Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Frederick glanced over at Grace as they guided their horses through the forest to the ruins. Introducing her to this tangled part of his past gripped him with cautionary claws. How many times had he met Celia here when they'd first begun their affair? The recollections were stained with past sins.

The tower of the ruins rose above the tree line. Oh how those past decisions haunted the present in unexpected ways. God forgive him . Frederick glanced at his bride. And God had—offering him a new and most undeserved beginning.

"This was the first house your ancestors built on the property?" Grace squinted as if to see through the final veil of trees separating them from the ruin.

"About three hundred years ago." Ah, he knew how to tease her. "And there are a great many stories surrounding this place, including hidden tunnels and lost treasures of Mary, Queen of Scots."

"Oh my!" She nearly turned in her saddle with her gasp. "A new place to research."

Yes, Grace's light could shine on this place and fade the old memories as she'd done in so many of the other parts of his life. "It's certainly your sort of place."

The three-story stone home emerged in the clearing, a narrow, partially crumbled, box-shaped structure.

"Is that a chapel?"

He followed her gesture to an ivy-covered church a short distance from the house—still intact with its frosted windows and small bell tower.

Almost magical, if he guessed at Grace's thoughts. "Yes, my grandparents were married there."

Grace's smile bloomed large enough to add a sparkle to her eyes. "Then I love it even more."

Oh, how could he touch her heart as quickly and freely as she touched his with the simplest of words? Frederick dismounted.

"It's rumored that tunnels were dug beneath the chapel in hopes of freeing Queen Mary during her imprisonment from—"

"Queen Elizabeth." Her eyes twinkled. "British history is so much more interesting than American history."

"Well it's quite a bit older too." He rounded his horse to stand by hers.

"And to your knowledge, no one has been here since Celia?" She peered down at him, a rebel ginger lock slipping from beneath her riding cap. "Except for the people in the red car, of course." Her teeth skimmed over her bottom lip as she fought with a smile and reached for him to help her dismount. "You remember? On the day of the storm when we first, well, found one another."

One of the best days of his life. His hands slid about her waist, bringing her against him. "I remember."

Her eyes darkened with awareness as her body glided over his to the ground. No wonder people referred to marital bliss. His thoughts paused on the notion. Dear Lord, he was beginning to sound like Grace in his head.

She hooked her arms around his neck and nudged his nose with hers, a caress he was beginning to realize she particularly enjoyed. "I almost wish for thunderstorms so you can kiss me into distraction."

Without another hesitation, he took her lips in a lingering embrace before braiding his fingers through hers. "I am the Watson to your Sherlock." He gestured toward the ruins. "Do what you do best."

"Words to my heart."

They began on the second floor and worked their way down to the first. Frederick pointed out several sets of dusty footprints in the former gallery of the home, and Grace found a cloth stained with something that appeared to be blood.

"From the rider you hit with a horseshoe perhaps?"

Her grin rewarded him. "You are beginning to think in the proper way for the surroundings, my lord."

But the real curiosities came when they reached what was formerly a main-floor sitting room. One of the few spaces with intact windows, the space held a few cooking utensils and an assortment of other remains hinting at recent occupation.

"Someone has certainly been here." Frederick kicked at a mussed blanket on the floor and stepped to the large window overlooking the entry, the road to the ruins a tangle of overgrowth. Someone would have to know where they were going to take that route.

Grace didn't respond. She was examining something by a table in the corner near a back window.

"The ash is fresh in the fire." Frederick added, which meant the occupants hadn't been gone too long. He patted the pistol he'd slipped into his riding jacket, ensuring its place should the unwelcome guests return.

"Frederick, did you alert anyone in the house of your impending arrival from India?"

What an odd question. Grace didn't face him, her attention still riveted on what appeared to be a small white flower and a medicine bottle.

"I sent a telegram when I'd arrived in London to let the house know to expect me first thing in the morning."

Her gaze came up to his. "So everyone knew exactly when you'd return."

Frederick caught the suggestion behind her statement, and his chest tightened. "What is it?"

Grace raised the flower to him with her gloved hand, her breath shaking ever so slightly. "This."

He crossed the room. "Queen Anne's lace?"

But the look in her eyes proved this little plant was something much different.

"Frederick, I believe this is hemlock. One of the most poisonous plants in the world."

Everything began to come together. The ability for Celia to be absent at the time of Edward's death. The perfect timing of Frederick's arrival.

"What do you mean?"

She pushed past him and walked to the fireplace. "The purple speckles on the stem, as well as other small differences, show that it's different from Queen Anne's lace." She bent by a discarded pot among the fire's ashes. Aha. A root. She stood and returned to Frederick's side. "More possible proof. A root for making oil, I suspect. Likely hemlock oil." She raised the root so he could see it more clearly, an idea forming. "Do you recall Brandon or Elliott giving any specifics about your brother's symptoms before he died?"

"No, nothing." He shoved a hand through his hair and took another glance about the room. "Good night, Grace! Are you saying, someone made poison here?"

"It seems likely. Hemlock is extremely toxic, especially in liquid form."

A burst of air came from her handsome hero. "How do you know these things?"

"I became curious."

"About poisons?"

She looked up from her examination of the root. Why was he so surprised? "About everything."

His expression evaporated into an uncertain smile, and he crossed the room and slid his arm around her waist. "My dear, if I didn't know you had such a kind heart, I'd be terrified of you."

She rewarded his sweet words with a grin before returning her attention to the plant. "But doctors should know the signs of such poisoning. It's not so uncommon nowadays that it can't be easily detected."

"Mother was adamant about Edward's heart being weak, and I didn't have any reason to doubt her. Even our longtime family doctor agreed with Mother's assessment, though I'm not certain his age adds to his reliability." He shook his head. "But I knew something seemed odd all the while."

"Well, from the accounts I've read of people's deaths by hemlock, they could match your description of how you found your brother." She murmured more to herself. "Muscle spasms. Breathing difficulty. Horrible deaths, unless you were Socrates, of course."

Frederick studied her a moment and cleared his throat, offering his hand to her. "We need to interview Brandon. He could give an accounting of any symptoms."

"Very clever, my dear hero." She took his hand and walked with him to the door, casting a look back over the rooms as they passed. "And as you said, Celia would have known about this place because of her…time with you." She shook her head against the direction her imagination turned. "So it makes sense her thugs hid here."

She pulled her hand free of Frederick's, a sudden queasiness swirling in her stomach.

Celia Blackmore. The woman took up so much space in Frederick's past, so many memories, sneaking into conversations like an unavenged spirit. Frederick had spent time with her here. Likely scandalously kissing a murderer.

The thought stung. Did he still think of her kisses? On a kissing scale, were Grace's better? She felt certain she'd only improved since her first introduction. She remained quiet until they'd stepped from the building.

"Grace?" Frederick's fingers wrapped around her wrist, bringing her to a stop next to him.

She turned, sighing out her momentary jealousy. Or was it grief? She didn't even know what to call it. "There's nothing we can do about the past, is there?" She squeezed his hand. "But I think we have an excellent start at a future, don't you?"

Those dark eyes—clouded with regret—held her attention, her heart. "I love you, Grace."

The gentle whisper, barely audible, reverberated like a blast through her. She'd read those three words before. Shakespeare lathered them with drama galore, but to hear them from her wildly handsome husband? The unnamed emotion quickening through her chest swelled, catching in her throat and fogging her vision. He'd never mentioned loving her before. Shown it with great skill, but spoken it?

Her lips trembled. Her breath paused.

With steady tenderness, his warm palms smoothed against her cheeks, his thumbs trailing soft against her skin. He pressed his forehead against hers, holding her gaze. Wordless. Their breaths mingling, lips almost touching. She couldn't find her voice as the emotion swelled in at her throat. She closed her eyes, wrapped in the ethereal haven of his confession.

He loved her.

She leaned into him and placed the moment to memory. Love? Was that the deep stirring within her to be with him? To see him happy? To protect him? Her lips quivered into a smile. She tipped her chin in silent entreaty, and he complied, lowering his mouth to hers in silent confirmation.

With another lingering glance, he slipped her arm through his and guided her to the horses.

"Once we get home, I'll phone Detective Miracle about our findings today." He helped her on her horse.

"Excellent." She peered down at him with a grin. "And I believe I have an important meeting with your mother before Mr. Piper's arrival."

He paused as he rounded her horse to his. "A meeting with my mother?"

"Mm-hmm. She's going to explain to me the family history of the Percys through the portraits in the Great Hall and gallery."

"She's agreed to this?" Her husband eyed her with a great deal of doubt as he mounted his horse.

"Not yet, but I have a plan."

"You think you can convince her to come with you?"

"What have I told you about giving me the benefit of your doubts?" Her grin inched up as she started forward. "I will do my best."

Silence greeted her, so she glanced to her right to see her dashing hero's lips crooked ever so slightly. "My mother doesn't stand a chance."

She rewarded his confidence with a smile and drew in a deep breath, sorting out how to offer her husband a very sneaky option. "So while I'm learning about your centuries of descendants, how might you pass your time?"

"I have a strange suspicion you know exactly how I should pass my time."

"Not really." She shrugged. "With the architect's arrival next week, you could always work on estate business."

"I could." His response came slowly.

"Or you could visit that darling daughter of yours."

His eyes narrowed, unconvinced. Oh dear, he was learning her quite well. "Indeed."

"But there's always the possibility of searching your mother's room while she's out with me."

His laugh burst out. "I—what?"

"You're right." She turned her attention to the path, shaking off the temptation to plead with him. "It's probably a horrible idea, but the best sleuths resort to sneaky options in order to discover the truth."

"I am not searching my mother's room."

Grace forced her expression into wifely sobriety, or what she expected wifely sobriety looked like. "You would know best, of course."

"I have a new piece for you to play today," Lady Moriah barked as soon as Grace entered the woman's sitting room. She pointed toward the piano with her cane. "Chopin."

Grace took her time getting to the piano. If Frederick changed his mind about the whole detective idea, she certainly didn't want to rush him. "Chopin? That's an excellent choice, my lady."

"Don't attempt to flatter me, girl."

"And what would you prefer I do? I have an entire wealth of abilities you've failed to unwrap. Would you prefer rude and uncouth? I'm certain I can manage it, if I really put my mind to it. My sister often compli-mented me on my theatrics at—"

"Chopin," came her quick order.

Grace smoothed out the pages on the piano, taking in the intricate movement of the familiar piece before beginning to play, adding in her own little trills as she went along.

"Your embellishments are not necessary to the author's masterpiece," the dowager huffed once Grace brought the composition to a close.

She didn't even flinch at the woman's harshness. The grief in Lady Moriah's voice last night as she'd haunted the east wing curbed a little of Grace's annoyance. At least enough to overlook her meanness.

"Where's your imagination, Lady Mor—Astley? Surely, as a musician, you've learned the value of whimsy."

The woman's brows rose with her chin. "Whimsy?"

Grace turned on the bench to face the woman. "Playful, fanciful, something that makes you smile from the sheer delight of it? Certainly you've experienced it in your life through romance." She waved toward the piano. "Or even music?"

The stoic expression wavered for the slightest second and then hardened. "You will never survive this world if your mind is housed in another."

"I collect a great deal of strength from a very different world so that I can survive this one. What do you think heaven is all about?"

Her eyes narrowed, but Grace rushed ahead without giving her time to fire another insult. "Who is the man in the portrait just left of the fireplace in the Great Hall?"

The woman blinked, completely taken off guard, so Grace continued in her plot. "The one where the gentleman's mustache looks as though the barber wasn't quite up to task."

Lady Moriah still didn't come up with an answer, so Grace grinned. "I actually appreciate paintings that are more realistic and show men and women as they naturally are. It's rather daunting trying to live up to perfection, don't you think?"

"That painting is of Sir Damien Withersby, my grandfather, one of the five portraits I inherited from my mother, and I can assure you there is nothing wrong with his moustache."

"How wonderful of Lord Astley to allow you to display your family alongside his." Grace stood and braided her fingers behind her back. "But I do feel as though one side of his moustache is higher than the other. Is the smaller portrait near his of your sister?"

A few carefully placed questions to Brandon had given her enough ammunition to know she'd met her mark without seeing Lady Moriah's brightened glare to confirm it.

"I will have you know that is Lord Astley, the sixth's, previous wife, not my sister."

"Oh well, I can only come to my own conclusions, you understand, since no one has really educated me on these matters."

"And Sir Withersby was known as one of the most fashionable men of his time. His portrait is as impeccable as the man himself."

"Of course." Grace lowered her chin in due humility. "So is his wife the one hanging by the second-level stairs? The woman with the crooked nose?"

Lady Moriah stood from her chair and drew her cane up like a sentry. "Crooked nose?"

Grace nodded, maintaining her most innocent expression. "Yes, the one in the golden frame. Blue coat."

" That is a Mister Everett Withersby. My father." Her cane hit the floor. "Impossible girl! I shall not have you embarrassing the Percy and Withersby names with your ignorance." She marched toward the door. "Your education begins now."

Mother's strident speech pealed through the Great Hall's quiet, shaking Frederick from his study of his brother's confusing financial records.

"You shall know the generations much better when I am finished with you. I shall not have future progeny suffer the ill effects of your ignorance."

Frederick's eyes closed. What had his wife done?

He peered out of his office door. The two women made their way up the stairs, and Mother began a detailed history of the portrait of Charles Percy. It looked as though his lovely bride had somehow convinced his mother to venture out of her rooms for an ancestry lesson.

He glanced toward the south wing. If his mother explained each portrait housed in the Great Hall, Frederick would have plenty of time to search her rooms. Nothing lengthy or too intrusive, but a cursory inquiry to help with the investigation.

Mother's back was turned, and Grace's profile stood in perfect view as she stared dutifully at the teacher. With a deep breath, he walked toward the stairs, glancing up to check if his mother had shifted her attention toward him.

Grace caught his movements and with beautiful synchrony, winked then turned her attention to the painting. "Did you say he was the one who married the blacksmith's daughter?"

"Truly girl! Are your ears full of cotton? A baron's daughter!"

Frederick covered his grin as he slipped through the entrance to the south wing.

His wife!

He'd never known such a force as this desire to protect her, this need to cherish who she was to him. Yet here he was, drawing her into an enigma of murder plots, poisonous plants, and a mother who haunted an abandoned wing of the house. But his bride didn't seem to mind at all. Rather, from the glint in her eyes, she was doing exactly as she wished— helping him, loving him, and using her unique set of resources to do so.

He'd never known love until her. He'd been a man as untouched in his heart as Grace's lips had been with a kiss.

Frederick silently slid into his mother's chambers and closed the door behind him, breathing in the scent of rosewater and honey, his mother's lotions. The overcast sky gave little assistance to light the dim room, but a faint glow from his mother's lanterns led his way.

This was ridiculous. Utterly. Yet he moved across the carpet with soundless steps, slipping through the door into his mother's bedroom.

The room's decor gave nothing suspicious away. A four-poster bed. Dresser. Ornate side table. A wardrobe. And her desk.

He peeked into her curio cabinet, examining a few of the trinkets, and scanned the spines of the books on a shelf nearby. A hush fell over the room, her crackling fire his only companion. Where would his mother hide something precious to her?

He walked to her bedside table, her sleeping draught readied for the evening. Nothing suspicious. Then he approached her desk. Stationery waited in an unused stack to one side, and two books sat propped against an ornate wooden box. Ah! He brought the shoe-sized box into his hands and unclipped the lid. A whiff of strong perfume hit his nostrils before he noticed the twine-bound letters. A dozen of them, at least. With a careful hand, he picked up the parcel and examined it.

His mother's handwriting. Air whooshed from his lungs. The letters she'd written his father during courtship? He squinted. No, it wasn't his father's name on the letters, but another man's. Rupert? He carefully peeled open one of the pages in search of a date, and air stilled in his throat. Did he read 1880? Two years after his parents were married?

What did this mean?

He shook his head and carefully returned the letters to the box, but as he placed it back in its spot, one of the books fell, landing with a thud on the floor and sending loose pages in various directions. Frederick scanned the expanse, as if someone heard his trespass, but no one appeared. With a deep breath, he knelt to collect the age-stained papers but paused, the hair at the nape of his neck rising. From within the slips of a folded sheet, the faded petals of a dried white-clustered flower emerged.

He lifted the paper from the ground, pinching the pages around the plant and then carefully opened the note to expose the entire flower.

Hemlock. Dried.

His throat closed around his anger. No .

But the handwriting on the page wasn't his mother's: "A reminder of your silence."

A threat? He fished through the other papers and came upon a letter with the same handwriting. A familiar style.

"You understand the heavy hand of vengeance—the desperate actions one must take in order to assuage the thirst for justice. I assisted you, and now you will assist me. You shall pay your penance through silence, and I will be free."

Frederick gripped the page between his fingers. He knew that handwriting. Celia.