Not by Sight (30 page)

Treason? Hysterical laughter rose in her throat, followed swiftly by outrage as she launched from the chair. “I am no traitor, sir, and neither is my father!”

Sir Marcus seemed unmoved by her speech. She turned to Jack, still at the hearth. “Jack, what’s going on? Please tell him this is all nonsense!”

At his continued silence, Grace bit her lip to keep from crying.
Wouldn’t he speak up for her? She turned back to Sir Marcus. “What proof do you have for this ridiculous accusation?”

“As you can see, we found your code in the letter.” He indicated the brown-stained marks, and Grace felt sickened. “You were exposed to confidential information, and as expected, you passed it on to your father and his agents.”

“I don’t know what that code means,” Grace sputtered. “And I don’t have any confidential information.”

“You’ve forgotten the Roman ruins?”

She blinked. “The stone ramparts we viewed at Richborough?”

He nodded. “You saw the activity going on there because you mentioned the workers and trucks to me. Training, you called it. Then you used this letter to try to report it to your father.”

“This is insane . . .” Her voice died at the implication of his words. She turned again to Jack, noting his fierce expression. “Jack, please say something! Did you know about this . . . this test?”

“I did,” he said coldly. “And you failed, Miss Mabry. Apparently the axiom is true that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Miss Mabry.
His chilling formality lashed at her. This couldn’t be the same man who held her in his arms only yesterday, the man who had vowed not to break her heart.

Grace went to him. “You think me some kind of spy?” She’d bared her soul to him, begged his forgiveness and he’d given it, or so she thought. With his tender kiss and the soft words he’d spoken to her of love and regret . . .

But he hadn’t mentioned love, she realized. He’d been too busy laying his trap. “Did you ever trust me?” she whispered.

———

“I did once.” Jack felt as though he’d been physically beaten. He’d hoped,
believed
, she would deny having written the letter, that perhaps it belonged to someone else.

He’d been a fool.

She stood so close, he could smell the scent of her flowers. It was painful to look at her. Despite her guilt, she still was the most beautiful creature, the same vision in green whose image haunted his dark world those long months. He recognized the lovely auburn hair, tucked beneath her fashionable straw hat, a few fiery tendrils curling gently along her nape. Her skin, like translucent silk kissed by the sun, revealed the same rosy cheeks, the same full mouth he remembered. And her eyes, emerald pools he’d nearly drowned in the night of the ball . . .

“That was before you lied to me,” he said, hardening his heart.

“But I told you everything yesterday—”

“I’m talking weeks ago.” He’d only just recalled the conversation they had during one of their earliest outings together. “When I asked if you attended Lady Bassett’s ball, you denied it.”

A flush crept into her cheeks, and the knife in his gut twisted. “You asked if I was invited, and I told you I would never receive that kind of invitation. As it was, I attended the ball without one. I did not lie to you, Jack. I only let you keep your misconception.”

“You’ve become quite adept with your words, haven’t you? Twisting and turning them to your liking.” How could he have been so gullible? “I trusted you, even when I knew your father to be a traitor, the man responsible for this.” He jabbed a finger at his face. “I wanted to believe you innocent, untainted by his treasonous blood.”

Pain flashed in her eyes, but he made himself continue to look at her through the mask. “And when you came to me yesterday, I believed you. I thought your apology”—he raised the feather for her to see—“stemmed from misguided patriotism. But patriotism had nothing to do with it.” He crushed the
feather in his fist, wanting to hurt her the way he ached inside. “You intended to distract me while your father passed British secrets off to a German agent.”

Grace reached out and laid a hand on his chest, and Jack gritted his teeth against the sensation. “You think my father responsible for your wounds? That’s not possible.”

The reminder of Patrick Mabry’s treachery made him seethe inside. “There was no doubt,” he ground out, removing her hand. “I found his letters aboard ship that night, proof of his guilt. They were destroyed in the explosion. And I nearly died.”

“That’s absurd! My father would never do that,” she cried.

“Wouldn’t he? How about a bribe?” He ignored her look of shock. “When you arrived here of all places, seeming innocent of any wrongdoing,” he mocked. “You knew your father had paid off a clerk in the WFC to ensure you were posted at Roxwood.”

Her face whitened.
Guilty
, he thought, and then delivered the final blow. “Did you really wish to enlist my help with the Admiralty to find your brother? Or is that a lie, as well? Perhaps he’s not missing at all, merely gone over to the side of the enemy.”

“How dare you!”

Before he could react, she slapped him across the face. “First you accuse my father, and now my poor brother. Are we all traitors, then?” she snapped.

“You tell me.” Jack stood like a stone, numb inside.

“You’ve suspected me from the first, haven’t you?” she accused. “All those questions, prying into my father’s life, our family . . .” Her green eyes glittered. “That’s why you kept me on. You were interrogating me in truth!”

“Now it seems it was prudent.” His tone sounded hollow to his own ears. “You wrote the letter to your father about Richborough.”

“I’m no traitor, nor is my family.” She sounded desperate. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“No, you’re the one who made the error, Miss Mabry.” He raised the crushed feather in his fist and tossed it into the flames. “You should never have come to Roxwood,” he said, ignoring her stricken look. “Perhaps then you wouldn’t have been caught.”

“Jack,” Marcus cautioned.

“I’m finished now, Marcus.” Jack turned from her to face the fire. “Get her out of here.”

19

Clare Danner had just tossed another forkful of dried hay into the steam baler when she spotted Mrs. Vance running toward them across the field, waving frantically.

“Someone turn the engine off, will you?” Clare yelled.

Becky off-loaded the last bale, then went to the front of the baler and killed the engine. The sudden quiet was interrupted by Mrs. Vance’s cry. “Girls, come quickly!”

Her note of hysteria caused alarm as Clare, Lucy, Agnes, and Becky rushed to meet her.

“It’s Grace,” she said, breathless and clearly distressed. “She’s been taken by force to London.”

“What!” they all cried. Clare said, “Who took her?”

“Sir Marcus—or should I say, Lieutenant Weatherford—arrived at the manor and took our Grace away. Her bags are still at the gatehouse where she left them.” Beneath her hat, Mrs. Vance’s features lined with worry. “Mrs. Riley came to the barn with the news.”

A shiver coursed through Clare, and she crossed her arms. “I don’t understand . . .”

“I do, and it’s just awful.” Mrs. Vance bit her lip and eyed each of them. “Grace has been arrested for treason!”

A cry sounded among their collective gasps. The women turned to see Agnes collapse in a dead faint to the ground.

“Oh, dear, she’s had a shock!” Mrs. Vance rushed to her and started chafing her wrists. Agnes began coming around with an agitated moan. “Quickly now, Becky, Lucy, let’s get her into the cart. Hitch up the team, and we’ll take her back to the gatehouse.”

Clare stood by, feeling stunned and angry, while the others helped Agnes to the cart. Marcus had seemed so different from the rest; she hadn’t detected arrogance or the subtle air of self-entitlement so many men of his upper class seemed to share. Just those soft, brown eyes, looking at her warmly, and a smile so tender that it made her breath catch.

When he’d done the unthinkable and championed Lucy, she’d actually entertained the notion of being courted by him, imagining he would accept her past, help her find Daisy . . .

A bitter lump rose in her throat. In the end, he was like the rest. Had he cozied up to her simply to learn more about Grace? Why would he arrest her friend on such a ridiculous charge, then whisk her off to London?

“Agnes will be fine once she has a lie-down with a cold compress,” Mrs. Vance said, moving up to stand beside Clare. They both watched Lucy harness the horses. “The lieutenant, Sir Marcus—he paid you marked attention, Clare. Did he mention anything to you?”

Clare reared at the question. “What do you mean? I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Vance’s brow creased. “We’ve all had a bit of a shock, and poor Agnes has received the brunt of it. She was so devoted to Grace.”

“You speak of Grace as though she’s dead!” Clare said. “She’s
very much alive and she needs our help.” All at once the anger went out of her. “There’s got to be some explanation, Mrs. Vance. I cannot believe her guilty.”

“What can we do about it?” Lucy had finished harnessing the horses and approached with tears in her eyes. “Grace has done so much for me. I c-can’t stand by and do nothing. Once she’s in London, the bobbies will lock her up. If she’s found guilty of treason, they’ll have her shot—”

“Let me think, will you?” Clare said, still struggling with her own devastation over Marcus, and the fact her friend was in dire trouble. “I don’t yet know how we’ll manage it,” she said finally, “but Grace is our sister, and we’re going to get her out of this mess.”

Seated silently beside her jailer, Grace seesawed between fury and fear as Sir Marcus drove them the distance to London. Already she’d tried to argue with him, but he insisted she save her excuses until they arrived at New Scotland Yard.

Staring out at the acres of hay ready for harvest, Grace wondered about her WFC sisters. They would be baling the south field right now. Did they know yet of her fate? She still felt dazed trying to make sense of the morning’s events. News of Da’s arrest, then the photograph of her letter and the outlandish accusations against her. The defamation against Colin was the worst, as Jack, in a monumental stroke of cruelty, suggested her brother wasn’t missing but had instead gone over to the enemy.

Pain and humiliation cut through her anger. He’d simply used her from the beginning, making her a pawn in the game he’d orchestrated the moment he learned she was Patrick Mabry’s daughter. He’d asked his annoying questions, not out of mere curiosity but to try to extract from her some kind of incriminat
ing evidence against her father—evidence that didn’t exist! He had thought her a spy as well, never trusting her . . .

But then memories of their shared laughter rose in her mind, and she recalled his gift to her, the beauty of Eden, and the moment he’d allowed her to remove the mesh from his mask. He’d spoken with honesty when he shared with her the love he felt for his grandfather, the pain of losing his brother. He’d been brutally candid when he spoke about being the second son of a man still blinded by grief over losing the first.

She remembered being in his arms, and reaching to touch her lips she imagined she could still feel the warmth of his kiss. Those moments had been real enough. In her heart, Grace knew he
had
trusted her.

Until Sir Marcus had brought him the letter.

She turned toward her jailer, wanting to hate him for it. But already panic was setting in, and her heart hammered as she remembered the newspaper story about the spy, Mata Hari. The woman had been convicted by the French to die.

Would Grace and her father end up at the Tower in front of a firing squad?

The vise of fear within her tightened with each mile as cottages, barns, and pasturelands gave way to the concrete buildings and traffic of more populated communities, and finally to the congested streets of Westminster.

The city bustled with the sounds of life. An ambulance with its siren blaring roared past the car, followed by the clopping of horses’ hooves pulling a cart loaded with vegetables, and a man shouting, selling newspapers on a street corner. But the noise quickly faded as Grace stared up at the brick building of New Scotland Yard—and realized the enormity of her situation.

“Miss Mabry.”

She jumped as her door was yanked open. Sir Marcus offered his hand. With shaking limbs, she allowed him to lead her from
the car. Never before had she been to such a place. And here she was now, being incarcerated, a prisoner with a looming death sentence . . .

As if in a dream, she watched as they booked and processed her. Then an MP led her off to a room located in the bowels of the building and locked her inside.

Grace shivered, hands clenched together in silent prayer. Electric lamps mounted high along one wall revealed a bare room with a rectangular wooden table. A pair of uncomfortable-looking ladder-back chairs had been placed on either side. The austere quarters offered no other accoutrements—no bed, washstand, or chamber pot—so it couldn’t be a cell, could it?

The room held the faint stench of body odor, and Grace felt her knees weaken in fear. She eased down onto a chair. Did they plan to keep her here until she expired of hunger and thirst? Or would they do something worse to her?

She looked at the walls, then under the table, relieved to find no hidden implements. Was Da in a similar room, or had he already been taken to the Tower? Fear blossomed into panic. Was he being tortured?

The door unlocked, and she emitted a low cry. Her heart threatened to explode in her chest. Sir Marcus entered first. Grace crossed her arms to keep them from shaking.

“Miss Mabry, I’ve brought Inspector Cromwell with New Scotland Yard. He wishes to ask you some questions.”

Cromwell?
Grace straightened as a uniformed man followed Sir Marcus into the room. He removed his hat, revealing a head of thinning black hair slicked down with tonic. His waxed mustache was just as dark and quivered above a thin-lipped smile as he scrutinized her.

Was this to be an inquisition? she wondered as he took the chair opposite hers. Sir Marcus stood off to one side.

“Miss Grace Elizabeth Mabry,” Cromwell began, dropping a sheaf of papers onto the table, “do you know why you’re here?”

She raised her gaze to him, swallowing her panic. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she managed, pleased that her voice didn’t waver too much.

“Indeed?”

He shot a look at Sir Marcus, who eyed her with impatience. “Miss Mabry, you are aware that you’ve been arrested for suspected treason?”

“Of course, I know
what
I’ve been arrested for,” she said, resurrecting her anger at him. “I just don’t know
why.
I’m not guilty.”

“The letter, Miss Mabry,” Cromwell said, shuffling through his stack of papers.

“You mean the letter everyone insists I added some secret code to? Well, I didn’t.”

Cromwell slid two sheets of stationery across the table to her. The brownish symbols above her writing were identical to the photographed copy Sir Marcus had shown her. “Code written with this type of invisible ink is common,” he said. “With a bit of heating, in this case using an iron, we were able to detect its presence.”

Feeling his shrewd eyes on her, Grace forced herself to look at him. Cromwell continued, “As Lieutenant Weatherford probably told you, we arrested your father yesterday, after we intercepted the letter and discovered the contents of the code.”

It must have been shortly after Da had telephoned her cousin Daniel about Colin. Grace seethed inside. How much could her poor father withstand? “Where is he now? Can I see him?”

“Perhaps,” Cromwell said, leaning back in his seat. “It will depend on your cooperation. So far, Patrick Mabry hasn’t been forthcoming. If you provide us with the information we require, I’ll make certain you get your visit with him before he’s taken away.”

Grace gripped the edge of the table. “Taken where?”

“Again, that all depends on what you have for us.”

The probing look he gave her caused a fresh stab of fear. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know how these”—she pointed to the brown-inked symbols between the lines—“got there in the first place.” She cast a desperate look at Sir Marcus. “Really, this has to be some sort of mistake.”

“Mistake, Miss Mabry?” Cromwell leaned forward. “Who else could have written this letter to Patrick Mabry? Or signed your name to it?”

“No one,” Grace sputtered. “But that doesn’t mean I put those . . . those marks on it!”

“Then how do you suppose they got there? Magic?”

“Of course not. But I can’t tell you, because I don’t know!”

“Fine.” Cromwell snatched back the letter and placed it on top of the stack. He rose from the table. “Since you mean to be uncooperative, perhaps you’d like to sit here awhile and consider your options. Confess the truth, and because of your young age and the undue pressure your father must have exerted to make you betray your country, you may receive leniency from the court.

“Keep silent, however,” he added, eyeing her gravely, “and you’ll suffer the consequences. Do you read the papers at all, Miss Mabry?”

Mata Hari
. She wet her lips before she whispered, “Yes.”

“Good. Then I trust you know what happens to traitors. We’ll continue this conversation later.” He turned to Sir Marcus. “Lieutenant?”