Page 115 of The Bachelor Spy
“There. That must be the key,” Grace breathed. Lying among the ordinary items lay a large iron key, much bigger than anything for the house. Unlike some of the other keys inside the box, this one had its own ring. “You’ll have to take us to the secret door tomorrow, Zahra, and we can attempt to find the tunnel before—”
Grace turned and every ounce of warmth fled her body from head to toe.
Pennington.
His hospital blues were torn and bloodstained from his escape through the window. His face was pale, desperate, and in his shaking hand—a pair of open garden shears, the blades positioned near Zahra’s throat.
Where had he come from? Had he been hiding in the garden cottage all along? Or emerged from the forest, following their lantern light and conversation?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Zahra.
“Don’t.” Pennington’s voice cracked. “Don’t scream. Don’t move. Please, I don’t—I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs. The shears—long-handled, meant for pruning thick branches—could do terrible damage in an instant. One jerky movement, one moment of panic …
Grace stepped forward. “Private Pennington—”
“I only want what’s mine. What will set my family right.” His words tumbled out at a desperate speed. “Grandfather talked about a key. Told me he’d come back years later to find the treasure but couldn’t get inside. I was hiding here. Heard you.” His eyes were wild, darting between them. “I need those jewels. I need them for my family. For my name.” His voice quaked. “I don’t have a choice.”
“We can help you,” Grace said quietly, carefully, taking a step forward, her gaze flipping from Zahra back to Pennington. “Lord Astley has already promised to help your family—”
“Promises!” The word came out bitter. “Can’t trust in promises from your betters.” He shook his head, the shears trembling dangerously close to Zahra’s skin. To the little girl’s credit, she held completely still, her eyes locked on Grace. “His lordship’s family made promises to my grandfather too. Told him they’d take care of him. Give him a raise. But in the end, they destroyed him. That’s why he took the jewels. As payment, fair and square. Payment for awful work my grandfather did for the late Lord Astley. Dark work.”
He moved closer, the shears now pressed against Zahra’s shoulder. “I need that key. And I need …” His voice broke. “I need insurance. Someone to make sure no one stops me. No one kills me before I get what’s mine and leave this place.”
Grace’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
“The girl.” The shears lifted back toward Zahra’s neck. “She comes with me. If anyone tries to stop me—if your husband sends men after me—”
“No.” Grace’s attention dropped to Zahra and held for a moment before fastening back on Pennington, decision made. “Take me instead.”
“Mama!” Zahra’s whispered protest was barely audible.
Pennington stared at her. “You?”
Think, Grace.
The man was desperate. Desperate men were unpredictable.
“I’m the lady of the house.” Grace took another step forward as the man’s grip loosened slightly on Zahra. “No one will dare interfere if I’m with you. And I know the estate—I can help you navigate the tunnels.”
Perhaps. She had no idea what the tunnel beneath the chapel looked like, but she’d certainly been in her fair share of tunnels in the past, so that had to count for something.
“Take me, and I give you my word I’ll help you find the jewels.”
Pennington’s jaw worked as he clearly weighed his options. The shears wavered.
“And,” Grace added quietly, “Zahra is a child. Do you truly want the blood of a child on your hands? Besides, I’m stronger. More useful to you.”
Which may or may not have been true. Zahra was formidable in her own right.
“Mama, please—” Zahra’s plea broke into Pennington’s hesitation.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Grace said softly, never taking her eyes off Pennington. “It’s going to be all right.”
For a long, terrible moment, Pennington said nothing. The shears gleamed dully in the lantern light.
Then slowly, he nodded. “Fine. You come with me. But if you try anything—if you scream, if you run—” He didn’t finish the threat, but the shears spoke for him.
