London, the incident would mostly be forgotten.
Tory thought of the necklace, the gift she had given her dearest friend. Surely it would bring good fortune to Grace as it had to her.
She wasn’t the least bit worried, she told herself. Not at all. Grace was always one to land on her feet. But the fierce search for Lord Forsythe continued, the magistrates using every available source to discover where he was and who might be responsible for his escape.
Tory shivered in her husband’s arms as he carried her up the stairs, and said a silent prayer for Grace.
Matilda Crenshaw, Baroness Humphrey, sat in the sitting room of her upstairs bedchamber suite at Humphrey Hall. Like the rest of the house, the room was a little frayed, the damask curtains somewhat faded, as was the fringe on the sofa. But Lady Humphrey liked it that way. She often felt a bit frayed herself.
A few feet away, her longtime friend, Elvira Tweed, widow of the late Sir Henry Tweed, perched on a tapestry chair, her needlework forgotten in her pudgy lap. Their concern this day was for Lady Humphrey’s great-niece, Grace Chastain.
“Nasty business,” Lady Tweed said with several clucks and a shake of her gray-haired head. “I still cannot credit those fools in London actually believing Lord Forsythe could possibly be a traitor. Why, your nephew has always been ridiculously patriotic.”
“And loyal to a fault,” Lady Humphrey added firmly, thinking of the ten-year-old boy she had taken in when his parents died and raised as her own. “Not always sostead fast to his wife, poor dear, but then men are like that, are they not?”
“My Henry strayed from the path but once. He found himself sleeping down the hall for nearly a year, but the lesson was well learned. I don’t believe he was ever unfaithful again.”
“This daughter of Harmon’s, Grace Chastain—born on the wrong side of the blanket though she was—he always thought a good deal of her. Kept track of her over the years. Wrote me several letters about her. I think he liked her pluck.” She cocked a gray eyebrow at her friend. “His own brood is rather a dull lot, don’t you think? Though I shall deny I ever said so.”
“Lord Forsythe’s other children take after their mother, poor darlings.” Elvira picked up her needlework, but didn’t seem interested in actually taking a stitch. “I do hope the gel is all right.” There were no secrets between the two women. They had shared each other’s lives for more than fifty years, shared the happy days and the heartbreak. They were steadfast friends and nothing that happened in the in sane world around them could shock them any longer.
Matilda sighed. “God only knows what may have happened to her.” Last week, a sea captain named Chambers had appeared at her door with Grace’s trunks and her lady’s maid, a girl named Phoebe Bloom. He said he regretted that Grace wasn’t with them and relayed a tale of her abduction from his ship, the Lady Anne. A man named Ethan Sharpe, captain of the Sea Devil, had said that Grace was wanted for questioning in a matter of national security.
Which could only mean that somehow she had been connected to Harmon’s escape.
“I wonder if she is back in London,” Elvira said.
Matilda worried that she might be. “God’s breath, even now, my great-niece could be languishing in prison for the brave deed she has done.”
“You dare not pursue the matter, Matilda,” Elvira warned. “If you do, you will be putting both Grace and Harmon in even graver danger. The girl should probably have sought aid somewhere else. Now Captain Chambers knows her destination and someone might put two and two together. Should the connection be made between Grace and Lord Forsythe—” She clucked and shook her head.
“I live a quiet life miles away from London. Harmon has been gone from this house for more than twenty years and few people ever really knew of our kinship. No one is going to connect
Tory thought of the necklace, the gift she had given her dearest friend. Surely it would bring good fortune to Grace as it had to her.
She wasn’t the least bit worried, she told herself. Not at all. Grace was always one to land on her feet. But the fierce search for Lord Forsythe continued, the magistrates using every available source to discover where he was and who might be responsible for his escape.
Tory shivered in her husband’s arms as he carried her up the stairs, and said a silent prayer for Grace.
Matilda Crenshaw, Baroness Humphrey, sat in the sitting room of her upstairs bedchamber suite at Humphrey Hall. Like the rest of the house, the room was a little frayed, the damask curtains somewhat faded, as was the fringe on the sofa. But Lady Humphrey liked it that way. She often felt a bit frayed herself.
A few feet away, her longtime friend, Elvira Tweed, widow of the late Sir Henry Tweed, perched on a tapestry chair, her needlework forgotten in her pudgy lap. Their concern this day was for Lady Humphrey’s great-niece, Grace Chastain.
“Nasty business,” Lady Tweed said with several clucks and a shake of her gray-haired head. “I still cannot credit those fools in London actually believing Lord Forsythe could possibly be a traitor. Why, your nephew has always been ridiculously patriotic.”
“And loyal to a fault,” Lady Humphrey added firmly, thinking of the ten-year-old boy she had taken in when his parents died and raised as her own. “Not always sostead fast to his wife, poor dear, but then men are like that, are they not?”
“My Henry strayed from the path but once. He found himself sleeping down the hall for nearly a year, but the lesson was well learned. I don’t believe he was ever unfaithful again.”
“This daughter of Harmon’s, Grace Chastain—born on the wrong side of the blanket though she was—he always thought a good deal of her. Kept track of her over the years. Wrote me several letters about her. I think he liked her pluck.” She cocked a gray eyebrow at her friend. “His own brood is rather a dull lot, don’t you think? Though I shall deny I ever said so.”
“Lord Forsythe’s other children take after their mother, poor darlings.” Elvira picked up her needlework, but didn’t seem interested in actually taking a stitch. “I do hope the gel is all right.” There were no secrets between the two women. They had shared each other’s lives for more than fifty years, shared the happy days and the heartbreak. They were steadfast friends and nothing that happened in the in sane world around them could shock them any longer.
Matilda sighed. “God only knows what may have happened to her.” Last week, a sea captain named Chambers had appeared at her door with Grace’s trunks and her lady’s maid, a girl named Phoebe Bloom. He said he regretted that Grace wasn’t with them and relayed a tale of her abduction from his ship, the Lady Anne. A man named Ethan Sharpe, captain of the Sea Devil, had said that Grace was wanted for questioning in a matter of national security.
Which could only mean that somehow she had been connected to Harmon’s escape.
“I wonder if she is back in London,” Elvira said.
Matilda worried that she might be. “God’s breath, even now, my great-niece could be languishing in prison for the brave deed she has done.”
“You dare not pursue the matter, Matilda,” Elvira warned. “If you do, you will be putting both Grace and Harmon in even graver danger. The girl should probably have sought aid somewhere else. Now Captain Chambers knows her destination and someone might put two and two together. Should the connection be made between Grace and Lord Forsythe—” She clucked and shook her head.
“I live a quiet life miles away from London. Harmon has been gone from this house for more than twenty years and few people ever really knew of our kinship. No one is going to connect
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