Chapter 4 #2
“Yes, I see exactly what you mean about something missing,” he said finally.
“But nothing else?” Grace gestured to the other items still in the case. “Not the diamond-tipped pen Lord Astley’s grandfather gave him. Or those small silver statues.”
“Hmm …” Blake continued his study with narrowed eyes, then turned to her, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“If I recall correctly, an item that would fit precisely in that spot was a small framed, detailed sketch—ink on paper—of the nave inside the chapel at the ruins by the river.”
The ruins by the river? Her gaze shifted to the far window that opened in the direction of the site.
It was a half mile from the house, an easy walk that Grace had taken a few times over the last couple of months.
The trail was overgrown from disuse, and the location afforded isolation, which was likely why it had been used as a hiding spot for villains in the past.
And she’d ventured into the nave on several occasions because of its quaint and quiet beauty. It called her heart toward tranquility, especially with Frederick being so very far away. Her heart had been rather unsettled.
But to steal a sketch of an ancient chapel? She attempted to conjure a memory of it. “Does … does it have value?”
“Monetarily?” Blake shook his head slowly. “Not to my knowledge. Grandfather was an excellent artist and hung several other paintings throughout the house that might carry some financial worth, but that particular sketch? I can’t think of any reason it would be valuable to anyone but family.”
“Then that doesn’t fit with the candlesticks at all.” Grace pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make the pieces connect. “A painting of modest value, a sketch worth nothing, and expensive silver candlesticks. What sort of thief takes such random items?”
Blake lowered himself into a nearby chair, his gaze fixed on the bookcase as if the answer might materialize there. “When did this break-in occur, again?”
“A week ago. Near midnight, according to John.”
Blake was silent for another long moment, and Grace could practically see his mind working through possibilities.
Finally, he looked up at her, his expression uncharacteristically troubled.
“It doesn’t make sense. The randomness of it.
The escalation. And that”—he gestured to the bookcase—”bothers me most of all. ”
“Why?”
“Because thieves who know what they’re doing have patterns. They target specific items for specific reasons. But this?” He shook his head. “This feels almost like … searching.”
A chill ran down Grace’s spine. “Searching for what?”
“That, my dear lady, is precisely what we need to discover.” He rose and took her arm, his expression shifting to something lighter. “In the meantime, let me escort you to tea. I’m famished and in desperate need of pleasant company to clear my head.”
They walked a few steps down the corridor, Blake moving with easy grace, and then—just as they reached the threshold where others might see—the limp emerged with more pronouncement.
Grace steadied her breathing, pretending not to notice. Was he faking the extent of his wounds? Putting on a display for the patients?
But why? Blake was no coward to escape his duty. And though he had a dramatic flair to his personality, he never seemed the sort to put on a show.
But the shift in his limp had been obvious.
She sent him a look in her peripheral vision, attempting to sort out this sudden revelation.
She knew Stephen Blake cared for her and Frederick.
She knew he would do everything in his power to protect them.
But not for the first time, she wondered what exactly Blake did when he wasn’t in their company. Because from all she knew about his surprising connections, his uncanny ability to know things before anyone else, and his varied skills with weaponry …
She was beginning to think Blake was far more than a leisurely gentleman of independent means.
In fact, she was becoming increasingly certain that Stephen Blake had secrets.
His obvious connection to Miss Gale being one of them.
And perhaps his presence at Havensbrooke had less to do with recovering from wounds and more to do with … what? Investigating? Protecting?
Her breath caught in a silent gasp. Spying?
Grace’s eyes widened at the thought, even as Blake chatted amiably about the weather and the quality of Mrs. Lennox’s scones.
Could Stephen Blake be some sort of government agent? Or … spy?
The notion seemed utterly absurd and perfectly logical all at once.
She glanced at him from across the table as they sat—his easy smile, his charming manner, his seemingly casual observations that were anything but casual.
The limp?
And what of his connection to Miss Helen Gale? She held the same sort of alertness. Grace’s breath shuddered shallowly as she took a bite of a scone.
Could they both be spies?
Grace almost laughed. How ridiculous!
She smiled at Blake as he mentioned his gratitude for sleeping in such comfort after so many nights on cots or the ground.
But was it ridiculous? Truly?
Another thrill soared through her body all the way up to tingle her scalp.
Grace had just added a second mystery to her list.
And this one involved a charming spy, a suspicious maid, and secrets that were practically begging to be uncovered.
Why enjoy only one mystery when she could have two?
How absolutely delightful.
Blake had learned early in his career that the best intelligence was gathered while appearing to do absolutely nothing of importance.
Which was why, after several days of “recuperation” at Havensbrooke, he’d taken to making slow, painful circuits around the main floor, leaning heavily on his cane and wincing at appropriate intervals.
The other patients had accepted him readily enough—shared misery being an excellent social lubricant—and the staff had largely stopped paying him particular attention.
Which was perfect.
He continued his walk outside, carefully noting every window, every door, every possible point of entry or escape.
Particularly around Frederick’s study.
The very idea of someone inside stealing items without a pattern only heightened his concern.
He shouldn’t be distracted by Grace’s little mystery when there was an actual traitor somewhere in Havensbrooke, but he would not allow the possibility of harm to come to someone his cousin adored so thoroughly.
The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as Blake made his way along the gravel path that curved past the house’s east wing. From here, he could see Frederick’s study windows clearly—ground floor, easily accessible from the gardens, partially concealed by an overgrown lilac bush.
Perfect for a thief who knew the layout.
Or for someone already inside the house who needed a quick escape route.
He paused, pretending to admire a rosebush while his eyes tracked the distance from the window to the garden wall. Thirty feet, perhaps. Then another twenty to the gate that led to the stable yard. An agile person could be over that wall and gone in under a minute.
He filed the information away and continued his circuit, his mind working through possibilities.
As Blake rounded the corner near the conservatory, he stopped short when a familiar voice drifted from over a low-lying hedgerow near the back terrace.
That voice—carefully neutral, controlled tones—belonged to Helen Gale.
Or rather, to Evie Montgomery.
Evie sat on a garden bench beside one of the patients, her face turned toward the man, her maid’s cap slightly askew. Her profile was branded in his mind from hundreds of conversations and dozens of missions where they’d learned not only to rely on each other, but …
Blake’s heart stumbled in his chest.
“Near four months, miss,” came the reply to some question Evie had asked the man. A young voice, Scottish accent. Corporal MacLeish, if Blake remembered correctly. “Before they moved us south.”
“That must have been difficult. I’ve heard the conditions near Ypres are particularly challenging.”
“Aye, that they are. Mud like you wouldn’t believe. And the gas—” The corporal’s voice dropped. “Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Lungs aren’t what they were.”
“I’m so sorry.” Evie’s voice held genuine sympathy, and Blake almost smiled. “Were you involved in the battle there this spring? I understand there was significant action near Hill 60.”
The smile fell in an instant. He slipped back out of view but still within earshot, his jaw tensing.
Hill 60 had been a strategic position, and any information about troop movements in that area would be valuable to German intelligence in order to learn more of Britain’s tactical operations. Why was Evie asking about it?
“Aye, we were there. I was just telling Nurse Wilson about it yesterday.” MacLeish coughed, the wet, rattling sound that characterized gas damage. “Lost a lot of good men taking that position. And for what? We held it for all of three weeks before—”
“Before you were reassigned south,” Evie finished gently. “That must have been frustrating.”
“Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it, lass.”
There was a pause. Blake risked a glance around the hedgerow and saw Evie—Helen—adjusting the corporal’s coat. The man’s bandaged eyes spoke of another impact of the gas. Possibly blindness. Maybe nerve damage.
It was a hideous weapon.
His attention shifted back to Evie. Her expression showed nothing but professional concern.
But her questions …
“I’m sure you did everything you could,” she said. “Now, is there anything else you need? More water? Are you certain you can make it back to the house unassisted?”
“That’s kind of you, miss. But I’ve sorted out the way well enough. Think I’ll just rest.”
“Of course,” she said. “But do ring if you need anything. The windows are open so we can hear you.”
Blake pulled back into hiding as Evie stood and walked toward the house, gaze flitting in his direction for only a second before returning forward.