“Aren’t you the least bit concerned they’ll try to kill you, ma’am?” He used an appropriate whisper.
“Of course, but I’m much more concerned they’ll kill Frederick without my having at least tried to help him when I could.”
When the voices distanced, Grace slid against the stone toward a section of the wall where a two-story window hung, empty of glass and accurately placed above Frederick’s position, if she guessed right. Perfect.
She would sort out what to do next, but bringing a rope was the smartest idea she’d had all day.
A few scattered stones made a wonderful perch for Elliott, and the old trellis could support part of her weight as she climbed on Elliott’s shoulders to reach the window.
When she relayed the plan to the valet, his response wasn’t as enthusiastic. “I simply cannot have you climbing up my person like a tree, my lady.”
“I promise I won’t tell Brandon. Will that suit you?”
“Lady Astley!”
“Elliott.” She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him. “I admire your great propriety, but my husband is held hostage by an insane woman who has murdered at least two people and most likely has designs to murder a third, so I believe we’ve moved beyond the realms of propriety, don’t you?”
He sighed, closed his eyes, and turned, bracing his hands against the wall for support. She slipped off her shoes to lessen the discomfort for the long-suffering man and adjusted her gown for the occupation as best she could.
Elliott would thank her for this someday. What a story to recount to his progeny!
“Just keep your eyes closed, and you can pretend it never happened.” Grace shoved the rope onto her shoulder and grasped the rickety trellis. “But it would make a great scene in a book, don’t you think?”
He groaned a response, or maybe it was a chuckle. She couldn’t tell.
“After I’m up, I’ll drop the rope for you to follow. If necessary, I’ll cause a distraction so you can get into position.”
“I have no doubt of your abilities to create a distraction,” came his mumbled response.
At least he had faith in her.
With a bit of struggle, she made it to a full stand on his shoulders and was fairly delighted that the windowsill came to her chest. Grasping the edge of the frame, she pushed off Elliott’s shoulders until her elbows hooked over the edge of the sill.
Elliott released a low grunt.
“Sorry, dear Elliott,” she whispered as she clung to the frame and scraped her feet against the stone wall to gain traction.
A shuffling noise came from one corner of the house as Grace struggled through the window. Her gown billowed around her in a most unladylike way. She never imagined the female detectives in novels flapping like fish in their exploits, but in all honesty, what else could be done?
The noise came again. Closer. If the sill hadn’t pressed into her stomach, stealing her breath, she would have told Elliott to hide.
She gripped the frame, her fingers pinching to the point of pain, and finally succeeded in hooking one foot into a crevice in the wall while her other leg flailed in the air. Oh good heavens, hopefully Elliott still had his eyes closed. She’d never been so thankful for pantaloons in her life!
With a final tug of her quivering arms and a push from her foot, she tumbled through the window into a quiet heap on the floor. For a second, she lay there, resting her head in her hands, breathing in and out. Her body ached a little, and the exertion proved a bit more than she’d expected, but in all truth, her other sleuthing exploits had been on the page. Perhaps she should invest in calisthenics to prepare for her next detective opportunity.
After pushing herself to a sitting position, she took inventory of her surroundings. A few pieces of broken furniture, some crumbed stone, a broken vase, and even a partially intact tapestry hinted that this space was some sort of sitting room in a previous generation. About ten feet in front of her a gaping hole opened to the floor beneath, giving more clarity to the voices below.
“I see you’re finally waking, Lord Astley.” A female voice rose into the cavernous space. “Don’t look at me that way. If you hadn’t tried to escape, you wouldn’t have such a headache.”
Grace’s eyes widened. Oh, Lady Celia was marvelous. Exactly as any solid villainess should be!
Grace scooted on her stomach to the edge of the hole and peered down. Celia paced back and forth, the central figure dressed in a magnificent fitted purple day suit with a mummy-type skirt. Grace shook her head. The woman looked resplendent —villainously so —though Grace despised those hobble skirts. If Grace ever became a villainess, which seemed rather unlikely, she’d wear trousers as a uniform of treachery.
“Now here’s what you’re going to do.” Celia’s voice pearled with false sweetness. “You will go to London on the evening train, accompanied by Randolph and Parks. Turner and I will keep your wife and mother company. Then you’ll dip into Lady Astley’s substantial fortune.” She named a ridiculous sum. “Transfer it into Parks’s account and send me a wire that it’s been done.”
A muscular sort of brute stood to Celia’s right, and another man, broad chested with an impressively bushy pair of black eyebrows, waited at her left with a gun in his hand. Grace held in her gasp. Oh dear, it was Captain Hook from the ship to England.
Celia had been after Frederick from the start.
“I didn’t see anyone, Lady Celia.” This from a man out of sight. He must’ve been the one snooping about outside a few seconds before. Parks, if she guessed.
Well, the odds weren’t the best for Grace. Three men. One woman. But at least Elliott had a gun and Grace a pair of scissors.
“I’m not giving you anything, Celia.”
Frederick’s voice pulled Grace’s attention back to her husband. As Celia stepped aside, Grace had a clear view of him. Air closed off in her throat. One of his eyes was swollen almost closed, blood tinged the side of his head, and ropes bound him so tightly they bunched his chest inward.
Heat scorched up from her stomach into her face. How dare they!
She shoved back from her perch, swallowing through her burning throat. This deed would not go unpunished. She searched the room, her attention landing on a broken yet heavy vase nearby. But who to aim for? Every burning coal in her chest wanted to target Celia, but the detective brain took hold. Aim for the man with the gun —she shifted her gaze back to the mastermind in purple —then she would claw Celia’s eyes out.
Grace took the rope, fastened it to one of the stone pillars in the room, and peeked back out the window. Elliott waited below, so she tossed the rope over and gathered the vase in her arms. It was much heavier than she’d anticipated, which only made her choice more rewarding.
With stealthy and somewhat awkward, steps, she approached her perch directly above the place she’d seen the man with the gun. The three villains faced Frederick, their backs to Grace, but she had a clear view of her dear husband.
He looked up haphazardly but refocused his attention on her, eyes widening. Well, one eye widened, of course. The other was pitifully closed and purplish. His look of utter shock nearly distracted her from her rescue mission. Why did he look so surprised? She attempted to offer him a reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to help.
Oh well, if he’d been hit over the head, there was a good chance he wasn’t thinking clearly. Before the crew of menacing man-nappers could turn, Grace nodded to her darling husband, took aim, and released the vase to its ultimate destination.
It almost hit its mark.
With a thud, then a crash, the vase slammed against the man’s shoulder and maybe a part of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground and the vase crashing nearby. Grace turned to see if Elliott had made it up the rope yet, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Her plan suddenly shifted into the unknown. Where was her man with a gun?
The group of villains all stared up at her for a full five seconds, before Celia seemed to ral
ly. “Parks, go get her.”
Grace gasped. What to do? Her attention fastened on the rope and back to the hole, where the malevolent mistress of evil stared up at her. Footfall from the stairway alerted her to Parks’s approach. Oh heavens! She had to do something.
Grace ran to the column and pulled up the rope. Clearly, Elliott hadn’t read her mind about the plan. She’d have to lay it out more clearly next time.
She ran back toward the hole, rope in hand. It didn’t look that far down. Her gaze came back to Frederick. Why was he shaking his head?
Perhaps his vision was imbalanced because of the swollen eye and possible head injury.
Parks appeared in the doorway, rushing forward as if to grab her. With a deep breath, a mental image of what she imagined Tarzan might do, and a quick prayer, she aimed for Lady Celia and slid through the hole.
Unfortunately, the idea in her head failed to execute as fluidly. In her haste to escape Parks, she overextended her swing, and since she had no trapeze experience of any kind, her legs flew in all different directions, spinning her body in a twirl of skirts, pantaloons, and red hair. One foot slammed into one of the villains, knocking him to the floor, and in another twirl she nearly decapitated Celia before landing directly on top of Frederick with such force he and the chair flipped backward.
She was no Tarzan.
It was a good thing Elliott wasn’t watching, because all sorts of propriety had just flown out the broken windows.
Frederick had just been thinking about how to protect his sweet, innocent wife from the wiles of the devious Celia Blackmore Percy, when Grace—standing as a fiery fairy in forest green —materialized above him holding a—vase?
He blinked his one good eye, but the picture stayed the same.
How hard had Randolph hit him?
He blinked again, but still she stood, a flaming glint in her eyes as she raised the vase.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the vision, but her sapphire gaze pinned him with purpose, and she nodded, as if that would explain everything.
He must be dreaming. Yet the vase slipped from her grasp and crashed into Randolph, sending him to the ground.
Silence enveloped the room as everyone turned to stare up at Lady Astley.
Celia turned to Frederick, a look of utter bewilderment crossing her face. “Parks,” she called, “go get her!”
“No.” Frederick tugged against his binds, his chair shaking beneath the force. “Grace! Run.”
Parks took off for the stairs. Grace disappeared from view, heeding his command.
“Turner, check outside to see if she’s alone,” Celia took a few steps back, her face raised to the second level, distracted.
With what strength he had, Frederick scooted the chair toward Randolph, who struggled to push himself up, still feeling the impact of the vase. One strong kick of Frederick’s hard-toed shoe rendered the man unconscious.
Now how to protect Grace?
But then she reappeared above him with a rope? He squinted to decipher her plan. What was she going to do with—
Before he could process the possibilities, down swung his bride, gown billowing about her like a fast-approaching emerald umbrella. Her feet flung in one direction, her hair in another. There was nothing to be done but stare. His mind drew a blank.
She kicked Parks, knocked Celia down as the woman attempted to dodge Grace’s uncontrolled spinning, and then landed with full force right against his chest.
Frederick’s chair tilted backward and slammed against the floor with Grace and all her layers encapsulating him.
“Oh my goodness!” She pushed off him, slapping him in the nose as she did.
He nearly cried from the shock of pain.
“Frederick! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aiming for you, I promise.” She grabbed his face in her palms. “I was hoping to hit Lady de Winter, but I’d never swung down on a rope before, you see, so I wasn’t quite sure of the trajectory.”
His brain and his vision failed to match. “What are you doing here?”
She paused, her brow crinkling. “Well, that’s a silly question.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, your ropes.” She reached into her skirts and brought out a pair of scissors. “I’m so glad I brought along the rope and these scissors, but since I have no practice with guns, Elliott kept those.”
“Elliott is here?” His throat barely worked out the question.
She cut at his bonds with her usual energy. “Did you really think I’d come to your rescue by myself?”
He raised a brow.
She sighed. “All right, I would’ve. But Elliott is such a gentleman, he insisted on accompanying me. I think he deserves a raise after this, Frederick.”
One of the ropes loosened as the scissors slit through, but not in time to free him completely before a shadow fell over them.
“Grace!”
She turned too late. Parks jerked her up by her arm and twisted the scissors from her grip. With a firm tug of her body eliciting a squeal of pain, Parks pinned Grace against him, opening the scissors and pressing a blade to her throat.
Frederick struggled against the loosening bonds as Celia rose from the ground—with some difficulty—and dusted off her skirt. “Well done, Parks.” She pushed back a strand of loose ebony hair from her forehead and raised her chin as she approached Grace, her smile not as quick to resurface as before. “We have all of our cards now, don’t we?”
Celia stepped up to Grace, her gaze trailing the younger woman from head to toe. “I suppose you think you’re clever and brave.”
His beautiful wife narrowed her eyes, blue gleaming like flint. She looked stunning. “I am clever and brave. I don’t have to hide behind poisonous flowers and hired thugs.”
“But you see, dear.” Celia ran a fingernail down Grace’s cheek. “Your little exploit has done nothing but secure my plan. As long as I have you, your darling husband will give me whatever I want.”
A gunshot exploded from outside.
“I don’t need luck.” Grace grinned. “I have a valet.”
Grace’s theatrics worked long enough for Frederick to loosen his bonds. One more thread.
Celia pushed Parks’s hand away and placed her bony fingers around Grace’s throat, squeezing. “Oh, but if I can’t get what I want from Frederick Percy, I’ll make certain he loses what he loves most in the process.”
Grace’s eyes widened as Celia’s fingers increased pressure.
Everything within Frederick surged to attack. Breaking the last bind, he rushed toward Parks and Celia, managing to break her hold on his wife’s neck. His clever wife made use of his disruption to bring her heel down on Parks’s foot before twisting away in time for Frederick’s fist to make contact with the man’s face. Celia stumbled back, and Parks toppled to the floor. Within seconds, Frederick rendered him unconscious with a single blow.
Grace rolled out of the way as Frederick rushed to the attack. If she hadn’t been internally shaking from her near-death experience, she’d have done something fictionally ridiculous like brand him with her lips.
But common sense and a healthy dose of feminine rage prevailed. She pushed herself to a stand in time to see Celia rushing to escape.
The woman couldn’t run very fast in her fashionable outfit, but Grace’s riding skirt gave her legs freedom.
“You have nowhere to go,” Grace called. “The police are on their way here now.” She hoped. “And I can outrun you.” With certainty.
Lady Celia ran out the side door, Grace on her heels, and with a perfectly placed leap, Grace tackled Celia around the hips and they both slammed against the ground. Well, at least Celia broke Grace’s fall. From the sound of it, the Villainess de Winter had her breath knocked from her.
“Ah, I see you have things well in hand, Lady Astley.”
Grace looked up to find Blake staring down at her, pistol fashionably posed in his hand. She grinned. “Mr. Blake, what impeccable timing for a visit.”
His lips twitc
hed into a smile, and he offered his hand to her as he trained the gun on a flailing Celia. “I couldn’t allow you to have all the adventures on your own now, could I? What sort of friend would I be?”
Grace took his proffered hand. “However did you know to come?”
His blond brows hinged. “I know too many people with too much information in various places, my lady, and I always make certain to keep informed about my friends.”
“Aren’t you clever to have around, then.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice.
Blake’s lips twisted with effort. He reached to grab Celia’s arm, keeping the gun trained on her. He was quite fluid with the device, as if he used it on a regular basis.
Grace’s thoughts spiraled in dastardly directions. Was Blake a secret detective of his own?
“Blake, you know you haven’t got it in you to shoot me.” Celia purred, jerking against his hold and sending Grace a glare.
“Actually, Celia, I’ve wanted to dispatch you for years.” He gave her arm a tighter squeeze, and she winced. “But that would be much too easy for the likes of you and much too messy for the likes of me.”
“And how is Elliott?” Grace smoothed a palm down her quaking middle. “Have you seen him?”
“He’s fine, Lady Astley,” Blake answered, tugging Celia away. “His boxing history came to the forefront as he took out one of Celia’s brutes who attempted an escape.”
Grace’s mouth came unhinged. “Boxing history? Elliott?”
Before Blake answered, around the corner of the house came a rush of men in uniforms followed by Detective Miracle. “Lady Celia Blackmore Percy, you are under arrest for the murders of Davis Lockley; Richard, Lord of Astley; as well as his son, Edward Percy.” Two men took her by the arms.
“And the attempted murder of quite a few others,” Grace added.
Celia’s face contorted into a menacing sneer as she was led away. With three murders and countless other crimes for which to atone, Celia Blackmore Percy was likely out of Grace’s life for good.
The Mistletoe Countess Page 34
