Chapter Eleven

Near Stonebridge, West Sussex…

Two Days Later…

Stonebridge raced his horse, Abacus, the remaining ten miles to Stonebridge Park, seat of the Dukes of Stonebridge for the last four hundred years. The brisk wind made his eyes water as he sped across the acres of open field surrounding his home. The run had him breathing hard; the cool air burned his lungs as he inhaled, but it was a pleasant blaze—as if he were clearing out built-up congestion from being cramped in an enclosed carriage for too many hours. The exercise was invigorating, and he felt clearheaded for the first time in a week.

At the top of a small rise, he reined in his mount to catch his breath and take in the view of the house and immediate gardens spread out before him in the shallow valley below. The glass from the upper stories of the eastward facing fa?ade sparkled in the early morning sun, though he was too far away to make out the leaded lines in the glass of some of the lower floors. The stone near the roof began to glow orange as the dawning light slowly crept down its side. The slate roof was a motley of color and still glistened from the early morning dew fall. Having spent the best years of his youth here, it truly was a heart-warming sight to behold. This view of the house and grounds, from the rear as he approached from across his land, was quite different from the view of a guest or rider approaching via the main drive. There, the tree canopy was thick and the inner courtyard before the house appeared suddenly, cozy and inviting, yet hiding the true depth and scale of the house. He had always loved that aspect of Stonebridge Park—it made visitors feel welcome because they weren't overwhelmed by the size of the estate all at once. Not that he had many opportunities to entertain as he kept his life here separate from London society. No, the guests he invited here were more along the line of friends, local villagers, and tenants to his estate. In his view, it was vastly more important for them to feel welcomed than any high-strung dandy or marriage-minded mama from Town—most of who would prefer the house to stand out in all its glory so as to impress the unimpressible.

As he continued to take in the view, he forced his breathing to slow by taking deep breaths through his nose—the cold air bit at his insides but felt crisp, not unlike the sensation one gets after smelling eucalyptus.

"Well, Abacus…It's good to be home, eh, old man?"

His horse whinnied and bobbed his head as if concurring with the sentiment. If only people could be so enthusiastically honest. He patted his mount's neck. "We'd best not dally, my friend. We have a lot to accomplish and a short amount of time."

After one final survey of the view before him, he picked his way home. He smiled serenely as a sense of peace and calm came over him; then he smiled more deliberately as he realized how little, comparatively, he'd thought about her since he'd left Beckett House. Obviously, he had made the right decision by leaving the house party early. Here he could think clearly upon his course of action without unwanted distraction and temptation influencing his thoughts. Oh, sure, Swindon was in a decided huff over his precipitous departure, but he had no doubt he'd be able to smooth things over with the man upon his return to Town.

He guided Abacus directly to the circular front drive. Normally, he would have taken the horse directly to the stables and rubbed him down himself, but time was of the essence, and his staff was fully capable of seeing to the horse's needs. So, after a quick nose rub of apology to his steed, he handed off the reins to a waiting footman and bounded up the stairs to the open door and his butler awaiting from within.

"Your Grace, may I offer felicitations on your recent engagement?" prompted his butler, Boneswaithe.

"Actually, Boneswaithe, you may not, my good man. For in truth, I am not yet betrothed as anticipated, but I thank you for being aware of and remembering the reason for my recent visit to Beckett House."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Your Grace."

"Oh, it's nothing to worry over, Boneswaithe, for it will happen soon enough to be sure. It was only that I was called away unexpectedly before I could accomplish the deed, is all, but again, I thank you for your concern."

"Of course, Your Grace. Welcome home, then. I have taken the liberty of having a bath prepared. Everything should be ready anon."

He laughed. "My good man, you amaze me with your wealth of knowledge and your understanding of my needs before even I am aware of them myself. I am only surprised you didn't know of my engagement status before even I became aware that it wouldn't happen this week as planned…"

And if the butler was aware his master behaved cheerfully out of character, he did not acknowledge it.

"Remind me…oomph…again why I…oomph…agreed to accompany you on this ill…oomph…advised journey?" queried Grace as she, Dansbury's Aunt Harriett and Dansbury himself were violently jostled about as their carriage rolled over a particularly rough patch of road in West Sussex.

Dansbury laughed—between similar grunts of discomfort—at Grace and her feigned indignation over their possibly ill-advised trip to Stonebridge Park. Aunt Harriett, who was tucked into a corner sleeping soundly, continued to snore, blissfully unaware of the appalling state of the back country road.

He decided Grace's question was rhetorical, and since he was still unsure as to the advisability of the trip himself, kept silent. Besides, he was preoccupied thinking about the chaos he was stirring up.

First, there was the murderous harangue sure to be heard from Ambrose when he discovered his unexpected guests—particularly Grace. Then, there was Grace's ire when she found out he had deliberately misled her as to their intended destination. She thought they were travelling to Aunt Harriett's house in Bath, not Stonebridge Park.

Auntie wasn't aware of their true destination either, but she could be counted on to find the whole thing a great lark and watch eagerly for events to unfold. Still, he was glad that Stonebridge Park was near enough to Bath so as not to alert her to his scheme in advance of their arrival, though he strongly suspected his aunt was not fooled anyway. She was quite clever that way. In fact, he was positive he hadn't deceived her in the least, but for once, she was going along with him and not attempting to stir up trouble the likes of which she was quite capable—and often inclined. In any event, Harriett would be quite content to stay a few unforeseen days at the Park as long as she had her coffee—and perhaps a drop or two of whisky. For her pains, mind.

Then there were the possible repercussions from Grace's uncle, Swindon, for Dansbury had taken it upon himself to send a note to the earl informing him that Grace would be accompanying Aunt Harriett to London for the season, which would be the case if all went according to plan…eventually. It was sure to tweak the earl's nose at any rate. He had yet to broach that subject with Grace at all. He hadn't even hinted about it. But did she really have a choice? She was riding in his carriage, which was definitely headed to London after their visit to the Park.

Again, Harriett wasn't a concern, for she was sure to be overjoyed at the prospect of sponsoring Grace in London for the season. In fact, though she didn't yet know it, she'd conveyed as much to the earl in her own note, reinforcing Dansbury's decision to bring Grace to London. Had he mentioned he was a good forger?

As such, everything would be cleared up and perfectly respectable. Eventually.

Back at Beckett House, after hearing a full report of her uncle's tirade and knowing the suggestive (yet questionable) evidence against his character—not to mention knowing Ambrose well enough to know he would never have said the things her uncle implied— Cliff had decided it might be detrimental to Grace's well-being should she remain behind at Beckett House. He had no real evidence to which he could point as justification for his actions, only his gut—which had never led him astray…when it mattered. Thus, his plan to bring Grace and Aunt Harriett with him to Stonebridge Park had been hastily conceived.

He had been cautious with his words so that he purposely led Grace to draw her own conclusions about their intended destination without outright lying to her. Further, he had been vague in response to her numerous questions and had relied primarily on her trust in him to persuade her to make the journey. It hadn't been easy. She wasn't inclined to trust him so effortlessly, clever girl—they hadn't known each other but a few days after all— but in the end, he had been more persuasive than she was wary (one of the many reasons he excelled at his line of work). Besides, her maid, Bessie, liked him and Grace had been willing to forgo her own reservations on account of her faith in her maid's ability to accurately judge a person's measure. Thank God. And Aunt Harriett was a perfectly suitable chaperone making the entire trip respectable.

Obviously, he had given neither Grace nor his aunt the real reasons behind his hasty decision—nor had he imparted any information regarding his mission and the role he and Ambrose played for the Home Office.

That was three days ago. Now he was late for his meeting with the team at the Park, but they were almost there. It was a matter of minutes.

Time to pay the piper, as they say…

Grace was relieved when the coach made a turn onto an obviously better maintained stretch of road. The road here was shaded by dense trees with a heavy canopy overhead. It was lovely to behold. She could easily imagine she was headed to a secret place and found herself daydreaming about who might be so fortunate as to live here. From what she could tell, they were on the property of this mysterious friend of Dansbury's, whose name, for some reason, he would not divulge, for the purposes of staying a night there before resuming their journey to Bath. She suspected Cliff was being evasive with his answers. In truth, she was sure Dansbury was being deliberately elusive, and she even wondered if he wasn't taking her to the duke's estate on the sly, but maybe that was merely wishful thinking. Besides, there was no help for it now. She had made her decision to leave with him and there was no point dwelling on the wisdom of her choice when it was too late to do anything about it.

For three days, they had travelled the countryside and in some respects her last morning at Beckett House seemed further away than so little time might suggest. She tried to come to terms with the way she and the duke had parted company. But ever since she learned he had not proposed to Beatryce, her heart seemed to beat much faster than normal. She was fidgety and restless and couldn't understand why. Stonebridge had made it perfectly clear they had no future, and upon further reflection, it was obvious that becoming a duchess, or, more likely his mistress, would be disastrous. Not that she would seriously consider becoming either.

Then why am I so edgy and excited?

That man, Stonebridge, was a cold fish and a—a nincompoop. Yes, a cold nincompoop. She nodded her head in satisfaction at her ability to recognize that behind the handsome exterior, he was nothing to be admired. He was moody, cold, authoritative, hot, passionate…

She should just face it, when he wasn't cold, authoritative, and moody, he was…he was splendid. He made her insides quiver, and when she was with him…well, he was marvelous. Sometimes.

Then there was her uncle's explosive tirade followed by Dansbury's surprising suggestion (and her astonishing agreement) that she disregard her uncle's orders and venture forth with him, Dansbury, to Bath.

So who was this adventurous and reckless person? She felt outside herself. She wasn't worried about word getting back to her uncle. The servants at Beckett House were loyal to her and desired her happiness. Her uncle would never know she wasn't sitting quietly at Beckett House awaiting the family's return—whenever that might be.

Her musings were interrupted by a change in the scenery as the coach pulled out of the tree canopy and into the quaint little courtyard in front of a welcoming Tudor-styled country home. The front fa?ade and entry was framed by towering trees and shrubs, replete with a flowering garden and myriad pathways darting off from the main courtyard, which encircled a small but impressive two-tiered fountain. The house did not seem imposing or overtly massive, but she suspected there was more here than met the eye judging by the length and careful maintenance of the main drive.

The coach had barely pulled to a stop before Dansbury leaped from the carriage with a sudden burst of energy. For the past few minutes, he had seemed tense, yet calm and thoughtful. Not his usual, easygoing, charming self.

He scanned the door and front windows before barking out a "Wait here." Then purposefully, with long-legged strides, he made his way to the front door.

How curious!

Dansbury had just put his foot on the first step leading up to the entry, when the door opened, but it was no butler waiting to see him inside.

"It's about bloody time you arrived. What the hell took you so long?"

Stonebridge, dressed casually sans cravat, waistcoat, and jacket, barked out his question but followed it with a quick smile and a slap on Dansbury's back, welcoming. That is, until he spotted her.

From across the small courtyard, she could see his demeanor change from friendly and relaxed to forced and stiff. Dansbury didn't even turn around. The liar.

The duke whispered something brief in the deceiver's ear before jogging down the steps with a confidence she envied. Dansbury just walked inside, leaving her to the mercy of the duke.

She warily watched his approach. To say she was surprised to see him would be an understatement, but she hid her shock and faced him with a confidence she didn't feel. Hopefully he would not cause a scene in front of Lady Harriett.

"Miss Radclyffe, welcome to Stonebridge Park. I trust your journey was uneventful."

So that was how he was going to play it? Calm and polite? Never mind that the last time he had stormed off in anger, putting her firmly in her place beforehand. Never mind that he had betrayed her trust when speaking with her uncle, telling him a load of falsehoods. These men were two of a kind—liars the both of them.

She decided to respond in kind: polite, disinterested responses that encouraged no search for truth nor invited deeper discussion. "Why, yes, Your Grace, we had quite a pleasant drive to your home. Thank you for asking."

After that, they simply stared at each other, at a loss for further words. A voice from within the carriage broke the awkward silence.

"Oh, Duke, quit flexing your muscles at the lady and help this old girl out of the carriage. I don't trust your footman to stop me from missing that last step."

Surprised, Stonebridge turned to greet and assist Aunt Harriet. She wasn't really his aunt, but he was close enough to her that he called her that out of affection. He tried in vain to suppress inappropriate feelings of joy. Grace was here, and more importantly, Cliff and Grace had been well chaperoned and not travelling alone for…Three. Whole. Days.

Once inside the house, he waited in the foyer and watched Grace glide elegantly up the stairs behind his butler until she was out of sight. His mind was disordered. It was odd to see her so composed, and he didn't like it. He missed the fiery, impish, often awkward woman he'd glimpsed at Beckett House. Her newfound cool formality annoyed him. Further, he was dismayed, knowing her change was likely his fault. And then there was the uncomfortable flare of envy knowing she and Cliff had travelled days together to get here. Even if they were appropriately escorted. He trusted his friend implicitly, yet regardless of that trust, he stormed off in search of his so-called friend, proving the point that too much emotion can wreak havoc on a logical mind.

He found his quarry in the library with the rest of their assembled team; yet regardless of their audience, he grabbed Cliff, who was still standing just inside the door, by the lapels of his jacket and slammed him against the nearest wall.

"What the hell were you thinking bringing her here—especially at a time like this? Did it somehow escape your attention that the entire team would be here and that our identities are meant to be secret, not to mention our activities? No. Don't answer that. You were the one responsible for sending out the missive gathering everyone here. Good God, Cliff…"

He let go of his friend and stalked away. Cliff just smiled, but said nothing.

In reality, he was frustrated more at himself than at his friend. He had lost confidence in his ability to think logically with Grace anywhere in his vicinity. He was close friends with Cliff and had worked with him long enough to know that he would not have brought Grace here if he didn't think it was important. Cliff was well aware of the inherent danger of their mission.

He tossed back a finger of brandy and asked without turning around, "What the hell happened?"

"Are the rest of the team up to date?"

"Yes, I briefed them yesterday while we waited for you. We saved the rest of our reports for your arrival."

Two leather armchairs and a leather camel-back sofa were arranged around a small table. The grouping stood before a large pedestal desk upon which numerous papers were scattered haphazardly about. Two agents, MacLeod and Kelly, sat together on the sofa facing Cliff and the open doorway beyond.

Cliff closed the library door and made his way to one of the chairs opposite the sofa.

"Right. As you know our latest intelligence has placed a questionable, yet damning light on certain people and their possible involvement in the events that occurred seventeen years ago. As I was preparing to depart the earl's home, I ran into a distraught Miss Grace Radclyffe. After the usual pleasantries, I inquired about catching up with Miss Radclyffe in London in a few weeks' time."

Ambrose unhinged his clenched jaw and made his way over to the remaining empty chair. He was sure he wasn't going to like this.

Cliff continued, "Miss Radclyffe tried to pass off an obviously phony excuse about her need to visit a sick friend in Yorkshire. I was unimpressed with her ability to lie convincingly, so I pressed her further and discovered that her uncle, the earl, had forbade her to journey to London with the family due to a supposed conversation he had with you regarding her conduct toward your person over the week. Swindon claimed you approached him about certain untoward advances. Obviously, I knew this wasn't true, so, in light of recent events and dare I say it, my gut instinct, I convinced her to leave with me under the guise of travelling with Aunt Harriett to Bath. It wasn't easy, mind you, to gain her acceptance, but clearly, in the end, she agreed to go."

Unbelievably, the duke's first instinct was to inquire as to whether or not Cliff had defended him to Grace. Did Cliff tell her he was not the sort to go running to the earl telling tales—whether true or not? Clearly, that was not the important point of this tale. Swindon's actions were plainly suspicious. Besides, he was all too sure he'd find out what Miss Radclyffe thought of his character soon enough.

Cliff carried on, "I cannot fathom what his motivations are in preventing her from journeying to London, save that he sees her as a possible threat to your engagement with Lady Beatryce. Regardless of whether or not his actions are so simple or more sinister, I felt it imprudent to put Miss Radclyffe under our protection…for now."

"Indeed. And we will discuss what to do about Miss Radclyffe after we debrief. In light of her arrival, it is prudent we conclude our business swiftly so the rest of you can return to your assignments."

"Let me guess…we're ta leave afore settin' eyes on the floozy," said Ciarán Kelly

with a lazy grin, in his thick, Irish brogue. Kelly was the team's Irish contact who could charm the secrets out of anyone, young or old, male or female, despite being bastard born. It was a testament to his skill that so many—especially the ladies—could overlook that fact and spill their secrets so readily. It didn't hurt that he was handsome as sin, with midnight hair and bright blue eyes.

"Just because you're a bastard doesn't give you the right to be crude, Kelly. Miss Radclyffe is a fine lady and I suggest you refrain from making suggestive or disparaging remarks against her character," said Cliff in his affable way, all the while eyeing the duke and his clenched fists rather than the Irishman. Yes. Ambrose was ready to take Kelly's head.

"In my experience, all women are floozies given the right incentive. Take my word for it, or you might as well put a leash on your cock and hand the lead to the next woman you see, eh Alaistair?" replied Ciarán as he elbowed the hulking Scot setting next to him in the side—good-naturedly, of course.

"Och, haud yer wheesht. I doona give a damn," responded said Scot, Lord Alaistair MacLeod. MacLeod was a man of few words, with little patience for small talk. He was just as good at ferreting out secrets as Kelly, though he used his massive strength more than any practiced charm. He wasn't violent per se, but he knew how to use his immense size to intimidate, quite often without resorting to any violence at all—not many were so stupid as to take the risk of having to dodge his mighty fists. He also listened more than he spoke, which made him good at separating the lies from truth. Despite being bitter toward his estranged family in Scotland, he was dependable and honest. Though he was gruff and said little, when he did speak, he was worth listening to, as his thoughts were keen and well organized, if impatient and borderline rude when his patience was stretched thin, which was often. In all, he was a man of contradictions and very private. The team, save perhaps the duke, knew little about MacLeod's background and the real man behind the red, bushy beard.

"Figures…grumpy as ever. Seen your da recently, then?" taunted Kelly.

Alaistair glared at Ciarán, but didn't respond.

"Enough," interrupted Stonebridge. "Ciarán, you are correct in that it is best if Grace doesn't see the rest of you."

"Grace?" interrupted Ciarán, brow raised at his familiar use of Miss Radclyffe's given name.

He ignored Ciarán. "I'll lead off. Two days ago, I met with my butler, Boneswaithe, regarding the night of the attack on the Prime Minister. He was butler here at the time and was able to recall much about the ongoing house party as the attempted assassination created quite an uproar. It seems that an assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister's room late in the evening on the first night. Fortunately for the Prime Minister, a snuff servant, a young Irish boy by the name of Seamus O'Brien, happened by at the exact moment our would-be assassin attempted to enter the Prime Minister's room. A struggle ensued and the boy, being the weaker of the two, barely managed to escape by slicing his attacker in the cheek with his snuffer."

"Guid, aye? Our man Murphy has a right nasty scar on his right cheek just there." MacLeod pointed to his cheek, the approximate location of their captive's scar.

"Undeniably. Of course, at that point, the assassin runs off as the household is beginning to stir what with all the racket from the fight. He gets away and the boy raises the alarm, but by the time a search party is organized, the man has all but disappeared."

"He couldna made it far with a bleedin' gash in his cheek without someone making note of it," said MacLeod.

"Aye. Someone was bound to notice that," agreed Kelly.

"Nevertheless, he seemingly vanished without a trace."

"That suggests help—and nearby—especially if the assassin arrived the first night of the Prime Minister's stay and knew which room to enter. Are we sure the Prime Minister was the intended target? Who else was at the party?" queried Cliff.

"Of course, Boneswaithe can only base his knowledge on what he witnessed, but certainly they were all convinced the Prime Minister was the intended mark. As we presumed, the Prime Minister was reluctant to put too much effort into the hunt, but my father was furious that someone would attack a guest in his home, putting his family and people at risk. Incidentally, the servant boy, thankfully, was unharmed. He also remains in the area and might be able to identify the assassin. He was only ten at the time; he's a young man now."

"Our captive assassin might be difficult to recognize. He's quite gaunt and has aged significantly from his suffering over the last seventeen years, yet somehow I don't think he will be denying his involvement, so the point may be moot," added Kelly.

"One can hope. As far as the attendees at the party, they are as follows: The Prime Minister, of course—and his army of assistants, advisors, and secretaries; Viscount Branbury; the Earl of Swindon; Lord Fox; Lord North; Lord Middlebury; Mr. Randall Smythe; and the Honourable Henry Roxburgh of Bury."

"Och, quite the eclectic mix of powerful men, then. Pitt's entourage muddles things up a wee bit—any one o' them coulda been involved, ye ken, but Fox and North?"

"Indeed. They are the most obvious suspects considering their intense opposition to Pitt's policies."

Stonebridge paused to let everyone digest the possibilities before continuing, "Boneswaithe confirmed that my father focused exclusively on finding the would-be assassin in the month between the house party and his death. Secretly, the household thought the two were related. That's pretty much it. Boneswaithe will let me know if he recalls anything else no matter how insignificant. Also, he will retrieve the housekeeper's records for that party so that we can have a full account of all the guests, including the aides, valets, etc. I've asked him to send the books to you, Cliff. I intend to interview the rest of the staff and continue searching my father's papers for any notes he might have left behind. I have to imagine he was on to something, hence his unexpected demise." He paused at the tightening in his chest. After taking a deep breath, he continued, "Ciarán, what have you to report?"

"We have our friend from Ireland securely tucked away nearby."

"How nearby?"

"Very," Kelly gave him a meaningful look before continuing. Oh, that nearby. "He still insists upon speaking only to you. I recommend we arrange that straightaway." "I'll talk to him tomorrow night, then. Alaistair, anything to add?"

"Nae."

"Right. Ciarán, speak to Seamus O'Brien. He's at the Duck and Anvil in Bristol. MacLeod, arrange my meeting with Murphy for tomorrow night. Cliff, I want to know more about the aristos in attendance—their allies, political leanings, and solvency, especially Middlebury, North and Fox. Also, check out the housekeeper's records." "What about Swindon?" asked Cliff.

"Leave that one to me."

"Aye and what about our lovely lady friend?" asked Kelly with a meaningful smirk.

"Whit's this? Can ye no think with yer head instead of yer cock, ye bastard?" MacLeod rolled his eyes with a look of contempt. Stonebridge sympathized.

Ciarán snorted, but his retort was interrupted when the library door clicked open. MacLeod, who was still seated with Kelly on the sofa, stood abruptly and sharpened his gaze, while Kelly remained seated and raised his brow in both question and surprise. His ever-present rakish grin widened further, if possible.

Shite. She's here.

Stonebridge and Dansbury (both of whom had been sitting on one of the two chairs facing the sofa, thereby with their backs to the door) stood and spun about to find Miss Grace Radclyffe, having clearly just stumbled into the now open doorway, grinning sheepishly.

Bloody hell, someone would be fired for this.

"Miss Radclyffe, please sit…"

Stonebridge gestured toward the chair he had been sitting in previously as it was the furthest away from, yet still angled toward, the nearby pedestal desk upon which lay a mess of scattered papers—made up of written reports from his team and other evidence pertaining to the ongoing investigation. With anyone else, he might have sat on the chair next to her, or on the sofa across from her, but then Miss Radclyffe was proving particularly unpredictable. Instead, he proceeded to his chair behind the desk in order to surreptitiously clear it in the event she proved impulsive by not remaining seated.

After the appropriate introductions were reluctantly made, his other ‘guests' made their excuses to return to their rooms so he could interrogate—er, talk to—her about her suspicious wanderings.

He got right to the point.

"Miss Radclyffe, do you often wander aimlessly through other people's homes, and more specifically, enter into rooms with closed doors other than the bedroom to which you were assigned, without first knocking and being bade enter?"

He glared at Grace while she clearly sought to formulate a proper response. He covertly stacked some of the papers directly in front him—rude but necessary.

"Not generally, no."

He jerked his head at the abrupt response. Imagine that. She wasn't going to even try to offer up an excuse.

"I see."

Right, so that's how she is going to play it? Well, two can play at that game.

He waited in silence, grabbed the nearest stack of papers, including his father's contact journal, and placed them in his top right desk drawer. He tried to make his movements casual while inside, his heart beat a little faster—as seemed to always be the case whenever she was around.

A small, loose paper slid out from the stack he was arranging and fluttered to the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, and after a quick glance, tossed it haphazardly into the drawer with the others. Then, almost immediately, he reached wildly back in to reclaim said paper as its contents registered in his mind. On it, written clearly in his father's penmanship, was:

John Radclyffe

We cannot enter into alliances until we are acquainted with the designs of our neighbors.

That was all. No other direction or personal information about Mr. Radclyffe, Grace's father, was written. After a moment, he read the quotation aloud, but did not mention Mr. Radclyffe by name; this was a test.

"It is from the Art of War by Sun Tzu," said Grace automatically.

He stared at her, but she was calm and composed—confident even.

Eventually, he stood and made his way to a shelf on the far side of the library to retrieve his copy of the famous book. As he began to flip through the pages, something fluttered to the floor. It was a piece of parchment, torn and quite old. It was blank on one side, but on the other, he discovered two seals affixed upon it. The first was a seal he would recognize anywhere: Middlebury. It was a symbol that had come to represent so much pain in this life, and his gut clenched at the sight of it. The second was completely unfamiliar to him. The letters looked like a swirly P and an E entwined together making up the branches of an oak tree.

Hmmm…Curious.

He returned his attention to the book itself and quickly found the page containing the quote. A folded piece of paper was tucked tightly between the pages. He pulled it free, opened it, and discovered the complete contact information for Grace's father written in his own father's hand.

Startled, he looked across the room at Grace, but her back was to him. She was not even watching; she appeared to be gazing out the window behind his desk. He pulled himself together and walked back to the desk, his curiosity piqued. The evidence was damning to say the least. He had been stymied over why her name seemed so familiar. He must have come across it in his father's papers before, but had not made the connection. Now, more questions than answers arose.

As he returned to his seat, his gaze remained trained on Grace and her air of innocence. Doubts began to creep up in his mind, but he ruthlessly suppressed any thoughts that would lead him to jump to conclusions, even though all her past actions— including her easy capitulation to travel with Cliff—were suspicious and tried to fight their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

"What did you find?" she asked before he had even resumed his seat.

Interesting.

He didn't answer, but instead asked, "Did your father know my father?"

"Not that I am aware of. Why?"

Again, he ignored her question and asked one of his own, "Is it possible that he did?"

"I suppose. He often traveled away. He was a well-known authority on ancient and obscure texts. Oftentimes a client would invite him to travel to their homes or businesses to evaluate an old manuscript or book. He also travelled in search of rare items to add to his inventory. Most of the time, we did not travel with him. Certainly, never to your father's home."

"Why do you say that…certainly?"

"Mainly, because my father would never want to impose on his clients' hospitality. He would have felt obligated to focus entirely on the job at hand and leave promptly upon completion of his work. He strove to be efficient, unimposing, and discreet. Oh, he'd often talk about the rare texts he saw, but never about the owners themselves. You must understand, he was in trade, and his business was built on his reputation. He would never risk jeopardizing his livelihood by involving himself with a client in any personal way. He drew a clear line, and he never crossed it."

"Are you quite sure about that?"

"Quite."

"Did your father perchance attend university at Oxford?"

"Yes…yes, he did."

"I see." His father had attended there as well.

"I see as well, and I don't think I like your tone of voice, Your Grace. In fact, I know I don't like it and the obvious doubt in your mind." She rose from her seat on the chair. "I believe I shall retire for the evening, Your Grace. It's been a tiring day. Good evening."

"Grace…I apologize. I only ask because the quotation I read to you earlier was written on a paper I found with your father's name on it. Your father is John Radclyffe, I presume?"

"Yes." Grace looked less confident. She plopped back down in her chair; she appeared pale and nervous. Guilt?

"In addition in the book, I found the full contact information for your father's direction in Oxford tucked inside."

Her eyes widened further, but only briefly.

"Well that makes sense. If your father had need of my father's services…"

"Indeed," he interrupted. "But then why hide his direction in a book?"