landed in the river. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured, and we swam to shore—”
The Mistletoe Countess Page 15
