Page 31

Every facet of time fought against their trek to the Clarion Hotel, almost as if it knew the outcome as much as Frederick. Evening shadows stretched long and sharp against the gas-lit streets, lending an air of foreboding that seemed to seep into his bones.

If something had happened to Mr. Barclay, it would confirm the worst—that someone was indeed after Grace and Lillias’ inheritance. But if they reached him in time, perhaps they could secure not only the inheritance but also catch Tony’s killer and Mrs. Lindsay’s assailant in the process.

If …

As he took the steps up to the main entrance of the ornate building, he tugged Grace’s hand a little more tightly through his arm. Johnson had advised Grace to stay behind at the house, a very reasonable request for any other woman.

But his wife was no stranger to the consequences fraught with the darker side of human nature, and having her be a part of any investigation fit their relationship, especially after all the practice they’d had.

Despite the desire to keep her safe always gnawing at the back of his mind, Frederick couldn’t imagine engaging in these situations without her.

The air in the lobby of the Clarion smelled faintly of cigar smoke, rich perfume, and fresh varnish, securing its reputation as the most prestigious hotel in Harrington.

The leather furnishings and hand-carved moldings underscored the point.

Johnson led the way to a large mahogany front desk, Todd on his heels.

The soft murmur of patrons and tinkling glasses in the nearby dining room set a hopeful precedent that all was well.

Mr. Barclay was fine.

And Detective Johnson could set up a watch to ensure safety for a transfer of the inheritance of its rightful owners.

“We’re here to see Mr. Barclay,” Johnson announced, flashing his credentials to the young clerk at the desk.

The clerk blinked, his hand halting mid-flip through the guest ledger. “Is he in trouble, Detective?”

“We hope not.” Johnson answered.

“Do you know if Mr. Barclay has had any visitors this evening?” Grace asked, stepping forward. “Any guests?”

“Not that I’ve seen, ma’am.” The clerk ran a finger down the page. “He’s kept mostly to himself since he arrived. Takes his meals in his room. I just figured …” He trailed off with a shrug. “Well, him being a foreigner and all.”

“The room number?” Johnson pressed.

“Mr. Barclay is in room twelve, just up the stairs.”

“Todd.” Johnson gestured with his chin for the officer to lead the way with him directly behind, and Frederick and Grace pulling up the rear.

Frederick exchanged a glance with Grace.

A flicker of concern passed over her features, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her grip on the parasol tightened.

He stifled a groan. The very last thing he wanted was to envision his wife battling a murderer again.

The fact that she’d successfully done so—more than once—was no consolation.

If anything, it was downright terrifying.

Todd approached the door to room twelve cautiously, his pistol drawn as he scanned the hallway. He gave a nod to Johnson, who knocked firmly.

“Mr. Barclay? It’s Detective Johnson.”

Silence.

Johnson knocked again, louder this time. “Mr. Barclay, I’m here with Lord and Lady Astley. They need to see you.”

Nothing.

The sinking feeling in Frederick’s chest plummeted further. Grace’s hold on his arm became almost bruising. He glanced at her. She felt it too—the gnawing dread of the worst possible outcome.

Johnson tested the handle. It turned easily, the door creaking open into a room steeped in shadow. A chill spilled out, heavy with an unnatural stillness.

“Wait.” Johnson’s whisper was sharp, halting Frederick mid-step. “Todd.” Johnson gestured with his chin for the man to enter first.

Officer Todd slipped around the doorframe and within a moment light blinked awake in the room.

Frederick’s chest squeezed at the sight. Grace gasped at his side.

The room was chaos. Papers were scattered like fallen leaves across the rug. A chair lay overturned. The curtains billowed faintly, stirred by a draft from the open window. But it was the figure slumped over the desk that held Frederick’s gaze.

“No,” he murmured, stepping forward.

Grace clung to his arm, her face pale. “Oh, poor Mr. Barclay.” A sudden sheen filled her eyes. “All of this … just because he was connected to our inheritance.”

“It does seem to be the common thread,” Johnson said grimly as he approached the desk. Then he stiffened, leaning closer. “Wait—he’s breathing.”

“What?” Frederick rushed forward with Grace just behind him.

Johnson checked Barclay’s wrist, nodding. “There’s a pulse.”

“Was he attacked?” Frederick leaned in, noticing the swelling at the back of Barclay’s head.

Johnson tilted the man upright, revealing a pale, slack face. “Looks that way.”

“Oh, thank God.” Grace exhaled, some tension melting from her shoulders. “What is it about this case? Everyone’s getting hit on the head and then run off on. It’s becoming a theme.”

Johnson’s lips twitched. “Do you expect assailants to wait politely for apprehension, Lady Astley?”

“It would be considerate, wouldn’t it?” Grace arched a brow, a light flickering in her eyes.

“It’s just that there seems to be an awfully lot of head hitting of poor, unsuspecting people who’ve done very little to deserve such attacks.

” She sighed. “Though I suppose I’ll settle for not having another funeral on our hands. ”

“Whoever was here is gone now,” Todd said, reentering the room from the closet.

Frederick approached the fireplace, where a faint warmth still radiated. A small flame flickered among charred debris. “And they didn’t leave long ago. The fire’s fresh—someone’s been burning …” His voice trailed off.

“Paper,” Grace said sharply, already at his side. She dropped to her knees with a swish of skirts, her parasol clattering to the floor. “Oh no, Frederick.”

Her exclamation tugged him down beside her.

The faintly acrid smell of burned parchment filled the air as Grace began sifting through the remains.

The fragments were small, curling at the edges as if they were trying to retreat from discovery.

A blackened scrap revealed the word testament, and Frederick’s stomach knotted.

Pulling out his handkerchief, he carefully fished through the debris.

Among the ashes, he unearthed a corner of parchment bearing the words inheritance and legal transfer, their meaning unmistakable even beneath their charred edges.

Another piece bore the faint remains of a signature ending in Ferguson.

“Those were the copies Barclay brought for Lillias and me to sign tomorrow,” Grace whispered. Her finger traced the singed edge of what remained of her mother’s signature.

Johnson loomed closer, his shadow dark against the flickering light. “Someone destroyed them,” he said grimly, scanning the room as though the culprit might suddenly materialize. “Judging by the state of things, they didn’t want to leave anything behind.”

“Whoever it is must be after the estate.” Grace stood abruptly, her gaze sweeping the chaotic room. “If Lillias and I don’t claim it in less than a month, it will go to auction. Mr. Barclay said that there were already buyers waiting in the wings to purchase it.”

“And your sister knew about the inheritance as well?” Johnson’s tone sharpened.

“She only found out about it from us yesterday afternoon and learned specifics from Mr. Barclay today.”

“With the alibi Officer Todd confirmed, your sister is cleared of further suspicion.” Johnson shrugged a shoulder. “And without documents to confirm your inheritance, the risk to you, your sister, and anyone associated with you should be reduced.”

“Not necessarily, Detective.” Frederick’s response brought all eyes back to him, even Grace’s.

“What do you mean?” Johnson asked, his gaze snapping to him.

Frederick turned to Grace, his palm moving to her arm. “These were just copies, weren’t they?”

Grace blinked. “Yes, of course.”

“Then there’s another copy of the will and the legal documents linking you and your sister to the inheritance,” Frederick’s gaze steadied on her.

Johnson tensed, suddenly on alert again. “And where are these papers?”

Grace met his eyes. “Scotland,” she said. “Inside Mosslea Castle.”

“The will was destroyed? No.” Lillias surged from her chair, pacing toward the window like a wind-up toy on its last frantic rotation.

“Everything hinged on that inheritance! Thomas and I were finally going to be free—free of Harrington, free of its shadows. A new start, a new home, a life unburdened.”

Grace pressed her lips together so tightly they might have sealed shut.

It took a Herculean effort not to retort with the obvious—that Mr. Barclay, now unconscious thanks to an assailant, had rather larger problems than the postponement of her sister’s plans.

But after all Lillias had endured—her husband murdered, finances obliterated, their cook comatose—it hardly seemed the moment to provoke a fit.

And when Lillias had a fit, if they were anything like the ones she used to have when they were younger, the entire house knew about it.

Father had called them “episodes,” as if labeling them lent sophistication to what were, in truth, well-timed performances that ended whenever Lillias got her way. Grace had often escaped into a book, letting the tirade dissolve into the background.

“Things are not lost, Lillias.” Grace looked over at Frederick.

They’d discussed options on their drive from the hotel, where they’d left Detective Johnson, Officer Todd, and a few other officials combing through Mr. Barclay’s hotel room and interviewing various other people regarding the poor man’s attacks.

“We both have some money laid aside from Mother which, if the figures that Mr. Barclay gave us are still accurate, should help you create a fresh start wherever you go.”