Page 12 of The Bachelor Spy
“Indeed, my lady. Mrs. Davies has reviewed her credentials and found them more than satisfactory. The young woman comes from a London household that closed when the family relocated to the country.”
“Excellent for us, isn’t it, Brandon?” Grace patted the man’s arm, but he remained as stiff as ever, though his expression softened enough for her to know he was pleased. Or at least tolerant. “What’s her name?”
“Helen Gale, my lady.”
Helen Gale.“Would you bring her to the morning room?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Grace started down the hall, one hand pressed to the letter in her pocket as if it somehow connected her to her darling Frederick. John could tell her about the missing painting,andshe could meet the new maid all at once. Efficiency at its finest.
Frederick would be proud.
She’d returned to being much more efficient over the past month. For the first three months of the hospital, right after Frederick had left, Grace had barely gotten much done at all, except reading. She’d been utterly exhausted all of the time. Whatever about tending soldiers made her ten times more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, she had no idea. Even to the point of nausea at times.
The sight of blood had never bothered her, but the smell of morphine, until she’d gotten used to it, had turned her stomach on a daily basis for weeks. She gave her head a little shake at the memory and turned the corner into the morning room.
John stood near the wall where, indeed, a painting was conspicuously absent. A lighter rectangle on the wallpaper marked where it had hung.
“My lady,” John began. “I’ve asked the staff, and no one has a memory of taking it down for cleaning.”
Grace stared at the spot. It had been the sheep one. She’d always rather liked it. “I wonder how valuable it might be, John.” She turned to him, knowing quite well what trouble paintings could cause if they had any monetary worth.
Or led to a treasure.
“I haven’t the foggiest, my lady, but if the late Lord Astley bought it, I imagine it’s worth something.”
She nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip. “If you’ll recall that Sherlock Holmes book I gave you last Christmas, John?”
He blinked and, perhaps, nodded. Slightly.
“Take a few hints from it and do some subtle investigating.” Grace lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Nothing to draw any suspicion, of course, but just enough to see if we uncover any clues.” She nodded. “Clues are our best option to determine whether we truly have a thief on our hands or just some absent-minded servant.”
John hesitated, then dipped into a slight bow. “Of course, my lady.”
“I’ll do a bit of investigating too.”
A male cleared his throat nearby, and Grace turned to find Brandon standing just inside the room, a young woman at his side. Grace smiled and stepped toward them.
The woman stood in a simple brown dress, hands folded demurely in front of her and a carpet bag at her feet. She had striking auburn hair—not the bright copper of Grace’s own, but a deeper, richer shade interwoven with brown tones that caught the afternoon light like polished mahogany. Her features were arresting in their symmetry, the kind of face that would be difficult to forget once seen, though she seemed to be doing her very best to appear unremarkable.
She kept her head down as Grace approached.
“Miss Gale, my lady.” Brandon gestured toward the woman in introduction.
“Welcome to Havensbrooke, Miss Gale.”
It was then Miss Gale raised her head, the faintest smile touching her lips.
There was a sharpness in the woman’s expression. After a proper curtsy, her gaze swept over the room in a way that reminded Grace distinctly of the way Frederick assessed situations. Or better yet, the way Blake or her friend Jack Miracle visually catalogued details.
But the way she examined Grace and the room was only part of the curiosity about Miss Gale.
The other part?
Her eyes.
Deep blue—so deep they appeared almost violet.
