Chapter 1
Four months later
War was terribly inconvenient.
But stray cats were an absolute catastrophe, decided Grace Percy, Lady Astley.
Especially when one had a houseful of convalescing soldiers and a cat-hating dog.
“Zeus!” Private Aaron Beckett’s voice rang out from the drawing room, speaking to the family dog with an urgency likely reserved for military campaigns or something akin to them.
“Somebody catch that blasted cat!”
Grace looked up from the menu she’d been reviewing with the housekeeper, Mrs. Powell, just in time to see a blur of orange fur streak past the doorway, followed immediately by an overly enthusiastic English setter.
“What on earth!” Grace gathered up her skirts and rushed down the hall in pursuit … behind Beckett, who followed Zeus, who was evidently in chase of some unfortunate feline.
The chase had left disaster in its wake: a chair overturned, Dr. Shaw pressed against the wall in desperate escape, and Mr. Long batting his cane in the air as if he hoped it might land on something to abate his agitation.
If Grace had thought turning Havensbrooke into a convalescent hospital in Frederick’s absence had been a good idea, this moment may have caused her to question herself.
A crash sounded from the direction of the drawing room.
Then another. Then what sounded suspiciously like a medical tray full of instruments hitting the floor, followed by a long string of words Grace was fairly certain she never should have heard.
She rounded the doorway into the drawing room and came to a complete stop at the utter pandemonium.
An orange cat, a mangy, one-eared creature that looked like it had survived several wars of its own, was darting among the patients’ cots with Zeus in pursuit.
And although the cat dashed and turned with amazing efficiency, Zeus did not.
He bumped into Nurse Simpson as she attempted to wrap Corporal Jones’ leg, which led to a great unraveling of bandages across three cots like streamers at a particularly violent birthday party.
Lieutenant Ashford jumped back to avoid the dog, forgetting about his injured ankle, and was now hopping on one foot while clinging to Private Jenkins for support.
Jenkins, in turn, dropped the book he’d been reading directly into Corporal MacLeish’s tea, which then spilled across the cards they’d been using for their afternoon game.
The medical tray that Grace had heard? Currently scattered across the floor in a constellation of bandages, scissors, and what appeared to be an entire bottle’s worth of iodine, creating an alarming rust-colored puddle across the stone floor.
And then, in all its feline glory, the cat leapt up onto the nearest mantelpiece and stared across the chaos as if it were quite above it all.
Which, in all honesty, it was.
Zeus poised on hind legs, barking and attempting to change the cat’s fate through sheer volume and enthusiasm.
And in the middle of it all stood Nurse Clarissa Wilson, the head nurse. Her usually impeccable uniform now sported a suspiciously iodine-colored paw print on the skirt, and she was holding a jar of cotton wool while looking as though she’d seen a real ghost.
Not just the fake ones in Grace’s sleuthing history.
The formidable woman had arrived only three weeks before and taken over the running of the hospital like an avenging angel on a rescue mission.
Or at least that’s what Grace supposed an avenging angel might look like, except instead of Nurse Wilson’s dark hair, Grace had supposed an angel, even an avenging one, would have gold.
Nurse Wilson’s preferred expression always seemed to make her look older than her thirty years.
The deepest set of wrinkles marked her brow to the point Grace felt certain one of them could hold a shilling upright.
Grace had always associated such intensity with a lack of imagination or perhaps a stomach ailment or a general feeling of discontent.
But Grace wasn’t certain about the reason for Nurse Wilson’s wrinkles.
Even when she’d offered the woman some of her favorite reads, the nurse had seemed terribly uninterested and appeared to have no sense of humor at all.
Not enjoying reading certainly had to give the woman a dreary outlook on the world. Especially a world at war.
If Grace didn’t have other places to travel through her reading—places much sweeter or more delightful than the current rooms of hurting men—while missing her very darling hero, she’d probably wear an expression like Nurse Wilson’s too.
She touched her forehead just to check for any gathering wrinkles.
Grace attempted to keep away from the nurse as much as possible.
Because first, what did one talk about with a person who didn’t like to read, had no imagination, and lacked the buffering quality of humor? Even Brandon, the dear butler, had a little humor tucked away somewhere beneath his stern exterior.
And second, she suspected the woman found Grace to be offensive … and it had nothing to do with her red hair. In fact, Grace was fairly certain it was just because Grace was … who she was.
“Lady Astley,” Nurse Wilson said, her voice carrying the tightfisted control of someone terribly close to losing hers. “There appears to be a cat in the sickroom.”
And perhaps chaos did seem to follow—or precede—Grace in some way or other.
“Yes, there certainly does.” Grace surveyed the damage to keep her gaze from Nurse Wilson’s fathomlessly dark eyes. “I’ve always read that cats possess fairly unpredictable personalities.”
“Hmm …” came the nurse’s noncommittal and rather unimpressed response.
“Cats aren’t to be underestimated, and that’s a fact, my lady,” Beckett said from behind her, a little out of breath. “Dykes said the creature came in through the window Murphy left open for fresh air, bold as brass. Walked right across Henderson’s breakfast tray, it did.”
“Did it eat anything?” Grace asked, concerned.
“Just the kipper. Henderson weren’t too pleased.”
Grace turned to find Private Henderson indeed looking rather put out, though whether about the stolen kipper or the general mayhem was unclear.
Zeus chose that moment to make another lunge at the mantelpiece, his impressive paws scrabbling against the wall and shaking the mantel to such an extent the books teetered precariously.
They certainly couldn’t have that!
“Zeus!” Grace used her most authoritative voice. “Down! This instant!”
The English setter, recognizing the tone if not entirely agreeing with the command, dropped to all fours and turned to look at Grace with an expression of profound betrayal.
As if she were the unreasonable one for interrupting his perfectly legitimate cat-hunting activities.
Poor thing, he was just doing what dogs did, wasn’t he?
The orange cat, sensing a temporary reprieve, casually began licking its paws with studied indifference.
Grace was beginning to think the cat might very well be a female.
She reached Zeus and took hold of his collar, drawing him back with her. The cat used the opportunity to leap from the mantelpiece to the top of one of the tallest wardrobes in the house with impressive agility for something so bedraggled.
“Oh, that’s just perfect,” muttered Corporal MacLeish, watching the cat settle as if to say I will not be moving. “Now we’ll never get it down.”
“Ta’aali ya ‘o a il-gamiila,” came a little voice from Grace’s left.
Out of nowhere—which seemed to be her usual preference for appearing—came Grace’s adopted daughter, Zahra.
Her dark hair hung loose and unbound around the shoulders of her green dress.
The little girl had grown at least an inch since Grace and Frederick adopted her a little over a year before, and though she spoke excellent English, anytime Grace heard Zahra’s native Arabic, she smiled.
Except when it was quite clear the eleven-year-old was angry. Then the Arabic could be rather alarming. Thankfully, Grace didn’t understand much of it.
The cat’s ears perked, and it turned its head in Zahra’s direction.
Those strange green eyes were almost otherworldly.
Donaldson, a rather good sort who was nearing the end of his convalescence if health and attitude meant anything, took Zeus’ collar from Grace. “I’ll let him out in the garden, my lady.”
“Thank you, Donaldson.” Grace smiled her thanks and turned back to Zahra.
The girl seemed completely oblivious to the audience of fifteen convalescing men in the room, one doctor, three nurses, several servants, and her mother watching her approach.
“Matkhafeesh, ana ha’khalleeki ma’aya,” came Zahra’s next words. “You can stay with me,” she added in English, her voice gentle, almost hypnotic.
The cat tilted its head and, after only a slight hesitation, jumped down to the ground. Zahra scooped her up as if they’d been friends for years.
“Well, it certainly helps to know the cat speaks Arabic, doesn’t it?” Grace nodded, stepping close to Zahra and studying the unkempt creature in her arms. “I’m certain whatever Zeus was saying to her wasn’t in a language she wished to understand.”
Zahra turned her face, her smile blooming.
Smiles had become much more frequent with the girl the longer she’d been with Frederick and Grace, but they still felt rare enough to be precious. And Grace appreciated each one. Well, the mischievous ones a little less than the sweet ones.
“I will take care of her if I may keep her.”
How on earth was Grace supposed to say no to that? But she did at least attempt some maternal sobriety. “You must keep her away from Zeus.”
“And the patients,” Nurse Wilson added pointedly.
Grace frowned. “And the patients. You understand?”
Zahra nodded solemnly.
“And she’ll need a bath. A thorough one.”
One of the nearby soldiers chuckled.
Another said, “I’d like to see that happen.”
To which Zahra’s eyes—strangely similar to the cat’s—narrowed with determination. “I shall see to it, Mama.”