Chapter 11
Grace had slept better than she had in two weeks!
Even if some of the problems had yet to be solved, her busy mind had finally found some rest.
She’d been right about Blake. And Miss Gale … um … Evie—was that what Blake had called her?
They were spies, and it appeared they were both working for the right side, if those half sentences and weepy looks (from Helen … er … Evie) meant anything.
Grace sighed in relief. If there was some horrible traitor in the house, at least Blake wasn’t it.
Or that’s how everything seemed based on her little discovery last night.
Of course, she hadn’t meant to discover them.
When she’d gotten up from falling asleep beside Zahra in her bed after reading a book together—and the uncomfortable way she’d been sleeping caused one of her arms to go numb—she’d crawled out of Zahra’s bed to return to her own room.
She’d just stepped back into the hallway when she’d seen Blake leaving his room, moving like a cat—a much more calculated cat than Shams with her frantic theatrics—down the corridor.
And of course she’d followed him.
What else was a curious detective to do?
She’d gotten ten times more than she’d expected. Not only did she learn some of Evie’s disastrous backstory, but she overheard their delightful banter—which reflected the depth of their relationship—and then witnessed their combat.
Oh, how fascinating!
All graceful and powerful at the same time. Better than anything she’d read in a book!
At one point, when Evie had landed a direct hit to Blake’s stomach, Grace had almost rushed forward—scissors in hand—to the rescue, but Blake had made short work of taking control of the confrontation.
It was breathtaking and heartbreaking at the same time.
Blake had been on the Lusitania. Evie had shot him and then killed her brother after learning of his treachery!
It had all been outstanding! Exhilarating. Well, of course not the part with Evie’s brother. Or the tragedy of the Lusitania.
But the fighting bits? The great unfolding?
The justification of her growing detective skills?
Yes.
And it had proven two things: First, Grace’s assertions about Blake being a spy hadn’t been ridiculous in the slightest. And second, Blake and Evie desperately needed to have a long conversation. Preferably without weapons involved.
So she’d locked them in a closet.
It had seemed the sensible thing to do at the time.
And considering the rather lengthy silence that had followed after she’d locked the door—interrupted only by what sounded suspiciously like kissing—Grace felt quite pleased with her interference.
She’d gone back to bed with a smile on her face, feeling rather heroic regarding not only her sleuthing skills but also her matchmaking efforts.
Although in the light of morning, as she sat before her dressing table awaiting Ellie to arrive to help fix her hair, she couldn’t help but feel a little unease.
How were two spies supposed to have a happily-ever-after? She’d never considered it.
Would they have to move away somewhere and change their names? Would they be forced to wear disguises for the rest of their lives?
How did it work?
She nodded to her reflection in the mirror.
If God meant for Blake to have a lifelong romance with Evie whatever-her-name, then He could certainly work it out.
Though if they attempted to resolve their marital conflicts in the same ways spies did, they might want to invest in an excellent carpenter and develop a good relationship with the local doctor.
Grace had just taken up her brush when Ellie rushed through the doorway without so much as a knock, her face as pale as milk.
Grace’s face went cold.
Oh dear! Perhaps Blake and Evie had killed each other after all!
Or the thief had struck again.
“Ellie?” Grace stood, pushing her loose hair back from her face. “What is it?”
“Your ladyship.” Ellie breathed out the words, her hands fidgeting together in front of her, her eyes wide. “Your … your presence is requested downstairs straightaway, madam.”
“What?”
“We’ve had a new arrival.” Ellie whispered the words, her eyes somehow growing larger.
“At this time of morning?” Grace glanced over at the mantel clock. “It’s barely ten o’clock.”
“Yes.” Ellie swallowed loud enough for Grace to hear. “It’s … it’s Lord Astley, my lady.”
Grace froze. Her breath stalled. All heat from every part of her body drained from her head and out through her feet. Her hand went to her stomach. “What about Lord Astley?”
Dear God, please. Don’t take him from me.
“He’s here.”
For a moment, Grace couldn’t process the words. Frederick? Home? But he wasn’t supposed to—he couldn’t possibly—
“Here?”
And then her body seemed to know exactly what to do, because her feet set off at an even faster pace, Ellie running to keep up. “Please, my lady,” she called from behind.
How was it that Frederick had returned? He’d not written to tell her.
Grace reached the bottom of the steps, where Brandon met her, uncharacteristically blocking her path. “My lady, it would be wise for you to pause to prepare yourself.”
“Prepare myself?” Grace’s hand tightened on the stair rail, gaze searching every space within her visual field for her husband. “What do you mean, Brandon? Where is he?”
Brandon’s gaze held hers, grave and intense, inciting an uptick in her pulse for a whole new reason. “Mr. Brandon?”
His expression gentled, and he stepped closer. “His lordship has been … wounded, my lady.”
Her body, her breath, everything stilled. Wounded?
She sifted through a mental inventory of each patient inside Havensbrooke. All the various injuries, both seen and unseen. The nightmares, the personality alterations, the melancholy and memory loss, not to mention chronic pain, vacantness, lost limbs …
All the air seemed to leave Grace’s lungs at once. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, to the baby Frederick didn’t yet know about, and she instantly stiffened against her mind going too far into the possibilities.
She’d asked God not to take him from her.
And Frederick was here.
Alive.
Many wives couldn’t celebrate the same.
She drew in a breath and forced her mind to trust. To hope.
God was here. Even here.
And He promised never to leave her. No matter the dark.
“How badly is he hurt?”
The faintest smile touched Brandon’s face. And for some very strange reason, she thought the dear man might be … proud of her.
“I cannot say with certainty, my lady. But … his eyes are bandaged, and Dr. Ross has been called for. Lord Astley is being supported by two soldiers who traveled with him from the hospital in France, a Lieutenant Marsh and Private Douglas.”
His eyes.
Grace’s knees went weak, and her fingers tightened on the stair railing.
Frederick loved to read. Loved designing their gardens. Loved looking at her across the breakfast table with those dark, intelligent eyes.
“My lady?” Brandon moved closer, concern evident in his voice. “Perhaps you should sit—”
“No.” Grace straightened, drawing in a shaky breath. She pressed both hands to her stomach, feeling the baby flutter as if in response to her distress. “Where is he?”
“He’s being settled in the morning room as his bedroom is being prepared for him.”
“Of course.” She nodded, her gaze moving down the hallway.
So close.
Grace’s hands quivered. She looked down at them. When had they started shaking?
“The bandages,” she whispered, raising her attention back to the dear butler. “On his eyes. Does that mean …?”
She couldn’t finish the question. Couldn’t voice the fear that was clawing at her throat.
“I do not know, my lady.” Brandon’s voice remained so gentle. “But Lord Astley is home. And he asked for you the very moment he arrived.”
Something in Grace’s chest unlocked at those words. He was asking for her. Which meant he was conscious. Coherent. And wanting her.
Whatever else was wrong, they would work it out together.
Grace bypassed Brandon and hurried down the corridor, her loose hair flying around her shoulders, her breath coming in bursts.
The door to the morning room stood partially open, and the sound of voices tumbled out into the hallway. And laughter.
Laughter?
And then …
Frederick’s voice. Deeper than she remembered, rough with exhaustion, but unmistakably his.
It was one thing to hold letters from her beloved husband.
But quite another to hear the voice she adored best in all the world.
She pushed through the door, trying to prepare herself for whatever she might see.
And there he was.
Her Frederick.
Sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, still in his mud-stained uniform, his face gaunt and shadowed with exhaustion. And wrapped around his eyes, stark white against his olive skin, were bandages.
So similar to some of the soldiers in this very house.
He turned his head at the sound.
“We will wait outside, Captain,” one of the men in uniform said with a dip of his head toward Grace, the slightest tip of his lips giving her added hope. “And await instructions on what you’ll need next, sir.”
Grace shifted forward a few steps, the men passing her and closing the door behind them.
And that’s when all reserve, all control fled her.
“Frederick,” she whispered, crossing the room in a rush and touching his hand that rested on the arm of the chair. “You’re … you’re here.”
He did not hesitate. Did not say anything. Merely took her hand and drew her forward, pulling her into his lap. Burying his head in her neck, he pressed his warm lips against her skin, his breath shaking from him.
And then she was crying. Laughing. Kissing every part of his face she could find, until their lips met in a beautiful reunion. His hands moved over her, delving into her wild hair, smoothing over her back, moving as if to see her in the only way he could.
She pressed into him. Held him close. Moved her hands over his hair, his face. Attempting to assure herself of his wholeness.
Suddenly, his body went absolutely still.