The Highland Heist, page 21
Frederick met Grace’s gaze again. Unlike their previous mysteries, where the perpetrator’s identity was shrouded in secrecy, this one offered a peculiar twist. They knew the players and motives—but not the next move.
That was the real mystery.
An unsettling one.
“But … I’ve spent all this time explaining and haven’t seen Lillias.” Tony sat straighter in the chair with a sudden rush of energy. “Would you get her? Thomas too?”
The room fell silent. Grace looked at Frederick and, with a deep breath, leaned forward, touching Tony’s hand as if to brace him. “Tony, Lillias isn’t here.”
“Not here?” His expression tightened, and he looked from Grace to Frederick. “Where did she go?”
Frederick found himself preparing for impact. Grace took a deep breath, glancing at him briefly before pressing on.
“Actually, she’s gone to Scotland.”
“Scotland?” He shot upright, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Why? And with the baby?”
“She went to claim an inheritance—a castle our mother left us in her will. We didn’t know about it until the day you …” Grace trailed off, glancing helplessly at Frederick.
“Died,” Frederick supplied.
“Her mother? But she’s been gone for years.” Tony frowned, confusion giving way to frustration. “She never told me about any will. And what castle? Lillias doesn’t even like Scotland.”
“Well,” Frederick interjected, reclining slightly as though preparing for a long evening, “there’s a lot to explain, so I’d suggest you prepare yourself. Because there are far more surprises to this story than your rather theatrical return from the dead.”
It had taken the rest of the day and part of the next morning to finalize everything for travel. Of course they could have left sooner if not for the hours spent with Detective Johnson confirming that Tony Dixon was, indeed, among the living and reviewing every tangled thread of this increasingly bizarre case.
They’d hoped Mr. Barclay might recover in time to join them—after all, the man held the secret of where to find the will inside Mosslea. But poor Mr. Barclay had only stirred once from his coma, babbling incoherently about horses and whisky before slipping back into unconsciousness. Evidently, the kind man had been hit much harder on the head than either Frederick or Mrs. Lindsay. The doctor was optimistic he’d recover his senses … eventually.
Unfortunately, “eventually” wasn’t a schedule they could afford.
Grace sighed as she pinned her hair. Mr. Barclay’s absence would truly put a damper on finding the will in a prompt and direct manner. Her lips spread into a smile. But Mr. Barclay’s delay did provide one tiny opportunity if viewed from the right perspective.
It would give her and Frederick a chance to engage in another treasure hunt, except this time, it wasn’t for actual gold treasure or in an island cave, it was for an inheritance … and in a castle.
Already, Tony seemed to be gathering strength, even as he spouted his dislike of ocean travel. They’d only been aboard ship two days, when he’d shown much more color in his face than any ghost should have, and his sleeping had improved a little. Well, apart from his nightmares.
But Grace understood those.
Hers had grown much less frequent, but she knew the irrational fear of reliving the moment. All the more for dear Tony, who had almost been buried alive. And from Grace’s preliminary research, the possibility of something like that happening wasn’t as remote as she’d imagined.
Was that where Poe got his ideas? She paused mid-pin. Contemplating being buried alive? Or another story where he actually writes about a man burying his arrogant enemy alive. She shuddered and went back to finalizing the packing of her trunk so it would be ready when the ship reached Glasgow and they began to disembark. Perhaps deep thoughts about mortality also led Poe to write his detective stories. Now wasn’t that a clever segue? Perhaps she should renew her Poe reading to assist in sleuthing knowledge, especially if she came upon a murder that happened in a room without an entrance or escape.
She glanced out the porthole at the roiling sea.
Where was her sister?
They were already two days behind her. Who could know for certain how she and Miss Cox had managed their trip across or if Mr. Clark had already caught up with her, held her at knifepoint, and forced her to walk the plank. Perhaps Mr. Clark and Lillias weren’t even on the same ship. That would make her feel so much better.
Grace frowned. Passenger ships didn’t have planks, did they?
“It’s almost time for dinner,” Frederick entered the room, buttoning his shirtsleeves as he approached, his bowtie dangling around his neck. “You look deep in thought. Planning our next move?”
“Not exactly.” Grace turned toward him. “I was contemplating Poe. And murder mysteries. And planks on passenger ships, which I realize now is quite ridiculous.”
Frederick arched a brow, his lips twitching. “A thoroughly practical train of thought. And here I assumed you’d be pondering wills in hidden compartments or how to convince the captain to shave a day off the voyage.”
Grace brushed a stray hair she’d obviously missed away from her face. There was a weariness in Frederick’s posture. Was something wrong? “Well, I wouldn’t mind knowing where and how Lillias is right now, but there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment except pray.”
“And contemplate possibilities, no doubt.” His smile softened, but his gaze held a weight that set her nerves humming. “We will find her, darling.”
“What is it, Frederick?” She stepped closer, searching his face.
He rubbed a thumb over her cheek and released a heavy sigh before taking her hand and leading her to a nearby chaise. Oh, he was settling her in. This couldn’t be good. Hadn’t he just said they would find Lillias?
He sat next to her, his hand never releasing hers. “While you were busy with Poe and planks, I was catching up on the papers. We’ve been so distracted with your sister’s situation and our honeymoon, I hadn’t paid much attention to news.”
“That sounds harmless enough,” she said lightly, hoping to ease whatever burden had him so grim.
He nodded and gave her hand another squeeze as he held her gaze. “Evidently, there’s been an assassination.”
Grace blinked. Well that certainly wasn’t remotely among the list of things she’d expected him to say. “An assassination? Where? Who?”
“Bosnia,” he answered, grimly. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria. And his wife.”
Grace pressed her palm to her chest. “And his wife?”
“They were shot last week, on the 28th of June. It’s being framed as a nationalist act of defiance, but it’s far more than that.” His jaw tightened. “This could unravel everything.”
“Everything?” Grace echoed, her imagination spinning in a dozen directions. “Do you mean war?”
Frederick’s silence was answer enough.
Grace’s pulse quickened. “And Britain? Could we be drawn in?”
He ran a thumb over her knuckles, his gaze steady but somber. “The alliances across Europe are a tangled web. If one nation falls, others may follow. I hope cooler heads prevail, but we must prepare for the possibility that they won’t.”
Grace stared at him, the enormity of what he was saying sinking in. “And Britain too?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully it will all be sorted in a peaceful and mutually respectful way.” His voice remained calm, maybe even hopeful, but it held an undercurrent of uncertainty. “Regardless, it’s my duty as a peer of the realm and a former military man to be ready for whatever lies ahead. My position means I can’t ignore what’s happening. But I admit … it feels like the world is shifting beneath our feet.”
She refused to comment on the fact that they currently rode on a ship across the ocean so the world was quite literally shifting beneath their feet; instead, she leaned close to him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “If the world is shifting beneath our feet, dear Frederick, then we must trust in the one who holds the whole world all the more.”
His gaze found hers and he smiled, pulling her hands to his lips in an act of love and solidarity. “Indeed, darling. Indeed.”
Chapter 18
Frederick gave his head a sharp shake as Glasgow’s harbor loomed into view, its steel-gray waters rippling beneath a muted July sky. War? Surely not. Yet with the unrest creeping across Europe and alliances shifting like sand underfoot, he couldn’t ignore the nagging sense that something far darker than a mysterious castle or a makeshift murderer hovered just beyond the horizon.
To his right, Grace held Zahra’s hand, her expression more subdued than usual. It wasn’t often his wife allowed shadows to settle across her face; she was far too skilled at inviting sunshine into any gloom. Even now, despite her quiet demeanor, he could see her mind working, likely forming some quip to draw him out of his thoughts.
And he would let her.
Whatever lay in the future, his focus had to remain on the tangible dangers of the present.
Tony, leaning against the railing to his left, seemed a man transformed after their six-day voyage. Rest and enjoying some distance from recent events had restored his color and given him a renewed sense of purpose.
To start over.
To set things right.
To redeem his family.
Frederick understood that kind of resolve. It was the kind that burned through doubt and left behind something sharper, something unyielding.
“It reminds me of Liverpool when I arrived in England with you for the first time.” Grace pressed a hand to her hat, a necessary precaution given her uncanny ability to lose them.
Frederick’s lips twitched. Her knack for misplacing hats was, in its own way, impressive.
“Did Liverpool look as dark and smoky as this?” Tony asked, wrinkling his nose at the sooty skyline.
Grace leaned forward, craning her neck to look around Frederick. “Not to worry, Tony. As Lord Astley once assured me upon my arrival, the landscape improves dramatically the farther one ventures from the city. For country-hearted folk like you and me, the change will be a welcome relief.” She turned toward Frederick. “How long should it take us to get to Angloss from here?”
“I can’t say with certainty,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the ship easing into its berth at the Queen’s Dock. “Travel in Scotland is unfamiliar territory for me, particularly the Highlands. Remote areas tend to keep their own schedules.”
Tony groaned, throwing up his hands. “So we’re fumbling our way through Scotland in search of some obscure little village? This is madness. Grace, I know from your letters that you thrive on this kind of harebrained adventure, but I’m a banker. I don’t have the constitution for being stabbed, nearly buried alive, or employing housekeepers who moonlight as murderers.”
“And I’m an earl,” Frederick interjected with a grin. “Adventures are often thrust upon us, whether we seek them or not. But occasionally, they lead to something remarkable.” He tipped his head toward Grace, his eyes warm. “I wouldn’t trade the adventure that brought me to Lady Astley—not even your part in it, Tony.”
Tony responded with a resigned smile, though his muttering suggested he remained unconvinced.
The ship docked with a jarring clang, and the sounds of Glasgow surged around them—a cacophony of shouting dockworkers, screeching gulls, and the rhythmic groan of cranes lifting cargo from the bellies of steamships. The air was thick with the mingling scents of coal smoke, brine, and the earthy tang of the Clyde.
Frederick leaned on the railing, taking in the scene below. The dock stretched out in a chaotic tangle of warehouses and cranes, with merchant vessels and passenger liners moored in uneven rows. Overhead, smoke from the towering funnels wove itself into the low-hanging clouds, blurring the line between industry and gloom.
The crowd on the dock was a kaleidoscope of movement and color. Families clung to one another in tearful reunions, businessmen exchanged brisk handshakes, and dazed newcomers hesitated at the edges, wide-eyed at the industrial sprawl. Near the customs office, a brass band struck up a jaunty Scottish tune, its cheerful strains stubbornly defying the grime of their surroundings.
Grace nudged his arm, her expression brightening as she pointed toward the band. “If nothing else, Frederick, at least Glasgow welcomes us with music.”
“And soot,” Tony added with a grimace, brushing at his sleeve, following them toward the gangplank.
“It’s about time.”
Frederick’s head jerked in the direction of the familiar voice.
Waiting at the bottom of the gangplank, in a linen suit as light and pristine as the environment behind him was dark and dingy, stood Frederick’s cousin and friend, Stephen Blake. The man wore casual as effortlessly as his smile, tossing a hand up as Frederick’s gaze met his.
A sudden wash of relief spilled from Frederick’s head to his feet. Blake. A capable and trusted friend. Frederick desperately needed another set of eyes and ears, and possibly fists, in this situation.
“Mr. Blake!” Grace’s joy was so effusive it even teased a small grin from Tony. “What a delightful surprise!” She descended the gangplank with Zahra at her side, Frederick just behind her. “I was so hopeful you’d come.”
“It’s rather bad manners to miss such a glorious welcome as that, my dear Lady Astley.” Blake stepped up to greet them. “And I try my very best not to have bad manners.”
As poised and prepared as Blake remained, the look on the man’s face when Grace pulled him into a hug even shook his cousin’s composure a little. Perhaps Grace felt the relief too. They could certainly use his help and, if history informed the present, Blake could use a little family time.
Blake cleared his throat, crouching slightly to address Zahra. “Ah, the famous Zahra.” He extended a hand. “Céad míle fáilte.”
The girl tilted her head, frowning. “That is not Egyptian or Arabic.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Blake laughed. “It’s Gaelic. Some people here in Scotland speak it. It means ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.’ “ He gestured broadly to the surroundings, as if to encompass the entire country.
“That is a great many welcomes for such a dirty place,” Zahra said, one brow arching in challenge.
“Ah, you are clever,” Blake replied, winking. “What if I said ahlan wa sahlan?”
Frederick blinked, his attention snapping to his cousin. Had Blake just spoken to Zahra in Arabic? When had his cousin learned Arabic?
Zahra’s smile flared wide, and she responded in kind, her pronunciation far superior to his cousin’s attempt.
“Freddie, old chap!” Blake straightened, clasping Frederick’s hand with a grin that gleamed as brightly as his suit. “Some aristocrats collect fine works of art, but it seems you collect people.”
Frederick pulled Blake into a hug. “Thank you for being here,” he whispered in his cousin’s ear before stepping back and saying, “Only the best people.”
“Well, if you’re going to go about collecting people, only the best will do.” Blake turned to Tony, extending a hand. “Last we met, you were stealing brides and trying to kill earls. I trust your hobbies have improved?”
Tony’s jaw dropped before he found his footing, shaking Blake’s hand with a wry smile. “I’ve since married the bride and befriended the earl. Improvement enough?”
Blake gave a mock-serious nod. “Excellent progress. Keep it up.”
“However, he is recently back from the dead, Mr. Blake,” Grace added, joining in the teasing she’d begun to embrace between her, Frederick, and Blake.
Blake’s brows rose to his golden hairline. “Is that so? Well, I hear that’s all the rage. Resurrectionists and whatnot—mostly for the wealthy and eccentric, of course. Thought of trying it myself once, but the planning seemed rather tedious.” He shuddered dramatically. “Too many late nights and missed meals.”
Tony coughed out a laugh. Frederick caught himself smiling, his tension ebbing. Blake’s ability to ease a room—or a fraught situation—was unmatched.
As they started walking, Frederick took Zahra’s hand while Grace slipped her arm through Blake’s.
“You have been sorely missed, Mr. Blake,” she said warmly. “I’m sure we’d have solved everything much faster with you around.”
Blake grinned, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Frederick. “That was my wedding gift to you, Lady Astley—allowing you the full honeymoon experience, life-threatening moments and all. Wouldn’t dream of denying you that.”
Grace’s laugh rang out into the crowd, garnering a few looks, and Frederick’s entire body eased some more. He had a great deal of confidence being able to manage these cases with only Grace’s help, but the addition of a clever and capable friend made everything better—for his peace of mind, if not for the future lives of the people he loved.
“Have you heard anything from Elliott?” Frederick fell in step beside Blake, keeping Zahra between them, a small but instinctive act of protection.
“Indeed. I stopped by both Havensbrooke and Kerth Hall to make proper assessments before arriving here.” He offered a pointed look to Frederick. “Keep in mind I am only industrious when it involves saving family members or living luxuriously at other people’s expense.”
Grace’s laugh trilled again, a sound which had sounded less frequently over the past few days. And no wonder with all they’d had to handle since arriving in America. Perhaps Frederick should never have taken her there.
But then, she may not have had the opportunity to learn about her inheritance at all. Why did the good so often have to braid with bad things in life?
