Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Dismissed? Grace pinched her arm more tightly around the perfectly pos-tured valet as they finished their walk up the trail. If she hadn't liked Lord Astley so much, she'd have been tempted to think very bad thoughts about him. Thoughts of Gothic horror proportions. But he really was much too nice for Gothic horror. Perhaps murder mystery? Her grin tipped. Yes. He could be the handsome inspector who was always proven wrong by the lady detective.

She sighed in resignation. Oh well, not always proven wrong. She did want the inspector to have some wits about him. It made for a much more balanced story.

But in all honesty, why did everyone think she couldn't manage distressing news? With the amount of fiction she consumed, she would likely be the least shocked of anyone.

Something was amiss. Something about the saddle and Lord Astley's fall.

The tingling of a mystery pricked at her scalp, even as she was relegated to safety in the house. Ridiculous men! She had to learn the truth.

"I do hope Lord Astley's ankle is quickly mended." She glanced in her periphery at the valet, who seemed much too young and handsome for his job. Why had she supposed English valets were old and disgruntled as a rule?

"It was fortunate you were out early enough to find him so quickly."

Best create friendly dialogue to throw the good valet off her sleuthing scent. "Well, it's the only time I can ride astride without offending half of the women at the house party and unnerving half the men. You know, it really doesn't make sense to get ourselves nearly killed for some ill-placed sense of propriety. I feel certain you wouldn't want to ride sidesaddle if you were a woman, would you, Elliott?"

He kept his gaze appropriately diverted, but his lips pinched in the strangest way. "I really can't give an informed opinion on the matter, miss."

"No, I suppose you can't." Grace's laugh bubbled out. "But what a valiant attempt you're making at not being horrified by my question. I can already tell you are the excellent sort."

"I should like to think so, miss."

A little chink in his well-honed demeanor teased her curiosity. "You know I'm to escort my sister to England after the wedding, don't you?"

"Indeed, miss."

"As you can imagine, I have little to no idea of how to behave in an English country house with a sister who will be lady of the manor."

He dipped his head again, looking unsure how to respond. "It is a change, miss."

"I'd be ever so grateful for your guidance in any way you see I might unwittingly embarrass Lord Astley or his mother, or…well, the entire household. Because to be perfectly candid, Elliott, I'm well aware enough of my defects to know that my good intentions rarely show how good they are in public."

Both his brows rose to his hairline.

"In all honesty"—she lowered her voice, as if anyone were near enough to hear—"they're no good in private either, but fewer people witness the horrid effects."

He pinched his lips into almost a smile. "I shall endeavor to do what I can, miss.

"Thank you. I'll feel such relief knowing I have a friend on the inside of Havensbrooke."

The man cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Miss Grace, but Lord Astley will be there for you and your sister. He isn't one of the usual sorts to go off clubbing and on hunting parties, as is want of most of the gentry. He means to take good care of his estate and tenants, as his grandfather before him."

Oh! Did Elliott believe she and Lord Astley might become friends? Her finger trailed to her smile, reliving a rather decadent moment of mistaken identity. She blinked away from the thought. Good heavens! "I'm glad to hear it, Elliott, for I should like to be friends with Lord Astley, for my sister's sake if nothing else."

The sound of voices up ahead as they approached the stables turned her mind back to the mystery at hand. Her thoughts spun through what she knew. She slid another glance to the good valet at her side—now more relaxed than before—and dared a little sleuthing. "It is such a shame that Lord Astley fell from his horse only days before the wedding. I was under the impression he rode regularly and quite well."

"He's been an excellent horseman since childhood, miss. This is certainly uncharacteristic."

She steadied her expression, even studied some of the ornate carvings on the stable walls as they passed. "Then perhaps a turn in the trail. He's unfamiliar with the paths here, I'd say."

Elliott shook his head. "He took the usual route he'd taken the past three mornings."

Ah, then there was certainly something unusual going on.

The clip-clop of a horse coming into the stables ahead alerted her to Lord Astley's arrival. Mr. Whitlock rushed through the archway of the courtyard, the stately man arriving in an abnormal dash.

"Is he injured?" Mr. Whitlock asked as he passed Elliott. "I've tele-phoned the doctor."

"Thank you, sir," Elliott responded. "It appears to be a sprain."

"Thank heavens." The master of the house rushed past, and Grace turned to Elliott with her sweetest smile, or at least she hoped it was her sweetest. Her mind was too busy to really focus on the perfect tilt.

"Well, Mr. Elliott, thank you for escorting me." She released her hold on his arm. "But I can make it the rest of the way on my own. I feel certain Lord Astley will require your immediate assistance."

He tucked his head. "Yes, miss."

As soon as Elliott turned the corner into the stables, Grace scanned the courtyard and then dashed through the arched doorway of the servants' entry. An advantage of visiting this house every summer for ten years meant she knew all the secret hiding places.

With silent steps, she rounded the back of the stables, nearing the male voices.

"The saddle strap, sir. It was tampered with." Cam's voice quaked. Poor boy. He likely feared losing his job, and his widowed mother counted on his income.

"And you didn't notice when you saddled the horse." This from Mr. Whitlock.

"N–no, sir. It was one of the new saddles, and it went on for Lord Astley as it had every morning for his ride."

A ladder to the nearest loft caught her attention. Certainly it would afford her a better view of the scene. She quietly shimmied up and crawled closer to the voices, peering through the cracks in the old wooden loft. Down below, Cam stood, a saddle at his feet, his head bent and hat in hand. Lord Astley leaned against Elliott on one side while Lord Astley's friend Mr. Blake, Mr. Whitlock, and the stable manager, Cooks, formed a half circle on the other side of the saddle.

"How could you not have known, boy?" Mr. Whitlock offered an uncustomary growl. The man rarely raised his voice, even for tea. "The strap is cut clean through. How it stayed on the animal as long as it did is a miracle."

"Were there any strangers in the vicinity? Unfamiliar faces?" This from Mr. Blake, who had knelt to examine the saddle.

"None other than the guests and their servants, sir," Cooks answered. "And we keep a sharp eye out where the animals are concerned. Had a couple stolen not four months ago."

"And I inspected the saddle before setting it in place, Mr. Whitlock, just as Mr. Cooks taught me," Cam offered.

"So whoever tampered with the saddle must have done so just this morning, between the time you inspected it and I rode off." Lord Astley replied, his low voice a rumble of consonants and wonderfully English vowels.

Her neck tingled from the memory of his riding behind her up the trail. Heaven and earth, what a glorious feeling to have a massive, strong man who smelled of amber so close. Romance definitely had become more relatable over the last twenty-four hours.

Grace flipped her mind back to the present with a little shake of her head. Whoever tampered with the saddle must have been familiar with the stables enough to know which saddle would have been chosen for Lord Astley. The servants wouldn't have any reason to sabotage Lord Astley's saddle, but would a guest?

She slid closer to the edge of the loft, the wood bending beneath her weight. She'd read in one mystery book or another about something similar happening when the strap wasn't cut through, only partially. As the rider took on more speed and added more stress to the straps, the saddle would break, making an apparent accident take place long after the actual crime had been committed. So very clever. She squinted to try and make out the saddle strap.

"After the incident at the train depot, now this?" Mr. Whitlock shook his frosty head. "It sounds rather suspicious, Frederick."

"Why would anyone from our party wish to cause me harm?" Lord Astley's quick, deep response reverberated among the group. He did have a remarkably pleasant voice, and that counted in Grace's book. Words meant a great deal and spoken in his velvety tones, only made her crave chocolate for some reason.

"Until we're certain, we should all keep our eyes open." Mr. Blake shot his friend a look. Ah, Mr. Blake had a solid head on his shoulders.

Two incidents? And aimed at Lord Astley? Highly suspicious.

"We'll have the grounds searched." Mr. Whitlock gestured toward Cooks. "And I must decide what to do with Cam."

Grace caught her gasp in her hand. Cam wasn't the culprit. The stable boy never was. No, no, no. Hadn't these men read their fiction? Her movement incited the strangest sounds from the board on which she lay, but before she could scoot away from the edge, the wood beneath her made a resounding crack. In one massive crash, Grace fell through the loft floor and into a pile of hay below.

"What in heaven's name!"

"Is it the rogue?"

"I say!"

Well, if she was going to fall into a bed of hay in front of a group of men, at least she was wearing breeches instead of a gown. Another argument in favor of breeches.

She sat up and once she'd brushed straw and hair from her face, found herself looking up into a group of unhappy men. Cooks even had a pitchfork in hand, pointed at her.

"Grace?" called Mr. Whitlock.

"Miss Grace!" Elliott's polished accent lilted.

"Grace Ferguson." This from Lord Astley, who didn't sound surprised at all.

Grace opened her mouth to respond then closed it again, attempting to work up a logical reason she'd just fallen from the stable loft during a private discussion about scandal. "A haystack, how fortunate." That sounded noncommittal enough.

With a quirk to his lips, Mr. Blake offered a hand. "A new reading spot, Miss Ferguson?"

"Not as effective without a book, Mr. Blake." She wiped her hand against her breeches and placed it in his with a smile, as he raised her to her feet. "Though a possible daydreaming nook, I should think, once the boards are mended."

"Curiosity will be your downfall, dear girl." Mr. Whitlock lost some of the bite in his reprimand. "I've always told you that. You are forever finding yourself in places you shouldn't be."

"Quite literally my downfall this morning, wouldn't you say?" She dusted off her breeches and sent a smile to her audience, her gaze finally landing on Lord Astley. "Perhaps Lillias shouldn't hear of my latest esca-pade. She'd be mortified."

A very appropriate use of the word at this point.

"You shouldn't be here." Lord Astley narrowed his eyes, staring down at her from his towering height.

"It's a good thing I am, or you might have made a grave mistake on poor Cam's part." She held her head high and walked to the saddle.

"A mistake? What could you possibly know about this?"

Mr. Whitlock waved away Lord Astley's exclamation. "Not to contradict you, Frederick, but Grace is quite the amateur sleuth. Those horses that were stolen?" He gestured toward her. "She's the one who found a clue to the thieves, just with a little bit of her snooping about and that unrelenting imagination of hers."

"Unnerving to have such a busybody about, if you ask me." Cooks sniffed.

Well, no one did, Mr. Grumpy Goose. But Grace kept the response inside, all the more determined to prove her point. "One only needs to look a little closer." She knelt by the saddle and examined the strap. Aha, exactly as she'd thought it would look from the evidence in one of her mystery books. Slit and then ripped.

"I appreciate Miss Ferguson's youthful and inventive mind, but you can't really suppose she'd—"

"Lord Astley." She broke into his doubt with a glare. "If you will note, the saddle strap was not sliced all the way through. Only part of the way." She turned the strap around for the men to view. "The smooth section suggests the work of the knife, but this more ragged, stretched part?"

"The cut working its way out as Freddie rode the horse."

"Yes." She nodded to Blake. "It's exactly how the Duke of Darber was murdered to make it appear like an accident."

"Who on earth?" Mr. Whitlock scratched his head. "Is he someone you knew from across the pond, Frederick?"

"Fiction." Lord Astley added, holding Grace's gaze. " The Duke's Dissent. "

All annoyance for the dashing earl dissipated into utter appreciation. Any man who spoke in fiction was certainly worth forgiving. "Exactly." She rewarded his excellent deduction with a smile and turned her attention back to Mr. Whitlock. "And it's perfect because the actual crime can happen hours before the results, so the perpetrator has plenty of time to disappear from the scene, which is likely what happened here and will cause a nuisance in uncovering the truth."

"I should be concerned about the workings of that mind of yours, Miss Grace, if I didn't know you had such a sweet heart." Mr. Whitlock shook his head. "But you're right. I see it now."

"That does narrow down the possible suspects, don't you think?" She stood and pushed back her hair, her fingers pricking on a few pieces of hay. "It would have to be someone who knew Lord Astley's morning routine and had ready access to the stables without causing suspicion."

"Cooks, come with me. We'll start a list and give notice for certain servants to keep watch." Mr. Whitlock turned to Lord Astley. "You need to see to your ankle."

"I'll take a ride about," Blake offered. "Though, if Miss Ferguson's conjectures hold true, our suspect has had plenty of time to disappear."

It felt rather nice to be taken somewhat seriously now and again. "Not to add concern, but perhaps someone should subtly interview the guests."

"The guests?" Mr. Whitlock's bushy brows took flight.

"She's right." Blake sent her a nod. "They would have access, but it's going to take subtle investigating. Might I offer my skills in that instance?"

"Blake is rather proficient at getting information from people without them even knowing," Lord Astley added.

"Very well. I'd be grateful for any help in the matter," came Mr. Whitlock's reply.

Grace sent a curtsy to the group and stepped back toward the stable doors, locking eyes with the earl. "Well now, as Lord Astley has so kindly reminded me, I must return to the house before I'm missed."

She veered to leave.

"Miss Ferguson."

Grace paused and pivoted back to Lord Astley. "Yes, my lord?"

"I would appreciate you keeping this bit of information to yourself." His dark eyes narrowed, intense. "We wouldn't wish to cause any undue concern without proof."

"You have nothing to worry about, my lord. Lillias isn't fond of mysteries." She pinched her hands together with purpose. "And I have every intention of keeping your wedding on schedule and your bride happy. Surely nothing worse could happen than a possible murder attempt."

Grace scanned the bookshelves, glancing through her favorite titles. What would he like? Oh! Jules Verne's Michael Strogoff, but it was in French. She tilted her head and examined the binding. Well, of course an earl would know French.

She moved down the row of bookshelves. Aha! The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers. Espionage. Perfect. And perhaps it would encourage his own solution to his current mysterious plot. She placed the second book on top of the first and quickly slipped up the winding staircase to the library balcony in search of the Arthur Conan Doyle selections. Was The Earl of Notham in Mr. Whitlock's collection? Several people attempted to kill that particular earl, and he outsmarted them all. Definitely a good choice for Lord Astley's self-preservation.

"The hall is clear," a harsh whisper—female—slit the ominous silence from the direction of the secret stair.

Grace's body stilled. Was that Lillias's voice?

"Hurry. You can't be seen."

Grace slipped closer, listening into the darkness of the stairway entry.

"Come tonight, Lillias." A male voice emerged next, urgent.

Who on earth could he be? Not Father, from the youthfulness in the man's tone. And what single man would dare tread in the women's bedroom hallway? Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock ensured single men and women were judiciously separated on opposite sides of the house to keep from impropriety, as Father explained it. Though Grace still wasn't fully aware of all the shades of such impropriety to which he referred.

"You're asking too much, my dear." Her sister's voice staggered with pitiful sobs.

Grace rushed to the shadows of the secret stairs to help, but the male voice halted her in her steps. "We have only days to make a lifetime of memories. Please, come to my room again tonight."

His room? Again! Grace's palm flew to her mouth, barely catching her gasp. Lillias visited this man in his room? At night?

That wasn't appropriate by any standard she'd ever read, unless for illness, birth, or when someone's bed was on fire.

"I don't know if I can." The plea in her sister's voice drew Grace a step closer.

"You found a way last night and the night before, and even this afternoon."

Grace nearly dropped the books in her hands. Lillias was supposed to be in town visiting a friend this afternoon before dinner with Lord Astley.

Lord Astley! Her eyes grew wide. Her sister was marrying Lord Astley in a few days and spending the night with… Whom? She knew his voice. Her mind grasped for a face to match.

"I have loved you for years, Lillias. Give me these last hours! If we must live an ocean apart, I'll not make you quit us so easily."

For years? The voice clicked into place, and Grace dropped back against the wall to catch her weight. Anthony Dixon, their neighbor in Richmond.

"Easily?" The word tore from her sister with such agony Grace reached for her own throat in empathetic pain. "I leave my soul here with you when I go. I must do this for my family. For us. It's the only way."

Grace shook her head, trying to make sense of it. If Lillias loved Anthony Dixon, why would she agree to marry Lord Astley? Surely a title wasn't worth this subterfuge and heartache.

"For us?" His tenor trembled like Grace's ragged breaths. "How can your choice to marry another man be for us?"

Silence greeted his question, followed by the sound of a muffled sob. "I'm with child, Tony."

Air stopped in Grace's throat.

"No one can know. If Father breaks the contract with Lord Astley, he'll be ruined. There's no other way. I have to marry as soon as possible so no one will ever know."

Grace's stomach coiled until she bent from the pain. Poor Lillias. Poor Anthony. She squeezed the books to her chest. Poor Lord Astley.

"How…how could you do this?"

"I was going to back out of the agreement last month, but then I discovered…my situation. Father needs this alignment to solidify some of his business dealings, but I need it to keep from ruining my family's reputation. If I don't marry Lord Astley soon, he'll know the baby isn't his."

A baby? Grace's vision glossed over with a rush of tears. A lie?

"Lillias, you're carrying my child and my heart." Anthony's voice grated with raspy emotion. "You're choosing to separate us forever."

Grace squeezed her eyes closed, quelling a whimper. No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to happen. Lord Astley and Lillias were supposed to live a fairy-tale future. Grace sent a look to the ceiling, the magnificent library painting of curious onlookers peered down to her from their lofty spot above, and she closed her eyes against their blank perusal. The only answer came from divine intervention beyond the painted ceiling, and Grace prayed that God would unleash a way of escape. God, whatever it takes, please make a way to redeem this broken thing. For Lillias, Tony…and for Lord Astley.