Persuaded by the increasingly violent bolts of lightning and deafening crashes of thunder, the men were easily convinced to escort Grace and her sister to Hornbeam Manor before collecting their horses from St. Mary’s. Even so, they were all drenched when they finally squelched their way into the manor’s grand hallway.

Mr. Rathbone, the Branscombe’s butler, became positively morose as he collected their dripping outer garments and handed them fastidiously to the maid, Alice.

As Grace shook out her skirt, she noticed that the stains had smeared and drifted lower to form a reddish band around the hem. As she watched, the streaks continued to drift through the wet fabric until they had almost disappeared. When she glanced up, she saw Lord Glanville studying her, a frown burrowing between his brows.

He looked like he thought she’d deliberately set out to walk through the storm in hopes of washing the stains out of her clothing.

“That walk through the rain was not my notion,” Grace said as she shook her skirt again and shifted from one soaked foot to the other. Her shoes squished and burped out a flood of muddy water. A shallow pool shimmered around her on the marble floor, sparkling in the candlelight.

“No,” Lord Glanville agreed easily. “The storm has not done us any particular favors, though, has it?”

Grace shrugged. She rather thought it had done her some good. The rain had washed away most of the blood, leaving only a few pale streaks around the hem of her skirts. She stepped out of the puddle around her feet. A shiver rippled through her as her wet clothing slapped coldly at her ankles. Glancing at her sister, she saw that Martha’s lips were already turning blue.

Cold had always affected Martha the most. Grace stepped closer to her sister, concerned lest she become ill.

“I beg your pardon, but may we retire to our room?” Grace asked, her gaze fixed on Martha’s damp face. “My sister has received a chill.”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” Sir Horace agreed hastily, glancing around as if he wasn’t sure about what he should do with the two very damp young ladies.

To his evident relief, his wife, Lady Branscombe, came hurrying down the grand staircase. Her worried gaze fixed upon her portly husband, and a worried frown lined her face. Years younger than her husband, Edith Branscombe was tall and slender, with an athletic grace that contrasted oddly with the bearlike form of her husband, but there was no denying the strong bond between the two. Lady Branscombe barely nodded to the others as she ran across the marble to her husband and began yanking on his saturated jacket.

“You must remove these wet things at once or you will become ill!” she exclaimed. “Whatever were you thinking to go out on a night like this?”

“Leave off, woman!” Sir Horace exclaimed, dancing around in an effort to keep his wife from stripping him right there in the hallway before everyone’s startled glance. “There is no point in removing my jacket.” He slapped her hand away when she tugged on his collar. “Lord Glanville and I must go out again—”

“You will do no such thing! I simply will not allow it!” Her mouth tightening, she eyed Lord Glanville. “You cannot expect my husband to go out again—not on a night like this!”

“Certainly not,” Lord Glanville agreed. His dark blue eyes danced with merriment, although his expression remained serious. “I’ll collect the horses. They can stay in my stable tonight. I’ll bring your mare back in the morning, Sir Horace.”

“I am perfectly capable of fetching my own horse—will you desist from these attempts to unclothe me!?” Sir Horace pushed his wife’s hands away from his jacket and dashed around to the other side of Lord Glanville. “I have a responsibility! I am a magistrate—”

“Your responsibility will cease if you are dead,” Lady Branscombe pointed out, fists resting on her hips. “And I fail to see how fetching a horse in the middle of a storm can be considered the duty of a magistrate.”

“Madam,” Sir Horace said in lofty tones, his double chin wobbling in the air. “You appear to have overlooked the fact that we have guests who require your attention.” He waved a hand toward Grace and Martha. “I suggest you tend to them. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime, I will take care of the horses, Sir Horace, and return in the morning,” Lord Glanville cut in smoothly.

Sir Horace glanced at him and expelled a long breath, his rounded shoulders slumping. “Very well. Rathbone, my waxed overcoat, if you please.” He bowed to Lord Glanville. “It may not be much use, but the overcoat will at least keep you from getting any wetter than you are already.”

The butler handed a large overcoat to Lord Glanville. The wax covering the stiff garment shone softly in the candlelight as Lord Glanville thrust his arms into it.

The sleeves were a bit too short, and he grinned as he stared into an ornate hallway mirror. To Grace, he looked as mountainous and evil as any highwayman of legend, and she wondered what he saw in the glass that amused him so much.

“I had best be off, then. Good night, ladies. Sir Horace, don’t forget—the dress.” He tapped his wet hat more firmly on his head and turned as Rathbone opened the door.

A miniature squall, full of green leaves torn from thrashing branches and icy rain, burst through. The debris swirled around the entryway, making the three ladies squeal in protest as their skirts fluttered in the wind. The hem of Lord Glanville’s overcoat flapped around him as he thrust his way outside.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Even Rathbone appeared startled by the boom. “I beg your pardon, Sir Horace.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Sir Horace said, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Edith, time you escorted the young ladies up to their room.”

“And you—” Lady Branscombe took a step toward him, her dark eyes gleaming with determination.

“Yes, yes. I will follow—do not fret so.” He smiled and pushed her forward in front of him like a small barge pushing an elegant clipper ship out of the harbor.

For the first time, Lady Branscombe appeared to notice Grace and Martha. Her sharp gaze drifted over one and then the other. “Oh, dear.” She frowned. “We must get you out of these wet clothes—you shall catch your deaths.”

Arm around Martha, Grace whisked her toward the grand staircase before their hostess could get her hands on either of them. Much as she appreciated the concern creasing Lady Branscombe’s brow, there was such a thing as propriety. And decency.

And the wish to be somewhere other than Hornbeam Manor’s grand entryway before she shed her dripping gown.

“Speaking of wet clothes,” Sir Horace called after them. “Be sure to set Miss Grace’s gown aside. Do not wash it, my dear.”

Grace and Martha stopped at the first floor landing and glanced back.

Lady Branscombe halted below them, midway up the stairs. “Gown?”

“A small issue—something I must see to in the morning, my dear,” Sir Horace explained, his gaze roving around the hallway in pretended nonchalance.

Lady Branscombe’s glance darted from Grace to Sir Horace. “A small issue with her gown?” Her voice grew as cold as the rain outside. “I fail to see what issue you could have with a young lady’s clothing.”

“It is unimportant—I shall explain later. Just keep the gown as it is, if you wouldn’t mind.” Sir Horace’s boots squelched as he shifted from one foot to the other.

“There is—was—blood on my gown, Lady Branscombe,” Grace said, stepping away from her sister. “Mr. Blyth is dead, and there is blood—his blood—on my skirt.”

“Mr. Blyth? Dead?” Lady Branscombe stared up at her, her brow tightening and mouth thinning. She turned to face Grace fully, almost as if setting herself between Grace and Sir Horace. A mother hen protecting her plump little chick. “What happened?”

At least she asked and didn’t merely assume… Grace took a deep breath. “We—I—found him in the churchyard. I thought he had fainted and tried to wake him up, but he was already—had already…” She swallowed a lump. “I was too late. He was gone.”

Lady Branscombe nodded. “I see.” She ascended a step before she stopped again and looked over her shoulder at her husband. “It is a simple enough explanation. Why would you need her gown?”

“A—hem.” Sir Horace cleared his throat. His gaze bounced around the entryway again before finally settling on the glistening puddle surrounding his boots. “Evidence. Simple evidence, my dear. Nothing to worry you.”

“Evidence of what, precisely?” Lady Branscombe’s hand tightened, the knuckles gleaming palely on the banister.

“The, uh, circumstances. To prove events happened as described…” Sir Horace’s words trailed off.

“To prove what else? There must be more. Murder?”

“Yes,” Grace answered for Sir Horace. “That is it, precisely.”

Sir Horace appeared so miserable as he squirmed and fretted, trying to avoid telling his wife that they might be harboring a murderer. Watching him, Grace bit her lower lip, sympathy for him twisting inside her.

“Did you do it?” Lady Branscombe’s eyes were hard as she stared at Grace.

“No, I did not. He was already dead when I arrived.”

Lady Branscombe let out a long sigh and shook her head. “And these men believe otherwise. I see. In fact, I see quite well.” She ascended the remaining steps at a brisk pace. “And I suppose that is why Miss Martha is here instead of with that silly Mrs. Willow. Well, there is nothing for it, I suppose, but to do as Sir Horace asks.” She threw a comforting arm around Grace’s shoulder and placed her other hand gently on Martha’s back to guide them both around the corner to the second flight of stairs. “Would you care to share a room? Or two separate rooms?”

“Separate—” Martha said.

“Share—” Grace declared at the same moment.

The two sisters exchanged glances as they ascended the second staircase.

Grace sighed and shrugged. “Separate, then. Martha is used to it, after all. I doubt I will sleep much tonight, anyway.”

“I can give you a draught,” Lady Branscombe offered as they arrived at the second floor landing.

“No, but thank you.” Grace shook her head as they drifted down the hallway.

“Here you are, Miss Martha,” Lady Branscombe opened the first door on the left and lit one of the candles with one from the hallway. “I will put your sister in the room right next door.”

“Thank you, and good night,” Martha said before she gave Grace a quick kiss on the cheek. “Try to get some sleep, dear. Things will look better in the morning.”

Grace nodded and followed Lady Branscombe, grateful to her for being the first to truly accept her innocence. Other than her sister, she amended to herself. And, of course, Martha practically had to believe her since they were family, which made Lady Branscombe’s understanding seem even kinder.

“I will send Alice to assist you.” Lady Branscombe opened the door, lit a candle, and stood aside. “I am sorry about the gown, but I suppose we must do as my husband requested. I, or rather my eldest daughter, has some dresses we may be able to alter for you. She is more similar in size to you than I am.” The glimmer of a smile crossed her long but still pretty face. “And they are not old, cast off gowns that I would normally give to Alice, so do not worry.”

“There is no need—”

“If my husband insists on depriving you of one gown, then I feel we must provide recompense of some sort. Don’t worry, Miss Stainton. We shall not give you anything we cannot spare. We are not quite that generous.”

Grace smiled. “You are far more generous than you think, Lady Branscombe. I couldn’t be more grateful.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Branscombe paused in the doorway with one hand on the doorknob. “But if you must show your gratitude, do so by getting a good night’s sleep. I will have my hands full in the morning with Sir Horace. Mark my words, he will be as surly as a bear and sneezing on top of it after wandering around in the rain.”

Laughing, Grace shook her head. “If he is, then I shall help you nurse him.”

“You shall do all the nursing, my dear child, if that is the case. Just to show your gratitude, of course.”

“Of course.”

When the door closed behind Lady Branscombe, Grace let out a long breath and glanced around the comfortable, well-appointed room. A thick green and gold carpet cradled her tired feet and the bed was piled high with pillows and a thick coverlet. She longed to crawl underneath the covers, rest her head against the feather pillows, and close her weary eyes.

Without waiting for the maid, she undressed. Her hair was a mass of dripping knots, so she combed the tangles out with a tortoiseshell comb she found on top of the chest of drawers. That task done, she dried off as best she could, only to realize she’d left her portmanteau in the entryway.

Fortunately, a soft knock on the door presaged Alice’s entrance with the desperately needed bag.

Before long, Grace crawled into bed and relaxed against the soft, lavender-scented pillows, determined to think through the best way to prove her innocence and identify the real murderer.

Despite her conviction that tomorrow might prove worse than this current dreadful day, she yawned. Her eyelids fluttered. She pulled up the covers, and fell asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.