Not by Sight (7 page)

Jack left the ball then, intent to salvage his assignment with MI5 and follow Chaplin. As he reached the London docks, he’d watched his suspect board the Irish merchant ship
Acionna
as she made ready to weigh anchor. He followed, and while the ship cruised toward the mouth of the Thames, he searched belowdecks for his quarry.

The spy had managed to elude him, but Jack found his lair
with Chaplin’s signature bowler hat tossed upon the bed. A thorough search produced a map of the Naval Yards, along with a letter addressed to James Heeren,
Acionna
’s cargo supervisor, and written on Swan’s Tea Room stationery. At first, the correspondence seemed innocent—shipping instructions written and signed by Patrick Mabry, the tea room’s owner. But then Jack held it up to the heat of the lantern and saw code written with invisible ink and penned in between the lines of the letter.

He’d pocketed the evidence and returned above deck in time to see Chaplin dive overboard. The ship was nearing the mouth of the river, but because Jack had to preserve his newfound proof, he could only watch in frustration while the spy swam for shore. And in the next moment, his world went black.

Jack reached with a finger to trace the still-tender flesh around his eyes, then drew a line along the ragged scar at his cheek. The explosion had knocked him senseless; he awakened in hospital days later to learn he was one of only four survivors. The cargo ship had secretly carried munitions and was torpedoed by a German U-boat.

With his precious evidence destroyed in the blast, Jack was left scarred, blinded, and bitter in the knowledge he’d been lured onto the
Acionna.
Never would he forget Chaplin’s backward glance as he boarded her, or his subsequent escape seconds before the explosion.

Patrick Mabry had written the code. Perhaps he and Chaplin were one and the same man. Now his daughter was here . . .

“Milord?”

A faint knock sounded at his bedroom door. “A moment, Townsend,” Jack called as he quickly replaced the mask. His household staff was under strict orders never to intrude without first gaining permission. Leaving the balcony, he returned to his rooms.

Whatever her reasons for being at Roxwood, tomorrow couldn’t arrive soon enough.

He wanted Grace Mabry gone.

———

“Marcus, we need to talk.”

“Jack?” Through the crackling line, Marcus Weatherford’s sleepy exhaustion seemed to vanish. “I thought you’d forgotten how to use a telephone! It’s been months, man. Good grief, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Near dawn, I imagine.” Jack hadn’t slept. Too many questions about Patrick Mabry’s daughter and her presence at Roxwood needed answers.

“It’s three thirty in the morning.” Marcus’s tone turned tense. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Does something
need
to be wrong when I call, Marcus? Other than the obvious?” Jack said irritably.

“At this hour, yes.” Marcus sounded exasperated. “Benningham, you’ve disappeared off the map. No one’s heard from you since you left hospital. Even your father calls me. And when I telephone to try to find out how you’re doing, I have to speak to that old watchdog, Edwards.” He paused. “Is he dead? Is that why you’re ringing me at this unholy hour?”

“Edwards is fine. I’ve called for another reason.” Jack relayed to his best friend the encounter with Grace Mabry.

“Mabry’s daughter working for the Women’s Forage Corps could be legitimate, but you don’t think so, do you?” Marcus said.

“And neither do you. As I recall, MI5 doesn’t believe in coincidences.” Hesitating, Jack said, “Marcus, I think Patrick Mabry sent her here to spy on me.”

Expecting to hear his friend scoff through the receiver, Jack was surprised when Marcus said, “Not good news, old boy.”

Jack straightened. “Why?”

“Can’t discuss it over the telephone,” Marcus said. “Look, I’ll verify her application through the Army Service Corps, since they govern the WFC. I’ll also do some other checking. It may turn out we’re both wrong and her reason for being there has nothing to do with any collusion with her father.” He paused. “You’ve been unreachable for so long, I haven’t been able to tell you we finally arrested James Heeren last week. Caught him passing coded information to a known German agent.”

“The cargo supervisor for the
Acionna
?” Jack gripped the receiver. “What did he say?”

“Heeren’s involved in the same spy ring we’ve been after for months.”

“I knew it! Now, please tell me the code was sent along in one of Mabry’s letters?”

“I’m afraid not,” Marcus said. “But MI5 still has a man doing surveillance at Swan’s and keeping an eye on Patrick Mabry’s movements. Unfortunately the trail went cold recently, but Heeren’s arrest is a boon. Thanks to you, we know the two men were connected.”

Jack’s hopes plummeted. “And the proof lies at the bottom of the Thames.”

“It might be Mabry doesn’t know that.” Excitement tinged Marcus’s tone. “Look, it’s just a theory, but possibly he sent his daughter to snoop around. Can you make certain she stays put? I’ll check her story, but it might take time, and those hay-baling crews move around a lot.”

Jack bit back an oath. He hadn’t thought it through when he demanded her removal. “Get back to me as soon as you can, Marcus. I’ll handle things on this end.”

“Fair enough. And since we’re finally having a conversation, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Just ring me back with something useful,” Jack said before
severing the connection. The last thing he wanted to hear from his friend was anything that sounded remotely like pity.

From the study he carefully retraced his steps upstairs. Like the hedge maze, Jack had spent enough summers at Roxwood to memorize every door and hallway, along with the placement of each chair, potted plant, or other pieces of furniture in the house.

Inside his room, he removed the mask and sat down on the edge of his bed. He needed to figure out a way to delay her departure, at least until Marcus got back to him. Perhaps in the morning Edwards could obtain something useful from the WFC person in charge at the farm.

Jack fisted the steel mesh of his mask. James Heeren’s arrest merely confirmed to him Mabry’s involvement in the explosion. The idea of his offspring remaining on the property, within proximity of his sanctuary, enraged him. Wasn’t it enough he’d been thrown from a burning ship into complete darkness, pocked by scars no woman would ever look at without collapsing into a dead faint?

Except for Mabry’s daughter, he thought savagely. She was more callous than he’d given her credit for, especially if she were here to do that traitor Patrick Mabry’s bidding.

“Enter,” he called to his steward, Mr. Edwards.

Jack stood in his room four hours later, dressed and freshly shaved, the latter only on condition he raise the steel mesh himself just far enough that his valet could get the job done.

At the moment, Townsend was performing the last ritual of grooming, brushing imaginary lint from the back of his jacket.

“Milord, I was able to obtain her file from Mrs. Vance, the supervisor,” Edwards said. “Would you like to review it now?”

“Thank you, Townsend. That will be all.”

Once the valet departed, Edwards began, “Miss Mabry hired on with the Women’s Forage Corps just weeks ago. She recently attended training at Norfolk before being assigned to Roxwood.”

“Anything else?” He’d hoped for some kind of substantial proof she wasn’t here by accident.

“Very little, milord, though it says she’s qualified in driving a horse-transport team, record keeping, and operating a motorized vehicle.”

“Perfect,” Jack said as an idea began to form. “Arrange a meeting between Miss Mabry and myself immediately.”

“Excuse me, milord . . .” The normally unflappable steward hesitated. “I thought you ordered her off the premises.”

“Change in plan,” Jack said. “With Barnes gone to the Front, I need a driver for the Daimler. Dr. Black suggested I take the country air. Miss Mabry should suit for the task. Tell her I’ll pay the going rate.”

“Milord, are you planning to offer her a full-time post?”

Hardly, Jack thought. “Mornings only.” Since her stay would only be temporary, he could manage two or three hours in her presence each day.

“If it’s only part-time work, your lordship, she may not be interested.”

Jack hadn’t considered that. “Inform the supervisor to keep her on at Roxwood. Miss Mabry must be available to me every day until noon. She can work for the WFC afterward.”

“Pardon, milord, but she’s been dismissed from service. After the, uh, incident with the pigs. The WFC makes the rules for their workers.”

“Then tell them to unmake them,” Jack said with impatience. “I undercut the price of my hay and fodder to the British Army more than any other landowner in the district. I hardly think they’ll deny me such a small favor. Now see to it, man.”

“Yes, milord, immediately.”

Once his steward had left, Jack headed downstairs to breakfast. With the skeletal staff he employed at Roxwood, his cook, Mrs. Riley, brought in the meal herself and then left him to eat in privacy.

After removing his mask, he poked at his plate with a fork, satisfied to find the fried kidneys at seven o’clock, two soft-boiled eggs at six o’clock, and a slice of toast and blood pudding at twelve and one. He began tucking into his food. It was the breakfast he had every day and always in the same arrangement. It not only simplified the menu for Mrs. Riley, who had served since his grandfather’s day, but it assured Jack there would be no surprises. He found a measure of control in knowing what to expect and when to expect it, a sense of order that the blindness had robbed from him.

Yet he set his fork aside as doubts over his new plan dampened his appetite. He’d been somewhat of a tyrant with Miss Mabry in the hedge maze; she might not wish to meet with him. Jack hoped if she
was
here to spy on him, she would seize any opportunity to renew their acquaintance. If she wasn’t, their interview would likely end up being uncivil and one-sided—much like the memory of his conversations with Violet Arnold.

No, Miss Mabry would agree to stay, he felt certain of it. And then . . .

Retribution ignited in him like a flame, illuminating his dark world. While he no longer held the proof she might be seeking, he planned to turn the tables on her, nonetheless. He would use
his
skills to interrogate her during their time together and extract information, enough hopefully to charge and convict the traitor who fathered her and beat him at his own game.

Jack retrieved his fork, seized with new appetite. Surely, God would grant him the justice he deserved.

Frowning, Agnes stood at the door to their bedroom and eyed her mistress. Dressed in her blue traveling suit, Grace Mabry adjusted the straps on her portmanteau and haversack, both packed and lying on the bed.

The look of defeat on her pretty face nearly broke Agnes’s heart. She understood the feeling all too well. “You’re really leaving then, miss?”

Grace offered a wan smile. “It appears so. I seem to have a habit of bringing about disaster wherever I go, don’t I?”

Agnes shook her head vehemently. “Mrs. Vance really should have given you more time. You aren’t used to this kind of work like the rest of us.” She went to her own bed and pulled out her bags, her heart feeling like lead. She didn’t want to go back to London, to the painful memories she’d left there. Still . . . “I’m going with you,” she said.

“Dear Agnes, I appreciate your support, but please don’t leave on my account. You seem much happier here at Roxwood.”

Oh, how true! Agnes felt free here in the country. The air smelled cleaner, the countryside prettier than the dank dirtiness of London’s streets. Life here seemed so uncomplicated.

“Where you go, miss, I go,” Agnes said, and meant it. Grace Mabry had more than proved her friendship. Not only had she willingly hired Agnes off the streets without so much as a reference, but she’d offered her kindness and respect. Agnes hadn’t received those gifts from anyone, including her despicable husband, Edgar, in a long, long while. Not since leaving her mother and sister behind . . .