Tamed by her Duke (Seductive Mysteries #4)

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

G race pinched herself surreptitiously as she rumbled along in the carriage, her husband across from her, toward the village, just to be extra certain that she wasn’t dreaming again.

Ow. No, apparently not.

In truth, this made things all the stranger. A dream didn’t need to follow logic, but reality ought to be at least somewhat consistent, oughtn’t it?

And it was not the least bit consistent for her husband to suddenly invite her on an outing. Not an errand, not an event at which they might be asked to represent the dukedom. Just…an outing. Presumably for the mere sake of entertainment?

It baffled the mind.

“Is there some sort of…local fete going on in the village?” she asked, her words puncturing the silence in the carriage. Grace was becoming quite the connoisseur of silences when it came to matters between herself and her husband. This one was downright odd. Caleb seemed tense but also…nervous?

Though that was impossible. Caleb wasn’t a nervous kind of man.

“No,” he said shortly, frowning at her—and proving a point. A more nervous man might have made some concessions to politeness. “Why would there be?”

“Because…we’re going to the village?”

He frowned harder. “Do ye not want to go?”

“No, I do,” she assured him hastily, even if she wasn’t entirely certain that this was the truth.

After two days of jumping at shadows and being plagued with an unending stream of nightmares every time she closed her eyes, Grace knew she could not simply go on as she had been. Though part of her wished to pretend she’d never seen the mill, wished to block it from her mind entirely, a wiser part of her recognized that this was impossible.

She could feel its presence. She had to do something.

And so this journey was a test. A reminder that even though the building stood, a sepulchral reminder of the years she’d spent trapped within its falls, never knowing freedom, scarcely ever seeing the sun—even then, it could not harm her.

A building was just a building. And she was a duchess now, damn it! She wasn’t going to skulk inside her own home—wasn’t going to let herself be imprisoned again, this time by her own fear.

Besides, Caleb would be here. Even if she was not powerful enough to withstand her terror, her husband was implacable.

He would protect her. It might not arise from tender feeling. He might merely be protecting the investment he’d made in securing the future of his line.

But he would protect her.

She reminded herself of this point—that even if Caleb didn’t like her, he valued her to a certain extent—repeatedly as the sights outside her window grew increasingly familiar.

“Oh!” she said when she spotted a tavern she recognized.

Her husband sat up sharply like she’d poked him with a hatpin.

“The tavern? Ye want to eat at the tavern? It’s nae fine fare, ye ken, but we can stop.”

For a moment, Grace was almost distracted by this shocking turn toward solicitousness. Her attention quickly reverted, however, to the way the idea appealed.

She didn’t need to actually see the mill, did she? It wasn’t cowardice; it was wisdom. She’d see the place she’d been after she was rescued, and that would remind her that the rescue had happened, and then she could stop flinching every time the house creaked—which was constantly, given its age.

Yes. This would work. It would certainly work.

“That sounds lovely,” she said, clasping her hands together in delight. This, she allowed, might have been a bit too far, as her husband was looking at her as though she was making him contemplate a nice, comfortable asylum for her somewhere.

He did not comment, however, instead rapping on the roof of the carriage to indicate to the driver that they wished to stop.

Grace tried not to let herself be transported back in time when her foot hit the packed earth of the tavern’s stable yard. She pressed the fine linen of her day dress between her fingers, using the sensations of her cotton gloves against the lightweight fabric to orient her. She hadn’t been wearing anything so fine, then. She’d been wearing the cheap wool dress that she’d always worn, the fabric too heavy for summer and too light for winter.

The reminder worked, though it was not half so successful as the feel of Caleb’s muscles beneath her fingers when he looped his arm through hers. She clung with a bit more force than was strictly de rigeur . If Caleb was here, this was now.

The past, she told herself over and over like a prayer, could not touch her.

Another difference: when she’d entered the tavern with Frances and Evan, nobody had cared a jot. Now, however, when she entered with Caleb, voices fell silent, and heads swiveled to face them.

“D’ye think they recognize us?” Caleb muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and it was so unexpected that it startled a laugh from Grace, despite everything.

He looked, she thought, extraordinarily pleased with himself.

A young woman, Grace’s age or perhaps a bit older, hurried toward them, hastily wiping her hands on a cloth. She was dressed nicely enough to suggest that she was no mere barmaid, but rather the proprietress. Her apron, for one, was spotless. Aprons never remained spotless when doing actual chores, no matter how hard one tried, Grace knew.

“Oh, dear me,” said the woman, visibly flustered. “Your Graces, what an honor, what an honor. I am Mrs. Adler, at your service, of course. Are ye here for…” She trailed off, as if not daring to presume why such lofty personages had entered her establishment. “Well, whatever ye need, I’m sure as we can provide it.”

If she nodded any harder, her head was going to fall right off.

“Luncheon,” Caleb said shortly. Grace suppressed a sigh. He really did have the social graces of a rock. It was going to give poor Mrs. Adler the fits.

The woman in question looked torn between utter delight and abject terror. “Of course. We’ve pies today, if it pleases ye, Your Graces. Fresh made, of course, of course. Would ye permit me to escort ye to our private room?”

“No.” The word came from Grace; she spoke without thinking as she spotted, in the far reaches of the room, a man whose face she recognized. Frances had pointed him out, when they’d been here. He’d been keen to gossip, she said; his information had led them to the mill, and to Grace.

And if the man was knowledgeable and in possession of a loose tongue, then perhaps he would have some information that was useful to Grace, as well. Her father had insisted, after Grace’s return to London, that she didn’t need to “trouble herself” over the fate of the family that had imprisoned her.

“It’s best to put the unpleasantness behind you,” he’d said sternly.

But Grace found that she desperately needed to know. Had they hanged? Been sent to gaol? Been transported? She didn’t know that she longed to know the Packards were dead, necessarily—she hated them, to be sure, but they’d also been part of the Dowager Countess of Moore’s scheme—or Dowling’s scheme at least. Nobody had ever been particularly clear as to how a poor family, miles and miles north of London, had been roped in to the plan to abduct Grace.

And yes, Dowling was dead, may his soul never find rest, but the dowager countess had been sent to bedlam, not killed. Did the Packards deserve worse than their employer?

Grace honestly wasn’t sure. But she wasn’t the arbiter of justice here, nor did she long to be. She just wanted to know that something had happened. If she knew they were in Newgate or Australia or the ground then she would know, at least, that they could not leap out from behind any corner.

Mrs. Adler was looking at her, wide eyed, and Grace pasted on a politician’s smile.

“No,” she repeated, more gently. “I am new to the area, you see, and find myself very interested in getting to know the people who call these lands home.” She shrugged a shoulder as if to suggest that her interested was silly, perhaps, but harmless. “I know in other towns, the lord’s wife takes it upon herself to organize some form of entertainment—for the families and the children, especially—and thought if I talked to people, I might be better poised to do so.”

Grace realized the unexpected genius of her excuse when Mrs. Adler’s hand fluttered to her belly with a fond smile. The woman was expecting—or suspected herself to be—even if she was not yet showing her condition.

“Why, Your Grace, that is so terribly thoughtful of ye,” the woman said, flushed with pleasure. “Ye do hear things about the loveliness of grand ladies, but they did not do ye justice.”

This was flattering, if a bit much. Nonetheless, Grace gave a modest smile.

“Oh, you are too kind, Mrs. Adler. And I do so appreciate you indulging me.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I admit, I was raised in London, so your assistance is so valuable as I learn about village life. It is so much more calm and pleasant, is it not?”

Now it was Grace’s turn to lay it on a bit thick. The Packards had incessantly sneered at her for being from London—their ridicule was how Grace had learned that they knew any part of her background—and she suspected that even far kinder village folk might be pleased to hear that she preferred country life to London’s urbanity.

Indeed, Mrs. Adler’s flush grew.

“Of course, of course,” she said, nodding vigorously again. “Naturally ye can sit wherever ye wish, Your Graces.” She gestured broadly at the room.

Grace pretended to ponder briefly before making a beeline to the man she’d recognized.

As she settled herself in at the roughhewn table, she saw a flicker of unease disrupt Mrs. Adler’s smile, though it was not directed at the new arrivals.

“Don’ go talkin’ Their Graces ears off, ye hear, Da?” she demanded in a soft voice.

“Certainly not, my dear girl,” the man said with a casual dismissiveness that was—much to Grace’s relief and Mrs. Adler’s clear exasperation—entirely unconvincing.

Mrs. Adler gave him a threatening look before heading off to fetch refreshments for Grace and Caleb. Her father ignored her—much in the way that Grace was ignoring her husband’s curious eyes.

What are you up to, leannan ? she could practically hear him ask. The Gaelic term rolled off his tongue with increasing frequency and Grace hoped that it meant something like “wife” or “woman” instead of “pox blister” or “woman I have regrettably found myself shackled to in a marriage of convenience.”

She couldn’t say, as she didn’t know how detailed or vast Gaelic vocabulary might be.

“Good afternoon,” she said brightly to the man. He was cradling a tankard of ale with the air of someone who intended to nurse it for a good long while, the kind of fellow who had come to the tavern for the company, not for the drink. “I’m?—”

“Oh, I know who ye are, Yer Grace,” the man said, chuckling, not at all perturbed to have interrupted the wife of the man who, in all likelihood, owned the house he lived in. Wherever Mrs. Adler had gotten her serviceperson’s instincts, it wasn’t from her father, it seemed.

“I’m Creedy,” he introduced, gesturing to himself. He was the sort of portly that suggested a gentle slope into middle age, one blessed with the opportunity to work a bit less than he had as a young man—though his rough hands and rougher speech spoke of those years, as well. “I heard ye telling my girl that ye wanted to know about the local whatnot, and let me tell ye, ye’ve come to the right place. I’ve lived here all me life.”

And, thought Grace with satisfaction, had spent that life jovially prying into everyone’s business.

“Have you?” she said with bright interest. “Well then. What’s a newcomer like me to know?”

Mr. Creedy launched into a series of animated anecdotes about the vicar and his wife or a farmer and his six sons, each stronger than the last. He had the air of a friendly folklorist, and for all that he was clearly a fervent gossip, did not seem to contain an ounce of the maliciousness that was part and parcel with ton gossip.

Grace listened, genuinely entertained, as she waited for her moment.

Mr. Creedy did not disappoint.

“Alas, ye must be thinkin’ us terribly provincial, Yer Grace,” he said, shaking his head. “But jes’ last week we saw ourselves a properly fancy fellow, that we did.” He shook his head sadly. “Up from London, he was, to deal with that dreadful business.”

“Oh? Dreadful business?” she asked lightly as her heart pounded.

For the first time, Mr. Creedy’s ebullience faded, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

“Aye. T’was a right mess, that was. Perhaps ye heard tell of it, Yer Grace.”

This was addressed to Caleb, who inclined his head slightly, not revealing much of anything. Grace’s heart leapt. Her husband had certainly heard the gossip of her circumstances in London, though he’d probably not known the exact location of her imprisonment. Alas, Grace hadn’t even known the exact location, not until she’d spotted the mill outside her carriage window.

But surely he was beginning to put it together now.

“Evidently,” Mr. Creedy said, still somber in a way that proved his underlying kindness; a more vicious gossip would have been practically trembling with delight over being able to share such a salacious tale. “Some poor girl was kept—against her will, like—in the old mill just outside of town.”

Grace thought she saw her husband stiffen at the word mill , but she assiduously avoided his gaze.

“Folk around here felt right awful when it all came out,” Mr. Creedy added. “We just thought the family living up there were private, like. Mayhap a bit unpleasant. Nae the criminal sort, though.”

He shook his head and took a contemplative sip of his ale, the first time he’d touched the drink since Grace and Caleb had sat down.

“Odd thing is, the whole thing was apparently because some toff lady was out of sorts over some other high-born fellow—beggin’ yer pardon,” he added, in acknowledgement of the less than complimentary terminology he deployed for the aristocracy while in the company of two aristocrats.

“Not at all,” Grace assured him. “That does all sound very strange. Did the local people explain all this? To the magistrate, I gather?”

“Nay,” Mr. Creedy said. “They said it was some man, some ‘Mister’ somebody, not a lord. I guess they were tryin’ to protect their purses. But it turned out their patron had already been caught up in the mess, had got herself packed off to Bedlam. Some man o’ business associated with the whole mess came up and revealed the lady’s role in it all. Had some fancy paperwork and whatnot to prove it, I gather.”

“My goodness,” Grace said when he paused.

“Jes’ so,” Mr. Creedy agreed. “So the poor girl went back home, the high lady’s locked up, and the people what actually hid her got transported.”

Something unclenched in Grace. Transported. They were gone . They were gone, and they could never come back, and they could never, ever touch her again.

She felt almost giddy with the relief of it.

“But that’s no’ even the strangest bit,” Mr. Creedy added.

Grace’s body grew so rapidly tight again that the clack of her teeth was nearly audible as she clenched her jaw.

Mr. Creedy did not seem to notice.

“No, the strangest bit is that recently, some businessman—and he was right impressed with himself, if I do say so; was properly rude to my girl about her establishment, he was—came around here to oversee sellin’ the old building. Said he worked for a lord, but wouldnae say who—sort of like he wanted to brag to make himself seem important, but was tryin’ to be secret, like. If ye ask me, I would guess that the lady has a man—one who’s no’ her husband,” he added, eyebrows raised in a judgment against such non-marital dallying.

Then Mr. Creedy shrugged.

“Then again, what do I know? Mayhap that’s ordinary with them London fellows. Though perhaps ye’ll understand me when I say that I’m hopin’ we don’t have near so much adventure round these parts for a good while, eh, Your Grace?”

“Certainly not,” Grace murmured obligingly as her mind whirled.

Much of the story made sense. The Packards had blamed Dowling—either because they had genuinely believed him to be the end of things or because they were protecting the Dowager Countess of Moore, as Mr. Creedy had predicted. But Benedict and Emily had uncovered the dowager countess’ perfidy; once a criminal case had begun, it made sense that someone would send news up to a Northumberland magistrate to set the story straight.

But who was trying to sell the mill now?

Grace supposed it could be Benedict, though the idea didn’t sit quite right with her. For one, she’d no doubt have heard about it, unless he had discovered some bill of sale since she’d been married and tended to it immediately. Though Grace thought Emily might have written to warn her, had this occurred.

And why would Benedict be secretive about it? He’d been forthright about his mother’s involvement in Grace’s kidnapping otherwise; he had decided it was best to try to get ahead of the gossip rather than skulking in secrecy and fearing being found out.

No, it didn’t make sense for it to be Benedict.

Dowling had, indeed, been the dowager countess’ lover, but Dowling was dead—and had only been posing as an aristocrat, in any case. Without the dowager countess’ support, he wouldn’t have the resources to send a man of business. Nor should Benedict’s mother herself have retained such power.

So, who?

Caleb’s eyes were on her. Creedy’s eyes were on her. She needed them both to stop right this instant.

Her smile felt forced. “And so what are things like in these parts when there isn’t a grand mystery afoot?” she asked, accurately predicting that it would set Mr. Creedy off on more cheerful storytelling.

As she listened with half an ear to his chatter, she held every part of herself together as tightly as she could, fearing that if she did not, she would break into a thousand pieces. She’d come here today for a reminder that her ordeal was behind her only to learn that a loose thread remained, one that she dared not pull, lest everything unravel and plunge her back into this unending nightmare.