12

While it was still early evening, Grace found Agnes upstairs, readying for bed. “Wait,” she called, bursting into the room. “Would you like to earn extra wages?”

“How is that, miss?” Agnes paused in pulling her nightgown from beneath her pillow.

“Agnes, you really must learn to call me Grace. However, if you take the temporary position I propose, you’ll need to remember your etiquette.” She relayed the details of her meeting with the uppity Violet Arnold. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first, and you’re certainly welcome to refuse. I just felt badly for Lord Roxwood. She seemed to harp on him with every other word. Besides, I cannot imagine it would be for more than a few days. He’s even willing to pay you double wages for your services.”

Agnes brightened. “Why, I’d be pleased to do it. Who would not, for twice the pay? And after hearing your impression of Miss Arnold, it sounds like I’ll earn every shilling.”

“Every shilling and pence,” Grace said with a smile. She was pleased her friend had agreed to help Jack sort this mess. “And with all the extra money, you must buy sweets for the rest of us the next time you visit Margate—and no getting lost.”

High-pitched laughter escaped Agnes, and she quickly covered her mouth. Grace grinned.

“Certainly not,” her maid said after a moment. “When does Miss Arnold wish me to come up to the house?”

“Straightaway, I’m afraid. I know it’s late, but she wants an interview. I’m certain she’ll give you the job. We’d better first gain Mrs. Vance’s approval. We cannot have Lord Roxwood bullying her again.” Grace cringed at the possibility.

Mrs. Vance sat in the small parlor, reading the newspaper. The others were in the kitchen playing cards. “Agnes and I would like to speak with you, if you have a moment,” Grace said.

Mrs. Vance looked up from her reading. “It’s just terrible,” she said, frowning. “Our men fight overseas and risk their lives, while this one”—she flashed them the printed article—“sells our country’s secrets to the enemy! Well, I don’t mean to wish anyone ill, but she’s getting her comeuppance, this Mata Hari, or whoever she is. The court just found her guilty of treason. She’s to be executed.” She shook her head. “A sorry thing altogether, if you ask me.”

Folding the newspaper, Mrs. Vance set it on her lap and looked up at them with a curious smile. “Now, what was it you wished to talk to me about?”

Agnes looked pale and anxious. Grace gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and said, “Agnes has been offered a position up at Roxwood Manor,” before she too lost her courage.

All pleasantness vanished as Mrs. Vance launched from her chair, knocking the newspaper to the floor. “So, his lordship wants to steal another of my workers. And did he threaten to run us off his lands if I refuse or simply go over my head again?”

“It’s not like that at all,” Grace said and explained the circumstances of Miss Arnold’s arrival. “There is no one at the house qualified to attend her,” she finished.

Mrs. Vance looked ready to do battle. Grace regretted her hasty offer to Jack. Perhaps if she hadn’t volunteered Agnes’s services, Miss Arnold would have returned to London.

Yet if that were the case, Violet would have remained in the city when her own maid took ill. The woman obviously planned to stay and if possible make Jack’s life more miserable.

Grace noted Agnes’s crestfallen expression and knew her friend was counting on earning those double wages for her future dress shop. “Please, Mrs. Vance, Agnes would be needed for only a short time, no more than a few days,” she said. “Lord Roxwood regrets the inconvenience to you,” she added, believing he would echo her sentiments.

Mrs. Vance looked at both of them. “Is this all right with you, Pierpont?”

“Oh, yes!” Agnes nodded vigorously.

“Three days, that’s it,” Mrs. Vance said, frowning. “After which Miss Arnold can send to London for someone else. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely,” Grace and Agnes chorused in unison.

Mrs. Vance turned to Grace. “You’ve managed to make us shorthanded once again, Mabry. Now the others must work all the harder because you’re determined to hire out our workforce.”

“Lord Roxwood won’t need my services for a while,” Grace said with a stab of guilt. “I’m hardly as skilled as Agnes, but happy to work in her place.”

“Good,” Mrs. Vance said. “You can begin tonight. In the barn you’ll find a crate full of chaffing to be loaded into sacks. I was going to ask for a couple of volunteers, but you can have the privilege. We’ve a good hour of light remaining. Still, take a lantern just in case. After you’ve finished, we’ll go over those section reports and time sheets you’ve been working on.” She eyed Grace’s attire. “And I’d change out of those clothes if I were you.” She then brushed past them to exit the parlor.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?” Grace spoke with forced gaiety, trying not to imagine the long night ahead. “I can shovel a bit of fodder into sacks, that’s not so bad.”

“I think if you let Lord Roxwood steal any more workers, Mrs. Vance will turn you into fodder,” Agnes said, then loosed another burst of her infectious laughter that made them both smile. “But you did pull it off, miss. And I appreciate it very much.”

“You’re welcome. Now, you’d better be off.”

While Agnes left the gatehouse for the manor, Grace changed and pedaled her bicycle toward the barn.

Inside, she eyed the enormous crate of chaff. She drew a deep breath and lit the lantern, then grabbed a shovel and a burlap sack and began to work.

She’d only labored an hour when a voice called from the barn door, “I hear the future Lady Roxwood’s come to call?” Clare stepped inside. “What’s she like?”

Grace paused to swipe at a piece of straw stuck to her lower lip. “The word duchess comes to mind.”

Clare grinned. “I guess she didn’t make an impression, then?”

“Hardly, unless one wishes to be in the company of the most rude, ungrateful, and arrogant woman . . .” Grace bit off the rest of her tirade. “I sound like the worst shrew, don’t I? Not exactly a shining example of the WFC.”

“Well, I’m a fair judge of shrews,” Clare said, “and I think I still have you beat. Want some help?”

“I’d love it.” Grace handed her the shovel and held the sack as Clare filled it with the fodder.

“You know, Grace, I still feel awful for the way I treated you,” Clare said. “And I appreciate you keeping my secret.”

“I hope you realize by now I am no aristocrat. Though after meeting Miss Arnold, I can understand why you dislike them.” Grace tied off the full sack and put it alongside the others she’d already completed. “Have you heard any more about Daisy?”

Clare shook her head. “Mr. Pittman, the man I hired, is still making inquiries.” She pursed her lips, then said, “I confess it’s difficult to concentrate on work, knowing my daughter might be so close.”

“I can only imagine.” Grace met her gaze with sympathy. “When will you hear from him next?”

“Tomorrow or the next day,” Clare said. “Then once we find out she’s there—”

“I’ll drive you myself, as promised.” Grace reached for Clare’s arm. “You’ll get her back, Clare. Have faith, right?”

“I can’t afford not to,” she whispered, placing a hand over Grace’s. “Now come on, let’s get this finished up. Becky, bless her, made one of her delicious desserts for supper and saved a helping just for you. And you haven’t lived until you taste her raisin bread pudding.”

———

Later, after she’d eaten dessert, Grace pored over reports at the kitchen table with Mrs. Vance.

Agnes entered the house and came to the kitchen door clad in her traveling costume.

“You must have landed the job?” Grace said.

She nodded. “I just came back to get a few clothes and my toiletries.”

Hearing her arrival, Becky, Lucy, and Clare came downstairs in nightgowns and robes and dragged Agnes into the tiny parlor. Grace and Mrs. Vance joined them.

“Well? Is Miss Arnold b-beautiful?” Lucy wanted to know. “Does she wear expensive clothes from Paris?”

“She’s very pretty to look at, though not as lovely as Miss . . . Grace,” Agnes said staunchly. “Her companion, Mrs. Grant, is older and rather plain. Miss Arnold has steamer trunks and boxes filled with the latest Paris fashions. It took me almost two hours to put things away, and another twenty minutes to press the wrinkles from her tea gown for tomorrow.”

“How does she act with Lord Roxwood?” Becky piped up. “Does she kiss him with his mask on or off?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Agnes looked appalled. “And I haven’t seen Lord Roxwood, only his steward, Mr. Edwards.” Agnes turned to Grace. “Both ladies took a late supper in their rooms and then went to bed. Miss Arnold seemed quite put out when his lordship retired after you left.”

Grace felt a spurt of satisfaction, though she knew it wrong. She could only hope in the next few days his fiancée might see beyond the scars to his charming smile, the dimple in his chin . . .

Her heart squeezed as she thought of his wit and sense of humor, his quiet generosity. Would the haughty woman grow to appreciate his true worth? And would Jack share with her his fondest childhood memories, take her to Eden . . . or would she even want to go with him?

“Well, that’s a fine thing.” Becky jerked on the belt of her robe. “I came downstairs hoping for a bit of gossip, but it all sounds very dull to me.”

“And you women will be very dull tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep,” Mrs. Vance reminded them. “We’ve a full day in the fields. Agnes, please collect your things and say good-night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When the others had left the parlor, Grace asked, “Is everything all right up at the house? Are they treating you well?”

“I’m fine, miss.” Agnes offered a reassuring smile. “And Mr. Edwards seems very kind. I’ll see you in a few days.”

After she’d left and Mrs. Vance turned down the lights, Grace lay awake in bed, again unable to sleep. Twilight skies had deepened to a midnight hue, and a sliver of moon shone across the bedroom floor. Restless, she rose from her bed and moved to the open window, straining in the meager light to see Roxwood Manor and discover if the man in her thoughts stood on the balcony.

He was there—Jack’s tall silhouette poised at the rail. Her pulse pounded. What was happening to her? She found she couldn’t wait to see him again, to spar wits with him, exchange ideas, learn more about his life. She loved that he supported her passion for a woman’s right to be heard, and believed in her dream of becoming a novelist. And while he’d angered her, frustrated her, and taxed her patience, Jack never talked down to her like Clarence Fowler and even her father had done. He demanded she use her head and her imagination, proving to him she could master her words. Yet it was more than that; his confession at dinner resounded in her mind. She had become his eyes.

She should be recording all of this in her journal: her special evening with him and the thrill of being asked to dine with a man who always ate alone. Despite Violet Arnold’s unexpected intrusion, they had enjoyed their time together tonight, both of them at their ease. Closing her eyes, Grace savored again his parting words, that her presence tonight was the best birthday gift he’d received in a very long while . . .

“He’s engaged.” Clare’s reminder shot through her. Grace opened her eyes and stared out into the darkness. Jack had been pressured into the arranged marriage, having said as much when she confided Da’s ever-pending plans for her own future. She’d seen, too, the way he and Violet barely tolerated being in the same room together, and it saddened her. She wondered if she might feel the same way with Clarence Fowler, and knew it was true.

Turning from the window, she went back to bed. Grace had the fervent wish that Violet Arnold would conduct her business and be gone, so Jack would again call her to drive him about the countryside. She could fill his ears with pictures and perhaps read to him, as well. That way, he would have hours of images to recall and savor. She also wanted to explain to him how she felt and why she’d pressed him into removing his mask the other day at Margate. Not out of pity, but the desire to show him the scars didn’t matter to her.

Grace wanted . . . no, she needed to know about the man beneath, to understand his heart.

“I didn’t imagine you’d be this surprised by my arrival.” Lieutenant Marcus Weatherford, Esquire, sank into one of the leather wing chairs facing the desk. “Especially when you spend your days with Patrick Mabry’s daughter.”

“I imagined you would telephone before showing up on my doorstep,” Jack shot back.

Marcus stared at the mask and wondered when Jack had decided to remove the mesh. He felt glad of it—the thing was a bit dramatic. His friend had insisted on the splatter mask while in hospital, shortly after Violet Arnold had barged into his room unannounced. And so Marcus acquired it for him.

Now, without the mesh, seated behind his desk, Jack Benningham looked less formidable and more like the lord of the manor. Even the scar on his cheek was healing well.

“I would think you’d be grateful for the extra week I gave you,” Marcus reminded him. “I just arrived back from Paris and Mata Hari’s trial.” He paused as Knowles entered the study with a tea tray.

“Cream and two lumps, Sir Marcus, if I recall,” the butler said as he offered tea served in a delicate Sèvres cup.

“Thank you, Knowles.” Marcus sipped at the hot brew, savoring its flavor. “There are few things in life that surpass a perfect cup of tea.” He was rewarded with the stodgy butler’s smile. “And I see you’re taking quite good care of our man here, Knowles.” Marcus glanced toward Jack while he set his cup atop the desk. “Is Lord Roxwood giving you any problems?”

“Milord is the perfect gentleman, sir.” Knowles bowed before backing out of the study and closing the door.

“I believe Knowles is the perfect butler,” Marcus said, amused.

“What’s so all-important, Weatherford? Have you discovered news on Patrick Mabry?”

“Not much, old boy, though an agent with MI5 did observe a man known to have had dealings with James Heeren lunching at Swan’s last week. Mabry sat speaking with him for quite some time. We attempted to shadow the suspect afterward, but he eluded our man. Now the Admiralty’s adding pressure to send a Scotland Yard detective here to investigate his daughter. Since I felt certain you wouldn’t wish it, I came myself.” He paused to eye his friend. “How are you, anyway?”

“So you have nothing on him,” Jack said, ignoring the question. “Well, you’re wasting your time here, as well.” He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. “I found out why Mabry paid the WFC clerk to send her here.”

Marcus edged forward, noting Jack’s smile. He hadn’t seen that look in months. “Why?”

“It seems our traitor, Mabry, is a rather overprotective father. I met with my new physician yesterday, a local by the name of Strom. He happens to be related to Miss Mabry and informed me her father is concerned at her being out here on her own. In fact, Patrick Mabry arranged for her to be in Kent where the good doctor could keep an eye on her without her knowledge.”

Marcus wasn’t convinced. “Mabry bribed the clerk.”

“Yes, but don’t you see? He wished only to protect his daughter, nothing else. And I’m convinced Grace has no knowledge of it.”

“You believe this relation of hers?”

“Strom’s story fits with her description of her father.” Jack leaned forward, laying his hands on the desk. “So you can get into your car and return to London.”

“Is that any way to treat your best friend?” Marcus said, ignoring the demand. “I haven’t seen you since leaving hospital. You fled to this place before I had a chance to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Marcus.”

Marcus laughed. “By the way, I had the pleasure of your fiancée’s company at breakfast. Charming as ever.”

“Well, toward you at least. Violet’s visit was also unexpected, and just as unwelcome.” Jack rose from his chair. “Now, I repeat. Good-bye, Marcus.”

Instead of being insulted, Marcus looked at his masked friend and felt anger on his behalf. Miss Violet Arnold had turned out to be a disappointment. Wealthy and spoiled, she’d set her cap on becoming the future Countess of Stonebrooke. And while she may have genuinely grieved Hugh’s death, she’d also leaped at Jack’s offer to salvage her coronet.

Until the explosion. Marcus would never forget her reaction to his friend that day in hospital. Jack had fled to Roxwood afterward, cutting himself off from the world.

Then Patrick Mabry’s daughter arrived. Marcus could almost be grateful to her, having unwittingly helped his friend take the first step in rejoining the human race. “So, Benningham, as to my plan . . .”

“Pray tell.”

He was relieved to see Jack sit back down. “I wish to meet with Miss Mabry and take her measure.” Marcus watched his friend. “Today, if possible. Can you arrange it?”

“If I wish to.” Jack’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists against the desk.

Marcus had anticipated the reaction. He’d gathered enough from their last telephone call to realize his friend was being swayed by the young woman.

Even if her purpose at Roxwood seemed innocent, Marcus wasn’t leaving. With the Admiralty’s secret project under way and so close to the estate, he had to be sure about Miss Grace Mabry. He would observe her himself—and put her to the test. “And will you?” he asked his friend at length.

“Of course not,” Jack said. “And I have my reasons. The first being, I told you on the telephone, my staff watches her constantly. Grace has given no evidence to anyone of suspicious behavior. Secondly, I’ve interrogated her at length, and she seems all she appears, a somewhat naïve, well-bred young woman who works hard for the Women’s Forage Corps. Third, and perhaps most important, is her twin brother. Colin Mabry fights with the British Army in France, and she’s quite devoted to him.” He relaxed his hands. “I would venture at this point to say Mabry’s children are unaware of their father’s actions.”

“You make a good case, especially if the son fights in the trenches.” Marcus rose from his chair. “But there’s too much at stake to take the chance. I’d like a meeting with her, Jack.”

Jack stood, as well. “I have conditions, Marcus.” He spoke with the autocratic tone of a future earl. “I do not want her singled out for your interrogation. You will meet her along with the rest of the WFC women. And you shall simply pose as my friend.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult, Jack, since I am your friend,” Marcus growled.

“I’ll instruct Edwards to arrange it, at the farm this afternoon.”

Marcus eyed his friend pensively. “Will you go along with me?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Marcus grinned. Yes, Jack was definitely on his way back.

Grace awakened feeling more exhausted than she had the day before. It was surely the nightmare. She dreamed that the Grimm brothers’ Rumpelstiltskin, who strangely resembled the blond Violet Arnold, had locked her away in the bowels of a castle and forced her to turn burlap sacks full of chaff into gold.

Relieved to be in her bed and not in some dungeon, Grace still hoped Jack would summon her for a drive this morning, despite what he’d said the night before.

He didn’t, however, and knowing she was being foolish hadn’t eased her disappointment. She told herself she had no right to feel anything regarding Jack Benningham, but her heart already knew it was too late.

“You’re needed to drive today,” Mrs. Vance had announced, giving her hope. “Meet with Mr. Tillman at the barn.”

The summons was a far cry from the blue Daimler. “It’s an aerator,” Mr. Tillman said, walking ahead of Grace. She followed, leading one of the draft horses toward a solitary piece of machinery parked in the middle of the south pasture. It was a cross between a small horse trap and a tractor, with long, rake-like tines attached behind the seat, curving downward to within inches from the ground.

“You’ll hitch up Molly and walk her right down the middle of those windrows.” He indicated the several long lines of cut hay, raked together the day before. “The tines will sift the straw to dry it faster.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Think you can manage the job?”

“Mr. Tillman, I can hitch up a horse.” Grace struggled to be civil. He still didn’t trust her after the pig fiasco.

The farmer made a grunting noise before turning and walking away. Grace sighed as she led Molly toward the harness. “Let’s get you rigged up, girl.” Within minutes she had the horse pulling the aerator over the first windrow, sifting hay in their wake.

“Looks like you’ve got it figured out!”

Grace turned to see Mr. Tillman had stopped to watch her from a distance. She waved at him, grinding her teeth. Didn’t he think she could perform the simple task of leading a horse through grass?

When he left, she was grateful for the solitude. The sun remained hidden this morning behind an array of scattered clouds, and though there was no rain, the air felt humid and warm. Still, despite the dreariness of gray skies, she was glad to be out of the direct heat.

Grace encouraged Molly through row after row of hay, occasionally glancing behind her to see the cut grasses flying up in the air. After the first hour passed, she became restless. The job was more than a little monotonous.

“Golden windrows crawl like serpents across a sea of green,” she began, reciting aloud as she imagined her next outing with Jack. “And warm air, fragrant with the scent of mown hay, carries the buzz of bees, the chirp of robins, and fluttering finches across my path.”

Turning to gaze out across the pasture, she waxed on, “Beyond this valley lies another, then another, all patchworks of yellow, gold, and green that bind the countryside. And edged like lace against the land, trees in reds, browns, and greens crowd one another for the sky.”

Her attention darted back to Molly as new inspiration struck. “My dun-colored steed is graceful and steady, fearless as her hooves crush these endless snakes swimming ahead of us. With her long, white tail, my beloved charger banishes other foes—the small winged beasts that arrive on the morning dew, attempting to attack my face and her backside—”

“Grace!”

Lucy waved as she ran toward her. Grace reined in the mare.

“My, you’ve n-nearly finished!” Lucy eyed her progress with approval. Then she grabbed for Molly’s bridle. “I came to fetch you. Mrs. Vance wants us all in the barn. There’s a visitor from the manor who wishes to meet us.”

Dread filled Grace. “Miss Arnold?”

Lucy shrugged. “Mrs. Vance just said to be quick.”

After removing Molly from the harness, she and Grace walked the mare back to the barn. They had just gone inside when the sound of a car’s approach caught their attention.

It couldn’t be Miss Arnold, unless she knew how to drive. Grace listened to the engine’s purr drawing closer. Nor was the car Lord Roxwood’s Daimler.

Curious, she awaited their visitor’s arrival. Would Jack be with them?

Clare sidled up next to her, meeting her gaze with a look of equal anticipation.

Minutes later, a man Grace had never seen before entered the barn. Like Jack, he was tall and powerfully built, yet his features were more patrician than rugged. He also wore fine clothes, his beige suit of summer linen accentuated by a matching waistcoat and yellow-and-brown-striped tie. As he entered the barn, he removed his straw boater hat.

Grace’s breath caught in her chest when Jack entered directly behind him.

“Lord Roxwood, it’s a pleasure.” Mrs. Vance moved to greet them, seeming composed despite Jack’s mask. Grace glanced at her co-workers. Becky’s mouth hung open, her soft brown eyes wide with shock, while Lucy couldn’t seem to take her attention from him. Even Clare looked stony-faced, blinking several times.

“Madam,” Jack said, remaining near the door. “I’d like to introduce my friend, Sir Marcus Weatherford. He expressed a wish to meet the ladies of the Women’s Forage Corps and see your operation.”

Sir Marcus stepped forward. “I am honored to be in the company of such lovely patriots.” His smile flashed beneath a trimmed brown mustache as he gazed at each of them. All in all, Grace thought he seemed quite fit. She wondered why he was here and not over in France. Or was he one of Jack’s conchie friends?

Sir Marcus’s attention seemed to linger on Clare before he turned back to Mrs. Vance. “I apologize for any inconvenience.”

“You honor us, Sir Marcus!” Mrs. Vance’s hands fluttered as she began introductions. “This is Miss Becky Simmons, one of our baling hands.” She nodded at Becky, who rushed forward to execute a quick curtsy. “Miss Lucy Young is our horse-transport driver.” Lucy moved to mimic her co-worker. “And Miss Clare Danner is another of our baling hands.”

Clare stood beside Grace, unmoving. Sir Marcus hesitated, then swiftly closed the distance between them. “My pleasure, Miss Danner,” he said, offering a most charming bow.

Crossing her arms, Clare merely nodded in what seemed a mandatory gesture. Then she turned from him and moved over to stand beside Lucy and Becky.

Mrs. Vance shot Clare a reproving look. “And you see Miss Grace Mabry before you. She acts as our section clerk when she’s not employed by Lord Roxwood.”

“Ah, Miss Mabry, I’ve heard much about you.” Sir Marcus offered another polite bow.

“Shall I take that as a compliment?” Grace darted a glance toward the tall man standing at the door. Like Clare, Jack’s arms were folded across his chest as he leaned against the doorjamb. Head cocked as if intent on hearing every word.

“Most assuredly,” Sir Marcus said, smiling.

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered him a gracious nod.

“Your driving skills have impressed my friend,” he said, brown eyes sparkling. “In fact, I believe your morning outings have become the highlight of his day.”

“Why . . . thank you.” A flutter rose in her throat as she again looked to Jack. Below the mask his jaw tensed, his lips forming a taut line. What was wrong? Had he changed his mind from the other night?

A thought struck, and her insides ached. Had he reconciled with Miss Arnold?

“They are the highlight of mine as well,” she said, still determined to speak the truth. The hardness eased from Jack’s face, and he smiled. Grace felt light-headed with pleasure.

“Excellent,” Sir Marcus said. “Would you do me the favor of taking Lord Roxwood and me for a ride tomorrow morning? I’d like to observe the WFC’s operation, and if I drive, I’m afraid I’ll be too preoccupied to enjoy the full experience.”

“I’d be happy to,” Grace said, pleased by the request. “If Lord Roxwood is agreeable.”

“Bring the Daimler around at nine,” he called, then abruptly left the barn.

Sir Marcus glanced at the spot where his friend had been and then hastily turned back to Grace. “Until tomorrow, Miss Mabry.”

Before departing, he paused in front of Clare. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Danner.” He held out his hand, and it was a moment before she gave him hers. He raised it to his lips for a light kiss. “I hope we meet again,” he said before releasing her.

“Ladies, thank you for your time,” he said to the rest.

“Oh, isn’t he handsome!” Becky cried as soon as the men had left the barn. They heard the car’s engine come to life, then grow distant as their visitors drove away from the farm. “Tall and dressed in such fancy clothes. He even kissed your hand, Clare! Sir Marcus is sweet on you,” she sang.

“He is no such thing,” Clare said. “Marcus Weatherford is just another conceited man with a title who thinks he can walk on those beneath him.”

Grace saw her friend’s shaking hands. Was she angry . . . or was it something else?

Clare whirled from them and stormed outside.

“What’s with her?” Becky asked.

“You know how Clare feels about the peerage,” Grace said. And rightly so, she thought with compassion. “She’ll be fine. Just leave her be for a while.”

Grace considered her own folly with Jack Benningham. How had she allowed herself to care so very much about him? Longing to be in his company, to talk with him, play their games. To be his eyes, filling his dark world with color . . .

An ache rose in her throat, and she pressed her lips together. Especially when there was no future in it.

“Well, what do you think of her?”

Jack sat beside his friend as Marcus drove them back to the manor.

“She’s pretty,” Marcus said. “So was the other one, Miss Danner. In all, they were quite charming.”

“I’d say you were the charmer.” Jealousy stabbed at him. Jack had heard enough to know Marcus Weatherford’s elegant manners and good looks had dazzled the ladies, including Mrs. Vance, if her animated tone was any measure.

His own entrance had certainly produced the opposite effect. Silence had descended over the barn when he’d followed his friend inside. Jack’s lip curled as he imagined the women of the WFC gaping at him, likely wondering when the hunchback Tin Man would start howling.

All except Grace. His heart warmed, remembering her comment. She’d enjoyed spending time with him, as well.

“I was merely being polite,” Marcus said. “Besides, it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m here on business, not to woo the ladies.”

“I thought you did a splendid job at both.” Had Grace been smitten with his friend, too? Jack recalled hearing the blush in her voice. In the past two weeks, he’d become well attuned to her inflections of tone—teasing, angry, frustrated, pleased. He could even detect when she was being shy. But Marcus could charm the bark off a tree, and when compared to Frankenstein’s monster, likely Grace was just as enthralled by him as the rest.

His hands curled into fists against the seat. “Tell me what she looks like.”

It was a moment before Marcus answered. “Pale skin, red hair, green eyes . . . oh, and pieces of straw sticking to every part of her.”

“You know, it’s hard to believe you’re an MI5 agent,” Jack ground out. “She gave me much the same information herself. Can you possibly elaborate?”

“Shall I wax poetic for you, Benningham?” Marcus sounded amused. “Milky-white skin, hair like fire, eyes the color of the sea—how’s that?”

“Stop or I may become ill,” Jack said dryly. “What do you propose for tomorrow?”

“Just a country drive, old boy,” he said, and Jack detected his note of evasiveness. “I can get to know her better and make my own evaluation. It might even require hanging on a few extra days.”

Jack would have preferred his friend’s hasty departure, but it would mean being left alone with Violet. “You’re certainly welcome to stay,” he bit out.

“That’s quite a change from your attitude toward me earlier.”

“Yes, well, you’re already here, so you can keep Miss Arnold entertained.” Gratitude overrode his irritation as he said gruffly, “I appreciate you standing in at meals in my absence.”

He was also relieved to postpone his confrontation with Violet.

“So why is she here, Jack? And don’t tell me it’s because she wants to be close to you.”

His friend knew that much, having been with him that day at hospital. Still, Jack wasn’t about to disclose any more information until Marcus revealed some of his own. “Why are you here?” he countered. “Aside from wanting to meet Grace and take a drive around the park?”

“Touché, old boy” was all Marcus said.

What was his friend hiding? “Quit playing spy games and tell me what’s going on. I have a right to know.”

“Do you?” Marcus asked.

“It’s my home. Grace is my employee. And you seem to have a reason to doubt my assurances about her. That makes it my business.”

“Patience, friend,” Marcus said. “All will soon be revealed.”

Jack frowned and turned his face to the open window. Patience was a virtue he’d never quite mastered.