Page 42

Having traveled a great deal in various places over the last several months, Frederick had become accustomed to different accommodations to fit the culture and atmosphere of the places they’d visited, but nothing had hemmed him close as this Scottish village surrounded by mountains.

The room fit the same description. Close quarters, low ceiling beams, and mismatched furniture gave it an air of peculiar charm.

For privacy, the room offered a small adjoining space with a single bed and dresser, which Zahra happily accepted as her own.

Still, she’d joined them at the small table by the window, savoring the simple Scotch soup and freshly baked bread.

For a moment, Frederick imagined a simpler life, free from the grand halls and the expectations of titled gentry.

He realized how drastically his perspective had shifted over the last seven months.

His heart had found its home, not in the cold, calculated world his parents had tried to carve out for him with their harsh words and callous actions, but in this small, unassuming moment—here, with his family.

And despite the looming uncertainty of Havensbrooke’s financial future or the weight of the Astley legacy, he knew his family would be enough.

“Do you ever feel like we’re living in the middle of a penny dreadful?

” Grace asked, offering Zahra another piece of bread as though her words weren’t at all jarring.

Not so much because of the statement, but because of how accurate it felt.

She spoke with an ease that made the fantastical sound entirely plausible.

“Grandfather used to collect them and kept them for ages. I read and reread many of them as a child, and now it feels as though we’ve landed right in the middle of one. ”

“What is penny dreadful?” Zahra asked, looking up from her soup.

“Stories in magazines.” Grace answered, sending the little girl a smile filled with such love it gave him another glimpse into the mother Grace would become, even if he had to curb a little of her adventurous nature until their children were old enough to manage the excitement.

Fortunately, Zahra’s history proved a well-suited match for Grace’s imagination and their current circumstances.

“Usually about pirates, scoundrels, or highwaymen—and always with a bit of mystery and romance thrown in.”

“And shabah ?” Zahra looked over at Frederick, who, despite his still-roaming grasp of her native tongue, was often better at sorting it out than Grace.

“Ghosts?” he clarified, not missing the way Grace’s lips curled into the slightest smile at his response.

Zahra nodded, taking another sip of her soup.

“Oh yes. Sometimes even worse things than ghosts.” Grace glanced toward the window, where the silhouette of the looming castle, Mosslea, stood tall against the darkening sky—an almost too perfect visual example of a penny dreadful in reality.

“However, Zahra, what we have here, as in many penny dreadfuls, is a person who isn’t really a ghost but wants us to believe she is. ”

“So she can sneak,” Zahra added, her eyes narrowing a little as she said the word.

“Exactly.” Grace sent a proud look to Frederick, clearly happy their daughter had already caught onto the sleuthing role.

“And as the wife of the previous owner, she knows the castle much better than we do, which means she is at the advantage.” Frederick added, joining into what he supposed was bound to be family discussions for the majority of his married life.

“I do wonder if Mrs. James … um … Kane … I mean Lady Blair.” Grace sighed. “Why do we always seem to meet people who can’t keep a single identity? I thought it was just something about the air in Venice.”

“Because we’re sleuths, darling.” The moment the word left his lips, Grace’s smile bloomed. And if Zahra hadn’t been sitting with them, he had a feeling his wife would have breached the distance to reward his usage. “It is part of the job.”

“True.” Her large blue eyes danced, telling him of her appreciation much more than words. “But if Lady Blair did marry Lord Blair only for the money and land, it is likely she’s the one who killed him, or at least helped with the planning.”

“Which means she’s quite serious about finding the will, Grace,” he warned.

“You mean dangerous,” Zahra interpreted, her bluntness making the gravity of the situation hit a little harder than expected. So much for trying to guard Zahra from the darker side of this investigation.

“Yes, very dangerous,” Grace reiterated, her voice gentle yet firm as she glanced at Zahra, then took another spoonful of soup. “But I’m certain we can find out more by just asking the locals. People in small villages always know something important.”

“I can sneak,” Zahra offered with a smile, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Frederick’s chest tightened. The warmth that had been there a moment ago evaporated. “I’m very good at sneaking.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” Grace grinned as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “And you’re small, so you can fit into places we can’t. That could come in very handy, don’t you think, Frederick?”

“Indeed, Zahra,” he replied, his voice strained by the effort to keep his composure. “But if you’re to sneak, you must only do so when we know exactly where you are.”

He shot a prayer heavenward. God, help me. He had two of them to protect from themselves and the world. He sighed. And only God could help him as far as that was concerned.

Frederick looked out toward the window again, the moon’s glow casting ghostly hues down upon the black silhouette of Mosslea, inciting the hairs on the back of his neck to rise ever so slightly.

He hoped any “ghost” proved as simple a solution as the last two, because Frederick wanted nothing more than to sort out this entire affair quickly and without someone he loved getting hurt … or worse.

“I’m glad we were able to slip from the hotel without meeting up with your sister this morning, Lady Astley,” Blake said from behind the steering mechanism of his car.

“Normally I would have had us complete the short walk to the castle, but this way, we can keep Tony hidden in the car and still look the part of the eager castle hunters the villagers believe us to be.”

“We’ll have to talk to Lillias at some point, Mr. Blake,” Grace replied from the back seat, wedged between Tony and Zahra, as she had been the day before. “She’s very much a part of all this, whether she likes it or not. And she’s expecting us.”

“True enough,” Blake acknowledged, gesturing ahead. “But don’t you think a good understanding of the landscape will help us plan before we drag the little puzzle of your sister and Mr. Kane into it?”

Tony tensed at her side at the mention of Mr. Kane.

“Most certainly,” Grace said, flashing Blake a playful smile in the rearview mirror. “How convenient it is that you’re so adept at sleuthing, Mr. Blake. It’s almost as if this isn’t your first case, given how much you know about everything.”

Blake grinned. “I’ve dabbled on occasion.”

“Boredom leads to mischief where Blake is concerned,” Frederick chimed in, casting his cousin a pointed look. Blake’s laughter rang out.

“It’s my way of making boredom work for me.”

Blake brought the car to a stop in front of a stone gatehouse, with a path leading to the castle looming on the horizon, its gray stone walls merging with the overcast sky.

The faint scent of rain in the air seemed only fitting for their situation.

After all, a sunny day spent searching for a will guarded by a ghost just didn’t seem right.

“Tony and I are going to take a look around the castle while the three of you go on the tour.” Blake announced once they’d exited the car. “We can cover more ground that way and keep Tony out of sight of Lady Blair, in case she is Mrs. James.”

“Or mistake me for one of her own ghostly acquaintances,” Tony quipped, his humor returning—albeit faintly—after his, well, death.

Grace let out a laugh. “Imagine that! Dueling ghosts.”

Tony’s humor failed to rise to her teasing, and with a nod to them, he followed Blake around the loch side of the castle grounds.

Before Frederick, Grace, and Zahra had reached the entrance of the gatehouse, the door swung open to reveal a rather spindly man.

He huddled slightly, his thin white hair sticking out in various directions, much like Baby Thomas’.

His pale blue eyes, framed by a weathered face, scanned them before a welcoming smile spread across it.

Grace fell in love with him on the spot. Partly because she had a weakness for older people … and smiles. But something about the man also tugged at a distant memory—one she couldn’t quite place. Had she met him before?

He dipped his head to Frederick. “Come to see the castle, aye?”

“Indeed, we have, Mr. Locke, is it?”

“Aye.” Mr. Locke’s voice creaked like the hinges of an old door. “Been the gardener here for nigh on fifty years.” He turned his rheumy eyes to Zahra, then back to Grace, his smile dropping into open-mouthed wonder. “You—you look just like her.”

Warmth spilled through Grace’s chest and rose into her eyes before she fully comprehended why. “Her?”

“Must be Elspeth Blair’s daughter, then. Wee Grace?”

The heat in her eyes took on liquid form. There it was. The name. Elspeth. Grace hadn’t heard it in so long. Her father always referred to her as “your mother,” or rarely, “Ellie,” but the way Mr. Locke said it—his accent curling the name—made it feel like a long-lost memory rising to the surface.

“Yes, I am,” Grace said, reaching out and taking his bony hand in both of hers. “I only have faint memories of her, of you, and this place, but what a delight to finally return and find such a fixture here who knew my mother.”