“Didn’t you think Mrs. Wolstenholme looked pale? Something must be worrying her terribly,” Grace said as she guided Martha toward Hornbeam Manor.

Apparently intent on following Lord Glanville and his sister to the village, Martha resisted for a moment, her gaze fixed on the pair of siblings.

When Grace didn’t release her, Martha shrugged and resigned herself to match her sister’s pace. “She is often pale. However, she does seem more distracted than usual.” Her mouth twisted. “Perhaps Mr. Wolstenholme has been spending their evenings reading improving passages to her again. She mentioned once before that she’d finally broken him of the habit, but he might have started once more.”

Both ladies stifled a giggle as the same thought crossed their minds. Marriage to the severely sanctimonious Mr. Wolstenholme wouldn’t be easy for anyone, even a woman as proper as Mrs. Wolstenholme, and it would only be worse if one had to sit and listen to lectures detailing one’s bad habits.

Grace thrust the thought away and glanced back over her shoulder. Mrs. Wolstenholme had already disappeared around the corner of the church, presumably headed for the vicarage.

“Perhaps I ought to visit her,” Grace said. “If she is truly worried about something, it may be a relief for her to unburden herself. Even if she simply wants to complain about morally uplifting lectures.”

“Did you forget? Tomorrow is the inquest. Wait at least until the day after. She may be attending, along with everyone else in the village.”

“Attending? Mrs. Wolstenholme?” Grace shook her head. “No. I doubt she will attend, though I’m sure the vicar will. She’ll have to wait for the news like the rest of the ladies.”

Martha agreed with a shrug, and they chatted in a desultory manner the rest of the way back to the manor. Both of them were too absorbed in their own thoughts to engage in any meaningful discussion, even if it only concerned the weather.

Time limped along the rest of the day. Trying not to think about the inquest or Mr. Blyth, Grace spent several hours playing with Flossie. She managed to teach her to sit, as well as the rudiments of good manners. The dog was exuberant and quick to learn, so much so that several times Grace wondered if Flossie would end up smarter than she was.

The day finally died in a spectacular display of salmon, crimson, and blue, and when even those ribbons of color faded, Grace tucked her needle into the seam of the lovely pale yellow silk gown Lady Branscombe had given to her. After a few alterations were completed to take in the waist and bring up the hem, the dress would fit Grace as if made for her. Her back and neck ached, however, and she rubbed her nape. All of the ladies had been working diligently on various sewing tasks, and Grace’s efforts were clearly shown in her pricked fingertips. She looked hopefully at her hostess.

Lady Branscombe caught her gaze and smiled. The plain, wooden clock on the mantle sonorously chimed eleven. They all stood with alacrity, thankful to bid each other good night and escape from their sewing.

Grace and Martha hurried to their separate rooms and closed their doors. Leaning against the door, Grace suspected her sister would probably get as little rest as she would. The inquest would be held tomorrow, and at the end of it, Grace could well be arrested for Mr. Blyth’s murder.

Even when she firmly refused to think about it, restlessness gripped her. Grace paced back and forth in her bedchamber, at one moment lighting the candle to obtain the comfort of the small yellow flame, and then blowing it out for fear that someone would see the light shining under her door and knock to see if anything was wrong.

The more she tried not to think about it, the more the inquest occupied her mind. The evidence against her was simply too strong, and no one else was suspected. Grace was sure to be bound over for trial. Mr. Blyth’s blood had streaked her dress and quite literally stained her hands, and it hadn’t been invisible like that over which Lady Macbeth had fretted.

Her heart fluttered. Lord Glanville had mentioned he’d entertained some doubts. That might bode well. If he’d discovered something that gave him pause, it had to be important. Whatever clue he’d found had been sufficient for him to set aside his loyalty to his sister and ignore his belief that Grace had returned to Kendle to break Mr. Blyth and Lady Lenora apart. If he told the jurors, surely they would be convinced of her innocence, as well. Or they might have enough doubt to encourage them to continue their investigation.

But could he convince them? Would he even try? What if he decided to say nothing?

Her thoughts went round and round, veering this way and that, lurching between hope and fear, as she moved from pools of candlelight to darkness and back. She paced her increasingly small bedchamber until the sky to the east grew a paler shade of blue over the jagged black shapes of distant trees.

Exhausted and limbs aching, she finally climbed into bed, her gaze fixed upon the gray window. Her shoulders burned with tension, but her eyelids fluttered nonetheless. Finally, a few minutes before dawn, she fell asleep.

The next morning proved to be just as tedious and yet anxiety-ridden as Grace expected. After breakfast, Lady Branscombe, Martha, and Grace gathered in the comfortable drawing room favored by Sir Horace and his wife. Once more, they sat down to a morning of letter writing and mending. Grace kept jabbing her fingertips with the needle until the skin was so torn that the delicate silk material kept catching on her roughened fingers.

“George says Caesar and Flossie may have sufficient manners to join us in the house in as little as a month,” Lady Branscombe murmured around a bit of thread. She moistened the thread and expertly drew it through the eye of a needle. “Will you not be pleased, Grace?”

“Oh, yes. I should love to have her in my room, if you don’t mind.”

Mrs. Branscombe laughed. “Not at all. I intend to allow Caesar the most frightful liberties. Among other things, he will most assuredly sleep at the foot of my bed to keep my feet warm. I am forever suffering from cold feet.”

Their conversation lapsed after this startling revelation. After one or two more attempts to find a topic interesting enough to make them forget what was happening in a back room at the King’s Arms, the ladies worked in near silence.

A light supper was served at two. There was no sign of Sir Horace, or any of the other men. Grace picked her piece of bread into small crumbs, and although she cut her chicken into pieces, only one small bite made it to her mouth.

What were they doing? The coroner’s only purpose was to decide the manner of death, not the guilt or innocence of any suspect. Surely it was obvious to everyone what the manner of death was. For one second, for one thrilling moment, she wondered if Dr. Meek had managed to convince them that Mr. Blyth had fallen, hit his head, and died by accident. It was difficult to see how that might occur, however, since the wound was on the left side of his head, and he had fallen face downward. He could have tried to get up, though, and failed… No. It was easier to hope that Mr. Blyth had felt nothing and had died immediately after a single blow to the head. Imagining that he’d tried to get to his feet and failed was too awful.

She shivered at the grisly image. The needle pricked her index finger yet again, drawing a bead of blood. She sucked on it to avoid staining the linen shirt she was now mending for Sir Horace, having given up for now on the yellow silk.

It was well past eight when Sir Horace flung open the drawing room door and blew into the room. He went first to his wife and gave her shoulder a squeeze, then he glanced at Grace.

She studied him, trying to guess from his expression what the verdict had been. His gaze flickered over her face and then to the air above her head, while his hand remained on his wife’s slender shoulder. A slight V crimped his brows.

Grace’s heart sank, and her hands stilled in her lap.

If it had been good news, he would have been all smiles. He would have had no hesitation in meeting her glance.

Another, heavier tread sounded in the hallway. Lord Glanville, with Constable Gribble at his heels, followed Sir Horace into the room.

Sewing falling to the floor, Grace stood. Her hand pressed against her chest, her heart thudding wildly. They were going to arrest her. Here. Now! Her limbs shook to the point where she had to grip the back of her chair to steady herself.

Lord Glanville caught her gaze and held up a hand. He smiled reassuringly. “The verdict was unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.”

Limbs collapsing, Grace sat down with a thump in her chair. She let out a trembling breath.

“That may be so,” Constable Gribble said, stepping around Lord Glanville. “But we must insist that you remain here, Miss Grace Stainton, while we undertake a proper investigation into the matter.” His broad chest puffed out like a pouter pigeon as he stared at her with gimlet eyes. All trace of his customary good humor was gone.

Sir Horace hurriedly stepped between the constable and Grace. “Of course, you will stay here, my dear. There can be no question about that. We are very pleased to have you as our guest.” He reached over and gave his wife’s shoulder a little jiggle.

Lady Branscombe sighed. A long-suffering expression crossed her face before she caught Grace’s gaze. To her surprise, Lady Branscombe winked and smiled. “Of course, you will stay here, Miss Grace. No need to dwell on it. That should have been understood.” She glanced up at her husband. “By everyone.”

Sir Horace cleared his throat and gripped his lapels, giving them a tug. “Yes. Well.” He glanced at the constable and frowned. “No need to remain, young man.”

The constable gave Sir Horace a startled glance. Mr. Gribble was at least a decade older than the magistrate and clearly hadn’t been called a young man for a very long time.

“Yes, sir.” He flung a final warning look at Grace before bowing and taking his leave.

Sir Horace rubbed his hands together, grinning with relief. “Well, that’s done, then. Good job. Everything is all right, now, is it not?”

His wife sighed in exasperation, folded her sewing, and got up to move to the bell pull. “I suppose you have not eaten.” She yanked the cord. When Rathbone appeared, she gave swift orders for a cold supper. “I hope you will stay and have supper with us, Lord Glanville. As you heard, it will only be cold meats, cheese, and bread, but we would enjoy your company.”

Glancing up, Grace caught Lord Glanville’s gaze fixed upon her. Amusement danced in his eyes, and a wry smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Grace flushed. She looked away hastily and expelled a long breath when Lord Glanville turned away to escort Lady Branscombe into the dining room.

Nerves—it was just nerves. She clasped her fluttering hands together at her waist as she entered the dining room behind Sir Horace and her sister. The inquest’s verdict had been a surprise—a very welcomed surprise—and the melting sensation in her limbs was simply relief. That certainly explained her shortness of breath, as well. Just that, and the fact that she had eaten virtually nothing all day.

As luck, or rather, Lady Branscombe, would have it, Grace found herself seated next to Lord Glanville. Once again, she found herself picking at her food. When her stomach growled in protest, she decided with staunch determination that she was going to have at least one decent meal today.

“I trust the verdict of unlawful killing did not distress you unduly, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville said.

He, at least, seemed to have no difficulties with his appetite. He managed to make a large slice of roast beef and several slices of bread disappear as if by magic.

“Murder is always distressing.” She cast a quick, sidelong glance at him. “Was there anything mentioned that was, um, unexpected?” She looked briefly at their hostess, fearing she’d be reprimanded for inappropriate dinner conversation.

However, Lady Branscombe appeared blissfully unaware of their quiet conversation and was laughing over a comment from Martha.

Lord Glanville’s brow furrowed, and he took a sip of wine. “Unexpected?”

“Oh, never mind,” Grace said. “Perhaps you could… Perhaps you could visit us tomorrow with the details? Constable Gribble—”

“Don’t worry about the good constable,” he interrupted gruffly. “And I would be delighted to answer any questions you may have. Why don’t we go for a walk? Tomorrow morning at ten?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Grace was so relieved that she managed to eat nearly as much as Lord Glanville, all the while extolling the virtues and intelligence of Flossie as a way of avoiding any more awkwardness.

Lord Glanville nodded politely at the appropriate times. Even if he’d never seen the dog in his life and therefore probably had very little interest in Flossie’s progress, at least his blue eyes never lost their amused twinkle.

True to his word, the very next day, Lord Glanville called on Grace at precisely ten in the morning. The day was fair and warm, with only a few puffy white clouds frisking through the translucent blue sky like lambs, and Grace impulsively asked George to bring her Flossie on a lead.

After all, she’d spent so much time describing the puppy last night, surely Lord Glanville would want to at least see the creature.

Flossie tumbled over her own large feet in a concerted effort to greet Lord Glanville when George brought the puppy to her. Laughing, Lord Glanville bent and rolled the puppy over with one large hand to gently rub the dog’s plump belly. The puppy’s pink tongue lolled ecstatically out of its mouth, and Flossie licked Lord Glanville’s hand whenever it was near enough.

When Lord Glanville straightened, the dog immediately sprang to its feet. Flossie then sat down primly, in a surprising show of both good manners and an excellent memory.

“I see you have trained her well.” Lord Glanville threaded Grace’s hand through the crook of his arm.

Grace laughed. “She deserves all the credit, not I.”

When the groom, George, hovered nearby, his eyes fixed anxiously on Flossie, Grace motioned to him to take charge of the dog again. Smiling with relief, George picked up the puppy, clearly having feared that the animal would misbehave in some unforgiveable way in front of Lord Glanville.

Grace almost laughed at the thought—she was quite sure that Lord Glanville would not have been upset, no matter how terribly the dog misbehaved. He was not that sort of man.

And while she would have preferred to take the puppy along for its first walk, she knew if she did so, she would spend so much time playing with the dog that she would forget to ask about the far more important matter of the inquest.

“Lord Glanville, what happened yesterday at the inquest? Did they see my gown? What did they say?”

“Yes, your gown was examined, but there was little they could say about it. Most of the stains were gone.”

“But that is good, is it not?”

“You forget your gloves, Miss Stainton. I’m afraid they were rather incriminating.” He glanced at her, his eyes kind.

Her spirits sank. “They think I am guilty, then.”

“Not necessarily. They were unsure and reluctant to assign guilt, particularly after hearing Mr. Cavell confirm your statement that you had just arrived from London. There is still some hope.”

They walked randomly before following a path that wended its way through Hornbeam Manor’s gardens. The gravel walkway soon turned into a narrow dirt track that passed through a small wicket gate and merged into another, rougher trail. If one followed the track over the gentle hill beyond, there were the remains of a ruined abbey, though they were barely more than a few crumbling walls three feet high and one lonely arch. Nonetheless, it was a picturesque and quiet spot, and it offered a measure of privacy while still being visible for an exceedingly long distance. There could be no accusation of impropriety if they went there, and yet she knew they would not be overheard.

She needed to know how dire her situation truly was. The sense that Lord Glanville was not telling her everything in an effort to spare her feelings—or avoid a hysterical scene—wouldn’t leave her alone.

To her surprise, however, they no sooner set foot on the track beyond the gate when Grace noticed another figure loping along on the intersecting path that led around the manor’s grounds to the village. A jacket flapped around the figure, and even at a distance, Grace recognized Mr. Dutton by his ground-eating, loose-limbed gait.

With a quick look up at Lord Glanville, Grace paused to wave. Their discussion would simply have to wait.

Mr. Dutton waved back. To Grace’s surprise, he abruptly changed his course to join them.

“Are you acquainted with Dutton?” Lord Glanville asked as Mr. Dutton approached them.

“Yes.” Grace smiled. “He is the one who gave me Flossie.”

“I see.” Lord Glanville’s gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr. Dutton.

“Have you met him, as well?”

“Not formally. He was at the inquest,” Lord Glanville added.

“Miss Stainton.” Mr. Dutton doffed his worn cap and clutched it between his hands.

“How are you today, Mr. Dutton?” Grace smiled and was performing introductions when he cut her off.

“I just wanted to say how sorry I was, Miss Stainton. That inquest, you see, well, I was just plain sorry.” His weather-beaten face tightened. “They had no call to talk about a lady like that—anyone can see a delicate little lady like you couldn’t do a thing like that.” He looked at Lord Glanville. “Maybe his lordship here can do something—he knows a lady like you wouldn’t do a thing like that. He must know that.”

For some reason, Mr. Dutton’s fervent defense of her made Grace uncomfortable. She edged a step closer to Lord Glanville, wishing Mr. Dutton would drop the subject. Reviewing her behavior since returning from London, she sincerely hoped she hadn’t encouraged Dutton to form an attachment to her. She certainly hadn’t meant for him to misunderstand her friendliness for anything else.

Glancing up at Lord Glanville, she was reassured by his relaxed, almost bored expression. He apparently saw nothing untoward in Mr. Dutton’s inexplicable defense of her.

“You need not worry about Miss Stainton’s welfare—” Lord Glanville said.

“Not worry! With that Gribble poking his ignorant nose into the matter?” A harsh, bitter snort escaped from Mr. Dutton. “Just trying to look good, if you ask me. Already made up his mind, our good constable has. It’s clear to all what he’s thinking. Something’s got to be done about it—they’ve no call to blame you, Miss Stainton. No call at all.”

Despite Lord Glanville’s faint smile, her breath caught in her throat. They’d said persons unknown at the inquest, hadn’t they? Wasn’t that the decision? Surely, that meant that Constable Gribble was still searching for the murderer. Or had Lord Glanville and Sir Horace ignored the truth and painted a rosier picture to avoid worrying her?

If the constable thought she were guilty, he would stop investigating. That would be a disaster.

Lord Glanville shifted his weight, and although he still wore a bland expression, she could feel the tension in his muscles.

He’d lied to her! Did he even believe her when she said she was innocent? Or was he simply hoping to lull her into an admission by claiming he’d found evidence that someone else was involved? Is that why he’d been so kind to her after their dreadful first meeting?

“Something is being done, Dutton. The real culprit will be found,” Lord Glanville said in a bored voice. His unconcerned gaze drifted past Dutton to the rolling meadow beyond.

With a sinking heart, Grace realized that Lord Glanville had not agreed that she was innocent. He’d merely stated that the person responsible for Blyth’s death would be found.

Which meant that even he had enough doubt about her innocence to avoid claiming that she would not be arrested.

Mr. Dutton crushed his cap between rough hands and straightened, clearly regaining a measure of his self-control. “No innocent lady should suffer such accusations. That’s all I have to say.”

“Then we are in agreement,” Lord Glanville said.

Desperate to change the subject to something less fraught with emotion, Grace forced a laugh and tapped Mr. Dutton’s bony wrist. She recounted how she and Martha had gone to his house to make the acquaintance of his sister and been frustrated by the attempt.

It was the first thing she could think of, and she worked hard to make an amusing story out of her embarrassment when she’d been informed by his neighbor that he had no sister!

“Sister!” Mr. Dutton’s startled gaze moved from Grace to Lord Glanville and back.

“Yes.” Still grinning like an idiot, Grace shook her head. “I was foolish not to realize that she must be married and living elsewhere. Is she nearby? Do you visit her often?”

Mr. Dutton studied her, his big, rough hands turning his cap over and twisting it into a corkscrew, his mouth set in a grim line. “Not so near. No.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I wanted to meet her. I am just so grateful to you both for Flossie—she is such a dear. Is your sister terribly far away?”

“Whatley—about twelve miles from Bath,” he replied in the cadence of someone repeating a phrase by rote. His gaze flickered away. He slapped his cap against his thigh and stared at the path rising over a nearby hill.

“Whatley…” The name seemed familiar to Grace. “Don’t I… Oh, wait! Isn’t Mr. Blyth from Whatley? I thought he mentioned it to me, once. What a coincidence!” With a shock, she pressed her fingers over her mouth, suddenly realizing that Mr. Blyth was deceased. Her pleased tone was hardly appropriate, even if it was due to her ability to remember where she’d heard the name of the village mentioned before. “I do beg your pardon—I am so sorry.” She reached out to touch Mr. Dutton’s arm. “Please, forgive me. I should never have… Well, it was simply thoughtless of me. I do hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Dutton.”

“Nothing to forgive, Miss Stainton. But I’d best be on my way, so I’ll say good day to you both.” Mr. Dutton placed his cap on his head. “My lord…” He nodded respectfully to them both and loped away, his jacket flapping around him.

Grace turned toward Lord Glanville. “I truly am sorry. Do you think I offended him?”

“No.” Lord Glanville replied meditatively, his gaze following Mr. Dutton until he passed out of sight behind the nearby hilltop. “How long has Dutton lived in Kendle?”

“What?” Grace’s brow wrinkled. “Lived in Kendle? I don’t know. That is, he’d been here for several months before my father…” Her mouth tightened at the unexpected return of grief. She’d thought she’d gotten over his death. But at odd moments, when she hadn’t even been thinking about him, she’d feel a sudden stab of pain, a sense of profound loss that never seemed to heal.

A boat cast adrift without an anchor…

“Now I am the one who is sorry.” Lord Glanville’s mouth twisted as his blue eyes filled with sympathy.

“No—it is quite all right.” She took a deep, calming breath and gazed at the verdant rolling hills and distant bluish-green line of trees. A few lazy bees buzzed over a small clump of yellow flowers and the lilting whistle of a bird’s song arose from the direction of the trees. So beautiful and peaceful and yet, it somehow failed to soothe her. “I remember Mr. Dutton came a few months ago. Why?”

“Nothing. Now I am the one overindulging in curiosity.” He grinned at her.

A handful of feathers swirled around her middle as his smile deepened. She glanced away quickly and tugged at his arm. Walking would clear her mind, and perhaps she could avoid saying anything else regrettable.

It appeared that neither of them was in the mood to discuss the inquest any further, so in tacit agreement, they exchanged tales of acquaintances they held in common in London, instead. To Grace’s surprise, Lord Glanville had met the Polkinghornes a few times and expressed his condolences to her over Mr. Polkinghorne’s recent death.

That was another subject she had no wish to explore.

Their conversation soon languished, and they returned to Hornbeam Manor. Lady Branscombe met them on the garden terrace. Her hands fluttered distractedly and repeatedly to her hair, her cheeks were flushed, and she had a distinctly flustered appearance.

“What is it, Lady Branscombe?” Grace stepped closer and gently took one of Lady Branscombe’s nervous hands between her own. “Has something happened?”

“No, no.” Lady Branscombe glanced over her shoulder at the shadowy library beyond the French doors. She drew Grace a step closer to the garden as Lord Glanville stood nearby, watching them curiously. “It is simply…” She took a deep breath. “Your cousin has arrived.”

“My cousin?” Grace stared at her.

“Mr. Polkinghorne,” Lady Branscombe clarified, her left hand fluttering to touch a curl of hair hanging over her forehead. “He is asking for you.”

“Oh, dear.” Only iron strength of will kept Grace from looking at Lord Glanville.

Cousin Stephen was the last person she wished to see. He would be horrified when he heard of Mr. Blyth’s untimely end, and his subsequent ineffectual meddling would no doubt make a muddle of everything. In fact, if he stayed, she’d most likely end up begging for the opportunity to be convicted and hung, rather than face one more day of his helpful interference.

Not that she didn’t care for him. She loved all her cousins, even when they were at their most hysterical and trying. But after Mr. Dutton’s unexpected outburst, she was hoping to avoid any more overwrought scenes.

After all, the right to be hysterical ought to belong to her after everything that had happened.

“Does he know about…” Grace glanced from Lady Branscombe to Lord Glanville.

He gazed at her, one brow raised and a half-smile of curiosity lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Did you tell him about Mr. Blyth?” Grace asked.

“I did not.” Lady Branscombe’s left hand touched her hair again, her fingers trembling. “I did not know what to say. He was very… distraught. He asked for you, Miss Stainton.” Lady Branscombe’s gaze fixed beseechingly on Grace. “I left him with your sister. They are in the library.” She glanced over her shoulder at the terrace doors again and edged another foot closer to the wide steps leading down to the garden. She exhibited the tense manner of someone wishing to flee from an overly emotional situation.

“Distraught? Did you say that he was distraught?” Grace repeated. Had he already heard the news, then? Or was he just upset because of her sudden departure? Neither idea encouraged her to enter the library.

Sensible Martha was precisely the right person to speak to him.

“Perhaps you should speak to him, Miss Stainton.” Amusement lurked in Lord Glanville’s eyes as he caught her gaze.

Perhaps you should mind your own business. Grace frowned at him—she refused to stoop to glaring—before she straightened her shoulders. Very well, then.

Gaze fixed on the dreaded terrace doors, she pressed Lady Branscombe’s right hand between hers and released her. “Let me go inside and speak with him.” She flicked a glance at Lord Glanville. “I suppose you will be leaving us to attend to your own affairs, my lord.”

“Oh, no. I took care of my most pressing business this morning. My entire afternoon is at your disposal.” Eyes twinkling, he smiled with offensive graciousness and bowed to Grace and Lady Branscombe.

Letting out a long breath, Lady Branscombe returned his smile. Her hand fluttered to touch the lace adorning the square neckline of her pale gold morning gown. “How delightful.” She tucked her hand around Lord Glanville’s elbow and turned, leaving Grace to lead the way into the library.

Feeling like a prisoner mounting the gallows, she entered the library. Blinking, she almost walked into the back of a chair before her eyes adjusted to the dimmer, cool light of the room.

“Cousin Grace!” Stephen leapt to his feet. He rushed over, caught her hands in his, and pressed a damp kiss against her cheek.

With an effort, she smiled and kept from wiping her face. “This is a surprise. How are you, Cousin Stephen?”

“Much better now that I see you are well,” he answered fervently. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. Their awkward dance only ended when Grace nearly stepped on Lord Glanville’s toes.

Lord Glanville gripped her shoulders and gently set her aside.

Stephen’s fervent gaze remained fixed on Grace, and he scarcely seemed to notice Lord Glanville. Her cousin edged around to try to grasp her hands, but she clasped them behind her back.

Bereft of his quarry, Stephen drew himself up to his full height. His hands tugged on his lapels in the self-important manner of an orator about to launch into a speech on a beloved topic.

Wincing, Grace couldn’t help but compare the two men. Stephen’s head barely reached Lord Glanville’s broad shoulder, and the earnest expression on his face made him appear like a schoolboy doing his best to act like an adult. And from the way Lord Glanville’s lips twitched, he was struggling to hide his amusement.

“Cousin Grace,” Stephen said in his best oracular style. “I am here because Mother—that is—I am here because it is clear that you are in need of the strong hand of a man who can guide and protect you. Your sister has been recounting the events of the last few days, and I must say, I have never heard such a shocking recital in my life! It must be clear to you that a husband’s firm guidance is desperately required.” His glance strayed to Lord Glanville. Stephen cleared his throat, raised his chin, and tugged at his lapels as he puffed out his thin chest. “We must be married at once!”

“Married!” Grace stared at him, appalled at the thought. A choked laugh escaped her. “Why, you are only seventeen—”

“I shall be eighteen in two weeks,” Stephen replied gravely. “And Mother supports the idea wholeheartedly.”

“I’m sure she does, but I…” Grace glanced around.

Martha smiled serenely, clearly enjoying her younger sister’s discomfiture and curious to see how she would deal with Stephen.

For his part, Lord Glanville moved to lean against the fireplace, one muscular arm draped over the mantle. When he caught her gaze, he nodded, seeming perfectly at ease.

Lady Branscombe was flushing and staring at the floor, obviously wishing she were out in the garden and not inside, listening to such private matters.

So, no help was to be had—or even offered—by anyone.

Stephen stood straight, still clasping his lapels in both hands in proper oratory style, his gaze resting on Grace. “We will return to London at once, my dearest Grace. This evening!”

“And drive all night?” Grace stared back, appalled. Then a worse suspicion struck her. “How did you come down? In your gig? Did you honestly expect to drive me all the way back to London in that conveyance? This evening? We won’t arrive until the middle of the night—or early morning! Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

Flushing, Stephen yanked at his jacket, but he lost none of his strutting, rooster-like pose. With a reckless air, he said, “What does it matter if we spend the night together—”

Lady Branscombe gasped, gripped the back of a chair, turned it around, and collapsed onto the seat.

“We will not spend the night together, Stephen! Not now, not ever!” Grace stated.

“While I dislike interfering, I feel obliged to mention that Constable Gribble has requested that Sir Horace ensure that Miss Grace not leave the area. I believe her presence is necessary for the next few weeks, at least,” Lord Glanville murmured.

When everyone looked at him, he merely smiled blandly and studied a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess reckless enough to have lost any sign of her sheep.

“I am truly sorry that you went to all the trouble of coming here, but under no circumstances will I return to London with you,” Grace said in her firmest voice. “I can not stress that enough.” She flashed an irritated glance at Lord Glanville. “And it has nothing to do with Constable Gribble’s request. I simply will not go.”

Eyes brightening with a new notion, Stephen opened his mouth.

Grace held up her hand. “No. And I will not marry you here, either. Put that notion out of your head.”

“We will see,” Stephen replied with sickening confidence. “I intend to remain with you until you see reason. You love me. You may not realize it yet, but I will convince you of it. You will see.”

The sad thing was that the notion of confessing to Mr. Blyth’s murder—even though she’d had nothing to do with it—was becoming more attractive all the time. She looked up to find Lord Glanville observing her, an inscrutable expression on his face.

He pushed himself away from the fireplace and smiled at Stephen. “Since you intend to stay, allow me to escort you to the King’s Arm. They have a very fine brandy, and I’m sure you could use a glass after your long journey, Polkinghorne.” He moved over and rested a heavy arm on Stephen’s narrow shoulders. “Join me.” The request held the unmistakable firmness of an order.

Stephen’s glance went from Grace to Lord Glanville. He stuttered a few unintelligible syllables before clearing his throat. “Ah… Yes, of course. A room at the King’s Arm…” His helpless gaze went to Lady Branscombe.

She studiously ignored him by examining the lush carpet at her feet.

“I wasn’t prepared… That is to say…” Stephen flushed a deep cherry red and cleared his throat.

“I can certainly understand your reluctance, but the rooms aren’t too bug infested. Or so I understand.” Lord Glanville physically turned Stephen toward the hallway. “Perhaps you would like to stay at Laurelwood House, instead? We are only renting, of course, but it is not bad for temporary quarters. What say you, Polkinghorne?”

“Laurelwood?” Stephen hung back, staring even harder at Lady Branscombe.

She examined the pattern of the thick Oriental carpeting even more intently.

His loose-lipped mouth worked for a moment, like a fish gulping air. “I… Uh. Hornbeam Manor…”

“I fear Lady Branscombe has her hands—and house—full.” Lord Glanville slapped Stephen on the back, gripped his neck, and thrust him toward the door leading to the wide hallway. “Laurelwood, it is, eh?” Another hearty slap sent Polkinghorne into the hallway. “Good day, ladies,” Lord Glanville said before he, too, disappeared through the door.

“Well,” Grace said uncomfortably. She took a seat near Lady Branscombe and gave her a reassuring smile. “I must apologize—I hadn’t expected…”

“It is quite all right.” Lady Branscombe straightened and some color returned to her cheeks. “One cannot always prevent—well, never mind.”

Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon and evening was pleasant, mostly due to a lack of any more surprises.

Grace was grateful to Lord Glanville when he appeared the next day, unaccompanied by her cousin. Whether he locked him in the cellars or had manacled him to his bed, she didn’t know, but she was relieved nonetheless. In fact, Lord Glanville visited her every afternoon for the next week, in what grew to be one of the happiest periods in her life. Although the excuse for their meetings was to discuss the inquest and Constable Gribble’s investigation, they never seemed to get around to the subject.

Instead, Lord Glanville and Grace spent most afternoons working with Flossie, who was learning an alarming number of tricks under Lord Glanville’s firm but kind tutelage.

When almost two weeks had passed, Grace belatedly remembered poor Mrs. Wolstenholme. Lord Glanville had already informed Grace that he had business to attend to and could not visit her as usual, so with a distinct fear of “too little, too late,” she put on her bonnet, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and walked to the vicarage.

While the house was meticulously maintained, there was an air of forlorn abandonment about it when Grace walked up the front walkway. The flowers along the walk were brittle and brown, going to seed without a caring hand to manage them. A few weeds had invaded the hollyhocks and were doing far better than the cultivated flowers.

Although the window panes sparkled in the sun, behind the glass the drapes were drawn, giving them a withdrawn, closed-up appearance. Grace cast worried glances at the house, hoping to see the twitch of a curtain to indicate a touch of life and human curiosity, but there was nothing except that dismal air of hopelessness.

Maybe it was just a reflection of her own uneasy mood. She took a deep breath and knocked at the front door. The sound seemed to echo hollowly behind the door. A second knock elicited no response, either. Biting her lower lip, Grace tried the door knob. The brass knob turned easily.

She pushed open the door. “Mrs. Wolstenholme?”

Her voice drifted eerily down the narrow hallway. Dust motes sparkled in the sunshine streaming in from the open door, which seemed to highlight the frayed edges of the worn, green rug covering the center of the wooden floor.

Grace stepped inside, the oak boards creaking under her feet. “Mrs. Wolstenholme? Are you here?”

Despite the oppressive silence, she thought she could hear a muffled sound. She tilted her head. Following the soft noise, she moved down the hallway, passing the dreary formal drawing room, dining room, and finally coming to the kitchen door.

A long honey-colored maple table took pride of place in the center of the room, with cupboards and counters ringing it along the walls. Seated in the chair at the head of the table, Mrs. Wolstenholme stared down at some papers she held in her right hand. Her face was so pale it appeared to be carved from ivory, and her eyes were set in dark holes in her bony face.

When Grace stepped into the room, Mrs. Wolstenholme looked up, her gray eyes black with some harsh emotion.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wolstenholme,” Grace said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” She gestured in the direction of the front door. “The door was open.”

Mrs. Wolstenholme just stared at her, her gaze devoid of comprehension.

“What has happened?” Grace stepped around the table to place a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. The bones felt sharp and fragile beneath her palm, and she loosened her grip for fear of hurting her. “Is something wrong?”

“I…” Mrs. Wolstenholme lifted her hand, still gripping the papers. Her gaze sought Grace’s face. “It wasn’t wrong, was it? It was addressed to Mr. Blyth, but he is…” She swallowed with difficulty. “I thought… If it was church business—I didn’t want Frank bothered. He has so much on his mind these days… The money for the organ… He so wanted me to play it again…” She dropped the papers and pressed her fingers to her mouth. Her gray eyes filled with tears before she blinked, took a deep, shuddering breath and clutched the papers again. She looked at Grace with swollen, reddened eyes. Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile. “I had not realized… He must have made the arrangements before… Before it happened.”

Grace pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, gripping one of Mrs. Wolstenholme’s hands. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Her gaze flickered to the papers. “Did you receive some bad news? Something unexpected?”

“Unexpected?” Mrs. Wolstenholme laughed harshly, rising abruptly before she cut it off, her gaze fixed on Grace. “Unexpected? Yes. Yes, indeed. It seems that our Mr. Blyth got his own parish at last. A very rich parish. Very well-to-do.” She waved the papers. Her eyes burned feverishly. “They wrote to tell him that his application had been selected.” She paused dramatically, her hands pressing the papers against the scarred table. “To be a vicar in his own parish.” Her gaze bored into Grace. “Don’t you see what that means? Our Mr. Blyth was not a rich man. And yet, he must have had funds we did not know about to acquire such a wealthy parish.”

“Well, he was betrothed,” Grace offered awkwardly, patting one of Mrs. Wolstenholme’s tense, claw-like hands.

“Betrothed!” Mrs. Wolstenholme barked another rough laugh. “Do you truly believe that would be enough? We trusted him! Frank was so sure… The organ fund was his responsibility, and now that is missing, and Mr. Blyth has acquired a lucrative living that even Frank could not aspire to!”

“There must be some explanation…”

“Yes. There must, mustn’t there?” Mrs. Wolstenholme pressed her fists against the table and stood. “I—”

“I understand.” Grace rose hastily and pushed her chair under the table, preparing to leave her in peace. “The shock… I’m sure there is a simple explanation.”

“Simple?” Mrs. Wolstenholme stared as if Grace had started capering around and gibbering. “Do you not understand? The funds are missing! And Frank went to get an explanation from him that very night!”

“That night?” Grace echoed, pulling out her chair and sitting down again. Her limbs would hardly support her. “But Mr. Blyth—no. You must be mistaken. He was so kind, so thoughtful. He would never have done anything so…” Dreadful? Reprehensible? Devious? Nothing seemed to fit her image of the young curate.

Mrs. Wolstenholme pressed her mouth shut, her eyes hard as she examined Grace. “Yes, he could seem very kind. Certainly, the ladies in the parish had no complaints when he attended to them.” Her tone suggested that those ladies were either foolish in the extreme or that the curate had acted in an unseemly manner. “But our Mr. Blyth was ambitious, as well. There were one or two times when I feared…” Her lips thinned, and she shook her head. “Well, he was unsuccessful in taking this parish for himself, no matter what rumors he spread about Frank.”

“Yes, but you cannot seriously believe that Mr. Blyth took the money intended to replace the organ?” Grace asked, trying not to think about what ugly remarks the curate may have made about the Wolstenholmes. Unfortunately, looking back, she could remember several offhand comments that had made her laugh—and wince—at the time.

“Frank believed he had. He went to speak to him. That night. He was furious.”

“Nonetheless, Mr. Wolstenholme returned home, is that not so? So, nothing happened. Everything was all right.”

Mrs. Wolstenholme’s fixed gaze made Grace squirm in her chair. “All right? He said he had cut his hand.”

“He? Who—”

“Frank.” Mrs. Wolstenholme’s hand slashed impatiently through the air. “There was blood all over his sleeve. And waistcoat. I had difficulties removing it.”

Grace’s face felt stiff as she gazed at her. “But… Did he cut his hand?”

“Oh, yes. The palm of his right hand.” Her gaze drifted to some remote point in the room as her fingers smoothed creases out of the letter on the table in front of her. “He said he’d injured it while trying to open the strong box in his office. He thought he might find the misplaced funds there. The box is metal and has a rough corner.”

“Then surely…” Grace forced a smile. “I’m sure he told you the truth. That must be how he cut his hand. It is reasonable, if he was searching for the missing funds.” He couldn’t have cut it on a jagged edge of the chunk of marble used to bludgeon Mr. Blyth, could he? She looked at Mrs. Wolstenholme’s gray face and shadowed eyes. He could not have done it. Not the vicar.

“So much blood…” Mrs. Wolstenholme whispered, gazing at nothing.

Gazing at nothing except the horrors of an uncertain future if her husband…

Grace refused to accept that conclusion. Mr. Wolstenholme was stuffy and inclined to preach at the worst possible moments, but he was basically a good man. A man who knew the right course and was determined to follow it, regardless of how awkward it might be. It was one of the most annoying things about him, and it was that trait that now convinced Grace of the vicar’s innocence.

Or nearly convinced her. The fact that his own wife had doubts worried Grace. Maybe she was a less capable judge of character than she imagined. She glanced at Mrs. Wolstenholme’s rigid shoulders and tired face and realized something else: Grace had thought Mr. Blyth was a fine, honorable man, as well. She’d only lately discovered that he was not at all who she thought he was. Instead, he’d proven to be one of those men who let their ambition drive them, regardless of the consequences to those around him. She’d been completely wrong. With that thought, a misty curl of relief seeped through her. She shouldn’t have felt it, but she did.

Mr. Blyth’s death saddened her, but when she looked into her heart, she realized she felt none of the deep, tearing grief that she ought to feel if she loved him. At some point, her attachment to him had died, and she hadn’t even noticed it.

The clear eyed insight revealed something else, as well. Her certainty concerning the vicar’s innocence was shaky at best. If she could be so wrong about Mr. Blyth, then who was to say that she wasn’t equally wrong about Mr. Wolstenholme’s innocence?

She needed to talk to Lord Glanville. He’d been at the inquest, and he was so sensible that she was sure he could help them. He’d probably laugh at her concerns and bring peace to both Grace and Mrs. Wolstenholme.

Pressing her hands against the table, Grace got up once more. She gave Mrs. Wolstenholme’s stiff figure a hug and promised to return the following day.

But Mrs. Wolstenholme caught her hand. Gray-faced and eyes pleading, she begged Grace to forget their conversation. Patting her shoulder, Grace temporized and finally escaped. She needed Lord Glanville’s advice, and she was sure he would not spread any rumors. He was a safe confidant.

And she had the niggling feeling that she’d forgotten something, or knew something, that she didn’t realize she knew. The answer was there in the shadows, waiting.

She simply had to find the truth.