Page 12 of The Spinster's Resolve

A t that moment, Heather squealed. She bounced on the bed, eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘What!’ she cried. ‘How... what do y—when... I mean, tell me everything!’

Grace groaned and buried her face in the nearest pillow. A muffled sigh escaped her. ‘Argh... this is not funny, Heather. I have no idea what to do.’

Heather settled on her knees beside her sister, worry flickering beneath her playful grin. ‘But does he feel the same way?’

Grace pushed herself upright, her heartbeat drumming in her ears at the very idea. ‘I... I sometimes catch him looking at me. He might admire certain things about me, but I am so painfully aware of how dowdy I appear in all these shawls and padding. It seems impossible that he could be interested in me in that way. He is handsome—surely he could choose from the greatest beauties in England. I am just... me. I am so confused!’ She ended weakly, sinking her face into the pillow again.

‘Yes, but you are forgetting that you are a truly beautiful and remarkable person.’ Heather stroked Grace’s hair as she spoke. ‘If he saw the real you, there is no way he could remain indifferent. Besides, do you not want someone who cares about who you are on the inside rather than just your outward appearance? He does not sound superficial. And from what you have said, he seems to suspect your disguise already, so why not reveal it?’

Grace fiddled with the edge of the blanket, unable to ignore the knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. ‘Because if he finds out I deceived him, he might cancel your sponsorship. I feel dreadful that I lied. It was different when he was a suspect or just the man of business—but now it has become so personal. He keeps praising my good character, yet I am living a lie. I feel like a hypocrite. Even if he takes my disguise as a harmless prank, I know almost nothing about his life. What if he is married or engaged? Every time I ask him anything about himself, he is evasive and somehow cleverly turns the questioning around on me. He knows so much about me now. Whereas I know next to nothing about him . I do not want to get attached to him, knowing he is still hiding things from me. I wish these feelings would just stop pestering me.’

This threw a spanner into Heather’s thoughts, her smile dimmed, for she had already envisioned a grand wedding. ‘Ah, I see your problem.’ Twirling a curl around her finger, she promptly fell silent, trying to find a solution to this particularly thorny dilemma.

Grace wrapped her arms around her legs, as though shielding herself from a reality she feared. ‘I need to finish the work I agreed to do. Then we can go our separate ways,’ she insisted. Her words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

But Heather was no longer listening. She perked up, eyes dancing with renewed excitement. ‘Stop being so pessimistic, Gracy! Now we know he is not likely to be working with Gibbs or Barnes—he is clearly investigating all of this on his own. You can slowly reduce your disguise: wear less cream, then dispense with it altogether. You only needed it to appear unwell. You could have a miraculous recovery in a few days!’ She pressed her palms together, clearly pleased with the idea. ‘And as for the padding, you can remove a bit at a time until you only need shawls, spectacles, and that mobcap—much less cumbersome. This way, your disguise is minimal and easy to explain away.’

Grace stared at her sister, flabbergasted. The plan was more methodical than anything she could have devised on her own. ‘Perhaps...’ she murmured, tension easing just a fraction from her shoulders. ‘At least I will be more comfortable and won’t fear scratching my face anymore.’ However, despite Heather’s exuberance, Grace refused to hope she might actually attract Mr Stone’s romantic interest. She had been shunned before—her attachment to Islam and her mixed heritage was enough to drive suitors away at the best of times. What would Mr Stone do if he learnt of her deceit too? Her chest tightened at the thought. She forced herself to remember it was temporary. No sense in dreaming of happily ever after.

THE NEXT DAY, HIS WARM reception nearly undid her.

‘Miss Skye, I’ve prepared the study for the interviews,’ he said, gesturing for her to follow. A hint of concern in his voice. ‘I noticed you wear several shawls. You still seem under the weather, so I placed your seat near the fireplace to keep you warm.’

Grace’s cheeks heated at his thoughtfulness. She smoothed her skirts before sitting down, as she noticed the amused glint in his eyes. Then it dawned on her—she wore the extra shawls to hide her padding, not out of any real coldness.

They interviewed several male staff first, uncovering little new information about the Manor’s infamous activities. Fortunately, each conversation was brief, which allowed Grace to step away from the fire and cool herself.

In time, they called in Taylor, the butler, whose position gave him closer contact with visiting guests than many of the other servants.

‘Did you know where the... ladies were coming from?’ Grace asked, glancing at Mr Stone before fixing her attention on Taylor.

Taylor swallowed hard, squirming a little in his seat. ‘No, Miss Skye. They weren’t allowed to speak with the staff. They looked of... a certain repute, if you understand. They dressed rather... er... provocatively,’ Taylor finished, flushing red. ‘We all saw different gentlemen come and go, but some arrived more frequently. There was a “no-names” rule, so they used silly code names. Three men came more than the rest and seemed much closer to Mr Gibbs.’

Grace and Mr Stone had already learnt from the previous interviews that the staff had been instructed to keep their distance, ensuring secrecy for the parties’ attendees. Sadly, the rumours were true: Grace’s beloved Manor had been used as an opium den, a gambling house, and a brothel for men from London.

Frustrated by the lack of new information, Grace asked flippantly, ‘What sort of names did these three men use?’

‘Odd ones... Cobra, Fox, and Falcon. They even joked about calling themselves “odd fellows”.’ He gave a weak laugh.

‘Did these three men do anything different from the other... guests? Apart from helping Gibbs collect rent and host these parties?’ Grace asked, grasping at straws.

Taylor rubbed the back of his neck, brows furrowed in thought. ‘Now that you mention it, they often met privately with Mr Gibbs in this study. Sometimes I heard raised voices. Other times, they joined everyone else in the drawing room.’

Mr Stone adjusted his stance, attention focused on Taylor. ‘And what else did Mr Gibbs do with his friends? How did they spend their time?’

‘He slept most of the day and drank rather a lot. As I said, once or twice a week he rode out with those three men, staying out well past midnight. I do not know what they were doing so late—there is not much going on after dark in these parts—but I never understood city folk. I do recall that, the next morning, when I gathered their laundry, their garments were dishevelled, wet, and sandy from those excursions. Perhaps they took a midnight swim in the ocean,’ he added with a nervous laugh.

Grace met Mr Stone’s gaze, her heart skipped a beat. Clearly there was more to these outings. She leant forward. ‘Did they say where they went?’

Taylor shook his head, but ventured, ‘I suppose they could have been collecting rent, since they would often return with coin bags, but it never made sense why it took all night. Sometimes I stayed up, despite being told not to, and I saw them bringing in supplies for their parties, storing everything in crates in the cellar. At times, their friends took the money bags back to London—I assumed to give to Lord Armitage.’

‘The cellar?’ Grace repeated, voice sharp. ‘What exactly did they store down there?’

‘I’m afraid I do not know, Miss Skye. Mr Gibbs kept the key on him at all times and forbade us from going inside.’

Grace shared a look of understanding with Mr Stone. They would have to explore that cellar soon.

‘Do these... excursions coincide with the missing girls’ disappearances?’ Grace pressed on, forcing herself to remain composed.

Taylor thought for a while before responding, expression grim. ‘Now that you mention it, Miss Skye, yes. They were out on the same evenings those girls went missing.’

A chill ran through Grace, momentarily overpowering the fire’s warmth. It was a start, but not enough for conclusive proof. Those girls disappeared from the beach.

Mr Stone cut in smoothly. ‘Can you recall anything else, Taylor? Perhaps names, places, or something relating to Mr Gibbs’s sudden disappearance?’

Taylor squinted, racking his brain. ‘A week before Mr Gibbs vanished, his three companions were in the drawing room, drunk and loud. I overheard them talking about someone named Averton. They said Averton was unhappy—claimed Mr Gibbs was drawing too much attention with these parties and not holding up his end of the bargain. One of them mentioned Averton would come here in a week, after “dealing with some business in London.” The leader got angry that he used a real name instead of a code. Fortunately, they did not see me listening in the hallway.’

At the mention of “Averton,” Mr Stone visibly tensed, though he tried to mask it with a thoughtful nod. Grace caught it, curiosity sparking in her mind.

‘Did you see this Averton fellow? Did he ever come?’ Grace asked.

‘No, Miss Skye. He never came on the day they mentioned—just the usual guests. I remember because that was the same day Mr Gibbs disappeared.’

Mr Stone, intrigued, added, ‘On the same day Gibbs vanished, Melissa also went missing, correct?’

‘Yes, that’s right... Mr Gibbs got a note that afternoon. I delivered it to him and saw him read it. He looked agitated afterwards and said he needed to ride out immediately to meet someone, promising to return before the evening’s events. He took several coin bags from the safe before leaving, which struck me as odd.’ Taylor paused, brow furrowing. ‘I assumed this Averton fellow would meet him at the Manor, but I never saw anyone new that night. Mr Gibbs’s friends did not show up either, which was unusual. They never returned after Mr Gibbs vanished. His horse wandered back to the stables, and amid all the arrivals, it took a while before anyone realised he was missing. We did not call the constable until the next morning.’

Grace suspected the delay had more to do with the servants’ indifference to the steward’s fate, but she kept that thought to herself.

‘Do you know where that letter is? I don’t recall seeing it,’ Grace asked.

‘Oh, he burned it,’ Taylor flushed. ‘But I am ashamed to say I read it before he burned it.’

‘What did it say?’ they both asked.

‘It simply said, “Meet me at the usual place at five. Don’t be late,” signed with the letter “A.”’

‘Did you mention this Averton to the constable?’ Grace enquired.

‘No, Miss Skye. I did not think it relevant at the time because I thought this Averton fellow would be one of the party guests. But I did tell them that Mr Gibbs took coin bags with him, so the constable and magistrate believe he either absconded with his three associates or was possibly robbed and killed. And since no body was found, they assumed he ran away.’ He scratched his head, ‘But now I am thinking, it is quite possible the letter Gibbs received could have been from Averton.’

Mr Stone then asked for descriptions of the three men. By the time Taylor finished, Grace felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her brow. The fire was stifling. Worried her make-up might melt, she feigned a coughing fit, using her handkerchief to excuse herself. When she returned, Mr Stone studied her face closely.

‘Are you all right, Miss Skye?’

Flustered by his knowing smile, she answered quickly, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

He persisted, stepping closer and examining her face with a slight smile on his lips. ‘Are you sure? Because...’ he tilted his head, ‘your face has changed colour. Perhaps you are overheated?’

She needed to divert his attention. ‘Yes, I am a tad warm,’ she replied dismissively.

He lifted the corner of one of her shawls, Grace took a sharp intake of breath at his familiarity. ‘You could remove a couple,’ he suggested.

In that moment, she considered confessing, but the amusement in his eyes made her hesitate. He was mocking her! The realisation sent indignation surging through her. Was he deliberately provoking her, waiting for her to buckle and reveal her secret?

Rebelliously, she reminded herself that she had every right to present herself as she pleased. Her appearance was her own concern, not his. She was there solely to help with the Estate’s affairs—nothing more. While she might not have been entirely honest, she was harming no one... except, perhaps, herself. But she would not yield under his bold gaze.

Lifting her chin, she returned his stare. ‘I am fine, thank you.’ Her voice was steady, her pride welling up inside her. She would reveal her secret in her own time, not at his prompting. Deep down, she knew her real reason: fear. Fear of being rejected or viewed differently. It was safer to hide behind her carefully crafted disguise than to risk being vulnerable.

Something flickered in Mr Stone’s expression—admiration perhaps—but he said nothing more, merely inclining his head before leading her back to their seats.

They resumed their interviews, gleaning few additional details. Before Grace departed, she turned to Mr Stone, remembering the tension in his posture when Averton’s name was mentioned.

‘I could not help noticing you seemed to recognise “Averton.” Do you know him?’

His lips thinned and his features flashed an emotion—pain or betrayal—she could not be sure. ‘Nothing escapes your notice, does it, Miss Skye?’

She raised her chin. ‘Not when it is important.’

He exhaled, briefly breaking eye contact. ‘Yes, I recognised the name.’

‘And?’ she pressed, refusing to let him deflect.

He paused for a moment, as though weighing his next words. ‘I will tell you on one condition, Miss Skye.’

Grace frowned, her pulse thrumming with caution. ‘A condition?’

His gaze remained unreadable, though a hint of intensity shone in his eyes. ‘How would you feel about living here? With me?’