Grace slumped in the corner of the closet. The handle of a broom poked her in the ribs. She thrust it away only to slam her elbow into the wall behind her. As she rubbed her elbow, her emotions surged between anger and a deep, gut-wrenching horror.

That beast! How could he have locked her in here? He hadn’t even given her a chance to explain. A sob choked her. Poor Mr. Blyth.

The stuffy, confined space smelled of dust. She sneezed and gagged at the metallic odor of wet iron that clung to her gloves when she raised her hands to her face.

Blood. No one could mistake the smell. She must have gotten Mr. Blyth’s blood on her gloves when she rolled him over. She pressed her mouth shut to avoid being sick.

She tore off her gloves and thrust them into the reticule hanging from her wrist by a ribbon. The pouch was still open in her hands when she paused. The man who had locked her in the closet must have seen the stains on her gloves. No wonder he’d thought she was responsible for the curate’s death.

Oh, dear, what was she going to do? Feeling around the closet, she searched for a place to hide the gloves. It would be so much easier if she didn’t have to explain the sticky stains…

The door suddenly opened. Brilliant, golden lamplight spilled over her, nearly blinding her after the comforting darkness of the closet. Throwing up one hand to shade her eyes, she faced the door.

“Is this the lady?” a familiar voice asked.

“Sir Horace?” Grace asked, blinking as she stepped forward. Seeing his ruddy face, she reached out and gripped his forearm. “Oh, Sir Horace! I am so relieved to see you! The most terrible thing has happened.”

“Miss Grace!” Sir Horace exclaimed. He awkwardly patted her hand and took a step back, a puzzled frown wrinkling his face. “Miss Grace, what are you doing here?”

Her glance bounced from him to the taller man standing behind Sir Horace’s rounded shoulder. With a sickening lurch of her stomach, she recognized the stranger as the man who’d unceremoniously locked her in the closet.

The lamplight flickered over the man’s harsh features, highlighting the sharp cheekbones, wide, stubborn chin, and jutting nose. It might not be a traditionally handsome face, but it was a strangely compelling one, though there was something hard about it, too. Grace found it difficult to look away, once she’d caught his steady gaze. His fair hair—a trifle long—brushed his collar and a heavy lock fell over his forehead before he brushed it back impatiently.

Face like a bag of rocks. Farmer Cavell’s words echoed in her head. She shivered. Like the farmer, she had already decided that this man was not a man she wanted to cross. She could almost feel the hard steel in him.

“I… I…” She tore her gaze away from the stranger to look at Sir Horace. Her grip on his forearm tightened. “I wanted to see my sister, Martha.”

“She is at Mrs. Willow’s cottage, Miss Stainton. As I’m sure you are aware.” Sir Horace pried her fingers off his arm and took another step backward, distancing himself. Finally, he straightened. A serious, magisterial expression settled over his round face, granting him a dignity he normally didn’t show. He studied her. “Why are you here?”

“I wished to speak with Mr. Blyth.” Her chin rose as she met his gaze. She crossed her arms over her waist, her palms cupping her elbows, seeking to appear as dignified as the magistrate. “My sister was not home, so I asked Mr. Cavell to bring me here.” Her gaze flickered to the silently observant man behind Sir Horace. “I found Mr. Blyth.” Her voice broke. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “He was lying on the ground—he was dead—there was nothing I could do for him! Nothing!” She couldn’t control the shrill edge knifing through her words.

Her hands gripped her arms more tightly. She fought for control, taking long, shaky breaths.

“Where are your gloves?” the stranger asked abruptly.

“Gloves?” She stared at him.

“This is Lord Glanville, Miss Stainton,” Sir Horace said, belatedly making introductions. “Lord Glanville, may I present Miss Grace Stainton.”

Lord Glanville made no attempt to bow, so Grace made no attempt to curtsey. “So this is the young lady Mr. Blyth was courting before he met my sister.” His wide mouth tightened briefly as he examined her. She got the distinct impression he didn’t approve of what he saw. “All I can conclude is that Blyth must have had an extraordinary fondness for money if he threw over this lady in favor of my sister.” His head tilted to the left. “Or perhaps he was more nearsighted than we realized.”

“There is no need to be offensive!” Grace flushed and her fingers pressed against her elbows.

Sir Horace wriggled a plump finger under his collar as if uncomfortable. “Now, Lord Glanville, Lady Lenora is most… Um…” He coughed into his fist.

“Interesting?” Lord Glanville supplied helpfully. “That is the description I hear most often in conjunction with my sister.”

Sir Horace stared at him, mouth working and an appalled expression on his face. “No—no, not at all. She is very… Uh… She dresses beautifully!” he exclaimed at last in a triumphant surge of creativity.

Lord Glanville laughed. “No need to worry, Sir Horace. My sister and I are both well aware of what we lack in the way of personal beauty.” His brows wrinkled. “Strange though. Our parents were quite handsome. But there it is.” His amused gaze returned to Grace, and the twinkle died out of his eyes. “Unfortunately, we must return to the matter at hand. Your lovely young Miss Stainton comes well-supplied with a motive, does she not? Love lost, never to be regained again, no matter how much one pleads…”

Grace bit the inside corner of her mouth. She released her elbows to clutch her reticule with chilly fingers. Her gloves—her bloodstained gloves—were inside, burning like coals. “I told you—I did nothing wrong.”

“A crime of passion, perhaps,” Sir Horace said.

The two men exchanged glances. Sir Horace shook his head sadly, his gaze dropping to stare at the floor.

“Gloves, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville repeated, holding the lantern up to cast more light over her.

Grace blinked. Her hands tightened on her reticule. Why hadn’t she thought to hide her gloves more quickly? She’d been locked away long enough, there must have been some crack, some loose board where she could have wedged them. But it had taken her too long to think clearly enough to realize the danger of the stains on her clothing, and hiding her gloves wouldn’t have washed away the streaks on her skirt.

“Now, Miss Stainton,” Sir Horace said as he gestured to her reticule. Then his gaze drifted down her dress and the crease between his brows deepened. He rubbed his chin and flicked a glance at Lord Glanville. “As Lord Glanville said, it is all quite understandable. A crime of passion, as the French describe it. I am sure it must have been terribly disappointing to discover Mr. Blyth had transferred his affections to another.” He gestured to her. “And there is that blood on your dress, Miss Stainton. The facts speak for themselves, I’m afraid.”

“Blood on my dress… Yes. And there is more on my gloves,” she agreed bitterly as she pulled the reticule off her wrist and thrust it at Sir Horace. “But the stains are not there for the reasons you believe. I was not angry with Mr. Blyth. I never got a chance to speak with him. He was lying on the ground when I arrived, and I feared he might have fainted. I rolled him over into my lap, thinking to revive him when I discovered…” She broke off as another sob choked her. “It is hardly surprising that I have blood…” She swallowed the lump in her throat and clutched at the closet’s doorframe to steady herself. To her horror, her hand shook, and in the wavering light, she noticed dark stains around her fingernails.

His blood had seeped through her gloves. She wiped her hand against her skirt in a frantic gesture, but had to grip the edge of the door again to keep from falling. Her limbs felt numb and quivered beneath her.

“She’s going to faint,” Lord Glanville said.

The light grew brighter as he brought the brass lantern closer. She glanced away, feeling the heat of the flame on her cheeks. The golden gleam hurt her eyes until she raised a hand to shield them.

Without even a by-your-leave, Sir Horace gripped her by the elbow. He dragged her down the hallway to the vicar’s office, muttering under his breath, while Lord Glanville followed at a leisurely pace. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled her over to the plain wooden chair positioned in front of the desk.

“Sit, Miss Stainton,” Sir Horace ordered. He pulled a silver flask from an inner pocket of his jacket, uncorked it, and held it up to Grace’s mouth.

The sharp odor of brandy burned her nose.

“No…” She tried to push the flask away, but Sir Horace only held it more firmly against her mouth.

With a sigh, she grabbed the silver container out of his hands and took a small sip. The fluid burned all the way down her throat to her stomach and only seemed to make her feel sicker. She’d forgotten to eat—couldn’t eat when they’d stopped at noon—and now she felt weak and ill.

“Another sip,” Lord Glanville ordered.

She cast a grimace in his direction and took another, even smaller sip. It didn’t burn quite as much as the first one, but it did nothing to quell her trembling.

Perhaps the alcohol needed time to work. She took a deep breath and thrust the flask back into Sir Horace’s hands.

“I did not murder him. Mr. Cavell can tell you—I only just arrived a few minutes before—” She swallowed and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. “Before I found him. There was no time.”

“A few minutes is all it would take,” Lord Glanville said.

“No one would blame you, my dear.” Sir Horace took a long swig from his flask before tucking it back under his jacket. He studied her with sympathetic eyes and patted her hands. “Such a disappointment… Everyone expected you and Mr. Blyth… Well, you know as well as anyone, I suppose. No need to go over it. I must admit, though, that it was quite a surprise when he offered for Lady Lenora—” He broke off with an uneasy glance over his shoulder at Lord Glanville.

Lord Glanville gazed at them with a bland expression, his brows slightly raised. “Of course. A young, impetuous beauty—well used to having her own way, I’m sure… She would hardly expect to be cast aside so easily.” He shrugged. “Good enough reason for such an impulsive action.”

“Impetuous? Impulsive?” Grace sprang to her feet. Her hands fisted at her sides as she leaned forward. “I am not impulsive, and I certainly am not used to having my own way, I assure you!” She paused, realizing that her entire trip to Kendle had been impulsive, marking her as a rampant liar.

“I implore you to stop, Miss Stainton.” Sir Horace grabbed one of her hands. “You cannot mean to admit that you planned to murder Mr. Blyth. That you came here expressly for the purpose of killing the man who threw you over so cruelly—”

“I am admitting nothing of the sort! I only came here to speak to Mr. Blyth. To speak—that is all! I had no intention of murdering anyone.”

A sardonic smile twisted Lord Glanville’s wide mouth. “No intention until you saw him, of course.”

Sir Horace sighed and tried to pat her arm again. “I knew you could never have planned such a thing, Miss Stainton. It would have been too coldhearted—you always were such a sweet child. An act of impulse, then—done in the heat of an argument—anyone would understand.”

“Please listen to me, Sir Horace.” Grace caught his hand. “I did not do it! I did not murder Mr. Blyth—I found him like that! He was already dead when I arrived. How many times must I say this?”

“Of course, he was,” Sir Horace agreed hastily. “No need to worry yourself.”

His words had the same effect as cold water dashed into her face. Irritated, Grace eyed him, sure that he’d only agreed because he feared she was growing hysterical.

And honestly, she was. Despite the brandy, her limbs were trembling uncontrollably. Her hands felt stiff and encased in ice, and desperate thoughts kept jerking randomly through her mind.

Letting out a long breath, Sir Horace looked once more at Lord Glanville as if seeking agreement. “It grows late, and we can do nothing now.”

Lord Glanville nodded.

“Perhaps we ought to escort Miss Stainton to Mrs. Willow’s cottage,” Sir Horace suggested. “She may then have the company and support of her sister—another woman…” His words drifted off.

“I fail to see why she should be granted any such comfort,” Lord Glanville replied. He set the lantern down on a small table next to the door and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He effectively blocked the only exit from the room.

Noting that, Grace’s heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t even run—escape from the dreadful, accusing stares of the men surrounding her…

She stared at Lord Glanville. In the fitful glow from the lantern, his harsh features looked like a portrait of the devil himself, done in shades of gold and black. His square chin thrust out like a roughhewn block of granite.

Stubborn, Grace thought, another chill running down her back. Implacable. He’d never let her edge past him to slip away into the darkness.

“If you fear I will run away, I assure you I will not,” Grace said at last, trying to quell the panic growing inside her.

“What I fear is that the evidence currently residing upon your person will disappear, should we leave you in your sister’s care,” Lord Glanville replied. His deep-set eyes were hidden in dark wells, but the V between his brows revealed his cynicism and disbelief.

“Evidence?” She glanced down at her gown. Red streaks and smudges streaked her lap. The smears were already dried and dark against the lighter fabric of her traveling dress. Her hands brushed and plucked at the streaks as slowly growing panic swelled inside her. It wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t be brushed away…

She forced herself to stop and clasped her hands in her lap. “Sir Horace already has my gloves—they are in my reticule—and you may have this dress, as well.” Unable to control herself, she clutched the sides of her skirt and gave it a shake. “I doubt I will ever be able to wear it again.” She locked gazes with Lord Glanville, her heart fluttering in her chest like a desperate bird locked in a cage. “And I will give it to you here and now if you insist.”

“No, no, Miss Stainton. There is no need for that.” Sir Horace’s head swiveled from Grace to Lord Glanville. His plump cheeks burned even deeper red. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. Let us escort you to Mrs. Willow’s cottage. You’ll be relieved to see your sister, will you not?”

“Yes. Though I doubt she will be pleased to see me,” Grace replied in a quavering voice. Her attempt to sound cool failed miserably. If she couldn’t convince Sir Horace of her innocence—a man who had known her since her childhood—what hope did she have?

She stood and moved to the door, her gaze fixed on the floor. At least they were willing to take her to Widow Willow’s cottage instead of locking her up somewhere. There was no official gaol in Kendle, but on those rare occasions when some miscreant was apprehended, they were often kept in a small room in the cellar of the local public house until the assizes.

She couldn’t bear that dank little cell, smelling of beer and mud. She was innocent—she simply had to prove it!