Chapter 8 #2
Jane burst into fresh sobs. “I don’t deserve your mercy.”
“None of us deserves mercy,” Grace murmured, thinking of her own missteps, follies, narrow escapes, and the grace she had been shown again and again.
God had always been more than merciful to her.
She stood and crossed to Jane, gently taking the girl’s hands for a brief squeeze. “That is what makes it mercy.”
Jane blinked a few times, shaking her head as if she couldn’t speak, and then whispered, “Why are you being so good to me?” Jane’s voice broke. “After what I did?”
Grace thought about Frederick, far away in France. About this baby growing inside her. About Zahra and what choices she may have been forced to make should she have stayed on the streets of Cairo.
And she thought of the lavish love of God, who knew her deepest flaws and secret sins and loved her anyway, far beyond her greatest imaginings.
“Because we all need second chances,” Grace said with a soft laugh. “Sometimes third. Or fourth. Or … well, we need rather a great many, don’t we?” She squeezed Jane’s hands again. “And because I pray that if I’m ever desperate enough to do something wrong, someone will show me the same mercy.”
With a choked little sound, Jane threw her arms around Grace in a fierce, improper hug, sobbing into her shoulder. Grace patted the girl’s back, sending a small smile over to Brandon as she waited for Jane’s tears to abate.
And Brandon offered her the faintest smile in return. A kind of approval, perhaps?
When Jane finally pulled back, Grace handed her a handkerchief.
“You’ll leave at the end of the week,” Grace said. “That gives you time to collect your things and to say goodbye to the other staff. Brandon will arrange your wages through the end of the month.”
“Yes, my lady.” Jane wiped her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll never forget your kindness.”
The emotional weight settled over Grace as soon as Jane left the room, and Grace sank down into the chair again, forcing her own tears to stay away. It was a hard thing to make such choices between good and right. Grace and justice.
And then the realization struck her.
If Jane stole the painting and the candlesticks, who stole the chapel sketch? Neither the painting nor the candlesticks were in Frederick’s office.
Had Jane broken in there as well?
Or did Havensbrooke still hold one more thief?
“That was very generous of you, my lady,” Brandon said into the quiet. “Some might say too generous.”
“Perhaps.” Grace looked up, studying his face. “Do you think I made the wrong choice?”
Brandon paused, that familiar thoughtful look pinching his brow. “I think Lord Astley would be very proud of you. And I think Jane will remember your mercy for the rest of her life. Whether it improves her character …” He lifted one shoulder in a gentlemanly half shrug. “That lies with her now.”
“Yes. I suppose that’s all any of us can do—choose kindness and hope it lands well.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling her child flutter faintly. “Though I sometimes wish kindness came with clearer instructions.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Brandon stepped toward her, his grin peeking at one corner of his mouth. “And if I may say so, it is an honor to serve you.”
Grace’s eyes filled with tears—again—and she managed a watery smile. “Thank you, Brandon. That means more than you know.”
He paused but didn’t move toward the door, his expression tightening again, as if he had more to say but was uncertain.
“What is it, Brandon?”
He hesitated before taking a few steps forward.
Mr. Brandon had become one of her dearest confidants since Frederick left for the war.
Her father’s age or older, he seemed to consider his duties as butler to include serving as quiet guardian over Grace and Zahra.
She had noticed his keen watch, his careful redirection of people on days when she’d not felt as well as on others.
He was the dearest of men, even if he straightened like a tree every time she impulsively hugged him—though she was certain he didn’t mind nearly as much as he pretended.
“You look quite troubled,” she said, gesturing to the chair Jane had vacated. “Would you like to sit?”
Brandon remained standing, as he always did. “I hesitate to trouble you with what may be nothing, my lady, but there is a matter that struck me as … peculiar.”
Oh dear. Peculiar enough for Brandon to mention was rarely a small thing.
“Peculiar how?” Grace leaned forward, her detective instincts immediately prickling to attention.
“It concerns one of the patients. Private Smith.” Brandon clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you recall him?”
“Of course. Arrived just over a month ago. Nurse Wilson described his injuries as quite severe—shrapnel, nerve damage, nearly bedridden.” She winced. “Poor man can barely walk even now. He requires Nurse Wilson or Nurse Rivers’ constant care.”
“Precisely, my lady.” Brandon paused, choosing his words carefully. “However, last night, when I did my final rounds …” He paused, shaking his head. “I … truly don’t wish to—”
“Go on, Brandon.” She leaned forward in anticipation.
“I seldom walk the west wing of the house because it has been closed up since the renovations, but … Mrs. Powell had discovered footprints near the garden door on that side of the house, so I went to investigate before retiring. I had just turned the corridor when I saw a silhouette moving quietly toward that door. In the moonlight, the profile was unmistakable.”
Grace’s breath hitched. “Private Smith?”
“Yes, my lady.” Brandon’s voice lowered. “And walking quite normally. No limp. No hesitation. No sign of pain whatsoever. He moved with considerable … purpose.”
Grace’s heart dropped. Another man pretending to be wounded?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, was there a sign on Havensbrooke that read “Spies and impostors welcome! Please use the servants’ entrance”?
Although if she were being perfectly honest, the whole idea brought the greatest thrill.
“I did not confront him,” Brandon continued. “There was something in his air that gave me pause.”
“Very wise, Brandon.” Grace nodded. “I can tell you’ve been reading your fiction.”
The man blinked a moment and then, after a slight shake to his head, he said, “He walked toward the forest path.”
“The forest path?” Grace slowly stood. “Brandon, do you mean the path toward the ruins? The one to the chapel?”
“Indeed, madam.”
She stepped closer to him, studying his face. “Brandon, have you noticed if Mr. Smith smells of cloves? Or cedar?”
Brandon’s brow shot skyward. “Pardon, my lady?”
“Oh—never mind.” Why would Brandon have reason to sniff the man? She might have to make her own investigative stroll to the west wing. “We should keep doubly alert to this.”
“I had intended to do so regardless, my lady.” Brandon’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I am … concerned about potential threats to this household. Particularly given your condition.”
“You are so thoughtful.” Her smile bloomed along with a sudden warmth in her chest. “Lord Astley would be terribly pleased.”
“Of course, my lady.” He hesitated again but appeared to think better of it. “And Private Smith has a way of watching people when he thinks no one is looking. He’s … observant. In a manner that seems inconsistent with a man recovering from severe injuries.”
Like a spy? Grace’s throat went dry.
Good heavens, it was as if three mystery novels converged on top of Havensbrooke while her darling sleuthing partner was absent. “You think he’s dangerous.”
“I think, my lady, that a man who pretends to be more injured than he is—and who wanders areas of the house where he has no business—bears watching very carefully indeed.”
Pretending to be wounded.
Like Blake.
“Most certainly,” she whispered.
“And perhaps notify Mr. Blake, my lady?”
Her head snapped up. “Mr. Blake?”
Brandon regarded her calmly. “He has always had a sensible mind, and as a member of the family—as well as Lord Astley’s trusted companion—I think it wise. I imagine Lord Astley would wish it, were he here.”
Would he? If Frederick knew Blake wasn’t entirely who he seemed?
But her heart knew the answer.
Frederick would trust Blake. Even now.
And Grace would—must—also.
But she fully intended to shake several answers loose from the man in the process.
If he was going to sneak around her house on some mysterious errand while lots of other people were sneaking around, then it was about time she discovered what exactly all this sneakiness was about.
She looked heavenward for assistance, offering a prayer.
And since Frederick was still in Germany, Grace had to be brave enough for both of them.
Blake hadn’t spoken to Grace for any length in two days.
And even during the few brief exchanges they had managed, she had not been her usual self.
Oh, she’d tried.
Made a valiant attempt at smiles and cheerful little remarks.
But something was decidedly not right with her.
He had assumed it was simply the reality of impending motherhood settling in, but now he wasn’t so certain. Her look, her quietness, the way she watched him out of the corner of her eye …
Her caution.
With me.
But in all honesty, he felt very unsure of anything at the moment.
After his midnight confrontation with Evie—and the subsequent maddening confusion of her response—Blake was beginning to suspect his famed powers of observation had abandoned him entirely.
He’d dreamed last night of sprinting through the house in search of the blasted woman and kissing her until she was as senseless as he’d become.
A very fine dream.
But an absolute nuisance in practice.
No decent chap should think of romancing any woman while wearing such abominable clothes.
He’d just turned down the corridor toward the music room when a low male voice said, “There’s got to be something else that shows us where the tunnel is.”
The urgency in the voice, the harsh whisper, instantly pricked the part of Blake’s brain that never stopped indexing people and potential threats.
His mind fell into formation before he consciously commanded it. He moved soundlessly down the corridor. The voices grew clearer as he approached.
It was Pennington again.
And Edwards.
“I’m not taking no risks if we don’t even have a solid idea where to look,” came the other man’s response.
“Grandad gave me another idea, but I ain’t been able to find it yet.”
Blake leaned nearer. Was Pennington the one who’d been rummaging through Freddie’s office?
But what else could he wish to find related to the old chapel? How would anything else offer answers to him about some fictional tunnel and treasure?
“Blake?”
He spun at the whisper and found Grace standing much too near, her expression shuttered in a way that sank straight through his chest.
Dash it!
How long had she been watching?
“Good afternoon, my lady.” He dipped into a bow, his grin moving into place as usual.
Her smile failed to meet her eyes.
Something was wrong.
“We need to talk.”
His grin faltered, sobered, disappeared entirely.
He nodded once.
“Indeed,” he said quietly. “We do.”