Saving Grace
Copyright © 2014 Michele Paige Holmes
E-book edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. These novels are works of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Interior Design by Heather Justesen
Edited by Annette Lyon and Cassidy Wadsworth
Cover design by Rachael Anderson
Cover Photo Credit: Elizabeth May/Trigger Image
Cover Photo Copyright: Elizabeth May
Published by Mirror Press, LLC
ISBN-13: 978-1-941145-23-4
Counting Stars
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My Lucky Stars
Captive Heart
A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection
Other Books by Michele Paige Holmes
To all those seeking forgiveness or who have yet to forgive —
May you find grace in your life through love, the greatest power of all.
A
n early-morning mist shrouded the grounds of the Crosby estate as Grace Thatcher slipped out the front doors. For a moment, she stood alone in the chill and darkness, cherishing the silence and freedom where no one could see her. Then, blessing her good fortune at finding such cover, she crept down the wide steps and disappeared into the fog.
She quickly realized her difficulty. Without so much as a candle to guide her, she walked as if blind, hands outstretched, and counted careful steps over the dewy grass separating Lord Crosby’s manor from the outbuildings.
One hundred seventy-eight. One hundred seventy-nine
. She dared not speak but kept track in her mind, grateful she had taken the time to pace the way the previous evening when the idea for this early-morning conspiracy had first struck. She took a sharp right and extended her leg slowly, foot tapping the ground, searching for the stone steps that led to the bottom of the hill and the stables. When her boot encountered only grass, she realized she hadn’t walked as straight as she’d supposed.
No help for it
, she thought, dropping to her knees and crawling over the dewy lawn.
Better wet knees than a broken one
. Lord Crosby’s stairs were steep and likely slippery at this hour. She’d no desire to begin what was sure to be a trying day by falling down them.
After a few minutes of crawling, her palm struck wet, mossy stone.
She started to rise but stopped, listening intently to the sound of labored breathing that was not her own.
Her heart pounded, and she shrank back, though there was nowhere to hide. The dark and mist were her only cover and would not last forever. A little more light or a little less fog, and she would be visible.
Exposed — and alone.
Slowly she reached up and slid a hairpin from her bun.
The breathing grew closer, coming from the bottom of the hill. Someone was climbing the steps.
But who?
Or what?
She waited, hardly daring to breathe, when suddenly a loud sneeze rent the silence. This was followed by a great snort, as if someone were sucking up a cupful of milk through his nose.
Just Harrison.
Grace fell backward on the lawn, sagging with relief.
I ought to send him home.
The countryside did not agree with her servant at all. But as his graying head came into view, his self-sacrifice in aiding her cause did much to warm Grace’s heart on that cold morning. Seeing the older man’s labored breathing and unusually slow progress, she felt a swell of affection for her driver-turned-footman, turned her general caretaker.
“What are you doing here?” She stood and gave her skirts a shake, then moved closer to better discern his features. “You nearly scared my wits from me, sounding like any number of ravenous creatures who might be about.”
“Beg pardon, Miss Thatcher.” Harrison snorted again, then sneezed loudly. “Though it’d take much more’n a little noise to relieve you of your wits. You’ve a great deal more about you than most young ladies.”
“Possibly because I am considerably
older
than most young ladies,” Grace said, not the least bothered by the fact that at twenty-four she was decidedly an old maid. And a maid she planned to remain, in spite of her current circumstances: on exhibit for a select number of men who might offer marriage.
Harrison sneezed again, this time bending with the effort.
“You shouldn’t be out in this chill,” Grace said, drawing her shawl closer. She’d left her cloak at the manor, preferring to have less clothing to hide after her transformation.
“Had to come,” he said, a note of concern in his voice. “Are you still set to go through with it?”
“I am.” Grace nodded, then hugged her arms beneath the shawl. “I’ve got to.”
“Hmph.” Harrison’s usual expression could mean any number of things, depending upon the occasion. “Best get it over with then. Take care on the steps.”
“It isn’t the steps I’m most worried about,” Grace said, taking care nonetheless. “It’s the riding that has me fearing for my neck.”
“You’re as fine a rider as any who’ll be going out,” Harrison reassured her. “And lighter in the saddle too.”
“Let us hope so,” Grace said. “Were you able to get the stable boy’s clothing?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Grace’s heart fell. Without a disguise, she would never make it to the lawn. She’d never be permitted anywhere near the hunt.
“I’ve something better,” Harrison said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Something the duke himself would have approved of.”
At the mention of her grandfather, Grace felt a clutch of sorrow. Were he still alive, she would
be acting the part of a gentle-bred lady. Instead, she was being offered up as payment from her father to Lord Crosby.
“I needn’t anything fancy to ride,” she said. “I’m not proud.”
Just desperate to escape this place without an offer of marriage.
“A pair of stable boy’s breeches and a horse with a decent gait will do fine.”
“Not for you,” Harrison said, shaking his head stubbornly. “Your grandfather’d return from the grave to flay me. He’d expect me to do everything in my power to best aid your plan — however peculiar it may be.”
They reached the barn doors. He opened one for her, and Grace stepped inside. He followed, closing the door behind them, then taking a minute to light a lantern hanging on a peg inside the door.
Grace rubbed her tired eyes and tried to adjust to her surroundings. Harrison trudged by, sneezing as he passed, and led her to the second-to-the-last stall.
“Go on and look,” he said, holding the lantern high, which illuminated his face alight with an expression akin to a child’s at Christmas.
Grace peeked over the stall; there was no animal inside, so she swung the door open but stopped before she’d even taken a step. Her eyes were riveted on a scarlet coat, black top hat, and buff breeches, all hanging from nails at the back.
“Oh, Harrison.” She breathed out a sigh of utmost gratitude before turning her most radiant smile upon him. “You’ve outdone yourself. However did you come upon these? Outfitted like this, I shall be able to ride very near Lord Crosby.”
“And unseat him when you do.” Harrison chuckled. “It would have done you no good to pose as an earth stopper. You wouldn’t have been able to get close enough for his lordship to notice.”
“He’ll notice me now.” Grace imagined the expression on pompous Lord Crosby’s face after he’d discovered a
woman
riding with him on the hunt.
He’ll be furious.
