Chapter 5
Blake would be furious with her.
So would Frederick, most likely.
And to be fair, she had given a cursory look around for Blake at the house before venturing off. It wasn’t as though she’d intentionally set out on an unchaperoned ramble. He was simply nowhere to be found, and the ruins were practically begging to be explored. So she brought Zeus.
Grace glanced down at her unlikely escort. The beautiful field dog, larger than the average English setter, trotted beside her, tail sweeping like a metronome through the bracken. On her other side, Zahra kept pace, her green dress fluttering in the early autumn breeze.
Between Zeus’ formidable presence and Zahra’s quick wits, Grace felt reasonably certain they’d avoid catastrophe. Probably.
Especially since they hadn’t brought Sham to upset Zeus’ usually sanguine demeanor.
And really, Grace wasn’t technically courting danger. She was only walking to the ruins and the old chapel, driven by a small, entirely reasonable curiosity: Why would anyone steal that sketch? A family sketch of personal value, but not valuable to anyone else.
Yet it must have held value to someone. People didn’t go around stealing things simply for amusement … did they?
Even if it was a particularly lovely sketch, from what Blake said.
Grace couldn’t remember it.
In any case, it was far better to occupy herself with fresh air and a mild investigation than to sit about waiting for her appointment with Dr. Ross in the morning.
Fresh air, after all, was supposed to be good for nearly every ailment she might possibly possess.
And the ruins were only a fifteen-minute walk from the east wing of Havensbrooke.
She could be there and back within an hour.
Assuming one doesn’t get distracted, she thought, frowning a little at that inevitable possibility. Or kidnapped.
The path spilled into a clearing where the air cooled, touched by moss and the sweetness of damp leaves.
And through a clearing ahead, the chapel rose—a modest relic of gray stone softened by ivy and time …
and perhaps a sweet drop of sunbeam. Its roof sagged gently at one corner, and the stained-glass windows were half shadowed by vines, but the place radiated quiet dignity and a charming sense of fairy stories.
Her gaze trailed heavenward. Or something much truer and lasting than fairy stories.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Grace whispered, though she couldn’t have said why she felt the need to lower her voice. It just seemed the appropriate thing to do.
“It is very old,” Zahra said, ever the pragmatist.
Just on the forest’s edge, looming a distance behind the chapel, stood the ruins of the former Havensbrooke Hall. A place Grace held in special memory because it was the first time she’d experienced the value of ropes when she’d had to rescue her dear Frederick from being man-napped.
Grace smiled. “Just on the forest’s edge there—see those ruins behind the chapel? That’s the former Havensbrooke Hall. Your papa says it’s nearly three hundred years old.” She chuckled. “Though compared to what you’re used to in Egypt, that may seem positively modern.”
Zahra’s grin twitched. “Old looks different in sand than in forests.”
“That is so very true,” Grace agreed, resting her hand on the heavy oak door handle to the chapel. “And I suppose the weather does play its part in preservation.”
The hinges groaned as they entered. Afternoon light spilled in through the windows, creating variegated sunrays cascading throughout the space.
It was a small nave and chancel, but it had been a medieval artist’s canvas of columns, stonework, and archways.
There was a sense of age and hallowedness within the walls and the scent of earth, dust, candle smoke—Grace paused mid-step as Zahra passed her by.
And spice?
Cinnamon? No, too sharp. Cloves and cedar. Was that a gentleman’s cologne?
She inhaled again. How curious.
And why on earth would the scent of recent candle smoke be in the air?
“It feels like peace here,” came Zahra’s voice from up near the chancel. “Peace and”—she studied the stained glass—”stories.”
Grace’s heart gave a fond little squeeze.
For a girl she hadn’t birthed or raised, Zahra had a remarkable way of echoing her sentiments.
“Your papa’s grandparents were married here,” she said, wandering down the aisle.
“For all their grandeur, they wanted to begin their story in this simple, quiet place.”
She breathed in again. The spice scent was still hovering—fresh.
Someone had been here recently. A male someone. And she’d smelled that particular scent before, but where?
She’d hardly left Havensbrooke in months. Which meant the owner of that scent must have come from Havensbrooke.
“There is a good sitting spot up there,” Zahra said suddenly, pointing to a small window set high in the wall near the ceiling at the top of one of the columns.
Grace followed her gaze. “Up there?” It looked scarcely large enough for the birds, much less a human. Scaling up there would certainly be a feat of … Her gaze landed on Zahra. “You’ve been up there?”
Zahra nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Papa has much land, but I have not seen so many trees. It feels safe here.”
Grace felt a little envious at Zahra’s ability to climb into the most remarkable of places. But with the curious events of the past week, perhaps Grace ought to encourage Zahra to stay near Havensbrooke as much as possible.
Yet the little girl had lived on the streets of Cairo, and she would hardly quail at a tumble from an English beam.
Besides, Zahra might very well wilt a little beneath such an edict.
After all, the chapel was only a short walk from the house.
When Grace was Zahra’s age, she’d disappeared for miles from Whitlock or Rutledge House to explore.
Grace compromised. “If you must wander, bring Zeus next time.”
Zahra frowned at the dog, whose head poked through the chapel doorway. “He is not very good at climbing.”
“No,” Grace conceded, “but he’s an excellent deterrent to trouble.”
Zahra’s dubious look suggested she’d seen Zeus trip over his own paws too often to be convinced.
Grace crossed to the stone baptismal font. It was simple, elegant, worn smooth by centuries of devotion. Or at least she hoped the wear was from devotion. It made for a nicer thought.
With a smile, she traced her gloved fingers over the carved edges, wondering if perhaps she and Frederick might have their children christened here someday—her hand went to her stomach—if she was able and if the war would ever end long enough for such hopes to seem sensible.
Her ruminations were interrupted when sunlight caught on something at the base of the font—a flicker of gold amid the gray stone and dust.
What?
Bending, which felt a little awkward for some reason, she retrieved a small brass button. Plain yet solid. On its underside, a faint thread still clung to the shank—khaki wool, tightly spun.
Her breath hitched. The top bore the Royal Crown and Arms—standard issue on British Army uniforms. But the shine was far too bright to be an heirloom handed down for posterity. This was recent.
She looked toward the window. The patients didn’t wear their uniforms at Havensbrooke. They wore their hospital blues, like many of the other country convalescent hospitals were issued. At some point recently, a man in uniform had entered here and lost a button.
But how did one of the patients know about this place? It was outside of the usual traipses Nurse Wilson took the patients on for exercise. Did it have something to do with the thief?
Her finger smoothed over the button. Perhaps she should tell Blake about it.
She frowned. But she wasn’t certain how much to trust Blake, especially with his unusual behavior since arriving at Havensbrooke.
Her shoulders bent. Even if he was up to something dastardly, he’d always been the perfect gentleman to her, and he’d had ample opportunity to kill her in the past if he’d ever wanted to. She released a long breath and shook her head. Of course she could trust Blake.
The wind sighed through the open doorway, carrying a fresh thread of that cologne’s clove scent. She scanned the room again, gaze landing on Zahra, who studied the carved wooden eagle poised at the tip of the lectern.
“Come, Zahra,” she called, holding out her hand until the little girl took it. “Let’s get back to the house before anyone worries about us.”
And then, perhaps, Grace could make a valiant attempt at finding out which of their gallant soldiers smelled suspiciously of clove and was undoubtedly involved in this mystery.
Blake had searched the east wing, the music room, and the solarium—all empty. The drawing room yielded only a half-finished embroidery project.
Lady Astley was nowhere to be found.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulder giving a phantom twinge—the old wound from the Lusitania that had never quite healed properly. Or perhaps it was simply his body’s way of reminding him that ghosts had a habit of reappearing when least convenient.
Evie Montgomery being that particular ghost.
And she was here, of all places. At Havensbrooke. Disguised as a housemaid named Helen Gale. And looking just as devastatingly beautiful as she had while pointing a gun at his chest.
Blake sent his gaze heavenward. It really wasn’t fair.
Impeccably clever, yes.
But downright infuriating.
It was difficult to argue with the Almighty when Blake had witnessed His handiwork unravel the most intricately impossible situations into something marvelous. Freddie and Grace’s marriage being chief among them.
But this entire Evie debacle pushed even the limits of what Blake had experienced.
Or believed possible.
And if she turned out to be the Midnight Angel?
His shoulder ached all the way down to his heart.
Well, he wasn’t prepared for that plot twist in the least.