Chapter 16 #2
“Don’t.” Pennington’s voice cracked. “Don’t scream. Don’t move. Please, I don’t—I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs. The shears—long-handled, meant for pruning thick branches—could do terrible damage in an instant. One jerky movement, one moment of panic …
Grace stepped forward. “Private Pennington—”
“I only want what’s mine. What will set my family right.
” His words tumbled out at a desperate speed.
“Grandfather talked about a key. Told me he’d come back years later to find the treasure but couldn’t get inside.
I was hiding here. Heard you.” His eyes were wild, darting between them.
“I need those jewels. I need them for my family. For my name.” His voice quaked. “I don’t have a choice.”
“We can help you,” Grace said quietly, carefully, taking a step forward, her gaze flipping from Zahra back to Pennington. “Lord Astley has already promised to help your family—”
“Promises!” The word came out bitter. “Can’t trust in promises from your betters.
” He shook his head, the shears trembling dangerously close to Zahra’s skin.
To the little girl’s credit, she held completely still, her eyes locked on Grace.
“His lordship’s family made promises to my grandfather too.
Told him they’d take care of him. Give him a raise.
But in the end, they destroyed him. That’s why he took the jewels.
As payment, fair and square. Payment for awful work my grandfather did for the late Lord Astley. Dark work.”
He moved closer, the shears now pressed against Zahra’s shoulder. “I need that key. And I need …” His voice broke. “I need insurance. Someone to make sure no one stops me. No one kills me before I get what’s mine and leave this place.”
Grace’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
“The girl.” The shears lifted back toward Zahra’s neck. “She comes with me. If anyone tries to stop me—if your husband sends men after me—”
“No.” Grace’s attention dropped to Zahra and held for a moment before fastening back on Pennington, decision made. “Take me instead.”
“Mama!” Zahra’s whispered protest was barely audible.
Pennington stared at her. “You?”
Think, Grace.
The man was desperate. Desperate men were unpredictable.
“I’m the lady of the house.” Grace took another step forward as the man’s grip loosened slightly on Zahra. “No one will dare interfere if I’m with you. And I know the estate—I can help you navigate the tunnels.”
Perhaps. She had no idea what the tunnel beneath the chapel looked like, but she’d certainly been in her fair share of tunnels in the past, so that had to count for something.
“Take me, and I give you my word I’ll help you find the jewels.”
Pennington’s jaw worked as he clearly weighed his options. The shears wavered.
“And,” Grace added quietly, “Zahra is a child. Do you truly want the blood of a child on your hands? Besides, I’m stronger. More useful to you.”
Which may or may not have been true. Zahra was formidable in her own right.
“Mama, please—” Zahra’s plea broke into Pennington’s hesitation.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Grace said softly, never taking her eyes off Pennington. “It’s going to be all right.”
For a long, terrible moment, Pennington said nothing. The shears gleamed dully in the lantern light.
Then slowly, he nodded. “Fine. You come with me. But if you try anything—if you scream, if you run—” He didn’t finish the threat, but the shears spoke for him.
“I won’t,” Grace promised. “Just let Zahra go, and I’ll come with you willingly. I’ll help you find the jewels.”
“The key first.” Pennington’s attention fixed on her hand.
Grace held it up—she’d been clutching it so tightly her palm hurt. “Let Zahra go, and it’s yours.”
Another pause. Another heartbeat where everything hung in the balance.
Then Pennington lowered the shears slightly from Zahra’s neck. The girl slid free, slumping backward.
Instantly, he snatched the key from her hold, pocketing it, before clamping Grace’s arm in a painful grip. She winced, his hold making it difficult for her to hang on to the lantern. He pointed the shears toward her chest. “If you try anything—”
Grace ignored the tiny shiver crawling up her spine at the warning in his voice and turned her attention to Zahra, who stood in the doorway of the building.
She’d go to Frederick. She’d find help.
Grace gave the slightest nod—silent entreaty, silent instruction.
Run, darling. Run and find your papa.
And Zahra dashed through the door into the night. Grace released a relieved breath.
Being captured herself was one thing. Having her daughter taken, quite another.
And Grace knew how to navigate being kidnapped … woman-napped.
It wasn’t her first time.
“I told you I would help you, Mr. Pennington. And then you’re going to let me go. That’s how this ends, because I know you wouldn’t want to have the regret of my death”—her hand went to her stomach—”nor that of my child on your head.”
The man’s eyes widened as he looked from her face to her stomach and back.
Well, that threat seemed to have worked well.
She swallowed through a rising lump in her throat.
She hoped.
Frederick had barely stepped inside when Brandon’s words hit him like a physical blow.
“Nurse Wilson, my lord. We found her bound and gagged in a linen closet off the west wing.”
Frederick’s steps came to a complete halt. “What?”
Brandon continued speaking as Frederick resumed moving along the corridor, his pace increasing with each piece of the unfolding story.
“She’s been there for at least an hour, sir.
Since supper, from what she can recall. Dr. Shaw is with her now, but she’s quite distressed.
” He cleared his throat. “She keeps saying Rivers did this, that Rivers is … a spy, sir.”
Frederick released a soundless burst of air.
The spy Blake had refused to name.
Rivers. Could Smith be the accomplice then? The other missing patient? “Where is Rivers now?”
“We don’t know, sir. But everyone’s searching for Rivers, Smith, and Pennington. I’ve placed John to keep watch on the nurses. They were feeling a bit frightened, as you can imagine.”
“Indeed. Good thinking, Brandon.”
They reached the small sitting room where Dr. Shaw had taken Nurse Wilson. She sat hunched in a chair, a blanket around her shoulders, her wrists dark and raw from rope burns. Her usually severe hair hung in wild sprays around her face, and tearstains streaked her dusty, reddened cheeks.
Thank God Rivers—or whatever her real name was—hadn’t done worse.
“Lord Astley,” Wilson scratched out the name, her voice breaking. “It wasn’t me.”
Wasn’t her? Good heavens, did the woman think he suspected her?
“Of course not, Nurse Wilson,” Frederick offered softly and took a seat across from her.
“I saw her placing something in my medical bag. German documents. I could read them, of course, and I realized she must be …” She swallowed hard. “A spy, sir. She’s been watching me for weeks. She must have been framing me too. She knew about my German family, knew I’d be suspected—”
“We know,” Frederick said, leaning closer so he could see her properly through his dark glasses. The poor woman was trembling. “Did Rivers tell you anything? Give you any clue to her plans?”
Wilson furrowed her brow, clearly trying to remember. “I … I can’t recall, sir. She said something about ‘the distraction being in place,’ but”—her voice wavered—”I’m sorry, I can’t remember more.”
“Don’t distress yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong, Nurse Wilson.” Frederick turned toward Brandon. “Anything more discovered about Pennington’s whereabouts? Smith’s?”
Before Brandon could answer, a broken cry echoed from just beyond the door.
“Papa!”
The frantic call chilled Frederick’s soul.
He spun toward the sound, his impaired vision be hanged, as running feet joined his daughter’s desperate cries. He reached the corridor, eyes adjusting from one light shade to another, just as Zahra burst around the corner, wild-eyed, sobbing, her dark hair flying loose.
“Zahra!” Frederick dropped to one knee, reaching for her. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mama!” The word came out as a sob as she crashed into him. “A man took Mama!”
Air drained from his lungs.
They’d lived this moment before. Years ago. In Cairo. Zahra running to him with the same terrifying news.
His fists tightened against Zahra’s back.
But this wasn’t Cairo. This was Havensbrooke. His home. And he knew his surroundings.
Blind or not.
Frederick’s hands found Zahra’s trembling shoulders. “Tell me everything.”
“In the garden!” The words tumbled out in a rush. “A man in the blue coat—”
Blue coat? Ah, the patient’s uniform.
“He was bleeding and had wild eyes.”
Dear Lord.
“Mama traded. Me for her.”
Frederick’s chest constricted so tightly he could barely breathe. Of course Grace had traded herself. Of course she’d thrown herself between danger and their daughter without a second thought.
That was who she was. Who she’d always been.
Brave and reckless and impossibly, devastatingly selfless.
“He … he wanted the key, and Mama said if he let me go, she would help him find his treasure.” Zahra’s voice dropped to a terrified whisper. “He said if anyone calls the police, he’ll hurt her.”
And now she was in the hands of a desperate man, heading into unstable tunnels that had been sealed for decades. Pregnant. Carrying his child.
He never should have left her.
“Pennington.” Frederick ground out the name, sending a look over to Brandon.
The butler’s expression stopped him cold. Frederick had expected concern, perhaps fear.
Instead, his usually composed countenance had gone rigid, jaw set, eyes hardened. Frederick had known this man his entire life and had never—not once—seen him look like this.
“Sir.” Brandon’s voice was dangerously quiet. “You cannot go alone. Not with your eyes—”
“I’m not asking for permission, Brandon.
” Frederick straightened to his full height, one hand still on Zahra’s shoulder.
His mind was already cataloguing supplies: lanterns, rope, his revolver.
Bandages. Dear God, would he need bandages?
“My wife is in danger. My child—” Our baby. His throat closed. “I’m going.”
“And I’m coming with you, sir.”
The steel in Brandon’s voice paused Frederick. This wasn’t the deferential butler speaking. This was someone else entirely.
Frederick turned to face him. “Brandon—”
“With respect, my lord, Lady Astley is as dear to me as if she were my own daughter.” Brandon’s words came low and firm.
“And you—forgive me for saying so, sir—cannot see well enough to navigate those tunnels safely alone. You need someone with you.” He straightened to his full height.
“And since Mr. Blake is otherwise engaged, it should be me.”
Frederick wanted to argue. Wanted to protect this man who’d served his family faithfully for four decades from the danger that waited in those collapsing tunnels.
But Brandon was right.
His damaged vision could slow him down. Could cost Grace her life if he couldn’t see a hidden pitfall, a crumbling ledge, a lurking threat.
He needed help.
And there was no one else he trusted more.
“Fine,” Frederick said. “Get rope, lanterns, anything that might be useful. Five minutes. Meet me at the garden exit to the forest.”
Brandon was already moving. “Yes, my lord.”
“I will go too.”
Frederick’s attention snapped back to Zahra, who’d raised her chin in that particular way that meant she would not be dissuaded.
The entire household had taken on a sudden bossiness.
“Zahra—” The word came out fiercer than he’d intended.
“I will show you the door to the tunnels.” She nodded to underscore her entreaty. “It will help you find her faster.”
Frederick shook his head, but he knew—knew—she would follow him anyway if he refused. At least if she came with them, he’d know where she was. Could attempt to protect her.
He dropped to his knees, close enough to see her tearstained face clearly through the tinted lenses. “You must promise me to stay back when I tell you.” He cupped her face, holding her gaze. “Do you understand? I need you to be safe, lamb. I need someone safe.”
“I promise, Papa.”
“Good girl.” He stood, gesturing toward the door. “Go collect your coat and meet me in my room. I need to gather a few things.”
Within minutes, they stood at the garden’s edge where the manicured grounds gave way to the wild woods. Somewhere beyond those trees lay the chapel. The ruins. The tunnels.
And Grace.
His brave, clever wife.
And she was clever. He knew that. It was an added comfort.
But she was still in the hands of a desperate man. Heading into unstable passages that could collapse at any moment.
He’d had to trust her to God so many times before. Every day he’d spent at the Front, helpless to ensure her safety. With every adventure she’d stumbled into—Egypt, Venice, Scotland—he’d learned the hard lesson that Grace belonged to the Almighty first.
Grace was ultimately His.
In life or death.
Joy or sorrow.
Frederick had to trust the Lord.
Even now. Especially now.
Brandon appeared, looking decidedly un-butler-like.
He wore a work coat instead of his livery, had rope coiled over one shoulder, carried two lanterns in one hand and a walking stick in the other, and—Frederick noticed with grim satisfaction—had a heavy wrench from the garden shed tucked into his belt.
The sight almost made Frederick smile.
“Ready, Brandon?”
The butler’s eyes met his, and Frederick saw the same fierce determination he felt burning in his own chest.
“Ready, my lord.”