Page 26

Grace nodded. “Very few are, you know.” Common knowledge, of course.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher the man’s movements—or better yet, his lips.

Was he talking about … elephants? Or chairs?

Wind chimes? None of it aligned with villainous scheming—or logical conversation, for that matter—but Grace made a mental note to add lip-reading to her burgeoning detective training regimen.

“Detective Miracle says a good detective looks beyond the typical,” she murmured, leaning closer to the glass. “Can you see who he’s talking to?”

Zahra shook her head, the motion releasing a faint trace of rosewater perfume. Grace’s lips curved into a faint smile. Brushing Zahra’s hair each night was a cherished ritual, a fragrant moment that reminded her of her own mother.

“Stay here and keep watch.” Grace placed her palm on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m going to the lower level to see if I can get a better view.”

She moved quickly toward the stairs but nearly collided with Frederick halfway up. His smile—oh, that devastatingly charming smile—momentarily erased all thought. Zahra’s earlier remark about his handsomeness floated back with new vigor. Handsome? No. The man was positively Byronic.

Even with a snore.

Grace rushed forward and his smile slowly faded.

“What is it?”

Grace grabbed his arm and tugged him down the stairs, her words a hurried whisper. “It’s Officer Clark. Or rather, the false Officer Clark. Zahra spotted him in the back garden, skulking near the woods.”

Frederick’s expression sharpened instantly. “Where exactly?”

“Near the park. I couldn’t make out the details of his face because of his hat, the dirty window, and the distance, but I feel certain it’s the same man.

” She sent him a look as they rounded the doorway into the library.

“How curious he would be here just after Mr. Barclay left.” Her attention shot to him.

“Do you think he knows about the inheritance?”

Without answering, Frederick took her and pulled her across the unlit room to the back window.

“Oh, Frederick,” Grace breathed, spotting the man slipping deeper into the wooded park. “He’s getting away.”

Frederick’s gaze flicked from the window to her face, then back again. Without a word, he turned and bolted from the room. A moment later, the back door slammed shut, and Grace watched through the window as her husband sprinted across the lawn after Tony Dixon’s possible murderer.

It had to be him.

Frederick squinted against the hazy sunlight, the man’s retreating form darting between trees just beyond the garden wall. The height, the build—they matched what he and Grace had seen the day before. Disguise or not, this was their man.

The warmth of the afternoon hit Frederick’s face as he charged into the back garden, and the muggy feel of a needed rain, especially in this warmer climate, soaked the air.

Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it onto the rock wall before slipping through the gate into the forested park beyond.

A soft breeze carried the faintest hint of something sweet, violets perhaps, though not quite. More like a perfume.

He cast a quick glance back toward the house and caught sight of Grace and Zahra peering down from the upstairs window.

Frederick managed a tight smile before plunging into the trees. The path ahead was well-tended, with tall oaks and elms planted in strategic intervals, their broad canopies shading more than they obstructed. He darted from tree to tree, keeping the man in sight but avoiding open exposure.

If anyone thought an earl’s life was all leisure and opulence, they clearly hadn’t married Grace.

Life with her moved in a whirlwind of escapades, sleuthing, and occasional peril.

Yet if Frederick was honest, the intrigue was beginning to take hold of him.

His days as a reluctant accomplice to his wife’s amateur detective efforts—Venice with Jack Miracle came to mind—had turned into something resembling resigned enthusiasm.

But this? Well, a month of leisure was beginning to sound rather nice. Didn’t even the best detectives get a reprieve once in a while?

He conceded a sigh. If he could keep his wife safe, sleuthing did suit him.

The false Clark suddenly stopped up ahead and Frederick froze in place, the nearest tree too far for cover.

As if sensing he was being watched, Clark shifted, his profile turning slightly toward Frederick.

The angle gave a brief glimpse of a strong jawline and a shadowed cheekbone under the hat’s brim—but little else.

Clark hesitated only a moment before vaulting a low hedge and sprinting into a denser stretch of trees.

With a grimace, Frederick broke cover and gave chase.

His legs protested the uneven ground, his polished shoes ill-suited to the terrain.

The man’s tall frame weaved deftly through the trees, his pace unrelenting.

Frederick dodged another tree, jumped a bush, and barely kept his footing over the uneven ground, all the while keeping his attention trained on Clark.

His breath came in sharp bursts as he pursued Clark, who navigated the terrain with an irritating level of ease. They burst from the woods onto cobblestone streets, the orderly buildings of the town looming ahead. Clark darted down a narrow alley, disappearing behind a parked Model T.

Frederick rounded the corner moments later, scanning the empty street. No hat, no man, no trace. He spun on his heel, searching frantically down alleys and behind crates. Nothing.

The man had vanished.

Frederick exhaled sharply and spun around once more before retracing his steps toward the house.

He hadn’t seen enough of the man’s face to identify him later.

The obscured features and the clever escape left him with more questions than answers.

Whatever Tony’s death had entangled them in, the impostor Clark was at the heart of it.

And Grace’s earlier question about the Scottish inheritance? Well, it was likely part of it all too.

As he retraced his steps, the back garden gate creaked open, revealing Grace with his jacket draped over her arm and Zahra at her side. His wife’s vivid eyes sparkled, searching his face. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he panted, brushing a leaf from his sleeve. “But he got away.”

“Ah, but what a chase you gave.” Her grin widened. “I had no idea you could run so fast. The way you disappeared into the trees—it was positively swashbuckling. Something straight out of The Prisoner of Zenda, though I don’t recall Rudolf Rassendyll vaulting hedges with such flair.”

Frederick arched a brow, his lips giving way to a reluctant smile. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”

“Flattered, of course.” Her eyes rounded as if shocked by his question. “If nothing else, you’ve demonstrated that an earl can be both dashing and spry.” A glint flared in those deep blue eyes. “Very reassuring for any future detective endeavors, my dear Lord Astley.”

His lips twitched, a retort on his lips, when a voice behind them interrupted. “Does trouble usually precede or follow you, Lord Astley?”

Frederick turned to find Detective Johnson striding through the doorway, his expression equal parts curiosity and bemusement. He tipped his hat in Grace’s direction. “Lady Astley.”

“Your timing is impeccable,” Frederick replied dryly.

Johnson’s mouth quirked in a smirk. “Todd mentioned he saw you giving chase as he drove here for our meeting.”

“And he didn’t think to stop and lend a hand?” Frederick shot back, incredulous. “Not exactly the mark of chivalry.”

“To be fair, by the time he saw you, the man was long gone.” Johnson’s smirk deepened. “Was it Clark?”

“Almost certainly,” Frederick said, leading the way toward the house.

“Describe him,” Johnson said, his tone sharpening.

As they walked inside, Frederick and Grace recounted the details, though Frederick’s frustration grew with each step. He hadn’t seen enough to be definitive. By the time they reached the parlor, Johnson’s lips were pressed into a thin line.

“He matches the description of a foreigner staying at Gray’s Hotel on the south side of town,” Johnson finally said. “Registered under the name Roberts. Kept to himself, only arrived last week.”

“So Clark is really Roberts?” Grace asked.

“Or both names are assumed,” Johnson replied, shaking his head. “Todd and I plan to visit Gray’s Hotel in the morning and see if Mr. Roberts has anything enlightening to say for himself.”

A sudden crash sounded from down the hallway followed by a piercing scream. Johnson started toward the sound with Frederick on his heels. Good heavens, what now?

They met Mrs. James stumbling into the hall from the direction of the kitchen. Her face was ashen, and her hands trembled as she clutched at the doorframe.

“It’s—it’s Cook!” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Something’s happened—she’s on the floor, not moving.”

“What?” Lillias appeared at the top of the stairs as they passed, her face pale. “I heard a crash!”

“Someone broke into the house.” Mrs. James wiped at the tears on her face and waved them to follow her. “Cook is on the floor. I don’t know if she’s hurt, but she’s not moving. You must help.”