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“Have you?” she said with bright interest. “Well then. What’s a newcomer like me to know?”

Mr. Creedy launched into a series of animated anecdotes about the vicar and his wife or a farmer and his six sons, each stronger than the last. He had the air of a friendly folklorist, and for all that he was clearly a fervent gossip, did not seem to contain an ounce of the maliciousness that was part and parcel withtongossip.

Grace listened, genuinely entertained, as she waited for her moment.

Mr. Creedy did not disappoint.

“Alas, ye must be thinkin’ us terribly provincial, Yer Grace,” he said, shaking his head. “But jes’ last week we saw ourselves a properly fancy fellow, that we did.” He shook his head sadly. “Up from London, he was, to deal with that dreadful business.”

“Oh? Dreadful business?” she asked lightly as her heart pounded.

For the first time, Mr. Creedy’s ebullience faded, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

“Aye. T’was a right mess, that was. Perhaps ye heard tell of it, Yer Grace.”

This was addressed to Caleb, who inclined his head slightly, not revealing much of anything. Grace’s heart leapt. Her husband had certainly heard the gossip of her circumstances in London, though he’d probably not known the exact location of her imprisonment. Alas, Grace hadn’t even known the exact location, not until she’d spotted the mill outside her carriage window.

But surely he was beginning to put it together now.

“Evidently,” Mr. Creedy said, still somber in a way that proved his underlying kindness; a more vicious gossip would have been practically trembling with delight over being able to share such a salacious tale. “Some poor girl was kept—against her will, like—in the old mill just outside of town.”

Grace thought she saw her husband stiffen at the wordmill, but she assiduously avoided his gaze.

“Folk around here felt right awful when it all came out,” Mr. Creedy added. “We just thought the family living up there were private, like. Mayhap a bit unpleasant. Nae the criminal sort, though.”

He shook his head and took a contemplative sip of his ale, the first time he’d touched the drink since Grace and Caleb had sat down.

“Odd thing is, the whole thing was apparently because some toff lady was out of sorts over some other high-born fellow—beggin’ yer pardon,” he added, in acknowledgement of the less than complimentary terminology he deployed for the aristocracy while in the company of two aristocrats.

“Not at all,” Grace assured him. “That does all sound very strange. Did the local people explain all this? To the magistrate, I gather?”

“Nay,” Mr. Creedy said. “They said it was some man, some ‘Mister’ somebody, not a lord. I guess they were tryin’ to protect their purses. But it turned out their patron had already been caught up in the mess, had got herself packed off to Bedlam. Some man o’ business associated with the whole mess came up and revealed the lady’s role in it all. Had some fancy paperwork and whatnot to prove it, I gather.”

“My goodness,” Grace said when he paused.

“Jes’ so,” Mr. Creedy agreed. “So the poor girl went back home, the high lady’s locked up, and the people what actually hid her got transported.”

Something unclenched in Grace. Transported. They weregone. They were gone, and they could never come back, and they could never, ever touch her again.

She felt almost giddy with the relief of it.

“But that’s no’ even the strangest bit,” Mr. Creedy added.

Grace’s body grew so rapidly tight again that the clack of her teeth was nearly audible as she clenched her jaw.

Mr. Creedy did not seem to notice.

“No, the strangest bit is that recently, some businessman—and he was right impressed with himself, if I do say so; was properly rude to my girl about her establishment, he was—came around here to oversee sellin’ the old building. Said he worked for a lord, but wouldnae say who—sort of like he wanted to brag to make himself seem important, but was tryin’ to be secret, like. If ye ask me, I would guess that the lady has a man—one who’s no’ her husband,” he added, eyebrows raised in a judgment against such non-marital dallying.

Then Mr. Creedy shrugged.

“Then again, what do I know? Mayhap that’s ordinary with them London fellows. Though perhaps ye’ll understand me when I say that I’m hopin’ we don’t have near so much adventure round these parts for a good while, eh, Your Grace?”

“Certainly not,” Grace murmured obligingly as her mind whirled.

Much of the story made sense. The Packards had blamed Dowling—either because they had genuinely believed him to be the end of things or because they were protecting the Dowager Countess of Moore, as Mr. Creedy had predicted. But Benedict and Emily had uncovered the dowager countess’ perfidy; once a criminal case had begun, it made sense that someone would send news up to a Northumberland magistrate to set the story straight.

But who was trying to sell the mill now?