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“That’s what Detective Miracle says too.

” Grace couldn’t resist the tiny grin that crept across her face.

Their friend Jack seemed to have a habit of saying rather memorable things, most of them involving some obscure deduction about society or human nature.

Johnson, however, did not seem to share her fondness for Jack’s sayings.

The detective’s lips tightened, and a fleeting frown passed across his face.

“And where do you believe Mrs. Dixon was during the time of her husband’s murder?” This from Officer Todd, who’d remained poised against the wall during the entire conversation, his arms crossed in front of him, and eyes at a constant narrow.

Grace opened her mouth, paused, and then lifted her chin.

“I don’t know yet. But I fully intend to find out.

I only need another conversation with her.

Our last one was”—Grace’s face grew hot at the memory of her sister’s barbed words—”Uneventful, well, except for the part where Lord Astley showed up with a head wound. That was quite eventful.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Johnson’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I admire your determination, Lady Astley, but I must caution you—this isn’t some sort of game. Real-life investigations require precision and restraint, not whimsy.”

“Whimsy?” Grace repeated. What a strange word to use as a description for a very thoughtful sleuthing approach.

“I assure you, Detective, my approach is entirely methodical, if, at times, accidental. And I wouldn’t be surprised if whimsy didn’t help matters along a little bit too.

I’m certain you must use creativity in your cases as well as method. ”

Frederick pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose his lips twitching at one corner.

“You know that I could have you both questioned for injecting yourself into this investigation or interfering with—”

“We don’t mean to interfere, Detective.” Grace rushed ahead. No need to have the man thinking the wrong idea when help was quite literally in front of him. “We are assisting. Like the Baker Street Irregulars, only—”

“Only married to a peer and decidedly not a street urchin,” Frederick interrupted dryly.

“And with considerably more … propriety,” Grace added, her smile spread full at her husband.

Frederick shot her a raised-brow look.

Well, swinging on ropes and swimming in rivers likely didn’t meet the mark for propriety.

“In truth, Detective Johnson.” Frederick continued. “We have no desire to interfere. Only assist, where we are able.”

“And this is exactly how all of our other cases started.” Grace added, hoping to help the bewildered-looking detective to understand. “We weren’t looking for them. They just happened.”

“Lady Astley,” Johnson said slowly, his expression unreadable, “I’m not exactly sure why, but I feel as though you have a certain magnetism toward mishap.”

Now, that wasn’t very nice. As if she didn’t have any sense to know her own mind. “That implies I’m drawn against my will, Detective, and I’m afraid to say that’s simply not true.”

A cough from Frederick drew Grace’s attention.

The slight twist of his lips revealed one of his covert laughs.

But what had she said to amuse him? She shrugged off the curiosity.

If laughter was medicine, then let him find it wherever he could.

Heaven knew he certainly needed a strong dose after such an attack.

Detective Johnson’s lips twitched, but he quickly smoothed his expression and pressed on. “And you believe the injury your husband sustained in the garden is connected to Miss Steen’s confession?”

“Not directly,” Frederick intervened. “However, it seems Mr. Dixon was dragged in from outside after a scuffle in the garden. The person who attacked him returned later to retrieve a missing pin.”

“Exactly like in The Mystery of Blackwood Hall! “ Grace offered, nodding toward Detective Johnson as if he might know the reference. “Although, in that case, it was the butler who—”

Frederick’s pointed cough cut her off.

Grace clamped her mouth shut. Oh, right. Clearly, Detective Johnson wasn’t the type to indulge in fictional whodunits. He probably read biographies. Or Melville.

“What appears to be of note here, Detective,” Frederick continued, “is that I was attacked while Lady Astley was speaking with her sister, which would suggest Mrs. Dixon is not the one who attacked me.”

“And Lillias faints at the sight of blood,” Grace added helpfully. “It’s rather unlikely she’d kill Tony, let alone stage his body so … theatrically. Could someone have moved him to implicate her?”

“Or,” Johnson interjected, his gaze narrowing, “as you suggested earlier, she has an accomplice.” He paused, studying them as if trying to gauge their trustworthiness. Beside him, Officer Todd lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke with the air of a man deeply unimpressed.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Dixon?” Johnson asked finally, his focus shifting to Grace.

“Well,” Grace began, straightening. “His father was a friend of ours. He served as the gardener at Rutledge House, our family estate. Tony lived in the gardener’s cottage until about a year ago, when he transitioned to banking. As far as I knew, he was good-natured and kind, especially to me.”

“And your sister chose to marry a banker?” The detective tipped his head a little, the glint in his eyes making Grace feel a little nervous. “After having lived in the affluence of your father’s home?”

Grace glanced at Frederick for reassurance and found him nodding. Oh, how she loathed retelling this story. But the truth was unavoidable. She recounted overhearing Tony and Lillias’ dalliance at Whitlock, Lillias’ confession, Grace’s confrontation, and the ultimate elopement.

As she spoke, Detective Johnson tilted his head so far to the right at one point that he resembled a curious owl. Officer Todd, who had taken exactly one drag from his cigarette, let it dangle forgotten in his hand.

After a pause much longer than expected, the detective responded. “It seems,” he began carefully, “both your sister and Mr. Dixon have a pattern of secrecy and reckless decisions. His gambling only reinforces that. Were you aware of it?”

“No more than you, Detective.” Frederick shook his head. “We arrived in America yesterday and in Harrington this morning.”

“And Lillias mentioned nothing about it in her letters,” Grace added.

“Just this morning? Yes, I recall it now.” Detective Johnson rose, and Grace and Frederick followed. Well, Grace followed; Frederick wavered before steadying himself with Grace giving a bit of support.

“I believe we’ve imposed on you long enough, Lord Astley.

You’re clearly in need of rest after today’s events.

” Johnson moved to the study door but paused, turning with a heavy glance.

“However, I must place your sister under house arrest. Her history and recent actions don’t inspire confidence in her innocence. ”

Grace stiffened, holding her tongue from defending her sister. Of course Detective Johnson was right. Her sister did look guilty. In almost every way except physical ability. But in motive? Planning? Ingenuity?

Her heart sank. Yes.

They followed the detective and Todd to the front door, where Johnson paused to look back at them.

“I have a few inquiries to make tomorrow and will visit Miss Steen, as planned, but I advise the two of you to stay alert.” His gaze landed on Grace.

“I’ll double the patrols in case your assailant returns. ”

“Thank you, sir.” Frederick closed the door behind them and turned to Grace, a weary smile half formed. “I have high hopes that the dramatics are at an end for the evening.”

Grace stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Frederick’s waist and pressing her head into the crook of his neck, as though sheer proximity could infuse him with the strength he’d expended that day. “I think we’d both benefit from a decent night’s sleep after such a day.”

His arms circled her, drawing her deeper into his embrace. He rested his chin against the crown of her head, exhaling heavily. “Indeed.”

She tugged him toward the staircase, noting the slight drag in his step. His usually assured gait had given way to weariness, likely from a potent mix of exhaustion and the earlier attack. “Especially you.”

Frederick paused mid-step, flashing her a sleepily amused grin. “Now whatever could you mean, my lady?”

How she loved him! And levity certainly seemed a better choice at the moment than more brain work.

“Oh, just that you’ve had a rather spectacular day of heroism and deserve some much-needed rest to protect that sharp wit of yours.”

He chuckled, allowing her to guide him up another step. His weight leaned on her ever so slightly, a subtle reminder that he trusted her implicitly. That he believed in her.

All this while, she’d accepted his part as protecting her, of being the wiser and cleverer of the two of them. Perhaps for the first time, she realized he also relied on her. Not in some grand, sweeping way, but in the small things—her perspective, her thoughts, her steadiness.

But even today, Frederick had shown in small ways his belief in her abilities. In her being his equal. He considered her thoughts, allowed her to drive, looked to her for clarity.

It was a jarring thought, one at odds with how she’d been feeling since her conversation with Lillias.

Her sister had always loomed large in her life, both as a source of admiration and insecurity.

But in comparison to Frederick—his unwavering belief in her, the quiet way he invited her to be his equal—Lillias’ endless criticisms and coldness felt brittle and irrelevant.

How odd, to have lived an entire life with someone and only to realize how broken the relationship was when given a healthy comparison.

“Heroism, is it?” Frederick’s voice drew her from her thoughts as they reached the first landing.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head with exaggerated deliberation, “you’ve always been rather heroic. But today you not only survived an attack—you also endured my driving.”

His laugh came easier this time, a low rumble that made her chest warm. “You do add a certain … unpredictability to my life, darling.”

Darling. Exactly how he made her feel. Which seemed all the more poignant in light of everything happening now. He was her home, her future.

Her sister’s influence was in the past.

“I do wonder how Tony’s gambling may play into all this.”

Grace shot him a look. “Yes. I’ve thought of that too. People do tend to wind up dead after cheating at cards, don’t they?”

“Let’s hope it’s not as common as the novels suggest,” Frederick said, as they finally crested the last step to the bedroom hallway. “But it’s certainly possible.”

Her brow furrowed as a new thought struck her. “And this fake Officer Clark? His timing was far too convenient, not to mention his disguise. Do you think he could be Mr. K?”

The name sent a shiver down her spine. It was just the sort of ominous alias one might find in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. She could almost hear Holmes’ measured voice drawling about the “diabolical mind of Mr. K.”

But this wasn’t a novel. She couldn’t simply close the book when things grew tense (not that she’d ever abandon a story mid-chapter).

This was personal—painfully so. Her sister’s betrayal, her family’s deceit, the danger they’d invited to Frederick’s doorstep.

And the pointed attacks from her sister felt much less manageable than the possibility of a Scottish murderer lurking outside of the townhouse.

“I don’t know,” Frederick murmured, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. “But do be careful, darling.”

She moved to his side, deftly sliding his jacket off his shoulders. His wonderfully dark eyes lifted to hers, heavy with exhaustion “Ah, are you my valet now?”

Grace smirked as she brushed his hair back from his forehead. “I can be, though I doubt I’m as efficient as Mr. Elliott.”

Frederick’s hands found her hips, his grip light but grounding. His eyes closed as she began to undo his tie. “You’re far better to look at than Elliott.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “I’ll keep that observation to myself. Wouldn’t want to break poor Elliott’s heart.”

His responsive chuckle came weak, his eyes still closed.

She pressed a kiss to his temple before crouching to untie his shoes. He murmured in protest, but she shushed him. “You can barely sit up. Hush.”

She focused on the laces, her thoughts spinning as she worked. She sighed, attempting to unknot the strings in one shoe. “Something doesn’t make sense, Frederick?”

Ah, she finally detangled the string and slipped off both his shoes.

“Hmm?” came his hummed response.

She stood only to find her husband collapsed backward on the bed, eyes closed. Was he asleep?

A soft purr of a snore answered.

This only proved all the more how much he trusted her.

Or how exhausted he was.

But she preferred to think of it as a healthy combination of the two.

With a smile and a solid determination to pin this moment to memory, she maneuvered him fully onto the bed, tucking him in as best she could before turning to the mirror.

Love truly was such an enormous feeling. And if what she felt was the mere human side of it, how very incalculable God’s love must be. It really should lead her to much less worry, shouldn’t it? Even about all the current difficulties and hurts swirling around them.

Unpinning her hair, she worked her way out of her blouse with no small effort, missing Frederick’s help and possibly straining a muscle in her side, to unfasten the back buttons.

Finally slipping into her nightgown, she crawled into bed beside him. His arm instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her close. And she nestled into the comfort and “aliveness” of him, resting her head on his shoulder.

But her mind didn’t rest. There were too many questions. Too many puzzles to explore.

“If the murderer returned here after killing Tony, why didn’t he kill you too, my dear Lord Astley?” she whispered into the quiet room.

Grace raised up to press a kiss to his cheek, interrupting another soft snore, but not waking Frederick. What a mess! She sent God a quiet offering of thanksgiving … and then a request for wisdom and safety.

This entire situation was looking more like Tony was specifically targeted, and hopefully they’d discover why before something worse happened.