“I don’t know, but we must keep our heads.” He placed his hand over Grace’s on his arm as they walked toward Lady Moriah’s room. “She’s not one to be trifled with.”
“Clearly she has practiced this plan before.” Grace shuddered at the sheer cleverness of the scheme. “She is Lady de Winter.”
“Except, my darling, she’s quite real.” His gaze met hers, and for the first time, she noticed the smallest hint of fear. “And dangerous.” He stopped at his mother’s door and brought Grace’s knuckles to his lips. “As much as I adore your cleverness, you are not Lady Molly of Scotland Yard who can survive on the page.”
Poor man, he really didn’t understand how very educational mass reading could be. Money-seeking murderer was not an unfamiliar arche-type in fiction, and with Celia’s threats from the night before, Grace knew the most dangerous part of the story happened next. Most likely someone would receive a mysterious note or be kidnapped or find that one of the servants had inexplicably disappeared, and all just before the authorities could arrive to nab the scoundrel. That was exactly when the hero and heroine were placed in the most life-threatening situation of all. Though she hadn’t quite worked out what Celia might choose. Fire? No, it seemed too obvious. Shooting? Not very creative.
At any rate, Grace had already thought through three different ways to escape a kidnapping, which is why she had a pair of scissors in her pocket.
She touched Frederick’s cheek and brought her lips to his, lingering in the sweet sensations of skin on skin. His arms slipped around her, engulfing her in that wonderful feel of safety she’d come to adore. She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes. “I’m not afraid.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
“Do you know why?”
“Because you’ve reread Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s works often enough to calculate Celia’s next move?”
Grace laughed at his exasperated attempt to reprimand her. “No, though you may be surprised at how much I have gleaned from the trials of Violet Strange or Dora Myrl. I’m not afraid, because we have each other. Two very good brains, if I may say so.” She tugged him toward Lady Moriah’s door. “Let’s finish this so we can move on to our next adventure together.”
Grace slipped her hand into Frederick’s as he knocked on his mother’s door, the simple touch easing the tension in his jaw. There was something infinitely dear in that sort of power to soothe some of the weariness in his world. A tenderness stole over her, hints of it she’d experienced throughout the passing weeks. Love. A caress over the crinkles of life. A hand to hold in the dark. Or lips to kiss during a storm. Yes, she loved him.
Lady Moriah’s voice ushered them inside.
She greeted them with her usual impassive expression, hands folded on her lap, every wrinkle giving off a very Miss Havisham waxiness, but Grace had seen beneath the veneer. In Lady Moriah’s uninhibited moments of sleepwalking, in the chinks in her stoic condescension, brokenness hovered just beneath the surface.
“We’ve come to speak to you about a serious matter, Mother.”
One of her brows tipped. “Have you finally procured some hovel in the village where you can banish me?”
“We’ve come to inquire after Edward’s death.”
The wax melted off her expression, but she quickly recovered, straightening her spine in a defensive move. Her eyes darkened to steely coldness. “I don’t see how discussing that horrific day is of any benefit.”
“We’ve not discussed it, Mother.” He stepped closer, stance as tense as hers. “I never asked the questions I should have. I never stopped to see the inconsistencies.”
“I am sorry I pushed you so quickly toward finding a wife.” She raised a palm, a sudden softening of her features giving off an artificial concern. “I feel certain the pressure has been overwhelming.” Her gaze flitted to Grace with a grimace tagged on. “I see the errors of my haste.”
“No, Mother. Grace is the best decision that’s been made about my life in years.”
Grace almost melted into the carpet. What a man!
“But now is the time for answers.”
“There are no answers.” Lady Moriah stood, faster than Grace had ever seen her move. “Death doesn’t give any. Leave the dead in peace.”
“Not when it impacts the living.”
“We know about the hemlock.”
The dowager turned those piercing eyes on Grace. “What did you say?”
“The reason your son Edward is dead.”
The woman wilted back into the chair, every year of her life suddenly reflected in the lines around her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your response would suggest otherwise.” Frederick placed the dried hemlock and note on the table beside his mother. “Were you involved in Celia’s plot all along?”
“How dare you charge me with a desire to see Edward dead.” She pushed up from her chair, garnering her strength, her teeth barred. “He was my son.”
Frederick’s body gave the slightest twitch from the sting in her words. “The police will be here within the hour. If you don’t wish for me to name you along with Celia in this crime, you need to speak of what you know.”
Her hand trembled as she pushed a strand of hair from her forehead and looked away. Her breaths shivered into the silence. “I…I didn’t know she was killing him until I saw the signs.” She walked toward the window, body quaking against her cane. “It wasn’t the slow way, like she’d used with your father, but I recognized her desperation.”
“Like Father?” Frederick’s voice faltered.
“You wanted all the truth.” The dowager speared him with a glare, her words frigid. “Your father had recently discovered Edward was not his legitimate son.”
Frederick’s chest deflated with a release of air. “Rupert.”
Grace pieced together the news. The letters Frederick had found. The change in his father’s disposition toward Frederick just before his death.
“Yes.” She ground out the word, bracing her hand against the window frame. “A common man untouched by the weight and responsibility of Havensbrooke’s burden.” She sneered and turned away. “I thought no one knew, but Celia discovered it.”
“So she threatened to make your past public?” The history began to unfold in Grace’s mind.
“Unless I gave her something she wanted.” She turned her attention back to the window.
“A title,” Grace whispered.
What money-hungry temptress would do less?
“You helped her kill Father? To protect your reputation?” Frederick’s voice broke, and Grace wrapped her arm around his for support.
“She didn’t plan to kill him at first. She only wanted the social status.” This time when Lady Moriah turned to face them, her red-rimmed eyes held all the remorse of her confession. Gone was the impenetrable matriarch. “I agreed to encourage Edward’s relationship with Celia to secure her future in exchange for her silence about my past.”
“He trusted your opinion above everyone’s,” Frederick whispered at her side.
“I only wanted to keep my past quiet and protect Edward’s future because, don’t you see, he had no one, if not for me.” Her voice wavered. “Then your father somehow discovered that Edward wasn’t his son. I can only imagine the witch told him. He threatened to remove the earldom from Edward and give it to you instead. But Celia would not be outdone.” She tapped the floor with her cane and turned those dark eyes back to them. “It wasn’t until your father’s health had failed that I learned of the arsenic she’d used to weaken him.”
Frederick slipped down into a nearby chair. “She killed Father to secure the title.”
“She planned it from the start. I was trapped then, don’t you see? She held all the cards.” Lady Moriah dropped down onto her window seat. “When she became discontented with Edward and her poorly executed plans for the funds of Havensbrooke began to limit her access, I couldn’t do anything, because every time I tried�
�”
“She would remind you of what she knew about you and that you let her kill your husband,” Grace breathed.
“She could have pinned the death on me, and I would have been defenseless against her accusations. Don’t you see?” Blame beat the woman’s shoulders into a slumped posture. “I never thought she’d kill Edward. Leave him penniless, perhaps. And yes, I watched her convince him to pour money into the most useless of schemes. Then I heard of her dalliances, and I feared the worst.”
“Yet you did nothing.” Frederick shot to his feet with startling fury. “You knew what she was capable of, and you let her kill him. Both of them.”
The darkness in his eyes, the rage, almost took Grace’s breath. She’d never felt the flames from his anger. But what a glorious fury!
“Do you have any proof of what Celia did, Lady Astley?” Grace soothed the question into the conflict. “Anything we can take with us to the authorities?”
The woman blinked her bleary eyes, her lips trembling. Despite everything Grace had learned, something softened toward her mother-in-law, who lived as a recluse so tortured by her guilt it haunted her sleep. “N–nothing specific, only innuendos and warnings.”
Grace sighed and slid her hand down Frederick’s arm to link with his fingers, his breaths pumping a galloping rhythm. He needed to come back from whatever dangerous brink his brooding thoughts had taken him. “Keep your head, Frederick. We must think. Plan.”
“I have lost my father and my brother because of her.” His dark gaze met hers, almost pushing her back a step. “My entire life I’ve felt worth-less because of her.”
“You lost them because of Celia.” He tried to pull his hand away, but she held on. “This is the time in the story where one slip from our focus can lead to disaster.”
“This is not a story, Grace.” He jerked away. “This is my life. My loss.” He turned his ire back to his mother. “I’ve always wanted to do right by you. My whole life you kept the one thing I longed for most from me. Your acceptance. You’ve not only withheld your affections, you’ve stolen my brother and father from me. You’ve attempted to ruin me and this family.”
Lady Moriah turned away, pressing a handkerchief to her face.
“Frederick Percy,” Grace clapped her hands on both sides of his face, forcing his attention to her. “You are not ruined. We are not ruined. Havensbrooke may be your home, but it’s not your legacy. How we live, who we love, that is the true legacy. That is who you truly are.”
A knock broke into the gritty silence, and Frederick stumbled back from Grace, shaking his head, his gaze searing hers, still so lost in his indignation.
Brandon entered. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but an Inspector Clarkson is downstairs to see you.”
“Clarkson?” Grace looked to Frederick, who barely glanced her way. “Didn’t Detective Miracle mention an Inspector Reynolds?”
“I’ll be there at once.” Frederick shot his mother another glare and turned toward the door.
“Frederick. I’m not certain—”
“I cannot discuss forgiveness and hope right now, Grace.” His hand sliced the air. “Not now.”
The door slammed behind him, shattering through the tension in the room. Grace braced herself with a palm to the back of a nearby wingback. Her husband had been dealt a blow to his soul. Perhaps time and distance from his mother would provide clarity.
Grace turned to Lady Moriah. The strong, powerful woman from days before withered beneath her admissions, her soul as frail as her body. In a few halting steps, Grace sat next to her at the window.
“Haven’t you done enough?” the woman muttered. “All of this started when you arrived.”
Grace ignored the remark. “I can’t imagine what grief you’ve carried to keep this secret for so long.”
The gentle answer brought Lady Moriah’s attention around. She studied Grace, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”
“I want your help.” Grace stared right back. “Can you search your memory for anything to prove what Celia’s done? Anything at all? For the son you do have.”
Lady Moriah shook her head but paused. “There might be something.” She stood and walked to her desk, cane tapping against the floor in a crescendo of anticipation. “It’s half burned, though I think the intention is clear.”
“Burned?” Grace followed.
“One of the maids found it in Celia’s fireplace and brought it to me.” Moriah raised her chin. “I promoted her to my lady’s maid at that point to ensure she didn’t rattle on about what she’d uncovered. But Dr. Ingle’s signature is clear.”
Lady Moriah sifted through a box on her desk, drawing out a crumbled, half-scorched page and handing it to Grace.
Grace skimmed over the writing, pausing on a few sentences.
Do not bully me. I will not be privy to another one of your schemes. Already I covered your first—burn marks blocked the words—death of a good man. I will not provide arsenic or anything else. I will not. There is enough blood on my hands. Threaten as you—burns blocked the remainder of the sentence.
“This is proof of Dr. Ingles’s knowledge.” Grace looked up. “And Detective Miracle interviewed Dr. Ingle this morning, but Frederick and I haven’t had time to discuss his findings since our return from Leavenworth.” She waved the page. “If he refuses to talk, this will force his hand. Frederick will see the good of your giving this to us.”
“Don’t dangle your hope here,” she whispered, turning back to the window. “There is no redemption for me.”
“As long as you draw breath, there is a chance for redemption.” Grace covered the woman’s hand. “Even for you.”
The woman’s gaze faltered.
“Frederick and I saw you in the east wing at night. You must have been sleepwalking.”
Her weary eyes took on caution. “You—you saw me.”
“Grief is a powerful force.”
The woman pressed her fist against her chest and looked away. “I would wake there some nights.”
“You seemed to be searching for something. Can you recall what it was?”
Lady Moriah shook her head and wiped a loose tear. “I don’t know.” Her voice warbled. “I suppose…I suppose I was searching for forgiveness.”
Grace’s vision blurred. No novel in all of her readings had been gripped with such open wounds.
“Lady Astley.” A crash came from the doorway as Mary stumbled into the room. “Ma’am, you have to come.”
Grace pushed to a stand. “Mary?”
“Lord Astley”—she held her stomach, catching her breath—“they’ve taken him.”
“Taken him?” Grace increased her pace to the door. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s taken Lord Astley.” Mary’s breaths pulsed out the words. “He’s…he’s gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Frederick struggled against the ropes to no avail. His arms were pressed tight at his sides, and despite his feet being free from constraints, there was little room for them to move in the red Ford Touring.
A few punches to his stomach and a slam to the head from “Inspector Clarkson” incapacitated Frederick enough for the man and his cohort to wrestle him out of Havensbrooke, bind him, and drive away.
“The chauffeur is after us.” The man to Frederick’s left leaned forward.
The car swerved and tossed Frederick against him.
“The crazy fool.” This from a woman sitting in the front. He knew that voice. Celia? “He’s trying to block our path.”
Before Frederick could confirm the author of the voice, the car swerved again, ramming him against the window. He blinked to clear his vision, and the second man came into blurry view. Was that Mason Parks?
“Turn here for the ruins. We’ll hide there until dark.”
Frederick’s gaze darted to the front and fell into Celia’s serpentine gaze.
Her smile curled. “Besides, it shouldn’t take long for us to finish our business wit
h our handsome and unwitting guest.”
Frederick eased back into the seat, his head pounding. One eye swollen, from the feel of it.
Three men accompanied Celia. Parks, “Inspector Clarkson”—who looked somewhat familiar—and a driver. All men brainwashed and paid off by the lovely Celia, if Frederick guessed right, from the funds she’d pilfered from Havensbrooke.
“I do hate that you hit him in the nose, Turner.” Celia turned from her perch in the passenger seat, red lips sliding into a smile. “It is one of his winning features.”
“We’ve lost the chauffeur, Celia,” the driver said.
“Excellent, Randolph.” Her gaze skimmed over Frederick and then turned to the driver. “After ascertaining his acute attachment to his little bride at Keriford, I feel our dear Lord Astley will be quick to agree to any of our demands.”
His attention shot to Celia. Grace! That’s why she’d come to Keriford? Scouting out her plan for Grace? A chill crawled through his chest. The money. Havensbrooke’s money.
He wrestled against the ropes but stopped. No, Frederick. Remain calm. Celia wants to get to your senses. Stop. Think. Even if this scene is like something from a book.
A book! Grace would tell him to think like a character.
Well then, what would a Sherlock sort of character do? He drew in a deep breath. Observe. Reason. Plan.
Frederick took in his surroundings with a new, more focused purpose. “Inspector Clarkson” sat farthest to Frederick’s left, a tall, lean-looking man, bushy brow pulled over a set of gray eyes. His jacket looked well worn, and the hem of his pants was frayed. He barely moved, eyes trained ahead, calculated. And his nose resembled a hook.
Grace’s Captain Hook! From the ship.
A glint of metal from the man’s jacket hinted to a pistol. Weapon number one.
Frederick’s attention shifted to Celia. Her dark gaze bore into his with icy calculation. She wore one of the smaller hats, slanted slightly to cover one side of her forehead.
He couldn’t observe much about the driver except to note his broad build. Of the three men, he’d likely be the stoutest, and as the driver in front with Celia, he probably had the strongest attachment to her.
The Mistletoe Countess Page 32
