Chapter 3 #2
What on earth was happening? A year ago, Grace would have instantly called out Blake on such a response, but as an evolving sleuth (and mother-in-training), she’d learned the value of waiting and observing—even though she was fairly certain her eyes had gone quite wide.
When Grace looked back at Helen, the young woman’s expression had smoothed back into that careful neutrality Grace had noticed before, though her knuckles were white where her hands clasped together.
“Are you all right?”
Blake offered Grace a smile—too bright, too quick—and nudged them back into motion. “Just the shoulder … and leg acting up. Nothing to worry about.”
But his teasing response, though perfectly him, was edged now with new information that Grace couldn’t ignore.
It had all happened in a fraction of a moment. Perhaps if Grace’s mind hadn’t already been fully immersed in detective mode from the break-in, she might have missed it entirely.
But she hadn’t missed it.
And she was absolutely certain of what she’d seen.
Stephen Blake and Helen Gale knew each other.
Not just acquaintances passing on a familiar street. Not simply familiar faces from some distant social gathering.
They knew each other in a way that had left each of them momentarily shattered by the sight of the other.
And judging by the sudden shift in each of them, their connection wasn’t just complicated but … something neither wished to acknowledge.
Grace’s detective instincts, already heightened by the mysterious thefts, shifted into that delicious state of full alertness she always felt at the beginning of a particularly intriguing mystery.
A missing painting.
A thief who had taken nothing of obvious value.
A new maid with peculiar knowledge about investigations.
And now Stephen Blake?
A thrill rushed through Grace, though she worked very hard to control her smile as she guided Blake toward the morning room.
Yes, war was terrible and inconvenient.
Missing paintings were puzzling.
Mysterious break-ins were deeply concerning.
But Stephen Blake arriving at precisely the moment when a suspiciously capable maid appeared at Havensbrooke—a maid who clearly knew him and whose very presence seemed to shake his usually unflappable composure?
That was absolutely fascinating.
Evie Montgomery was alive.
Not only alive, but in Frederick’s home.
Not only alive, but posing as a … maid?
He’d been shocked by many things in his career as an agent for British Intelligence, but this rattled him to his very core. And his shoulder gave a reminder twinge, as if his body wanted to underscore just how thoroughly Evie Montgomery had upended his life once before.
Of course, then she’d had the help of a traitor and a German torpedo, so it wasn’t entirely her fault.
She stood perfectly still, her auburn hair pinned beneath a maid’s cap, wearing a simple gray dress that should have made her unremarkable.
But Blake would have known her anywhere.
The way she held herself—that coiled alertness he’d noticed on a hundred missions.
The precise angle of her chin. Those violet-blue eyes that were currently staring at him with an expression of complete shock.
Five months. Five months since the Lusitania had gone down, since he’d searched every survivor list, every hospital record, every morgue report. Five months since Evie Montgomery had vanished as completely as if the Atlantic had swallowed her whole.
Five months of assuming she’d drowned. That her last act had been shooting him to give him a chance, then failing to save herself.
Of carrying that weight like a stone in his chest.
And here she stood, looking at him as if she’d seen a ghost.
Had she thought he’d died too?
Had she … cared?
Blake’s mind instantly sorted through possibilities. Why was she here? Why the disguise? Had she found the Midnight Angel? Was she the Midnight Angel?
No—he couldn’t believe that. Wouldn’t believe it.
But then, he’d never believed Evan Montgomery would turn traitor either, and look how that had ended.
A knot started forming in his chest, squeezing like a vice. Blake’s gaze sharpened on Evie’s face, probing for clues. She’d disappeared completely after the Lusitania. No contact with British Intelligence. No word to Director Lark. Nothing.
The kind of disappearance that suggested either death, deep cover, or deep trauma.
Had she found her brother after Blake lost track of them? Had there been a confrontation? Blake knew Evie’s capabilities, knew what she was trained to do. But killing one’s own twin brother—even a traitorous one—would leave scars that had nothing to do with bullets.
The haunted look in her eyes suggested he might be right.
“Blake?” Grace’s voice pulled him back, those large blue eyes far too perceptive for his comfort. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone rather pale.”
Blake rearranged his features as he’d done so often in the past. A practiced skill, though it required a bit more effort this time. He quickly reassured her …
Grace didn’t look convinced.
Blast the woman.
If she didn’t know him as well as she did, he might not worry about her perceptiveness. But as young and inexperienced in the ways of the world as she was, she made up for it by being terribly bright, endlessly curious, and an unmatched reader of mystery novels—or any novel, really.
But to her credit, her smile returned and she linked her arm through his good one, tugging him back into motion.
“Of course, you’ll want to rest your leg.
We’ll get you settled.” A sudden rumble erupted from the direction of her stomach, and her eyes went wide.
“Oh dear, I think I forgot luncheon again.” She pressed a hand to her middle, and now that he looked at the way her palm indented against her gown …
Oh.
Blake studied her more carefully now, noting details he’d missed in his shock over Evie.
The slight rounding of Grace’s figure that her dress didn’t quite conceal.
The shadows under her eyes that spoke of exhaustion.
The way she’d just pressed her hand to her stomach in that instinctive, protective gesture he’d seen other women make.
Blake’s face immediately warmed with an emotion he didn’t experience nearly often enough—genuine elation.
Was she … with child?
Grace was such a petite woman to begin with, she’d likely carry small as well. And if, as he’d learned from knowing her as long as Frederick had, she’d been rather sheltered from intimate information by her sister’s poor discretion and her father’s well-meaning obliviousness, was she even aware?
Good Lord. Someone needed to tell the poor woman.
And it certainly wasn’t going to be him if he could avoid it.
“Look who has found us, Brandon,” Grace called as they entered the Great Hall, where the butler stood waiting.
Brandon dipped his head in a slight bow, his expression nearly as controlled as Evie’s, but there was no mistaking the light in his eyes. Yes, Brandon was glad to see Blake here too.
And no wonder. If Lady Astley had been managing alone without Frederick, another friendly face would bring some comfort. Blake stifled a frown. Unless, of course, Blake had brought trouble with him in the form of Evie Montgomery—especially if she happened to be the Midnight Angel.
“It is good to see you relatively well, Mr. Blake.”
“Thank you, Brandon. Good to see you as well.”
“Would you be so kind as to ready the Belvedere Room for Mr. Blake, Brandon?” Grace smiled up at the butler. “Since Mr. Blake is family, I insist on him being housed within the family rooms instead of the convalescent quarters.”
“Of course, my lady.” Brandon stepped away, and Grace steered them toward the stairs.
“Lady Astley, you didn’t need to—”
“You’re family. Of course I did.” She squeezed his arm. “And it will give you plenty of peace and quiet to recuperate properly.”
“You are too good, my lady.”
“Oh, you know that isn’t true. I cause too much trouble to be too good.” She shook her head and sighed as they walked. “And will you ever refer to me by my Christian name, dear Blake?”
He squinted upward as if thinking, then sent her a wink. “Once you will, I will.”
Her smile spread wide at his teasing, and it was good to see.
Despite everything, she’d kept that spark of light and joy about her.
In a world gone mad with war and loss, those small glimpses of goodness were desperately important.
He didn’t even realize until that moment how much he’d needed the reminders.
They walked in silence a moment, taking the stairs slowly to accommodate his “wounded” leg.
He felt a twinge of guilt at deceiving her, but the less she knew, the better.
If he could locate the Midnight Angel and remove her from Havensbrooke without causing any disturbance to the lives here, it would be infinitely preferable.
If Evie happened to be the Midnight Angel—a possibility he shuddered to consider—this would require extraordinary skill. Because there was a very good chance one of them would end up dead in the process.
“Was Frederick well when you saw him?” Grace whispered, her voice suddenly urgent as they mounted the stairs. “Did he look tired? He says in his letters that he’s fine, but you know how he is—he’d say he was fine if he’d lost a limb, just to keep me from worrying.”
Blake allowed himself to be guided, though his mind remained half on Evie. “I only saw him briefly, mind you—just long enough to confirm he’s exactly as you’d expect. Tired and grumpy, but nothing missing from his person. Apart from his missing you dreadfully, of course.”
Grace’s entire face lit up. “Truly?”
“Truly. The man’s absolutely wretched without you. It’s rather pathetic, actually.” Blake grimaced in feigned disgust. “Though I suppose that’s exactly as it ought to be.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Grace beamed, then instantly sobered. “Not that he’s wretched, of course, but that he’s—oh, you know what I mean.”