Chapter 15
Darkness had fallen on the house by the time Frederick and Grace stepped over the threshold back into Havensbrooke, and they’d barely made it a few steps when a pale-faced Mrs. Powell rushed toward them.
Her usually implacable demeanor had given way to tight-lipped alarm, her eyes shifting between them as she approached.
Even her small cap gave an unruly quiver.
“I’m sorry to accost you as soon as you enter, my lord, my lady.” She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “But there’s just been another robbery of your study. No more than a few minutes ago.”
Frederick increased his pace, Grace on his arm, as Mrs. Powell continued. “Mr. Blake is already there, as well as John, Mr. Brandon, and Miss Gale. A window’s been shattered, sir.”
A window? Good Lord!
They attempted to keep to a regular pace so as not to draw attention from the patients, but as soon as Frederick turned the corridor—navigating his home well regardless of his limited vision—he quickened his steps until he reached the study.
Another break-in. And this time he was here for it.
His pulse hammered heat through his muscles.
Ever since his eyesight had been damaged, a worry at the back of his mind kept resurfacing. The same gnawing fear he’d harbored as a child: of being worthless. Not good enough.
And then, every step of the way from France to home, he’d been treated with kid gloves. Careful of the terrain. Careful of your eyes. Careful of your lungs.
All good reasons. All important.
But the biting dread of his world upending in a new way—not from financial ruin or a world at war, but at an even more intimate level, a wounded level—haunted his steps.
Grace accepting him back into their life with her usual enthusiasm and ready willingness to take him at face value had helped ease some of his doubts. Visiting his mother and working through a mystery, oddly enough, did as well.
And now? Another opportunity for him to prove he wouldn’t sit idly by—no matter the infirmity—and allow his wife, servants, or cousin to face danger without him.
Yes, he’d been learning his value in Christ for a while, his wife the primary inducement, but how easy it was to fall back into patterns of doubt.
Of fear. No wonder this life of faith was referenced as a battle so often in scripture—as real and difficult as the war-torn battlefields of France.
Except it took place in his own heart, across the terrain of his own life.
Daily. A clash of truth against lies. Of light against darkness. Of hope against despair.
And in this conflict, God had been slowly teaching him how to advance. One day. One prayer at a time. He’d never been so grateful for the strength beyond his own, for the one who was in the trenches of this struggle with him.
The entry to his study was filled with servants, each stepping back to make room for them to pass.
“My lord.” Brandon dipped his head as they approached, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know—”
“I don’t hold you responsible, Brandon.” Frederick moved past him into the room, his hand reaching for Grace’s as he led the way. The dark glasses obscured some of his vision, but he knew these shapes. These people. Even some of the blurred expressions and shifting movements.
Mary’s wide eyes. Ellie wringing her hands.
John standing stoic and tall.
Miss Gale—Evie, wasn’t it?—poised just inside the doorway, separate from the rest, almost in the shadows.
And Blake, positioned behind Frederick’s desk by the window, and—if Frederick deciphered correctly from his posture—on edge.
His blue patient’s uniform appeared rather crumpled, which, if Frederick hadn’t been so focused on the current chaos, he might have teased the man about. Blake did so appreciate his fine suits.
Served him right for bringing his clandestine work into Frederick’s home.
Blake turned his way, raising one blurry brow as if he could read his cousin’s mind.
“How recent?” Frederick asked as he walked forward.
“Careful.” Blake’s hand came out to stop him. “There’s glass behind your desk from the window. Plenty of it, too.”
Frederick paused, slowing his approach.
“From the reports of John and Brandon, they heard the glass shatter no more than three or four minutes ago,” Blake said.
“Oh Frederick, isn’t that your document holder?” Grace’s voice came from behind him.
Frederick attempted to take in the other aspects of the room. White papers—easy enough to make out even with the glasses—scattered across every surface. Books pulled from shelves. And then his gaze landed on his mahogany document holder.
He squinted. Was the brass lock hanging loose?
“It seems whoever broke in must have been interrupted in their flight and decided the fastest route lay through the window, which I fear they could not get unlocked this time.” Blake turned toward Brandon with a grin.
“Likely due to Mr. Brandon’s extra precautions from the last incident in adding another lock higher on the pane.
” Then Blake gestured back toward the gaping, jagged hole in the floor-to-ceiling windows beside Frederick’s desk.
“So they made rather a large mess of things.”
“What do you mean?” Frederick edged closer, tightening his grip on Grace’s hand to keep her behind him, away from the more dangerous wreckage.
“Evidently, he threw your chair through the window and then followed it to the garden below. Not without leaving some strips of his clothes attached to the glass, as well as some blood remnants where the shards weren’t so kind.”
“You would have done it differently, then?” Grace’s voice came from behind him, curiosity evident.
“I detest messy, my lady. Especially when there’s a better way.”
“Then I’m sure your future wife will be vastly appreciative of that quality,” Grace shot back.
Frederick almost smiled despite the circumstances. His wife’s teasing, her wit, had only continued to sharpen the longer they were married. Likely influenced by his own sarcasm, but she’d always been clever. Quick. Experience made her more so. It was rather endearing.
Blake chuckled. “I’ve never thought of it in quite that light, my lady, but I hope she shall be.”
“Any evidence from the clothing strips on the glass?” Frederick motioned toward the window where the curtains fluttered in the night breeze, pale and ghostly in their sway.
Through his glasses, Frederick could make out some of the shards littering the floor—mostly because the too-bright electric lights glinted off the glass, giving warning.
“Indeed. Blue fabric of subpar quality.” Blake frowned. “Certainly from one of the patients’ uniforms.”
“It looks as though only the document case was disrupted.” This from Evie. “And the noise would have created an excellent distraction for the rest of the house.”
Frederick couldn’t make out the nuances of his expression, but Blake’s entire body straightened. Could this theft be connected to their work? Or … something to possibly sabotage their work?
“It seems we may have a missing patient,” Frederick said, making a swift decision. He turned back to the staff. “John, collect a few of the other male servants and search through the wards for anyone who may be missing.”
“And any of the staff,” Grace added. “Perhaps Mrs. Powell and Mary would kindly check for any missing staff, and please alert Nurse Wilson of the situation.”
Mrs. Powell dipped her head, slipping from the room with Mary in tow.
Leaving only Brandon, Evie, Blake, and Grace with him.
Oh, his wife had read his mind perfectly.
“Blake, I believe you and Miss Mo—” Frederick caught himself. “Miss Gale may need to ensure your … plans haven’t been disrupted?”
Blake tipped his head in assent. “You are quite right.” He moved to step around Frederick, then paused, placing a palm on his arm.
“It’s a nasty business, Freddie.” He hesitated, drawing in a breath, his gaze locking with his cousin’s.
The weight in the look settled over him. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
Frederick’s chest constricted so tightly his breath barely squeezed through. That was no haphazard comment from his cousin. It was a hint of the peril Blake knew he was about to encounter. Life-threatening peril.
It was his way of letting Frederick know that … he cared.
If the worst happened …
“Blake!” Frederick called.
His cousin turned, Miss Montgomery at his side.
“Try to stay as safe as you are able.”
He couldn’t see the warmth in his cousin’s eyes—not something so detailed at this distance. But he felt it in the familiar crook of the man’s smile. The subtle shift in his shoulders.
“As safe as I am able,” Blake repeated. He doffed an imaginary hat, held Frederick’s gaze for a moment longer, and then exited with Miss Montgomery behind.
Frederick turned back to the room, suddenly aware of Grace’s hand squeezing his. He looked down at her, her face close enough for him to make out her expression.
She saw. She understood.
“They must go about their own case, Frederick. The one they were trained for,” she whispered, nodding toward the window. “This one is ours.”
“Case, madam?” Brandon’s question pulled Frederick’s attention to the butler.
Ah, right.
“Brandon, there’s no other man in this house I trust more than Blake besides you.” Frederick gestured with his chin toward the document holder. “I’d like your help—yours and Lady Astley’s—to sort out this mess with the thefts.”
“Sir?” The poor man’s voice quavered the slightest bit, though Brandon stood a bit taller, accepting the challenge nonetheless.
“Excellent idea,” Grace added, releasing her hold on Frederick’s hand and carefully moving toward the document holder. “No one keeps better watch around here than dear Mr. Brandon.”
“We need to uncover which document might have been stolen, if any, from the case.” Frederick rounded the other side of the desk, away from the window. “Though I already have my suspicions based on what we know about Pennington.”