20

“How is she?” Jack asked, having returned inside to his study to telephone his friend.

“Tired, but holding up,” Marcus said through the line. “I’d forgotten how thorough Cromwell’s investigations can be.”

Jack leaned forward in his chair behind the desk. “How thorough, Marcus?”

“Easy, old boy. The inspector’s only asking questions.”

Jack didn’t miss the gravity in his friend’s tone. “Any progress?”

“Not beyond what we already know. I did verify with the Army that Colin Mabry is still reported missing, though no one is certain yet if his departure from the regiment was intentional. They’re still conducting an investigation into his last whereabouts. As far as Patrick Mabry is concerned, detectives have combed through his offices, his residence, and his personal effects, but so far they’ve found nothing. He’s been questioned about the suspect he was recently seen talking with at Swan’s. He has nothing to say other than he visits with most of his customers. I’m afraid his daughter’s letter is the only thing connecting him with treason. And despite our being at war, there is still a slim possibility he’ll get released.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Jack clenched the phone as rage tore through him. After getting this close to the truth of Mabry’s actions, they might let him go? The injustice made him grind his teeth. “What about Grace?” he demanded.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Marcus said.

Dread filled Jack. “Have we missed something, Marcus? I ask because, as ridiculous as this is going to sound, I’m not certain she’s guilty.” He then recounted to his friend the stories Grace’s co-workers had shared with him earlier. “They make a persuasive argument as to her character, despite the letter. It’s hard to believe someone so selfless could simply turn around and betray her country.”

“A good spy goes to great lengths to remain undetected.” Marcus spoke matter-of-factly. “Miss Mabry has obviously done the same.”

“Is she that calculating? I know in this business we’ve met all types, but usually even the most experienced agent slips up in some way—with a word, a look, a nuance.” Jack hesitated, then said, “I’ve spent the past three weeks with her. In that time we’ve shared so much together . . .” He cleared his throat. “In spite of her father’s treachery in April, every instinct still tells me she’s innocent.”

“Jack, I understand what you’re saying,” Marcus said. “Even I admit that Grace isn’t what I’d first expected. And she did help me along . . . with Clare. I’m sorry.”

Jack wasn’t in the mood for commiseration. “What’s happens now?”

“Cromwell will end the questioning soon and send her to await a court-martial.”

Jack felt the air leave his lungs. “They’ll find her guilty, Marcus,” he whispered. “The firing squad—”

“I know,” Marcus said with equal gravity. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m coming to London.” Jack shot up from his seat behind the desk. “I want to see her.”

“Impossible. Both Mabrys are under New Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction. No visitors. Not even you, Jack.” He paused. “And to be honest, I don’t think she wants to see you right now.”

Of course she didn’t. “Keep me posted hourly” was all he managed before ringing off.

Moving away from the desk, he walked to the hearth and gazed into the empty grate. Any remnants of the white feather had now turned to ash.

Grace had been devastated by the action. Yet Jack was so angry, he hadn’t really seen it. He’d only wanted to lash out at her for betraying him that night months ago, and for the hundreds of poor souls killed on the Thames. For allowing him to hope for the first time in months, and then taking it all away with the simple ease of a letter—a letter much like the one he’d found aboard ship. Patrick Mabry’s letter. Ironic that the traitor might go free while his daughter would not.

He turned and slumped down into the chair across from the hearth. The women at the gatehouse believed in Grace, and he had promised to help. But how?

“Look to your heart, Jack.” Closing his eyes, he recalled the morning Grace had spoken those words to him. He leaned forward in the chair and clasped his hands together, as close as he’d come to prayer in a long time. If she was right, if indeed God did exist, then he hoped the Almighty would show him where to start.

———

Jack awoke in the early hours of the morning, sitting straight up in bed, his body covered with sweat. He’d had a dream; it was the night of Lady Bassett’s ball when he’d dressed as Casanova and glimpsed the mesmerizing figure of Pandora approaching him, her gown flowing around her like angel’s wings.

He’d known even then he could love her. The emerald eyes smiled at him while her kissable mouth parted and she whispered, “Not by sight, Jack,” as she drew nearer, carrying with her the little gold box.

In his dream, Jack felt his eyes close for a moment, and he heard the sound—a high-pitched cackle from across the ballroom.

Laughter . . .

Grabbing up his robe from the bed, uncaring of the mask on his nightstand, he went downstairs to telephone Marcus.

Agnes was terrified.

Seated in the pew beside her co-workers at church the next day, she clutched her songbook and prayed silently while the others sang. The past two days had been a grueling nightmare—first, with her mistress being arrested for treason, then yesterday having to be in the same room again with Lord Roxwood.

She’d tried to remain obscure, standing at the back of the parlor. But then she’d laughed—it always happened when she was excited or nervous—and Lord Roxwood seemed to stare right through her. Agnes had to remind herself he was blind. He couldn’t possibly know it was her at the dowager’s costume ball that night long ago, or that she’d exchanged information with the man disguised as the American film star, Charlie Chaplin.

That Agnes was a spy for the Germans.

She’d listened while her co-workers bared their souls, shocked at some of the secrets they harbored. Agnes had hoped to evade telling her own, despite wanting to help Grace. Before long, however, it seemed all attention was upon her. Even the lord of the manor had turned his masked countenance back in her direction.

And so she’d started spinning her tale of woe for her audience. How she’d met her British husband, Edgar, overseas, and he’d brought her here to his homeland before the war. How she’d married a coward who abandoned her once conscription laws were enforced.

All of which was true. Yet Agnes hadn’t told them Edgar was also a traitor to his own country, leaving Britain and his Belgian wife to return to Germany, where Agnes had lived with her mother and younger sister, Renee, as Belgian nationals. That he’d never really loved her but merely used her as part of his cover, doing his spy work in Britain.

“I was at loose ends,” she’d said. “It wasn’t long before I ran out of funds. I became desperate.” True enough, as Edgar had left her almost penniless. Agnes then relayed to her co-workers and Lord Roxwood how months later, Grace found her begging outside Swan’s and took her in. That part of her story still filled her with shame. Not the begging, which was just a ruse, but having manipulated Grace Mabry’s sympathies. By then Edgar’s Dutch agent, Alfred Dykes, had made contact with her. He informed Agnes that her mother and Renee had been moved to a concentration camp at Holzminden in Lower Saxony.

If she ever wished to see them again, she would do as she was told.

“She took me in, Miss Mabry did. It was luck that her lady’s maid suddenly quit, running off to elope. I was offered the post.” Agnes wondered if there really had been an elopement, or if Dykes disposed of the maid to allow Agnes access to Mabry’s household. Swan’s, he’d said, provided the perfect cover—“hiding in plain sight” with its steady stream of clientele. Just days before, he’d taken up position as Swan’s floor manager, replacing an employee killed in an automobile accident. Agnes wondered about that “accident,” as well.

“I became more like Miss Mabry’s companion than her maid.” Also true. Her relationship with Grace Mabry allowed Agnes the freedom to meet with various contacts during their outings together. In fact, the night of the ball, she’d met with Chaplin under the ingenious guise of handing out white feathers, which Grace had unwittingly suggested in her determination to enlist every able-bodied man to the Front.

As Dykes had access to Mabry’s posts, it was easy for Agnes to obtain letters written to certain shipping personnel who were also on Germany’s payroll; she would steam open the seals and insert coded messages using invisible ink, just as Dykes instructed. The letters would then be resealed and sent on their way, with Patrick Mabry none the wiser.

“I owe Miss Mabry everything.” Agnes had meant those words. Even now it grieved her to be the cause of Grace and her father’s arrest. But what choice did she have? Each time she looked at the photograph she’d been sent, of Mama and Renee standing beside the barbed wire, she feared for their lives. Agnes hated spying. There was one hope to cling to, though she knew it was likely a foolish one—that with Grace Mabry in jail, Alfred Dykes might finally leave her in peace.

———

“Aren’t you c-coming, Agnes?”

Lucy’s voice jarred her from her reverie. She was startled to realize the service was over and most of the villagers had already vacated the church.

Rising from her seat, she followed the others outside. Despite the calm day and clear skies, Agnes felt a storm of emotions assail her. I’m a murderer . . .

“Enjoy your day, ladies,” Mrs. Vance said. “Tomorrow we’ll finish up in the south field and by Wednesday deliver the last cartload of hay to Margate.”

“I hope I’ll get to go this time,” said Becky, and despite her own troubles, Agnes caught the note of worry in her co-worker’s normally cheerful voice. “I need to see my family.”

“Your sister, Ruthie, was just here. Is anything wrong?” Mrs. Vance asked.

Becky’s cheeks reddened, and she quickly shook her head.

“Ah, you’re just suffering a bit of homesickness,” Mrs. Vance said. “But the assignments have already been handed out. And since we’ve only a few days before we head to the next post, I suggest you make the best of it, Simmons.”

She scanned the rest of them. “I seem to recall Grace telling us about a place, Camden Pond I think it was.” Her attention settled on Becky. “Why don’t you ride your bicycles over and go for a swim? It’s a beautiful day and you’ll feel better.”

The notion seemed to lift Becky’s spirits. She smiled, then turned to Agnes. “Will you come with us?”

“I’m not much of a swimmer,” Agnes lied. How could she possibly think of going off to enjoy herself while Grace languished in prison?

Lucy read her thoughts. “I know you’re worried about Grace, but Lord Roxwood p-promised to help, didn’t he? And I’m sure he’ll talk to Clare’s friend.”

“Marcus Weatherford is no friend of mine,” Clare said. “And he won’t help. He’s just like the rest of them. Good for drinking and dancing, and little else.”

“Oh, Clare, that’s not true,” Lucy said. “Look what he d-did for me.”

“Yes, he helped you. Then he dragged our friend off to jail without saying a word to me or anyone else.” Clare turned to Agnes, her gray eyes full of compassion. “I believe Lord Roxwood still has feelings for Grace.” She sighed. “But he’ll need a miracle to exonerate her.”

Indeed, Agnes thought miserably. “If . . . if you don’t mind, I’ll stay on at church a few minutes more. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Mrs. Vance offered a sympathetic smile. “Of course, take all the time you need. Being alone with God can bring comfort to a troubled mind.” She touched Agnes on the shoulder. “Take heart, my dear. We’re all praying for Grace.”

“Thank you,” Agnes said. Oh, how she longed for that comfort! After the women departed, she returned to the cool interior of the church and sat in the pew she’d vacated just moments before. Bowing her head, she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

What should she pray for? Grace would only be released if Sir Marcus discovered it was Agnes who had written the code into the letter. How was she to pray for both Grace and herself at the same time? It would indeed require a miracle . . .

“Morning, Agnes.”

She started, turned, and sucked in a breath. “Dykes!”

The devil himself sat next to her. Agnes quickly scanned the empty church, then turned to him. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I figured to find you here on a Sunday. You didn’t go with the others.” Eyes the color of amber pierced her. “Guilty conscience, maybe?” He smiled thinly. “Still, it’s good we got a bit of privacy. And Roxwood’s an easier distance than Margate.”

Margate. The others thought she’d gotten lost, but Agnes had been meeting with Dykes. He’d been angry, demanding her immediate return with Grace Mabry to London.

“You should have come back to the city when you had the chance,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I had a feeling it was you and not Miss Mabry who wanted to leave in the first place. And now look at what you’ve done to her.”

Agnes’s insides cramped with guilt. In Margate, she’d managed to stall for more time, telling him of Lord Roxwood’s identity—Chaplin’s pursuer, and a man of whom they both had knowledge. “You were interested enough in Jack Benningham at the time to have me see what I could find out.”

His features hardened. “And you promised me information.”

She reared back. “I kept my word.”

Fortune had smiled on her when Violet Arnold arrived without a maid. While up at the manor, Agnes had eavesdropped on a conversation between Roxwood and Sir Marcus about a secret Q port at Richborough.

“Did you now?” he asked, arching a golden brow at her.

“I did send you her letter.” The night of the dance when the others had left, Agnes found inside her mistress’s bag the letter Grace had started to her father. She coded it with the information she’d learned and posted the letter on Monday. “Miss Mabry’s in jail because of it,” she added. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t matter.” He withdrew from inside his jacket a small, wrapped parcel. “Take this.”

Agnes eyed the package with apprehension. How could she have been so stupid to think that even after Grace’s arrest, this man would leave her alone? “What is it?”

“New instructions,” he said in a low voice. “Since your last letter was snatched up by the bobbies, you’ll have to send another.”

“But . . . Miss Mabry is in jail. Whose letters can I use to send the message?”

“You write it this time.”

“Me?” Panic squeezed her chest. “Why don’t I just tell you what I know,” she said quickly. “Then you can be on your way.”

His low chuckle echoed inside the church. “You know that’s not how we do business, Agnes. You put the information in writing so I can send it on to our friends.”

“And your hands stay clean,” she said bitterly. “Where do I send this letter? I have no one back in London save Miss Mabry.”

“Write to me at Swan’s. Since both the father and the daughter are in jail—”

Agnes gasped. “Patrick Mabry’s in jail, too?” She didn’t think the others knew.

He nodded. “Anyway, no one will notice if Miss Mabry’s maid writes to Swan’s floor manager asking for wages.” A pause. “His business seems to be going sour with the scandal, so your letter won’t cause suspicion. In fact, I’m already handing out notices. So just code your letter like before and send it to me.”

“But what if you’re wrong? The police might decide to check my letter.”

He indicated the package. “You’ll be using a different kind of invisible ink. Sodium nitrate. Unlike lemon juice, it can’t be detected with heat. And it’s fairly new, so the Admiralty won’t be looking for it.”

“Don’t make me do this.” Agnes didn’t care that she sounded desperate.

“You’ve come too far, lovey,” he said coldly. “You not only have your mum and sister to worry about, but your own neck, too.” He rose from the pew and eyed her sharply. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, or you’ll find yourself standing with your mistress in front of the firing squad.”

Dykes left the church while blood pounded in Agnes’s ears. With a sob, she got down on her knees and prayed fervently to God, begging to be released from the burden. Yet it seemed hopeless, for Dykes had been clear.

Agnes would lose her family—and her life—if she failed.

“Good morning, Miss Mabry.”

Grace glanced toward the door of her cell. “Sir Marcus.” She raised herself to a sitting position on the bed. “Why are you here?”

“I thought to give you a bit of company this morning.” He entered and grabbed up the only chair the cramped space afforded and placed it next to the bed.

“I’d prefer the company of my father. When can I see him?”

“When you provide the information Cromwell wants.”

Dear God, please help us. Grace blinked back tears of exhaustion. She’d been locked up three days and they had yet to give her news about Da. “Can you at least tell me if he’s well?”

Sir Marcus nodded. “He seems to be coping with his confinement.”

His words gave her little relief. Standing, Grace asked, “May I be allowed to attend church? It is Sunday, after all.” She longed to be free of this cage.

“Unfortunately, no,” he answered. “However, I can send for a chaplain, if you wish.”

“Last rites?” she snapped. When he didn’t react, she felt a chill ripple through her. The past few days had been all too real. Cromwell grew more impatient with her each day. Soon she feared a trial, and then . . .

“I’m innocent, Sir Marcus.” Impulsively she reached for his sleeve. “Please believe me.” Her voice broke and she let go, looking away from him.

He cleared his throat. “How well do you know Mrs. Agnes Pierpont?”

She turned back, surprised at the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Tell me about your maid” was all he said.

Curious, Grace returned to her place on the bed. “I discovered Agnes outside my father’s establishment back in January,” she began. “It was cold and she was hungry and seemed desperate for funds. She told me she’d been a lady’s maid in her homeland of Belgium. She’d met and married a British national, Edgar, who brought her to this country just before the war. He disappeared when Parliament enforced the conscription laws. As my own lady’s maid had departed unexpectedly, I gave Agnes the position. She’s been with me ever since.”

“Have you always treated her more as a companion than a maid?”

“Did she tell you that?” Grace straightened and stared at him.

He nodded. “You have friends in the Women’s Forage Corps, Miss Mabry. Each has come forward to share her personal story about how you helped them, in order to vouchsafe your character.”

Grace fought tears, and her heart swelled with a fierce love for her sisters. “I cannot believe they would go to such lengths for me,” she whispered.

“It seems you did the same for them,” Sir Marcus said. “I know you helped Lucy.”

“Did you speak with them then?”

He shook his head. “Tell me more about Agnes Pierpont.”

What was he getting at? She held on to her patience. “Yes, Agnes was more my friend than a servant. We went everywhere together—shopping, the museums and art galleries. And after learning how Edgar had mistreated her, I encouraged her to join me at the suffrage rallies. I wanted her to realize her value and know she needn’t be dependent on anyone else, save God, to find happiness.”

His honey-brown eyes shone with admiration. “I take it she attended social functions with you, as well? Did she also attend the costume ball where you first met Jack?”

Grace nodded. “Agnes showed me the announcement in the paper. Lady Bassett was hosting a ball to benefit the Red Cross. The reporter mentioned that several persons excused from duty at the Front would be attending as a form of community service.” She looked down at her lap. “Agnes and I had gone to a rally just the day before, so we decided to sneak into the party and hand out white feathers of cowardice.”

“Were you with her the entire time?”

She blinked. “Yes . . . I mean, we arrived together, but then separated to pass out our feathers. Once Jack departed, the butler escorted Agnes and me from the house. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Has Mrs. Pierpont at any time had access to your personal things?”

“I . . . suppose.” She glanced up at him in shock. “You don’t think Agnes had anything to do with this? All of us kept our bags beneath our beds at the gatehouse. Anyone could have snooped.” Her cheeks warmed. “I confess I did that very thing.”

He arched a brow.

“The day the pigs got out, I’d gone upstairs to fetch my heavy gloves. When I couldn’t find mine, I thought to check and see if Agnes had a pair. There was a photograph in her bag, of her mother and sister, I think. She’d never shown it to me.”

“What did you do with the picture?”

“I put it back,” she assured him. “And I didn’t mention it to her. I’d hoped Agnes would eventually trust me enough to show it to me herself.”

Sir Marcus’s brows drew together. “She never mentioned having a family to Jack.”

“Jack?” Grace’s heart thudded in her chest. “He spoke with her and the others?”

He hesitated, then nodded. Grace hardly dared breathe. “Does he believe I’m innocent?”

“I cannot say.” His expression turned guarded. “But he’s promised your friends to help if he can. And when he called me yesterday, I gave him my word to look out for you.”

“He called you? Then he’s changed his mind about me! Does he realize my family is innocent, too? My father, my brother—”

“Hold on. One thing at a time,” Sir Marcus cautioned. “There was proof against your father on board the ship that exploded the night of the ball, so his guilt or innocence is still being determined. As far as your brother is concerned, the Army has no word yet on his last known whereabouts.” He paused, his expression grave. “But Grace, there is still the letter . . .”

“Stationery!” Grace shot up from the bed. “Agnes had access to my letter. She borrowed my stationery the night of the village dance. She wanted to write to her family and couldn’t find her own. I’d forgotten to mail my letter to Da, and so she took it along with hers last Monday to the post office.” She stared at him, swallowing, then said, “It must have been her!”

Sir Marcus rose from his chair. “I certainly plan to check it out.” He offered a smile for the first time. “I must leave now. May I get you anything?”

Grace searched his face, excitement coursing through her at the prospect of clearing her name, and her father’s. She also felt anger and hurt over the possibility Agnes had betrayed her. How could she have been so wrong about her maid . . . her friend?

But through the tangle of her emotions, hope emerged, flooding her heart. Jack believed her innocent, or at least he wanted to. “Yes, Sir Marcus. Freedom,” she said softly. “Please, I beg of you, get me out of this place.”