Chapter 9 #2
“You are protecting them.” Blake’s voice was gentle now. “By being observant. By bringing concerns to me. By trusting your instincts.” He paused. “And by not asking questions that could put you in danger if the wrong person overheard the answers.”
Her breath caught. So he wasn’t going to tell her. Not fully.
But he’d just confirmed she was right.
“Then … there is a different sort of danger than thievery?”
Something fierce flashed in Blake’s eyes.
“If I believed you were in immediate danger, I would have you on a train to London within the hour, your protests notwithstanding.” His hand covered hers where it rested on his arm.
“I promise you, Grace. I am watching. And I will not let harm come to you or yours, but I can’t fully explain without potentially putting you in more danger than you’re already in. ”
She studied his face—the familiar features, the charm that was only partly a mask, the genuine affection beneath it all.
“You’re not really wounded, are you?” she said quietly.
Blake’s smile turned wry, not even a hint of surprise. That was only a little disappointing. She had wanted to appear clever.
“I have a shoulder that aches when it rains and a few scars from past … mistakes. But no, I’m not as wounded as I’ve appeared.”
Air squeezed from her lungs. She’d been right! “And you’re here for a reason that has nothing to do with recuperation.”
“I’m here,” Blake said carefully, hesitantly, “because things are happening that require the attention of someone with a particular set of skills.”
Grace absorbed this. Not a full confession, but closer than she’d expected.
“I do trust you,” she said finally. “But, Blake, if you’re asking me to be observant and cautious—if you’re asking me to keep watch—then you need to tell me what I’m watching for. I can’t protect anyone if I don’t know the threat.”
Blake was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing his options.
“Keep your distance from Private Smith,” he said finally.
“If you must interact with him, do so only when others are present. Don’t go to the chapel alone.
Don’t wander the west wing after dark.” His eyes held hers.
“And if you notice anyone asking unusual questions of the patients—specific questions about their service, their units, their officers—I need you to tell me immediately.”
A delicious tingle ran down Grace’s spine. “So there’s more than one spy at Havensbrooke.”
At this, the smallest hint of surprise lit his eyes, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he said, “I need you to trust that I will do whatever is necessary to protect you and Zahra to the best of my ability … and that is not inconsiderable.”
Grace wanted to argue, to demand answers, to insist she had every right to know what was happening in her own home. But something in Blake’s expression stopped her—a kind of weary concern that suggested he was carrying burdens she couldn’t see.
“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll visit Lady Moriah tomorrow morning. Ask about the Crawfords. See what she remembers.”
Relief flooded Blake’s face. “Thank you.”
“But, Blake?” Grace caught his arm as he turned to leave. “Whatever you’re really doing here—whatever danger you’re investigating—please be careful. Frederick would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“And you?” Blake’s smile crooked. “Would you forgive yourself?”
“Probably not.” Grace released his arm. “You’re family. Even when you’re being unforgivably secretive.”
Something shifted in his expression—perhaps a little guilt mixed in with all the care? “I’m trying to protect you, Grace. All of you. That’s the truth, even if I can’t explain everything else.”
“I know.” And she did know. Whatever Blake was hiding, it wasn’t malicious. “Just … promise me you won’t do anything stupidly heroic without backup.”
“I promise to be as un-stupidly heroic as possible.” Blake’s grin flashed briefly. “Though I make no guarantees.”
A sound from the house made them both turn—a door opening, voices carrying on the evening air.
“We should go in,” Blake said. “Before someone comes looking for us and overhears something they shouldn’t.”
Grace nodded. They turned back toward the house, parting ways at the grand staircase, and Grace took the stairs to her room to finish a letter to Frederick.
Tomorrow she’d visit Lady Moriah. Ask about the Crawfords. Gather information about old family scandals and possible treasures.
But she couldn’t fully stop attempting to work out what was really happening with Blake.
Because he might think he was protecting her by keeping secrets.
But she’d learned long ago that well-meaning people often withheld information in the name of protection—and that ignorance put her in far more danger than knowledge ever could. Her sister had done it. Her father. Even Frederick, when they were newly married.
She sat down at her desk and stared out the window, her hand moving to her stomach to feel the baby flutter.
“Your papa is off fighting a war,” she whispered. “And it appears your mama is about to investigate what might be several mysteries at once. Let’s hope we’re both careful enough to survive until he comes home.”
The baby kicked, as if in agreement.
Or possibly protest.
Grace chose to interpret it as encouragement.
After all, she’d solved mysteries while terrified, confused, and occasionally held at gunpoint.
Surely she could solve mysteries while pregnant too. It couldn’t be that much more complicated.
Could it?
Grace had just finished sealing her letter to Frederick when a door slammed open down the hallway, followed by Zhara’s voice calling, “Shams! Come back!”
Grace’s eyes pinched closed. Not again!
She shot up from the chair, almost losing her balance—still attempting to adjust to this new growing belly—and rushed toward the door. An orange blur streaked down the hall with Zahra in pursuit.
Last time, Shams had ended up in the dining room-turned-surgery and nearly taken out the visiting doctor and two semi-ambulatory soldiers.
Grace had never been so grateful for having moved a few comfortable chairs in there.
They’d caught Lieutenant Marks and Private Tibbs perfectly and prevented what could have been a catastrophic collision.
“I’m so sorry, Mama!” Zahra called behind her. “She pushed through the door when I opened it, and now—”
But Shams was already halfway down the corridor, moving with that particular feline determination that suggested she had a destination in mind. Toward the servants’ stairs.
It was becoming increasingly clear that putting any trust in a cat could be … catastrophic. She nearly snickered at her internal pun and, gathering her skirts, hurried after Zahra. They reached the servants’ staircase just in time to see Shams’ tail disappearing around the corner below.
“She’s heading for the lower floor,” Grace said, lifting her skirts higher. “Come on.”
They descended quickly, trying not to lose sight of the wretched animal. How could something so small move so impossibly fast?
The servants’ corridor on the ground floor was dimmer, lit only by a few wall sconces. Grace paused, listening for any telltale sounds.
A soft thump came from somewhere ahead. Near the linen closet.
“There!” Zahra whispered, pointing.
They crept forward, and Grace peered around the corner—
And froze.
Helen Gale stood at the end of the hallway, her back to them, perfectly still. But it wasn’t a casual stance. She was watching something—or someone—with a coiled alertness Grace had noticed before.
And at her feet, tail swishing with satisfaction, sat Shams.
The cat looked directly at Grace and gave a small, pleased meow.
Traitor.
Grace blinked. She’d meant the cat, of course. She certainly hoped the word didn’t apply to Helen Gale.
Helen spun at the sound, her hand moving instinctively toward—something at her waist?
Her pocket? But the movement was so quick Grace couldn’t be certain.
When Helen saw Grace and Zahra, her entire posture shifted into that of a proper housemaid, though not quite fast enough to hide her initial wariness.
“Lady Astley,” Helen said, her voice perfectly composed despite being startled. “I apologize. I didn’t realize anyone else was about.”
“We’re terribly sorry,” Grace said quickly, moving forward with Zahra. “Shams has escaped again and led us on quite a chase.”
Helen’s gaze dropped to the cat, who was now weaving between her ankles, purring loudly. “She’s rather enterprising.”
“That’s a generous description,” Grace said, watching as Helen bent smoothly to scoop up the cat. The movement was so beautifully controlled, almost like a dance. And very much like she’d seen Blake move before.
Shams, who usually protested being held by anyone but Zahra, settled into Helen’s arms without complaint.
“Shams likes you, Miss Gale,” Zahra said, approaching with obvious curiosity. “She is not friendly to many people.”
“I’ve always been fond of animals.” Helen ran a hand over Shams’ head before depositing the cat into Zahra’s arms. “Though my work has rarely afforded me the chance to have one of my own.”
“Maybe you can have a place of your own someday. With a cat?” Zahra’s earnest hopefulness was so endearing Grace’s heart squeezed.
Helen’s composure slipped for just an instant—a strange mixture of something soft and … painful?—before she recovered. “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “Though I think I should prefer a cat with a less determined spirit than Shams has. Unless, of course, she was determined to catch mice.”
Zahra’s grin spread wide at Helen’s gentle teasing, and Helen’s expression softened into a gentle smile. Did the woman hide pain behind her composure? Fear?
People who were kind to animals and children had to be choosing good things, didn’t they? Her shoulders slumped, and she knew at heart it wasn’t always so. Yet Grace desperately hoped Helen was on the right side of whatever spy business she and Blake were entangled in.
“Zahra,” Grace said quietly, “why don’t you take Shams back upstairs? Make certain your door is properly latched this time.”
“Yes, Mama.” Zahra paused, studying Grace’s face. “You won’t be long?”
“Go on and prepare for bed, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Zahra nodded and disappeared back toward the stairs, Shams draped over her shoulder like a furry, disgruntled shawl.
Leaving Grace and Helen alone in the dim corridor.
“I couldn’t help but notice a certain longing when you spoke of having a home of your own,” Grace ventured, watching Helen’s face carefully for any revealing flicker of emotion.
Helen’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “I don’t believe it is an uncommon wish among servants, my lady.”
“No, of course not.” Grace smiled, hoping to soften Helen’s restraint. “And a lovely aspiration, I should think. I do hope you achieve it.”
Helen’s expression gentled ever so slightly, but that flash of pain returned to her eyes. “Perhaps. Someday.”
As they stood in the dim corridor, Grace worked through several things she could say, but all of them seemed to immediately claim Helen as a spy, possibly waiting to kill someone important, and maybe even in love with Blake.
She paused on the thought.
In love with Blake?
Wouldn’t that be a lovely coincidence in Blake’s story?
Or would it be lovely? Two spies in love could certainly lead to a great deal of worry, wounds, possible scarring, and even a well-concealed death.
If Helen was a spy.
But what else could she be? Grace was fairly certain she wasn’t just a housemaid.
“Miss Gale,” Grace said slowly, “I wanted to thank you again for your observations about the break-in. Your attention to detail was quite … impressive.”
She dipped her head. “I’m glad I could be of help, my lady.”
“Your father was a constable, you said?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“He must have taught you a great deal about observation. Investigation.” Grace kept her tone conversational, but she was watching Helen’s every shift of expression.
“He believed in being aware of one’s surroundings.” Helen’s voice remained perfectly even, but her brows drew together in the faintest V—just a flicker so brief Grace almost missed it.
“A useful skill,” Grace continued. “Particularly in … uncertain times such as these.”
Frederick would have been quite proud of her subtlety. She’d been studying the craft in Conan Doyle … and of course from Detective Miracle’s newest book.
Helen’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “These are uncertain times for everyone, my lady.”
The words felt weighted. Was Helen trying to tell her something? Or warn her?
“Yes,” Grace said quietly. “They are. Which is why I find myself grateful for observant people in my household.”
For just a moment, something unguarded crossed Helen’s face. Then the mask returned. “It is my pleasure to serve, my lady.” Helen dipped in a small curtsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should finish my duties before the hour grows too late.”
“Of course. Good night, Miss Gale.”
“Good night, Lady Astley.”
Helen turned and walked away, leaving Grace in the corridor alone, her mind working furiously through what had just transpired.
What was Miss Gale’s—or whatever her real name was—connection with Blake?
Was Helen a threat? Or an ally?
Grace desperately wanted to believe the latter. There had been genuine warmth in the way Helen had spoken to Zahra. Real kindness in how she’d handled Shams. Those weren’t the actions of someone entirely cold or calculating.
But they also weren’t proof of innocence.
And why did Helen look at Blake with such …
well, Grace wasn’t certain, but there was longing in it, she thought.
And was Helen a spy like Blake? Assuming Blake actually was a spy, which seemed increasingly likely with each passing day.
And if so, what sort of complicated past did they share?
Were they working toward the same goal or at cross-purposes? Would they have to fight each other?
And most intriguing of all—did they care for each other?
Grace couldn’t help thinking that was a distinct possibility, though she wasn’t entirely certain whether that conclusion sprang from her own romantic inclinations or from something genuinely observable in their interactions.
She’d read enough novels to know that the most dangerous enemies were sometimes former allies.
And the most devoted allies were sometimes former … what? Lovers? Partners?
Both?
Tomorrow she’d visit Lady Moriah. Learn about the Crawfords.
But she was also going to keep a very close eye on Miss Helen Gale. For Blake’s sake.
Because she wasn’t sure whether Helen was part of the problem or part of the solution.
And Grace was determined to find out which.