woman’s changed demeanor. “We all have secrets.” She remembered Lucy’s words from yesterday.
Did Clare have secrets, too?
Averting her eyes, Grace felt her desire for retribution ebbing. What good would come from demanding Clare’s dismissal from the WFC? The woman might be a thorn in her side, but Clare Danner had skills and performed her duties well—unlike Grace, who had proved quite inept. And in truth, Grace likely would have encountered Jack Benningham at some point during her stay at Roxwood, and his attitude toward her would remain unchanged.
She considered Mr. Tillman’s sprained ankle—her fault. And the bungled sacks someone else had to fix—again her fault. Perhaps Mrs. Vance was right and she was better suited for another purpose.
“It wasn’t my fault. There were unavoidable ruts in the road,” she lied, fixing her attention back on the pale-faced Clare. “The lever on the cage must have jarred loose. When I stopped at the gatehouse to fetch my heavier gloves, I didn’t notice it, even when I let the ramp down to check on the pigs before I went inside. I returned and found them escaped, running across Roxwood’s grounds. I tried chasing them . . .” Her voice trailed off, knowing the concocted story made her sound like a complete muddlehead.
“Pack your things, Mabry. Even if I could change the rules, it’s out of my hands. His lordship has ordered you gone in the morning.” Mrs. Vance’s look softened. “The nearest train is at Margate. I’ll take you there myself in the cart tomorrow. I’m sorry, Grace.”
Grace glanced at the faces around her, swallowing an urge to cry. Mr. Tillman retrieved his crutch and leaned against it, looking satisfied. Becky and Lucy, along with Mrs. Vance, eyed her with pity. Agnes shook her head and with lips pursed twisted her hands together.
Clare stood near the big double doors, clearly stunned. She spun on her heel and stalked out of the barn.
“It’s done, Edwards?”
“Yes, milord.” Jack’s steward and land agent cleared his throat and added, “I’ve informed Mr. Tillman to make certain Miss Mabry leaves in the morning. I believe she’ll be taking the ten o’clock out of Margate.”
“Good riddance,” Jack growled. “Thank you, Edwards. That will be all.”
“Shall I call for your valet now, milord?”
“No. Townsend can attend me in an hour. I know it’s late, but I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Of course. Good night, milord.”
Hearing the door to the bedroom close behind his steward, Jack Benningham—third Viscount of Walenford, heir to the fifth Earl of Stonebrooke, and for his present convenience, second Baron of Roxwood—walked unerringly past the opened French doors leading out onto his balcony.
The marble felt smooth and unyielding beneath his fingertips as he stood at the rail. He knew beyond the sprawling lawns and breathtaking rose garden, or what remained of it, stood the enormous hedge maze planted by his great-grandfather decades before.
This afternoon had been his first venture outside since the accident. Jack congratulated himself that despite his blindness, he could still navigate the labyrinth’s twists and turns in order to reach the fountain at its center. Roxwood had been in his family for generations, and he found the simple two-story Georgian-style home a sanctuary against the suffocating attentions of his family, the animosity and revulsion of his fiancée, and the prying, pitying eyes of London society. It was the perfect place to hide . . . until today.
He loosened the ties of his mask, allowing the cool night air to soothe the constant burn of his scarred flesh—and his anger. Patrick Mabry’s daughter was here, invading his privacy. Why?
She claimed to be employed by the Women’s Forage Corps, yet she’d destroyed his rose garden and tainted his sanctuary. Had she purposely orchestrated the little disaster in order to seek him out, to spy on him for her father?
For the
Did Clare have secrets, too?
Averting her eyes, Grace felt her desire for retribution ebbing. What good would come from demanding Clare’s dismissal from the WFC? The woman might be a thorn in her side, but Clare Danner had skills and performed her duties well—unlike Grace, who had proved quite inept. And in truth, Grace likely would have encountered Jack Benningham at some point during her stay at Roxwood, and his attitude toward her would remain unchanged.
She considered Mr. Tillman’s sprained ankle—her fault. And the bungled sacks someone else had to fix—again her fault. Perhaps Mrs. Vance was right and she was better suited for another purpose.
“It wasn’t my fault. There were unavoidable ruts in the road,” she lied, fixing her attention back on the pale-faced Clare. “The lever on the cage must have jarred loose. When I stopped at the gatehouse to fetch my heavier gloves, I didn’t notice it, even when I let the ramp down to check on the pigs before I went inside. I returned and found them escaped, running across Roxwood’s grounds. I tried chasing them . . .” Her voice trailed off, knowing the concocted story made her sound like a complete muddlehead.
“Pack your things, Mabry. Even if I could change the rules, it’s out of my hands. His lordship has ordered you gone in the morning.” Mrs. Vance’s look softened. “The nearest train is at Margate. I’ll take you there myself in the cart tomorrow. I’m sorry, Grace.”
Grace glanced at the faces around her, swallowing an urge to cry. Mr. Tillman retrieved his crutch and leaned against it, looking satisfied. Becky and Lucy, along with Mrs. Vance, eyed her with pity. Agnes shook her head and with lips pursed twisted her hands together.
Clare stood near the big double doors, clearly stunned. She spun on her heel and stalked out of the barn.
“It’s done, Edwards?”
“Yes, milord.” Jack’s steward and land agent cleared his throat and added, “I’ve informed Mr. Tillman to make certain Miss Mabry leaves in the morning. I believe she’ll be taking the ten o’clock out of Margate.”
“Good riddance,” Jack growled. “Thank you, Edwards. That will be all.”
“Shall I call for your valet now, milord?”
“No. Townsend can attend me in an hour. I know it’s late, but I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Of course. Good night, milord.”
Hearing the door to the bedroom close behind his steward, Jack Benningham—third Viscount of Walenford, heir to the fifth Earl of Stonebrooke, and for his present convenience, second Baron of Roxwood—walked unerringly past the opened French doors leading out onto his balcony.
The marble felt smooth and unyielding beneath his fingertips as he stood at the rail. He knew beyond the sprawling lawns and breathtaking rose garden, or what remained of it, stood the enormous hedge maze planted by his great-grandfather decades before.
This afternoon had been his first venture outside since the accident. Jack congratulated himself that despite his blindness, he could still navigate the labyrinth’s twists and turns in order to reach the fountain at its center. Roxwood had been in his family for generations, and he found the simple two-story Georgian-style home a sanctuary against the suffocating attentions of his family, the animosity and revulsion of his fiancée, and the prying, pitying eyes of London society. It was the perfect place to hide . . . until today.
He loosened the ties of his mask, allowing the cool night air to soothe the constant burn of his scarred flesh—and his anger. Patrick Mabry’s daughter was here, invading his privacy. Why?
She claimed to be employed by the Women’s Forage Corps, yet she’d destroyed his rose garden and tainted his sanctuary. Had she purposely orchestrated the little disaster in order to seek him out, to spy on him for her father?
For the
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