Chapter 19 #3
The slightest tip at the corner of Brandon’s mouth was the only clue of his reaction to Frederick’s teasing.
“All accounted for and none the wiser, my lord. Order has been restored to the level it was before.” Which was vague enough to hint that Brandon wasn’t always in approval of Nurse Wilson’s type of order and method.
“As far as the household is concerned, there was an attempted burglary that resulted in Private Pennington fleeing the grounds after some … heavy fighting in the west wing corridor involving gunfire.” Brandon paused, scanning the faces for any response to his clear fabrication of the events.
“And as household rumor would have it, Nurse Rivers and Private Smith have run off to elope—well, Smith wasn’t running, according to the story.
Nurse Rivers was wheeling him to their destination. ”
Grace’s mouth dropped wide.
Blake laughed.
“They believe that?” Frederick asked.
“I found no reason to modify their conclusions, my lord.” He dipped his head. “And if I might say so, the staff gave both parties a much more generous ending than reality.”
“Well, I must thank you again, Brandon.” Frederick chuckled and relaxed back in his chair.
“Not only did you save Miss Montgomery’s life, keep Blake from making a difficult decision, and assist me in rescuing Lady Astley, you’ve also helped keep the fact that Havensbrooke was infiltrated by German spies from becoming public knowledge. ”
“Precisely, my lord.” Brandon dipped his head. “For the safety of the patients and the dignity of the household.”
How could anyone be as perfectly Brandon … as Mr. Brandon?
“I really do believe we should all toast dear Mr. Brandon’s heroism and outstanding discretion,” Grace said, raising her teacup. “You are simply remarkable, Mr. Brandon.”
“Hear, hear,” Blake added, clapping, then leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t prefer an occupation in espionage, would you, old boy?”
“I would prefer,” Brandon said with the faintest hint of warmth, “that we never speak of it again. My reputation as a proper butler has already suffered enough excitement for one lifetime.” He bowed and backed toward the door.
“I shall leave you to rest while I begin putting the west wing back in order.”
“Tomorrow, Brandon.” Frederick placed his glass down on the table and stood. “All of that can wait until tomorrow.”
“Sir?” Brandon turned, hands behind his back, face expectant.
And rounding the table, Frederick took the startled butler into his arms. “Thank you,” Frederick whispered, “for your service, for your kindness, and for taking such good care of my family.”
Grace’s heart pinched to the point of hurting. Her vision blurred.
It would have been one thing if Grace had hugged the man.
In fact, she’d done it a few times, and it nearly discombobulated him.
But Frederick?
The sweet butler froze, his expression wavering from shock to a visible struggle for control of his facial features. Then, with the slightest smile, he gave Frederick an incredibly brief embrace before stepping back.
“You are family to us too,” Frederick whispered, squeezing the man’s shoulder.
Brandon nodded, cleared his throat, and stepped back toward the door. “Very good, sir.” He scanned the room, his gaze landing on Grace, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the slightest glimmer shone in his red-rimmed eyes. “One simply does what needs doing for those in one’s … family.”
And with that, he excused himself with a bow, leaving the four of them alone.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling fire and the gentle clinking of teacups.
“So,” Frederick said finally, reaching for Grace’s hand. “Weber is in custody. Rivers and Smith are dead. Pennington has disappeared into the night—presumably to be apprehended by morning, given his injuries.” He turned toward Blake. “Is it over?”
Blake exchanged a glance with Evie before answering. “We’re leaving for London in the morning.”
“But your injuries?” Grace’s gaze dropped to their matching bandages at their shoulders and the one around Blake’s waist. “Surely it can’t be a good idea to travel wounded?”
“It won’t be the first time, my lady,” Evie said, smiling over at Blake. “In fact, it’s his usual means of travel. Don an expensive yet atrociously colored shirt over a bandage and soldier on.”
Blake sent her a narrow-eyed look and then turned back to Frederick.
“Being wounded only justifies first class.” His grin tipped at his excuse.
“Director Lark needs this intelligence immediately.” He paused.
“And I’m hoping he can help clear Evie’s name.
Officially retire her from service with her record intact. ”
“After everything she’s done?” Frederick looked between the two. “After stopping Rivers? Surely they can’t—”
“She killed her brother,” Blake said quietly.
“Disappeared without authorization. Went rogue for five months.” He looked at Evie, whose expression remained carefully neutral.
“On paper, it doesn’t look good. But with Weber in custody, with the intelligence we’ve recovered, with Rivers stopped …
” He shrugged his good shoulder. “I’m hoping it’s enough. ”
“And then what?” Grace asked. The soft looks Blake kept sending Evie certainly hinted at more. “After London? After you speak with Director Lark?”
Blake and Evie exchanged another look, and this time Evie’s smile bloomed full. Real. Nothing like the pretend housemaid or veteran spy.
But like a woman who knew she was loved.
And loved in return.
It was incredibly sweet and perfect and exactly as a story should end, Grace thought. Except, perhaps, Gothic stories. Or maybe some horror novels. And biographies rarely ended with such cheerfulness, did they?
“We’re getting married,” Blake said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
Frederick choked on his tea. “You’re what?”
“Getting married,” Evie confirmed, a hint of color rising in her cheeks. “Assuming we both survive the meeting with Director Lark, of course.”
“Of course,” Blake agreed. He reached over and took Evie’s hand in his. “Survival first, then matrimony. It’s the sensible order of operations.”
“Oh my goodness!” Grace brought her hands together with her laugh. “This is wonderful news.” She looked over at Frederick, who still sat somewhat slack jawed. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
“It’s something,” Frederick said, clearly still recovering from the shock. “Blake, you do realize you’re proposing to marry a woman who shot you?”
“In my defense,” Evie interjected, her eyes alight with humor, “I was aiming for his shoulder. If I’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.”
“How romantic,” Grace said, delighted. “Like something from a novel!”
“A very strange novel,” Frederick muttered, but his expression had softened. He raised his teacup toward them. “To the happy couple, then. May your marriage involve significantly less gunfire than your courtship.”
“We’re hoping for at least seventy percent less,” Blake said solemnly. “Though Evie refuses to make any promises.”
“If it’s anything like my parents’ marriage,” Evie observed, “the gunfire only escalated after matrimony.”
Grace nearly coughed out her tea.
Frederick froze with his cup to his lips.
And Blake—well, one would’ve thought Evie had spouted poetry, from the look of unveiled adoration on his face.
All right, perhaps it was a stranger novel than usual, but … God wrote all sorts of stories, didn’t He?
Even between spies.
Or between second-choice sisters and second-born earls.
He was in the business of making the most troublesome or heartbreaking or surprising situations turn out in the most unexpected of ways.
For His children’s good.
For His glory.
And for an ultimately beautiful ending.
Her free hand moved to rest on her stomach.
Or perhaps a beautiful new beginning.