Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Grace slid from her horse as she and Elliott stopped just outside the clearing of the ruins. Her mind had bustled through several scenarios as she'd ridden along the trail. Would she find Frederick at all, or would he be dead? She tilted her head and studied the crumbling manor house. Perhaps he took on his attackers with the fierce and strategic maneuvers of the trained military man he was, leaving them all incapacitated at his feet. Her cheeks heated at the very idea.

"I'm going to peek inside," she whispered to Elliott. "We need to ensure Frederick is here before we make our plans."

"Peek?" came Elliott's choked reply, scurrying down off his horse to follow her. "My lady, I can't let you go in there alone."

She tugged the rope from the bag in her saddle. "Well, I'd hope not, Elliott."

With careful steps, Grace slipped through the forest edge around the side of the ruins with the fewest windows. Elliott stayed close, his feet shuffling against the fallen leaves behind her, crackling every twig. She shot him a warning look, but the intent bounced off his intense expression. Poor man, she couldn't really fault him. Obviously he hadn't had her training.

"Lord Astley would not approve of you doing this." His whisper emerged too loud in the tense silence.

"Clearly, Elliott, you have never read any of Grant Allen's female detective stories." She inched closer to the nearest half-shattered window, listening for voices. "I'm more than equipped for the task. Brawn is an excellent assistant, but brains are how real crimes are solved."

"Police solve real crimes," his voice rose, blending with a sound from inside the building.

Grace dropped to the ground and pulled Elliott down too, her nose almost touching his. "Have you never practiced sleuthing before in your life?"

His eyes rounded in answer of his utter innocence in the act.

"Have you even imagined it?"

He blinked.

"All right, I'll teach you." She sighed. "Lesson one, you must speak quietly or not at all. Our lives, dear Elliott, very well may be in danger, but if we're going to die, let's not be caught at the very beginning of our adventure. That's simply embarrassing." She gestured with her chin to the house. "I hear voices."

"My lady, I must protest."

"Shhh!" She waved away Elliott's complaint and slid to the window, but the lowest portion of the glass was still well over a foot above her head.

Voices blurred unintelligibly from inside. A woman's timbre among them, if she guessed from the pitch and tone. Celia ?

"Elliott," Grace pulled at the poor valet's jacket to bring him closer. "I need you to give me a boost."

Elliott sent her entire body a look before settling his confused gaze back on her face. "A what?"

"Lift me up so I can see in the window. It's taller than either one of us, and we need to get our bearings."

Poor Elliott looked positively horrified.

"Come now. This is an emergency. Do you really want the death of your master on your hands because you refused to raise me high enough to see in a window?"

He shook his head and proceeded to approach in the most awkward of ways, his hands moving first to one side of her waist, then the next, as if unsure how to pick up a woman.

"For heaven's sake." Grace grabbed his wrists and planted his palms on her sides. "One here and one here. That will do." She tempered her frustration with a smile. "Though I am glad that you are reluctant to be inappropriately friendly with me, dear Elliott. Lord Astley would highly approve of your admirable discretion."

After a pause, most likely from Elliott trying to work up the courage to complete the task, he raised Grace high enough to see through the bottom half of the window. Despite wobbling a little, she caught sight of three people standing on the far side of what had once been a large gallery. Another person sat in a chair.

Frederick .

Grace gasped. Tied to a chair?

Just above where the collection of villains stood, the ceiling had collapsed into the main level, leaving a gaping hole from the first floor. She could easily spy down from that spot as she'd done in the stables at Whitlock.

"Elliott, I have the origins of an idea," she whispered, gesturing for him to let her down.

"Oh dear," came his grunted reply.

"Don't worry." She offered him a reassuring smile. "This time you won't have to touch my waist at all." She patted his arm. "I'll only need to climb onto your shoulders."

"Pardon me?" Elliot's exclamation burst out.

Grace covered his mouth with her palm and froze. So did the voices inside. She pulled Elliott back against the wall and waited. Movement skittered to life from the other side of the window.

"Don't worry. Who could know where we're hiding? It's practically buried behind this forest," the female voice hissed. "We'll wait a little longer and make our way back to the main house through the forest."

Elliott exchanged a look with Grace but only moved enough to place his arm in front of her as a guard. What a sweet man! He was terrified and a bit bumbling as a detective, but ever loyal. She'd hug him if he wouldn't become discombobulated and give away their location.

"Aren't you the least bit concerned they'll try to kill you, ma'am?" He used an appropriate whisper.

"Of course, but I'm much more concerned they'll kill Frederick without my having at least tried to help him when I could."

When the voices distanced, Grace slid against the stone toward a section of the wall where a two-story window hung, empty of glass and accurately placed above Frederick's position, if she guessed right. Perfect.

She would sort out what to do next, but bringing a rope was the smartest idea she'd had all day.

A few scattered stones made a wonderful perch for Elliott, and the old trellis could support part of her weight as she climbed on Elliott's shoulders to reach the window.

When she relayed the plan to the valet, his response wasn't as enthusiastic. "I simply cannot have you climbing up my person like a tree, my lady."

"I promise I won't tell Brandon. Will that suit you?"

"Lady Astley!"

"Elliott." She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him. "I admire your great propriety, but my husband is held hostage by an insane woman who has murdered at least two people and most likely has designs to murder a third, so I believe we've moved beyond the realms of propriety, don't you?"

He sighed, closed his eyes, and turned, bracing his hands against the wall for support. She slipped off her shoes to lessen the discomfort for the long-suffering man and adjusted her gown for the occupation as best she could.

Elliott would thank her for this someday. What a story to recount to his progeny!

"Just keep your eyes closed, and you can pretend it never happened." Grace shoved the rope onto her shoulder and grasped the rickety trellis. "But it would make a great scene in a book, don't you think?"

He groaned a response, or maybe it was a chuckle. She couldn't tell.

"After I'm up, I'll drop the rope for you to follow. If necessary, I'll cause a distraction so you can get into position."

"I have no doubt of your abilities to create a distraction," came his mumbled response.

At least he had faith in her.

With a bit of struggle, she made it to a full stand on his shoulders and was fairly delighted that the windowsill came to her chest. Grasping the edge of the frame, she pushed off Elliott's shoulders until her elbows hooked over the edge of the sill.

Elliott released a low grunt.

"Sorry, dear Elliott," she whispered as she clung to the frame and scraped her feet against the stone wall to gain traction.

A shuffling noise came from one corner of the house as Grace struggled through the window. Her gown billowed around her in a most unladylike way. She never imagined the female detectives in novels flapping like fish in their exploits, but in all honesty, what else could be done?

The noise came again. Closer. If the sill hadn't pressed into her stomach, stealing her breath, she would have told Elliott to hide.

She gripped the frame, her fingers pinching to the point of pain, and finally succeeded in hooking one foot into a crevice in the wall while her other leg flailed in the air. Oh good heavens, hopefully Elliott still had his eyes closed. She'd never been so thankful for pantaloons in her life!

With a final tug of her quivering arms and a push from her foot, she tumbled through the window into a quiet heap on the floor. For a second, she lay there, resting her head in her hands, breathing in and out. Her body ached a little, and the exertion proved a bit more than she'd expected, but in all truth, her other sleuthing exploits had been on the page. Perhaps she should invest in calisthenics to prepare for her next detective opportunity.

After pushing herself to a sitting position, she took inventory of her surroundings. A few pieces of broken furniture, some crumbed stone, a broken vase, and even a partially intact tapestry hinted that this space was some sort of sitting room in a previous generation. About ten feet in front of her a gaping hole opened to the floor beneath, giving more clarity to the voices below.

"I see you're finally waking, Lord Astley." A female voice rose into the cavernous space. "Don't look at me that way. If you hadn't tried to escape, you wouldn't have such a headache."

Grace's eyes widened. Oh, Lady Celia was marvelous. Exactly as any solid villainess should be!

Grace scooted on her stomach to the edge of the hole and peered down. Celia paced back and forth, the central figure dressed in a magnificent fitted purple day suit with a mummy-type skirt. Grace shook her head. The woman looked resplendent —villainously so —though Grace despised those hobble skirts. If Grace ever became a villainess, which seemed rather unlikely, she'd wear trousers as a uniform of treachery.

"Now here's what you're going to do." Celia's voice pearled with false sweetness. "You will go to London on the evening train, accompanied by Randolph and Parks. Turner and I will keep your wife and mother company. Then you'll dip into Lady Astley's substantial fortune." She named a ridiculous sum. "Transfer it into Parks's account and send me a wire that it's been done."

A muscular sort of brute stood to Celia's right, and another man, broad chested with an impressively bushy pair of black eyebrows, waited at her left with a gun in his hand. Grace held in her gasp. Oh dear, it was Captain Hook from the ship to England.

Celia had been after Frederick from the start.

"I didn't see anyone, Lady Celia." This from a man out of sight. He must've been the one snooping about outside a few seconds before. Parks, if she guessed.

Well, the odds weren't the best for Grace. Three men. One woman. But at least Elliott had a gun and Grace a pair of scissors.

"I'm not giving you anything, Celia."

Frederick's voice pulled Grace's attention back to her husband. As Celia stepped aside, Grace had a clear view of him. Air closed off in her throat. One of his eyes was swollen almost closed, blood tinged the side of his head, and ropes bound him so tightly they bunched his chest inward.

Heat scorched up from her stomach into her face. How dare they!

She shoved back from her perch, swallowing through her burning throat. This deed would not go unpunished. She searched the room, her attention landing on a broken yet heavy vase nearby. But who to aim for? Every burning coal in her chest wanted to target Celia, but the detective brain took hold. Aim for the man with the gun —she shifted her gaze back to the mastermind in purple —then she would claw Celia's eyes out.

Grace took the rope, fastened it to one of the stone pillars in the room, and peeked back out the window. Elliott waited below, so she tossed the rope over and gathered the vase in her arms. It was much heavier than she'd anticipated, which only made her choice more rewarding.

With stealthy and somewhat awkward, steps, she approached her perch directly above the place she'd seen the man with the gun. The three villains faced Frederick, their backs to Grace, but she had a clear view of her dear husband.

He looked up haphazardly but refocused his attention on her, eyes widening. Well, one eye widened, of course. The other was pitifully closed and purplish. His look of utter shock nearly distracted her from her rescue mission. Why did he look so surprised? She attempted to offer him a reassuring smile, but it didn't seem to help.

Oh well, if he'd been hit over the head, there was a good chance he wasn't thinking clearly. Before the crew of menacing man-nappers could turn, Grace nodded to her darling husband, took aim, and released the vase to its ultimate destination.

It almost hit its mark.

With a thud, then a crash, the vase slammed against the man's shoulder and maybe a part of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground and the vase crashing nearby. Grace turned to see if Elliott had made it up the rope yet, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Her plan suddenly shifted into the unknown. Where was her man with a gun?

The group of villains all stared up at her for a full five seconds, before Celia seemed to rally. "Parks, go get her."

Grace gasped. What to do? Her attention fastened on the rope and back to the hole, where the malevolent mistress of evil stared up at her. Footfall from the stairway alerted her to Parks's approach. Oh heavens! She had to do something.

Grace ran to the column and pulled up the rope. Clearly, Elliott hadn't read her mind about the plan. She'd have to lay it out more clearly next time.

She ran back toward the hole, rope in hand. It didn't look that far down. Her gaze came back to Frederick. Why was he shaking his head?

Perhaps his vision was imbalanced because of the swollen eye and possible head injury.

Parks appeared in the doorway, rushing forward as if to grab her. With a deep breath, a mental image of what she imagined Tarzan might do, and a quick prayer, she aimed for Lady Celia and slid through the hole.

Unfortunately, the idea in her head failed to execute as fluidly. In her haste to escape Parks, she overextended her swing, and since she had no trapeze experience of any kind, her legs flew in all different directions, spinning her body in a twirl of skirts, pantaloons, and red hair. One foot slammed into one of the villains, knocking him to the floor, and in another twirl she nearly decapitated Celia before landing directly on top of Frederick with such force he and the chair flipped backward.

She was no Tarzan.

It was a good thing Elliott wasn't watching, because all sorts of propriety had just flown out the broken windows.

Frederick had just been thinking about how to protect his sweet, innocent wife from the wiles of the devious Celia Blackmore Percy, when Grace—standing as a fiery fairy in forest green —materialized above him holding a—vase?

He blinked his one good eye, but the picture stayed the same.

How hard had Randolph hit him?

He blinked again, but still she stood, a flaming glint in her eyes as she raised the vase.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the vision, but her sapphire gaze pinned him with purpose, and she nodded, as if that would explain everything.

He must be dreaming. Yet the vase slipped from her grasp and crashed into Randolph, sending him to the ground.

Silence enveloped the room as everyone turned to stare up at Lady Astley.

Celia turned to Frederick, a look of utter bewilderment crossing her face. "Parks," she called, "go get her!"

"No." Frederick tugged against his binds, his chair shaking beneath the force. "Grace! Run."

Parks took off for the stairs. Grace disappeared from view, heeding his command.

"Turner, check outside to see if she's alone," Celia took a few steps back, her face raised to the second level, distracted.

With what strength he had, Frederick scooted the chair toward Randolph, who struggled to push himself up, still feeling the impact of the vase. One strong kick of Frederick's hard-toed shoe rendered the man unconscious.

Now how to protect Grace?

But then she reappeared above him with a rope? He squinted to decipher her plan. What was she going to do with—

Before he could process the possibilities, down swung his bride, gown billowing about her like a fast-approaching emerald umbrella. Her feet flung in one direction, her hair in another. There was nothing to be done but stare. His mind drew a blank.

She kicked Parks, knocked Celia down as the woman attempted to dodge Grace's uncontrolled spinning, and then landed with full force right against his chest.

Frederick's chair tilted backward and slammed against the floor with Grace and all her layers encapsulating him.

"Oh my goodness!" She pushed off him, slapping him in the nose as she did.

He nearly cried from the shock of pain.

"Frederick! I'm so sorry. I wasn't aiming for you, I promise." She grabbed his face in her palms. "I was hoping to hit Lady de Winter, but I'd never swung down on a rope before, you see, so I wasn't quite sure of the trajectory."

His brain and his vision failed to match. "What are you doing here?"

She paused, her brow crinkling. "Well, that's a silly question." Her eyes widened. "Oh, your ropes." She reached into her skirts and brought out a pair of scissors. "I'm so glad I brought along the rope and these scissors, but since I have no practice with guns, Elliott kept those."

"Elliott is here?" His throat barely worked out the question.

She cut at his bonds with her usual energy. "Did you really think I'd come to your rescue by myself?"

He raised a brow.

She sighed. "All right, I would've. But Elliott is such a gentleman, he insisted on accompanying me. I think he deserves a raise after this, Frederick."

One of the ropes loosened as the scissors slit through, but not in time to free him completely before a shadow fell over them.

"Grace!"

She turned too late. Parks jerked her up by her arm and twisted the scissors from her grip. With a firm tug of her body eliciting a squeal of pain, Parks pinned Grace against him, opening the scissors and pressing a blade to her throat.

Frederick struggled against the loosening bonds as Celia rose from the ground—with some difficulty—and dusted off her skirt. "Well done, Parks." She pushed back a strand of loose ebony hair from her forehead and raised her chin as she approached Grace, her smile not as quick to resurface as before. "We have all of our cards now, don't we?"

Celia stepped up to Grace, her gaze trailing the younger woman from head to toe. "I suppose you think you're clever and brave."

His beautiful wife narrowed her eyes, blue gleaming like flint. She looked stunning. "I am clever and brave. I don't have to hide behind poisonous flowers and hired thugs."

"But you see, dear." Celia ran a fingernail down Grace's cheek. "Your little exploit has done nothing but secure my plan. As long as I have you, your darling husband will give me whatever I want."

A gunshot exploded from outside.

"I don't need luck." Grace grinned. "I have a valet."

Grace's theatrics worked long enough for Frederick to loosen his bonds. One more thread.

Celia pushed Parks's hand away and placed her bony fingers around Grace's throat, squeezing. "Oh, but if I can't get what I want from Frederick Percy, I'll make certain he loses what he loves most in the process."

Grace's eyes widened as Celia's fingers increased pressure.

Everything within Frederick surged to attack. Breaking the last bind, he rushed toward Parks and Celia, managing to break her hold on his wife's neck. His clever wife made use of his disruption to bring her heel down on Parks's foot before twisting away in time for Frederick's fist to make contact with the man's face. Celia stumbled back, and Parks toppled to the floor. Within seconds, Frederick rendered him unconscious with a single blow.

Grace rolled out of the way as Frederick rushed to the attack. If she hadn't been internally shaking from her near-death experience, she'd have done something fictionally ridiculous like brand him with her lips.

But common sense and a healthy dose of feminine rage prevailed. She pushed herself to a stand in time to see Celia rushing to escape.

The woman couldn't run very fast in her fashionable outfit, but Grace's riding skirt gave her legs freedom.

"You have nowhere to go," Grace called. "The police are on their way here now." She hoped. "And I can outrun you." With certainty.

Lady Celia ran out the side door, Grace on her heels, and with a perfectly placed leap, Grace tackled Celia around the hips and they both slammed against the ground. Well, at least Celia broke Grace's fall. From the sound of it, the Villainess de Winter had her breath knocked from her.

"Ah, I see you have things well in hand, Lady Astley."

Grace looked up to find Blake staring down at her, pistol fashionably posed in his hand. She grinned. "Mr. Blake, what impeccable timing for a visit."

His lips twitched into a smile, and he offered his hand to her as he trained the gun on a flailing Celia. "I couldn't allow you to have all the adventures on your own now, could I? What sort of friend would I be?"

Grace took his proffered hand. "However did you know to come?"

His blond brows hinged. "I know too many people with too much information in various places, my lady, and I always make certain to keep informed about my friends."

"Aren't you clever to have around, then." She leaned forward, lowering her voice.

Blake's lips twisted with effort. He reached to grab Celia's arm, keeping the gun trained on her. He was quite fluid with the device, as if he used it on a regular basis.

Grace's thoughts spiraled in dastardly directions. Was Blake a secret detective of his own?

"Blake, you know you haven't got it in you to shoot me." Celia purred, jerking against his hold and sending Grace a glare.

"Actually, Celia, I've wanted to dispatch you for years." He gave her arm a tighter squeeze, and she winced. "But that would be much too easy for the likes of you and much too messy for the likes of me."

"And how is Elliott?" Grace smoothed a palm down her quaking middle. "Have you seen him?"

"He's fine, Lady Astley," Blake answered, tugging Celia away. "His boxing history came to the forefront as he took out one of Celia's brutes who attempted an escape."

Grace's mouth came unhinged. "Boxing history? Elliott?"

Before Blake answered, around the corner of the house came a rush of men in uniforms followed by Detective Miracle. "Lady Celia Blackmore Percy, you are under arrest for the murders of Davis Lockley; Richard, Lord of Astley; as well as his son, Edward Percy." Two men took her by the arms.

"And the attempted murder of quite a few others," Grace added.

Celia's face contorted into a menacing sneer as she was led away. With three murders and countless other crimes for which to atone, Celia Blackmore Percy was likely out of Grace's life for good.

Grace held her smile in place until everyone had disappeared around the corner of the ruins. Then her knees gave way. She sank to the ground, the tension in her muscles uncoiling and leaving a shaky response. Poor Frederick had been man-napped and beaten. She'd scaled a wall, propelled from a ceiling, and been held at scissors-point, not to mention almost being strangled.

But everyone was safe now. Her emotions trembled beneath the declaration. Thank You, God .

"Grace."

She turned to see Frederick march through the door. His breaths shook his broad shoulders, and his eyes—or at least the one that wasn't swollen shut—fastened on her, holding her in place. Tears swarmed into her vision.

In one fluid movement, he pulled her up from the ground and wrapped her in the safety of his arms. That's when the tears came, full and free against his strong shoulder. She tightened her grip around his waist, burying her face in his neck, refusing to let go. They stood together in an embrace until their lips finally found each other—a kiss of gratitude, of near-loss, of acknowledgment that they'd fought for each other and won.

"You shouldn't have come." He drew back, his knuckles skimming her cheek, words rasped. "You could have been killed."

Her lip pouted, wounded at his reprimand. "But you needed me."

A sound caught in his throat, and he lowered his forehead to hers. "Yes, my darling. I do need you. Always."

Elliott gathered up their dishes from the small table in their sitting room, effectively taking Brandon's place as the butler recuperated from the concussion he'd received when Celia's men had taken Frederick.

Frederick welcomed the intimacy of their quarters over the dining hall, especially after the harrowing events of the day. His body ached all over, and though his eye was still sore, the swelling had reduced enough for him to see across the table to his wife.

She'd born a few wounds of her own. A scrape down one cheek. A shallow cut to her neck, and a bruise on her forehead. But in that moment as candlelight flickered across her features, deepening her flaming hair to auburn, she'd never looked more beautiful.

"How do you suppose Blake knew when to arrive?"

Frederick chuckled and sent Elliott a glance. "Blake has an uncanny way of knowing things."

"It likely helps that he spends too much idle time either being arrested or befriending police, my lady."

A laugh burst from Grace, the sound of it soothing over some of the residual pain in Frederick's chest at the idea of losing her. "Why does that not surprise me at all?"

"Because you've gotten to know my lifelong friend well enough to expect no less." Frederick answered. "And your exuberant imagination likely does the rest."

"I'm glad he went to speak to your mother," Grace added, nodding her thanks to Elliott as he took her plate.

"He's always had a way of talking with her," Frederick nodded. "But she must still be held accountable for her actions."

"Your mother has borne the penalty of her choices for years." Grace's fingers covered his. "If there's a way to extend mercy, perhaps the ending of her story will look very different than the preceding chapters."

He breathed out his frustrations and collected Grace's hand in his. "I will only do it for your sake. Not hers."

"That's an excellent place to start." She pulled his fingers to her lips and kissed them, her smile more captivating and precious with each passing minute. "You were very brave today. A true hero."

"A hero?" He chuckled. "What about you? I suspect not even Robert Louis Stevenson or Jules Verne could have posed such a rescue as we witnessed today."

"You certainly know how to compliment a lady." Her face beamed with pleasure. "But despite her superb villainous qualities, I should never wish to meet Celia again."

"According to Detective Miracle, evidence has been mounting against her for some time. All they needed was proof to connect everything." Frederick stood and brought Grace up with him. "Parks was quick to confess the entire plan, with Turner not far behind."

"Will she…hang?"

He almost smiled at the compassion in her question. Even with the ruthless Celia Blackmore Percy, Grace desired mercy. Would he ever plumb the depths of her generous heart?

"I cannot say." He squeezed her hand, drawing her to the window seat as Elliott continued clearing their dishes. "But she certainly met her match with you, darling."

She looked up at him, moonlight drifting through the window and draping her in a halo of white. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Celia lived for her own desires, her own happiness. She had no script for you and your selflessness."

"Actually, what she didn't expect was how we worked together. She'd anticipated you to be alone, like her." Grace settled next to him in the window. "But I'm here to ensure you're never alone."

He tugged her close to his side. "Nor I you."

"And we make an excellent team. Who's to say we might not become detectives all our own."

Tension flew back into his spine. "Grace."

"You were perfect for finding clues. The letters. The flowers. Putting the pieces together." Her eyes sparkled in a terrifying sort of way.

"I have no desire to—"

"And we can learn from Detective Miracle." She squeezed his fingers, her smile growing. "You have to admit it's rather exhilarating."

"Near-death experiences? Being held at knifepoint?"

"Scissors-point," she corrected. "And since Mr. Patton is teaching me to drive, not all the pressure would be on you for a quick getaway. I wonder if you might help improve my archery though."

"Patton is teaching you to drive?"

"I started archery once, but Father stopped lessons when I almost killed the dog."

"Grace." This time his attempt was half-hearted. She was happiest when concocting plans.

"He was a very old dog." She nodded, looking duly remorseful. "I feel I would do better now."

"I've heard that Mr. Reams, our gardener, is quite adept at throwing knives," came Elliot's addition.

Grace's mouth dropped wide to match her eyes.

"You're not helping, Elliott."

"Ever so sorry, sir." His old friend chuckled before opening the door to leave. The door closed behind his apology.

"Knives would be excellent protection, Frederick." She leaned close, drawing him into her wonder. "But what would be even better? Pistols. Aunt Lavenia has already offered a lesson or two."

Frederick shook his head, his smile unfurling at her tenacity, and he gently framed her face with his hands. All words closed off in his throat at the perplexing mixture of gratitude and fascination. He might have desired a bride more fitting for the life of an earl, but God knew what he needed most. A bride for his heart, his soul, his imagination. And Gracelynn Ferguson Percy proved beyond his imaginings.

"Darling, we'll talk about it tomorrow."

She slid her palm up his shirt to grab his collar. "I know what you're doing."

He tipped his face closer, drawn in by the light in her eyes, the scent surrounding her, everything Grace. His mouth found hers ready, soft. "And what is that?"

"You're trying to distract me," her words whispered against his mouth.

His lips trailed down her neck, inciting a gasp. "Actually I'm using my excellent skills of deduction to come to the conclusion that my wife is ready for bed."

He felt her smile more than saw it. "See what an excellent start at investigating you have already made."

He sighed and embraced her just as she was. Besides, she'd find a pistol waiting for her in two days when she opened her birthday present beneath the Christmas tree. "And how are my deductions?"

"I believe, my dear Watson, the game is afoot." She stood and drew him up with her toward his bedroom door. Her eyes glittered like the darling pixie she was. "In fact, I have a few private mysteries of the romantic variety just for you."

Merry Christmas, indeed! Frederick rolled his gaze to heaven in silent thanksgiving. He was playing for the happily-ever-after with Grace, even if it included another mystery…or two.