19

Clare Danner had just tossed another forkful of dried hay into the steam baler when she spotted Mrs. Vance running toward them across the field, waving frantically.

“Someone turn the engine off, will you?” Clare yelled.

Becky off-loaded the last bale, then went to the front of the baler and killed the engine. The sudden quiet was interrupted by Mrs. Vance’s cry. “Girls, come quickly!”

Her note of hysteria caused alarm as Clare, Lucy, Agnes, and Becky rushed to meet her.

“It’s Grace,” she said, breathless and clearly distressed. “She’s been taken by force to London.”

“What!” they all cried. Clare said, “Who took her?”

“Sir Marcus—or should I say, Lieutenant Weatherford—arrived at the manor and took our Grace away. Her bags are still at the gatehouse where she left them.” Beneath her hat, Mrs. Vance’s features lined with worry. “Mrs. Riley came to the barn with the news.”

A shiver coursed through Clare, and she crossed her arms. “I don’t understand . . .”

“I do, and it’s just awful.” Mrs. Vance bit her lip and eyed each of them. “Grace has been arrested for treason!”

A cry sounded among their collective gasps. The women turned to see Agnes collapse in a dead faint to the ground.

“Oh, dear, she’s had a shock!” Mrs. Vance rushed to her and started chafing her wrists. Agnes began coming around with an agitated moan. “Quickly now, Becky, Lucy, let’s get her into the cart. Hitch up the team, and we’ll take her back to the gatehouse.”

Clare stood by, feeling stunned and angry, while the others helped Agnes to the cart. Marcus had seemed so different from the rest; she hadn’t detected arrogance or the subtle air of self-entitlement so many men of his upper class seemed to share. Just those soft, brown eyes, looking at her warmly, and a smile so tender that it made her breath catch.

When he’d done the unthinkable and championed Lucy, she’d actually entertained the notion of being courted by him, imagining he would accept her past, help her find Daisy . . .

A bitter lump rose in her throat. In the end, he was like the rest. Had he cozied up to her simply to learn more about Grace? Why would he arrest her friend on such a ridiculous charge, then whisk her off to London?

“Agnes will be fine once she has a lie-down with a cold compress,” Mrs. Vance said, moving up to stand beside Clare. They both watched Lucy harness the horses. “The lieutenant, Sir Marcus—he paid you marked attention, Clare. Did he mention anything to you?”

Clare reared at the question. “What do you mean? I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Vance’s brow creased. “We’ve all had a bit of a shock, and poor Agnes has received the brunt of it. She was so devoted to Grace.”

“You speak of Grace as though she’s dead!” Clare said. “She’s very much alive and she needs our help.” All at once the anger went out of her. “There’s got to be some explanation, Mrs. Vance. I cannot believe her guilty.”

“What can we do about it?” Lucy had finished harnessing the horses and approached with tears in her eyes. “Grace has done so much for me. I c-can’t stand by and do nothing. Once she’s in London, the bobbies will lock her up. If she’s found guilty of treason, they’ll have her shot—”

“Let me think, will you?” Clare said, still struggling with her own devastation over Marcus, and the fact her friend was in dire trouble. “I don’t yet know how we’ll manage it,” she said finally, “but Grace is our sister, and we’re going to get her out of this mess.”

Seated silently beside her jailer, Grace seesawed between fury and fear as Sir Marcus drove them the distance to London. Already she’d tried to argue with him, but he insisted she save her excuses until they arrived at New Scotland Yard.

Staring out at the acres of hay ready for harvest, Grace wondered about her WFC sisters. They would be baling the south field right now. Did they know yet of her fate? She still felt dazed trying to make sense of the morning’s events. News of Da’s arrest, then the photograph of her letter and the outlandish accusations against her. The defamation against Colin was the worst, as Jack, in a monumental stroke of cruelty, suggested her brother wasn’t missing but had instead gone over to the enemy.

Pain and humiliation cut through her anger. He’d simply used her from the beginning, making her a pawn in the game he’d orchestrated the moment he learned she was Patrick Mabry’s daughter. He’d asked his annoying questions, not out of mere curiosity but to try to extract from her some kind of incriminating evidence against her father—evidence that didn’t exist! He had thought her a spy as well, never trusting her . . .

But then memories of their shared laughter rose in her mind, and she recalled his gift to her, the beauty of Eden, and the moment he’d allowed her to remove the mesh from his mask. He’d spoken with honesty when he shared with her the love he felt for his grandfather, the pain of losing his brother. He’d been brutally candid when he spoke about being the second son of a man still blinded by grief over losing the first.

She remembered being in his arms, and reaching to touch her lips she imagined she could still feel the warmth of his kiss. Those moments had been real enough. In her heart, Grace knew he had trusted her.

Until Sir Marcus had brought him the letter.

She turned toward her jailer, wanting to hate him for it. But already panic was setting in, and her heart hammered as she remembered the newspaper story about the spy, Mata Hari. The woman had been convicted by the French to die.

Would Grace and her father end up at the Tower in front of a firing squad?

The vise of fear within her tightened with each mile as cottages, barns, and pasturelands gave way to the concrete buildings and traffic of more populated communities, and finally to the congested streets of Westminster.

The city bustled with the sounds of life. An ambulance with its siren blaring roared past the car, followed by the clopping of horses’ hooves pulling a cart loaded with vegetables, and a man shouting, selling newspapers on a street corner. But the noise quickly faded as Grace stared up at the brick building of New Scotland Yard—and realized the enormity of her situation.

“Miss Mabry.”

She jumped as her door was yanked open. Sir Marcus offered his hand. With shaking limbs, she allowed him to lead her from the car. Never before had she been to such a place. And here she was now, being incarcerated, a prisoner with a looming death sentence . . .

As if in a dream, she watched as they booked and processed her. Then an MP led her off to a room located in the bowels of the building and locked her inside.

Grace shivered, hands clenched together in silent prayer. Electric lamps mounted high along one wall revealed a bare room with a rectangular wooden table. A pair of uncomfortable-looking ladder-back chairs had been placed on either side. The austere quarters offered no other accoutrements—no bed, washstand, or chamber pot—so it couldn’t be a cell, could it?

The room held the faint stench of body odor, and Grace felt her knees weaken in fear. She eased down onto a chair. Did they plan to keep her here until she expired of hunger and thirst? Or would they do something worse to her?

She looked at the walls, then under the table, relieved to find no hidden implements. Was Da in a similar room, or had he already been taken to the Tower? Fear blossomed into panic. Was he being tortured?

The door unlocked, and she emitted a low cry. Her heart threatened to explode in her chest. Sir Marcus entered first. Grace crossed her arms to keep them from shaking.

“Miss Mabry, I’ve brought Inspector Cromwell with New Scotland Yard. He wishes to ask you some questions.”

Cromwell? Grace straightened as a uniformed man followed Sir Marcus into the room. He removed his hat, revealing a head of thinning black hair slicked down with tonic. His waxed mustache was just as dark and quivered above a thin-lipped smile as he scrutinized her.

Was this to be an inquisition? she wondered as he took the chair opposite hers. Sir Marcus stood off to one side.

“Miss Grace Elizabeth Mabry,” Cromwell began, dropping a sheaf of papers onto the table, “do you know why you’re here?”

She raised her gaze to him, swallowing her panic. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she managed, pleased that her voice didn’t waver too much.

“Indeed?”

He shot a look at Sir Marcus, who eyed her with impatience. “Miss Mabry, you are aware that you’ve been arrested for suspected treason?”

“Of course, I know what I’ve been arrested for,” she said, resurrecting her anger at him. “I just don’t know why. I’m not guilty.”

“The letter, Miss Mabry,” Cromwell said, shuffling through his stack of papers.

“You mean the letter everyone insists I added some secret code to? Well, I didn’t.”

Cromwell slid two sheets of stationery across the table to her. The brownish symbols above her writing were identical to the photographed copy Sir Marcus had shown her. “Code written with this type of invisible ink is common,” he said. “With a bit of heating, in this case using an iron, we were able to detect its presence.”

Feeling his shrewd eyes on her, Grace forced herself to look at him. Cromwell continued, “As Lieutenant Weatherford probably told you, we arrested your father yesterday, after we intercepted the letter and discovered the contents of the code.”

It must have been shortly after Da had telephoned her cousin Daniel about Colin. Grace seethed inside. How much could her poor father withstand? “Where is he now? Can I see him?”

“Perhaps,” Cromwell said, leaning back in his seat. “It will depend on your cooperation. So far, Patrick Mabry hasn’t been forthcoming. If you provide us with the information we require, I’ll make certain you get your visit with him before he’s taken away.”

Grace gripped the edge of the table. “Taken where?”

“Again, that all depends on what you have for us.”

The probing look he gave her caused a fresh stab of fear. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know how these”—she pointed to the brown-inked symbols between the lines—“got there in the first place.” She cast a desperate look at Sir Marcus. “Really, this has to be some sort of mistake.”

“Mistake, Miss Mabry?” Cromwell leaned forward. “Who else could have written this letter to Patrick Mabry? Or signed your name to it?”

“No one,” Grace sputtered. “But that doesn’t mean I put those . . . those marks on it!”

“Then how do you suppose they got there? Magic?”

“Of course not. But I can’t tell you, because I don’t know!”

“Fine.” Cromwell snatched back the letter and placed it on top of the stack. He rose from the table. “Since you mean to be uncooperative, perhaps you’d like to sit here awhile and consider your options. Confess the truth, and because of your young age and the undue pressure your father must have exerted to make you betray your country, you may receive leniency from the court.

“Keep silent, however,” he added, eyeing her gravely, “and you’ll suffer the consequences. Do you read the papers at all, Miss Mabry?”

Mata Hari. She wet her lips before she whispered, “Yes.”

“Good. Then I trust you know what happens to traitors. We’ll continue this conversation later.” He turned to Sir Marcus. “Lieutenant?”

“I’ll be with you presently, Inspector.”

Cromwell left, and Sir Marcus came around the desk to face her squarely. “Miss Mabry, please. For your friend Clare’s sake, if not your own, tell the inspector what you know. I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you get a lesser sentence.”

Grace searched the face of the man who had captured her friend’s heart. She abandoned her anger. “Lieutenant Weatherford . . . Marcus,” she pleaded, “why won’t you believe me? I haven’t betrayed my country, and neither has my father. This has to be a mistake.”

Her pulse sped as the honey-brown eyes flickered with a trace of compassion. His words, though, cut like a blade. “We have the proof, Miss Mabry. I only want to help you.”

“Then find out who is responsible,” she said in a flat tone, “because it wasn’t me.”

If God existed, then He definitely had a twisted sense of humor.

Jack removed his mask and dropped it onto the bed before he strode out to his balcony. In less than twenty-four hours he’d gotten his wish: Patrick Mabry behind bars. Then this morning the thing he’d dreaded most—discovering the betrayal of Mabry’s daughter.

Leaning against the marble rail, Jack struggled with the disappointment of being betrayed. He peered out at the manicured lawns forming a smooth blanket of green, while in his garden red, pink, yellow, and white roses thrived beneath the warmth of an azure sky. So much beauty to behold. Why had the Almighty gifted him with the return of his sight, only to rob him of the only woman he’d ever loved?

Jack could still hear her laughter, an honest sound coming from deep within, and Grace’s uninhibited nature, expressing candid views or showing her temper as they spent hours in each other’s company. Had it all been pretense?

Painfully he recalled their time at Margate when she’d ambushed him with a pair of wire cutters and removed the mesh from his mask in order to see him. Nudging him back into the real world. Yet he’d been willing with her. She had accepted him, brought him back from the darkness.

“Lies, all of it,” he breathed aloud, gripping the rail. Still, he couldn’t forget her enormous green eyes, glistening with tears as Marcus led her from the study. For an instant, Jack’s convictions had faltered, and he’d fought the desire to banish Marcus from the house and take Grace into his arms, beg her forgiveness, and forget it all happened.

But it did happen. And Marcus held the proof of her guilt.

“We have to live by faith, Jack, not by sight.” Words she’d spoken to him, saying faith was discovered with the eyes of the heart rather than by what the world sees. True enough, he thought bitterly. Grace Mabry had deceived him into believing she was innocent, as if she knew all along he suspected her. And Jack did suspect her at first, until he foolishly began to ignore the signs: her omissions to his questions, her anger, and her father’s use of bribery to place her at his estate. Even Marcus had been skeptical, while Jack had argued in her defense.

Self-recrimination filled him. What an actress! She’d had him completely convinced. Perhaps she’d found their situation amusing, gathering information for her father. Writing to him those dirty little letters about secrets—Q ports at Richborough and any other tidbits a defunct agent of MI5 might let slip in his weakened state. Perhaps mocking Jack’s pathetic situation altogether—

“Milord?” A sharp rap at the outer door to his rooms brought him back to the present.

Jack returned inside and stared at the mask lying on the bed. For a moment he was tempted to leave it off, permanently. Whether it was his mood, however, or perhaps some innate sense of preservation, he grabbed it up and covered his face, postponing his revelation a while longer. “Come,” he said tersely.

“Excuse me, milord.” Edwards entered and offered a cursory bow.

“What is it? I specifically asked not to be disturbed.”

“I do apologize, your lordship, but you’re needed at the gatehouse.”

Jack straightened. “Why?”

“I’m afraid the hay balers have gone on strike.”

Jack paused, then said irritably, “And why is that my problem? If they wish more pay, let the Army Service Corps deal with them.”

“It’s . . . not about money, milord,” Edwards said hesitantly.

“Then what do they want?”

His steward shifted. “They wish to see you specifically, milord, and discuss terms.”

“What terms?”

“They won’t say. But if you’ll only meet with them in the morning, milord—”

“Fine,” he snapped. Jack sensed they wanted more from him than to discuss terms. “Have Tillman come around at eight o’clock.”

After Edwards departed, Jack removed his mask and tossed it back on the bed. Returning to the balcony, he continued staring out at his gardens, wondering what he would have to face in the morning.

Lying on a bed in her cell, Grace felt too exhausted and heartsick to sleep. Since her arrival at New Scotland Yard hours before, Cromwell and his detectives had barraged her with the same questions, over and over again a hundred times. Where was her father the night of April fourteenth? Did he attend the British Red Cross benefit with her at the home of the dowager countess, Lady Bassett? Was his costume that of the film star Charlie Chaplin? Had he planned any trips, purchased passage aboard a ship? To Ireland, perhaps, or even farther abroad? Who were his associates, his friends? Did she have any other contacts outside of her father? Where had she hidden the code book?

Grace felt further humiliation when detectives returned from Roxwood with her bags. They made her watch as they pawed through her most intimate things, including her journal, which Cromwell kept for himself before allowing her a change of clothes.

They’d found nothing, of course. But their frustration only made them more demanding, causing her unending hours in the interrogation room, seated in that torturous wooden chair as more detectives were sent in to bully her for information she didn’t have.

She tried in vain to convince them Da was honest and hardworking, and as loyal to the Crown as she was. Grace reminded them that she’d been working hard for the war effort, and Colin had been fighting for his country in France.

Her words fell on deaf ears. Cromwell, heading up the investigation, even had reservations about her brother, echoing Jack’s callous assumption that Colin had likely gone over to the Germans.

She lay in the dark, hands fisted at her side, trembling. Tears streamed down the sides of her face, and a sob tore from her throat. What would they do to her? How much longer would they flog her with questions before taking action? Would she and Da be sent to the Tower?

“Oh, Colin, where are you?” she cried into the darkness. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths while praying fiercely for his safe and swift return. He was proof of their loyalty to Britain; his homecoming would exonerate both her and Da and disabuse the belief he was a traitor to his country.

Her brother would be a hero they could not ignore!

Inside the cramped parlor, Jack surveyed the occupants through the slats of his mask. They in turn gaped at him. He’d met the women of the WFC only once before, at the barn, prior to regaining his sight. Until they spoke now, he wouldn’t be able to identify one from the other.

Mr. Tillman had entered behind him and moved to stand beside a uniformed woman slightly older than the others. Jack surmised she must be Mrs. Vance, their supervisor.

“Speak!” he said, growing impatient at their gawking.

His order seemed to shake them from their stupor. A young, very pretty woman stepped forward from the group. “Thank you for meeting with us, milord.”

Clare Danner. While she hadn’t spoken the last time, Marcus had seemed most taken with her midnight hair and gray eyes. Jack felt a pang of envy, knowing his friend was in love and had a chance at happiness. He, on the other hand, would marry a woman who loathed the very sight of him. And the one he’d come to love, Grace, was lost to him forever.

The familiar dull ache in his chest made him angry. “Out with it. Why have you asked me here?” Though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Clare Danner moistened her lips and wiped her hands against her uniform. “It’s about Grace—Miss Mabry.”

Jack admired her courage. She would need it, coping with Marcus’s line of work. Still, why should he make this easy on any of them? “Miss Mabry left,” he said. “I don’t know what you think I can do about it.”

“She didn’t leave, milord.” The gray eyes flashed. “We know she was arrested.”

“And . . . ?” He waited.

“She’s not guilty.”

Hope flared for an instant before Jack willfully quashed it. “Can you prove it?” he demanded. “Have you any information?” She took a step back. Jack eased out a breath. “I appreciate your intent, but there is substantial evidence—”

His words were cut off by a muffled burst of laughter—a brief, high-pitched cackle echoing around the cramped confines of the parlor. Jack raised his head and tried to determine its source.

“Agnes, please hush.”

Clare Danner had turned her remark to a short brown-haired woman barely visible at the back of the room. Then her gaze swung back. “What evidence?”

“It’s confidential. And I still don’t understand how it affects your work at the estate.”

“Grace would never commit treason, Lord Roxwood.”

Jack recognized the voice of Lucy Young, the woman with whom he’d met recently. She came forward to stand beside Clare Danner. “She’s not only a p-patriot, but her brother fights in France.”

“So we’ve been told.” Jack recalled his accusation against Colin Mabry and the way Grace had reacted. Even now, his belief wavered.

“You doubt it, milord?”

As soon as she spoke, Jack confirmed the woman beside Tillman was Mrs. Vance. Her features suffused with indignation. “I was there when Dr. Strom told Grace the news about her brother. I saw her reaction. She’s no traitor. You must be mistaken.”

Her words gave him pause. Jack remembered how distraught Grace had been when she’d come to him, telling him she must leave for London. And Strom seemed legitimate enough . . .

No, he’d been taken in once already. Grace Mabry kept secrets from him, and perhaps she would still but for her family’s situation. “Obviously, there are things you don’t know about her,” Jack said.

“And many things you don’t about her either, milord. If you’ll pardon me for saying.”

A stocky red-cheeked woman came to stand beside Lucy Young. By process of elimination, Jack deduced she must be Becky Simmons. Her look of outrage impressed him. If the proof were not so final against Grace Mabry, he might believe she’d been wrongly accused.

“Grace has been the truest friend. She’s helped all of us in one way or another.” Becky Simmons glanced to the others in the room, who all nodded before she said, “We’d like to tell you about it.”

“And if I listen?” he asked, longing to end the meeting and return to his sanctuary.

“We will return to work and bother you no more,” said Clare Danner. “Will you promise at least to consider our words?”

He let out a heavy sigh and nodded, taking a seat in the worn Sussex chair near the door. “Proceed.”

———

Two hours later, Jack sat on the bench inside his hedge maze, considering what he’d just heard. While he’d suspected Grace was the reason the women insisted upon meeting with him, he’d nevertheless been stunned by their unfailing allegiance.

Becky Simmons had started off by confessing her attempts to steal his chickens from the meat larder. Grace had saved her from a life of crime by stopping her with a few inspiring words, plus extra shillings from her own purse to aid Becky’s family.

Mrs. Vance had come forward next, linked arm in arm with Tillman. Jack hid his surprise as both sang Grace’s praises, not only for recognizing their growing attraction to one another, but for acting as a sort of matchmaker during the village dance.

He was already familiar with Lucy Young’s circumstances, yet she made certain to underscore to all present that it was Grace who had taken the first step to come to her aid.

Clare Danner’s revelation was perhaps the most shocking. Jack recalled the ride to Richborough when Grace refused to tell him and Marcus the name of the woman responsible for setting the pigs loose in his garden. It was for Marcus’s own love that Grace had kept silent, taking the punishment so that Miss Danner could remain at Roxwood and continue her search for a missing daughter. Jack wondered if she’d informed his friend about the child.

Finally, there was Agnes Pierpont, the woman with the odd, vaguely familiar laugh who had assisted as Violet’s maid during her brief stay. Miss Pierpont claimed to owe her very life to Grace and told of a husband, Edgar, who abandoned her without means. Grace found her begging outside Swan’s and took her in, giving her a position in the household and treating her more like a companion than a domestic. The small woman’s expression was teary-eyed and pale as she related the story; she seemed a devoted servant.

Their testimonies unsettled him. Jack found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the motives of a traitor with the generosity and kindness Grace had allegedly bestowed upon her friends. Their loyalty to her seemed unquestionable as they shared their stories, some at the expense of their reputations, in order to prove her innocence. In fact, all that goodness made yesterday morning’s arrest seem ludicrous.

It was at that juncture Jack had made an impossible promise—to help free Grace Mabry.

He sighed, digging at the soft earth near the base of the fountain with the toe of his shoe. Then he gazed at the clear stream of water bubbling up from its moss-infested stone. If only Grace’s motives were as transparent, he thought. He wanted to believe in her innocence. At the least, he wanted to be convinced she’d been coerced to do her father’s handiwork the night of the ball while he traded Britain’s secrets.

But Jack had seen the proof with his own eyes.

He reached to cup his hands beneath the fountain’s cool liquid and bathe his heated flesh. He’d been in the middle of this same act when she first happened upon him in the maze. Hearing her relief at finding help, she’d soon gone silent, doubtless at having seen his horrific scars before he covered his face. He didn’t sense in her then any artifice or guile, merely a woman lost and in need of rescuing, trusting he would be the man to do it.

How had his instincts been so wrong?

His foot hit something hard against the dirt, and Jack caught the glint of metal as he reached for a small object lying half buried in the mossy ground.

A wistful smile touched his lips when he retrieved the metal toy soldier that he and Hugh once used as their prize. He must have left it here the last time they competed together in the hedge maze.

Brushing away the dirt, he noted the painted uniform long chipped away. He recalled telling Grace how he’d always won the contests, navigating the myriad twists and turns of the maze, better with a blindfold than using his eyes . . .

“Not by sight.” Again the words she’d spoken to him rose in his mind. Yet instead of feeling resentment, Jack rested his arms against his knees and closed his eyes, allowing his heart to navigate the past: the mornings Grace had been frustrated with his questions or pleased when she’d bested him with some witty remark; showing her temper as she made certain to hit each and every pothole in Great Britain, then candidly sharing with him her dream to become a novelist. She’d been gentle in removing his mask, touching his scars. And he’d felt her softness relax against him when he pulled her into his arms. Her passion as they shared a kiss.

All real enough, Jack realized. The blindness may have taken away one sense, but he’d managed to hone the others. Hearing the smallest inflection in tone, feeling tension and pleasure. Smelling fear and deceit. Now that he could see again, why did he abruptly abandon those gifts?

Grace’s reactions with him had been genuine. And her friends believed in her enough to disclose their secrets. Jack was beginning to feel his own compulsion to share that faith.

He opened his eyes, clutching at the toy soldier. Regardless of how he felt, this was not some contest to be won or lost. Mata Hari had been found guilty of treason, and Marcus said there wasn’t sufficient proof. Even so, the woman would face execution.

How could he possibly help Grace when there was concrete evidence against her?

Jack stared into the clear water of the fountain. Nothing made sense, he thought as confusion warred with his aching heart. Nothing but that blasted letter.