Unladylike though it might be, Grace ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, having forgotten to eat anything except a few slices of buttered bread the previous day. She pulled apart a warm bun—definitely the last one she’d eat—and watched with delight as the tender interior released a puff of deliciously yeasty steam. Spreading a dollop of plum preserves on one chunk, she glanced up as her sister entered the dining room.

Martha glanced at her with a frown and eyed her empty plate. “I still do not understand why you returned so abruptly without even a letter warning of your arrival,” she said by way of a greeting.

Grace shrugged and took another bite of the soft bun. After swallowing, she smiled. “Good morning to you, too, Martha.”

“Truthfully—what were you hoping to accomplish? I thought I made it clear that Mr. Blyth and Lady Lenora intended to marry. Your presence wouldn’t have dissuaded them, I’m sure.” Martha poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Grace.

“Truthfully, I told you. I thought if I could talk to him…” Grace placed the remnants of the bun on her plate, her appetite gone.

Martha sighed. “And what did he say when you spoke to him?”

“Spoke to him?” Grace stared at her sister. “I told you—he… I could not speak to him—he was already gone—dead—when I arrived.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over Martha’s mouth before she took another sip of coffee. “It is not that I didn’t believe you—I simply wanted to know if there was anything else, any other little detail, that you might have remembered.”

“Well, there isn’t.” With jerky movements, she picked up the bun and forced herself to take another large bite. It felt as if she were trying to choke down a linen handkerchief instead of a light, delicious bun. She chewed and swallowed, determined to prove that her sister’s words hadn’t bothered her in the least.

But truly, how could Martha be so suspicious? So unsympathetic? Grace would never have questioned her own sister—she would have known that she was innocent and done her best to support her.

Looking completely unconcerned, Martha placed her cup on its saucer and stood. “I thought I would take a walk in the garden. Why don’t you join me?”

“Join you?” Grace’s chair screeched over the oak floor as she stood. “I’m surprised you’d even ask me, considering you think I am capable of murder.”

Martha laughed and slipped her hand around Grace’s arm. “I never quite thought that.”

“Not quite.” Grace tried to shake Martha’s hand off, but her sister’s fingers simply tightened as she pulled her forward.

“Surely, your feelings are not that delicate.” Martha snorted her disdain for such a thought. “If they are, you will end by locking yourself in your wardrobe and never coming out again. You are here, and the next few days are likely to be exceedingly unpleasant, so you might as well resign yourself to receiving a great many questions that you dislike in the extreme.”

“I am not afraid of any questions. I can only repeat what I have already said several times.”

Martha pushed open the wide doors to the terrace and walked outside, clearly expecting Grace to follow. Grace almost shut the door in her sister’s face, but thought better of it. As usual, sensible Martha was correct. The next few days would be horrible enough without the two of them arguing.

The garden beyond the terrace was a formal affair done in geometrically perfect squares marked by neatly trimmed yews at each corner. Inside each square, flowers grew in profusion. Heavy-headed roses cast soft white, pink, and red petals over the gravel paths and scented the warm morning air. The abundance of denuded flowerheads stood as mute evidence of the power of last night’s storm, but fat buds, some already bursting open, were doing their best to replace the tattered remnants of flowers.

Daisies, hollyhocks, Sweet William, and pinks all vied for attention, and as Grace followed her sister, the spicy scent of the pinks and softer, richer fragrance of the roses filled the dewy air. Martha waited for Grace at the point where the path split, and, tucking her hand around Grace’s elbow, drew her along the right-hand path that led to an arbor covered with a pale pink damask rose.

“This is such a beautiful garden,” Martha said wistfully, glancing around. She released Grace’s arm to catch a rose and hold it close to breathe in the delicious scent.

“Surely, Lord Ashbourne’s garden is just as nice,” Grace said.

“It will be.” Martha released the thorny branch and shook her fingers to fling off the dew still clinging to the leaves. “At the moment, there is only one gardener, and he only seems interested in the kitchen garden. Not that that isn’t the most important consideration, after all.” Her gaze drifted to a large clump of bright rose-colored pinks. She sighed.

“Still—you always adored pinks.”

“And columbine.” Martha’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses. “And hollyhocks.”

Grace smiled. How easily one could find joy in the smallest things. A flicker of movement caught her attention, and she turned.

A man carrying a large basket came around the side of the house, apparently having come from the village. He was a tall, raw-boned, gangly man with a peculiar loping gait that covered ground rapidly. A well-worn brown jacket flapped around him in the breeze. He paused halfway between the house and the stable yard, staring in their direction.

As he neared, Grace frowned at the sense of familiarity.

“Oh, there’s Mr. Dutton,” Martha said. She raised one hand and waved.

“I don’t remember him, though I feel I should.”

“I doubt you have met him. However, you may have noticed him at church before you left for London. He usually sits in the back with Mr. Cavell, and he does a great deal of work for Mrs. Willow. I suppose he also does carpentry for Sir Horace, as well. He is an excellent carpenter and built the coziest coop for the widow’s chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“Mr. Cavell gave her two good layers, so of course, she needed a coop built.” Martha waved again as Mr. Dutton came closer. “How good to see you, Mr. Dutton!”

“Miss Stainton.” He nodded to her and pulled his cap off his head, his brown eyes flicking over Grace. On inspection, Mr. Dutton appeared to be one of those quiet, dependable men with such plain features and unassuming manners that they seemed to slip into the background, like a thin sapling disappearing in the tangle of brush at the edge of a forest. Unless one were specifically looking for it, it faded into the general greenery.

“This is my sister, Miss Grace Stainton,” Martha said, pulling Grace forward.

A sniffle and whining noise erupted from the basket Mr. Dutton held. He shifted it from his left arm to the crook of his right. “I beg your pardon, but I was taking these to Lady Branscombe.” He stared at the ground at their feet, clearly awaiting a dismissal.

Both Grace and Martha stared at him with blank expressions.

Grace’s brows rose in question when the silence continued.

Despite his slightly shabby appearance, his soft voice indicated a decent education and intelligence she hadn’t expected. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the slightest idea what he had in the basket or what he was talking about.

“Puppies. Vicar found them under a bush. In the back of the churchyard, yesterday afternoon. Wanted to destroy the lot of them. Couldn’t see the use in a pack of stray dogs hanging about the church. But I figured if the Lord had guided them there, then He must have had a reason. And the pups hadn’t done anything wrong that I could see, so I took them away with me, yesterday,” he explained in a burst of words. “I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t go telling him that I kept them, though.”

“We won’t tell him,” Grace assured him, feeling disappointed in their vicar’s stern attitude toward the stray dogs. He could at least have asked his parishioners if there was anyone who might like a puppy.

There were always kindhearted people who’d be more than pleased to add a dog to their household.

“Anyway, I brought three—so Lady Branscombe can have her pick. I kept back the mother and one pup.” He flushed and shifted the basket again from one arm to the other and hastened to add, “Only the runt, though. No one else would want him. My sister—” His mouth snapped shut, and he flushed again.

Martha’s eyes sparkled behind her glasses as she cast a glance at Grace. “May we see them?”

“After Lady Branscombe. She’s to have first pick. Sorry, miss, but I promised her first pick.” Frowning, he looked back at the house. Then his face cleared with evident relief. “Here she is, now.”

Lady Branscombe was striding along the gravel path toward them, a smile brightening her thin face. “Mr. Dutton! Did you bring them?”

“Yes, my lady.” He set the basket on the ground and pulled up one side of the lid.

Inside, three little brown puppies wriggled over one another in an attempt to climb out of their wicker prison. They were all various combinations of brown and white, with the huge blue eyes of puppyhood, long droopy ears, and pink tongues. At the sight of the ladies crowding around, the puppies yipped excitedly and struggled even more wildly to escape.

Laughing, and her face flushed with pleasure, Lady Branscombe grasped a puppy with one white ear and one brown. The dog had managed to stand on the backs of his two siblings, and he had almost made his escape from the basket when she caught him. The puppy licked her chin and nuzzled her neck until she held it out and pressed a kiss against its soft white ear.

“What do you think?” she asked no one in particular, her gaze locked on the puppy. “I shall call him Caesar, I believe.”

Although he smiled, Mr. Dutton shook his head. “Might give him the idea that he’s grander than he is, if you ask me.”

“Not at all,” Lady Branscombe replied in a voice burbling with laughter. “If I give him a royal name, I have no doubt he will strive to earn it.”

Mr. Dutton shook his head and gave a snort as one of his large hands gently fondled the ear of a remaining puppy. The dog flopped over on its side to expose its fat belly and wriggled until Mr. Dutton rubbed that, too, his leathery, worn face softening as he did so.

“Don’t suppose you’d like two, Lady Branscombe?” he asked at last.

“Mrs. Willow will take one, I’m sure.” Lady Branscombe tucked Caesar under one arm and stroked its head with her free hand.

“May I have one?” Grace asked impulsively, stooping to pick up the smallest one.

The littlest puppy was all brown and had been gazing up at Grace with adoring blue eyes ever since Caesar had been removed from the basket. The little dog looked so forlorn that Grace couldn’t help but cradle the warm puppy against her breast and rub its long, silky ears.

“Of course, Miss Stainton,” Mr. Dutton replied with an anxious glance at Lady Branscombe. “If her ladyship doesn’t object?”

Lady Branscombe laughed, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “Of course, I don’t object! How could I?” She gazed longingly down at the remaining puppy before she straightened and shook her head. “No. I cannot take two. No. Take the remaining pup to Mrs. Willow and tell her that I sent it to her. She will not refuse, then, I’m sure.”

Mr. Dutton picked up the basket and gave Lady Branscombe a bow before placing his cap back on his head. “Thank you. I’ll go right now, if you will excuse me.” He bowed again, touching the brim of his cap before loping away along the gravel path.

“What shall you call your little dog, Miss Grace?” Lady Branscombe asked with a smile.

Grace concentrated for a moment. “Flossie, I think.” Hardly the most inspiring name, and certainly not a royal one, but the more she thought about it, the more Grace liked it. She rubbed the squirming dog’s head. “Yes. I’m going to name her Flossie.” She grinned at her sister. “You should have taken one while you had the chance.”

Martha sighed and lifted her hands, palms up in a gesture of tired defeat. “I would have, but…”

“Oh, Miss Martha!” Lady Branscombe exclaimed, turning rapidly in the direction Mr. Dutton had taken. Unfortunately, he’d already disappeared around the side of the manor. “I had no idea! If we hurry, perhaps we can still catch him.”

“No.” Martha grabbed Lady Branscombe’s arm. “No—Mrs. Willow will appreciate a dog, I’m sure. She’s always so nervous at night, so it will be good company for her.”

“If you truly don’t mind…” Lady Branscombe’s brow wrinkled with doubt.

“I don’t mind. Truly.” She eyed the two puppies, comfortably cradled in the arms of their new owners. She grinned ruefully. “Though I do feel a bit left out.”

“No doubt,” Grace agreed, joy bubbling up inside her as Flossie wriggled and licked her hand.

Then, just as she was beginning to believe that everything was finally all right, she remembered. Everything was most assuredly not all right, even if the day was beautifully mild and sunny, and roses and lavender perfumed the warm air. If she didn’t do something to prove her innocence, Martha might end up with Flossie after all.

As if sensing the shift in her mood, Flossie whimpered and licked her chin.

“Do you remember our groom, George?” Lady Branscombe asked. “He agreed to train Caesar when I explained that Mr. Dutton was coming today with the puppies. I’m sure he would be happy to teach Flossie manners, as well, Miss Grace. Would you like me to take Flossie to him?”

“Oh, yes.” She handed the small puppy to Lady Branscombe.

As soon as the dog left her clasp, she suffered such a strong pang of loss that she almost grabbed Flossie back. Her hands clutched the sides of her skirt, and she forced a calm smile as Lady Branscombe nodded and walked away with the puppies snuggling in her arms.

When she glanced at her sister, she noticed the abstracted, thoughtful look on Martha’s face as she gazed out over the gardens.

“What is it?” Grace asked.

“I just… Did you hear what Mr. Dutton said?”

“What? Do you mean about the puppies?”

Martha’s eyes sharpened as she caught Grace’s gaze. “Partly. He said that the vicar found the puppies yesterday, in the churchyard.”

“Yes. And asked Mr. Dutton to remove them,” Grace replied patiently. Then it hit her. “Yesterday! You don’t mean—you can’t possibly mean…” She shook her head. “No. Mr. Dutton is too kind. He couldn’t even drown those puppies. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Mr. Blyth’s death.”

“Maybe not.” Martha sighed. “But he might have seen something.”

“I don’t know. I mean, he might have removed the animals hours before anything happened.”

“Nonetheless, we should ask him. And the vicar. He was there, too. One of them might have noticed something.”

Grace slipped her hand through the crook of her sister’s arm to begin their much-delayed walk. “It was nice of Miss Dutton to take the runt of the litter, don’t you think so?” she asked, changing the subject.

Her sister nodded absently.

“Have you ever met her?”

“Who?”

“Miss Dutton. Have you ever met Miss Dutton?”

Martha’s forehead wrinkled, and she pushed her glasses up her nose. “I suppose so. In church, I should imagine.”

“If she looks like her brother, I can see why you don’t remember.” Grace laughed. “Though I shouldn’t make fun of him. He is a perfectly respectable and very nice man, is he not?”

Martha nodded.

“And I’m sure his sister is just as nice.” Curiosity, as pesky as a fly, buzzed around her. Miss Dutton sounded so kind to take the mother dog and runt for pets. Did she look like her lanky brother? Why couldn’t Grace remember seeing her at church?

The more Grace thought about it, the more she realized that her sister was right about one thing. She ought to speak to Mr. Dutton about last night. He might remember something important, even if it was from earlier in the day. Visiting his sister would serve as an excellent reason to search out the family and strike up a conversation.

She flicked a glance at Martha as they walked through the damask rose arbor. “I think we should visit the Duttons, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Martha agreed. “I do, indeed.”

While Mr. Dutton’s well-maintained but very small cottage was easy enough to find, the mysterious Miss Dutton remained mysterious, nonetheless. Mr. Dutton had not returned home yet, and Grace assumed he was still trying to tempt Mrs. Willow with the last puppy as Grace knocked again on the blue front door.

“Mr. Dutton’s not at home,” a voice called. A woman stood on the stoop of the small house opposite, watching them. Pale brown hair straggled damply out from under her limp cap, and she was wiping her reddened hands on her apron as she leaned tiredly against the doorframe. It was clear that the opportunity to gossip about her neighbor gave her the excuse to take a much needed rest from the drudgery of housework.

Grace and Martha exchanged glances before Grace returned to the gate. “Have you seen Miss Dutton? We were hoping to visit her.”

“Miss Dutton?” The woman stared at her, her heavily-veined hands smoothing her apron over her flat stomach. Her gaze roved over the two sisters with a critical gleam. “There’s no sister that I’ve ever seen.”

Grace exchanged a puzzled glance with Martha.

Shrugging, Martha edged through the gate to the dirt road.

“Are you sure?” Grace asked, following her sister.

“I’ve lived here my whole life.” The woman’s face assumed an implacable, “there’s no point in arguing with me” expression. She jerked her chin at Mr. Dutton’s cottage. “He’s only been here a few months, and I’ve never seen signs of any woman. I ought to know, I keep his house for him and cook his meals. There’s no sister.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t live here?” Grace moved over to rest her hand on the woman’s gate.

The yard beyond was neatly kept and trimmed to within an inch of its life, and even the front steps and stoop appeared to have been freshly scrubbed. The boards were still damp around the woman’s feet, and the window in the door gleamed in the sunshine.

The woman shrugged and turned to go back inside. “He gets a letter now and again—I’ve seen them on the table next to his chair. Of course, I don’t know who they are from—it’s not my place to know, and I don’t go reading other people’s letters.”

“Of course not,” Grace agreed. She had the distinct impression that the woman did know and simply had a gossip’s reluctance to let any crumb of information fall from her lips without receiving something tasty in return. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I am Miss Grace Stainton, and this is my sister, Miss Martha Stainton.”

“Soon to be Lady Ashbourne from what I hear,” the woman said, her eyes gleaming as she studied Martha. “Well, I’m Mrs. Notley.”

Martha nodded, though from the way her mouth twisted, Grace knew that her sister had yet to reconcile herself with the idea that she would soon be Lady Ashbourne rather than plain old Miss Stainton. Martha had always been too sensible to want a title and its inherent social responsibilities.

“How do you do, Mrs. Notley?” Grace smiled.

Instead of appeasing their curiosity, Mrs. Notley pushed her door open and glanced at them over her shoulder. “Begging your pardon, but I’ve got to get on with my baking.” She grinned. “And I still don’t know what was in those letters or who sent them, Miss Stainton, so there’s no point in asking again. I wish you both well, though, and a good afternoon.” With that, she slipped back into her house and closed her glossy black door.

“Well, that was useful.” Martha leaned over to shut the gate behind Grace and to ensure that the catch was properly fastened.

“I wonder where his sister lives, then?” Grace tucked her hand through her sister’s elbow as they started back toward Hornbeam Manor.

“Perhaps she passed away recently. Mr. Dutton seemed distressed when he let slip that he had a sister.”

Grace nodded. “I noticed that, as well. Or she could be married and therefore living in another village or town.” She let out a long, thoughtful breath. “I suppose I let my curiosity get the better of me.”

“It’s easier than thinking about what happened last night,” Martha commented with distressing accuracy.

She was right, though. The puppies and Mr. Dutton had been a welcomed distraction. Flossie, in particular, had raised her spirits and made her feel more optimistic than she had since last night. Just the thought of the puppy’s big blue eyes made her smile and quicken her step.

Then, she jerked to a halt. She glanced at her sister. “I have another notion—”

“Oh, no.” Martha cast her gaze up at the fluffy white clouds racing overhead. “What sort of notion?”

“I think we should visit Lord Glanville. I would dearly love to meet his sister.”

“I’m sure you would, but under the circumstances, I cannot imagine what possible reason we could have for going there. And I’m not sure his sister would be interested in meeting you.”

“No.” Grace laughed. “No reason except curiosity. Any woman would be dying to meet the female cast aside by their betrothed, if for no other reason than to feel horribly superior about the entire thing.”

“Yes. But I doubt that applies when the jilted lover is suspected of murder,” Martha replied dryly.

Her good mood crumbled as sorrow and grief wrapped their cold arms around her, squeezing tightly. The future looked bleak, indeed, whether she lived or was hung as a murderess. Mr. Blyth was gone, and her reputation was in tatters. Even such wretched positions as governess were beyond her, now. Who wanted to hire a woman who had been suspected of murder?

And if she went back to the Polkinghornes… No, she couldn’t do that. Not with Stephen following her around, all dewy-eyed and panting. She shivered, and her grip tightened on her sister’s arm. Perhaps she could stay here with Martha… It would be an imposition once Martha married, but Grace could keep out of the way. They’d hardly know she was there. She’d be like a mouse that left no sign of its trespassing as it scurried from one room to the next, always out of sight.

She flicked a glance at her sister, to find Martha frowning with thought. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” Martha straightened her shoulders. “Or rather, I wish there was something I could do—some tangible evidence that would show you are as innocent as we know you are.”

“Yes. If only he were poisoned instead of bludgeoned to death,” Grace replied bitterly.

That would indeed have been helpful. Her sister was a noted scientist and had given Lord Ashbourne considerable assistance in solving a previous, unfortunate death. Martha had identified the poison and led the way to the discovery of the truth. However, in this case, there seemed to be nothing anyone could do.

Martha suddenly stopped. “Look! Is that not Lord Glanville and his sister, now?”

Another couple was approaching them from the opposite direction. Lord Glanville’s tall, broad-shouldered figure was immediately recognizable, and Grace eyed his companion with interest.

The woman, Lady Lenora, was nearly as tall as her brother, and willowy in her very modish walking dress of deep, rich peacock blue silk. The puffy, gigot sleeves draped off her shoulders becomingly under a lacy white shawl, and a wide belt adorned with a large gold buckle cinched her narrow waist. As they watched, she flung one end of the lace shawl over her shoulder in a casual, graceful manner, and she nodded at something her brother had said. A shallow bonnet, trimmed with blue and white silk flowers, adorned her head and even seemed to reduce her height somewhat. And the pleats and embroidery on her gown were further subtle evidence of her excellent taste, for they were subdued and well-designed. More elaborate decoration would have been overpowering on such a tall woman.

Mr. Cavell had been right: Lady Lenora did dress very well.

As they neared and Grace got a better look at Lady Lenora’s face, she had to congratulate Mr. Cavell on his decision to avoid any additional description. Lady Lenora could only be described as plain. She had smooth, pale blond hair swept up under her bonnet and blue eyes, but her eyes were set very close together over a thin, pointed nose. Her mouth seemed small, as well, and all of her features seemed too delicate for her broad-cheeked face and obstinately square chin. In fact, there simply seemed to be too much “face” for such tiny features.

Her annoyed expression didn’t help, either. As soon as she saw Martha, a flicker of recognition lit her blue eyes. She glanced at Grace with a frown that further squeezed her small features into a narrow line set between her wide cheeks.

Lord Glanville halted a few yards away from the sisters. His mouth twisted into a cynical grin as he glanced from Grace to his sister. “Good day, Miss Stainton. Miss Grace.” He raised his hat and gave them a bow.

“Miss Stainton,” Lady Lenora echoed with a nod, her gaze fixed firmly on Martha.

“I don’t believe Miss Grace Stainton has met my sister, Lady Lenora.” A gleam of amusement lit Lord Glanville’s blue eyes.

Trying to be charitable, Grace resolutely refused to believe it was malicious amusement that she saw in his gaze.

“How do you do, Lady Lenora?” Grace curtseyed.

Lady Lenora’s gloved hand tightened on her brother’s arm, but she managed to nod, though her gaze was stormy.

Grace couldn’t help but wonder what Lord Glanville had told his sister about the events of last night. The woman must be devastated to have lost her betrothed in such an abrupt and horrible manner. To find her out today, calmly walking with her brother, seemed incredible.

She fixed her compassionate gaze upon Lady Lenora. “Please accept my condolences, Lady Lenora.”

“Condolences?” Lady Lenora pressed her lips into a thin line and cast a quick glance at her brother. Anger flashed over her face, raising ugly red splotches over her fleshy cheeks. She swallowed repeatedly, clearly trying to overcome some internal conflict and avoid a scene.

“That is very kind of you, Miss Stainton,” Lord Glanville said when his sister seemed unable to continue.

“May we talk, Lord Glanville?” Grace asked impulsively. Flicking her glance from Lord Glanville to her sister, she flushed, aware that her request had sounded rude at best.

However, Lady Lenora seemed to have recovered her equanimity for she gave Martha a smile. “Miss Stainton, we were just on our way to the church.” She held out her crooked arm. “Would you care to walk with me a ways?”

“Certainly.” Martha looked relieved as she linked arms with Lady Lenora.

The two of them appeared a little odd with Lady Lenora so tall and willowy next to the more sturdy and compact Martha, but the two ladies seemed happy enough to move forward at a leisurely pace.

Grace glanced up at Lord Glanville. Her pulse fluttered, and she felt a sudden desire to run after the two women. She looked around. The lane seemed terribly private, even though she was sure that Mrs. Notley had them under observation.

What had she been thinking to ask for a private word with him, of all people?