Not by Sight (9 page)

Gray marble floors reflected colored light as the sun penetrated two stained-glass windows along either side of the front door. A brass umbrella stand stood beside one colored pane, and an exotic palm in a Chinese vase beside the other. It was lovely. Having seen Lady Bassett’s posh surroundings, she much preferred the elegant simplicity Roxwood had chosen.

“Miss Mabry.” His unmistakable voice sounded at the top landing. As he descended the stairs—somewhat arrogantly, she decided—his long legs appeared first, clad in winter-white linen with turnups or cuffs, and brown leather shoes. Next, his lean torso and broad shoulders, garbed in a matching white blazer. Beneath the jacket he wore a brown-striped waistcoat and jaunty yellow tie.

The last of him came into view when she spied his gruesome covering. Grace froze, air trapped in her lungs. While she no
longer felt an urge to scream, the sight of the mask with its macabre steel veil still disturbed her.

The man and his scars seemed much preferable to this inhuman-looking creature. “Lord Roxwood,” she said, letting out her breath.

The clock in the hall chimed the hour. “And right on time.” He continued his descent, then walked unerringly across the marble floor to stand before her. “I had thought you might flee with your life.”

“It takes more than a few harsh words to scare me off, sir.”

“Milord,” Knowles leaned in to whisper. Grace glared at him. She might work for Lord Roxwood, but she wasn’t going to call him milord. As a suffragette, she knew equality must start somewhere, and right now seemed the perfect time.

“A brave woman, then,” said the towering man in the mask. Grace thought she detected humor in his voice. “I trust Edwards gave you a brief orientation yesterday. Have you brought the Daimler around?”

“It’s parked outside.”

“Shall we?”

Grace led the way to the car and slipped in behind the steering wheel. She watched Lord Roxwood descend the steps, noting just as she had in the hedge maze how easily he navigated without the use of a cane.

Once he’d reached the driveway, he stood beside the car and waited. With some impatience, he said, “I have done my bit in hiring you as chauffeur, Miss Mabry. Now you must do yours. My door, if you please?”

So it begins.
Pursing her lips, she exited to go around and open the rear passenger door.

“I’m sitting in front.”

Her annoyance turned to alarm. “But . . . I’m sure it’s not the way things are done.”

“It’s the way I do things.” His tone brooked no argument.

Somewhat flustered, Grace complied. She’d only just returned to the driver’s seat when he said, “Miss Mabry, I do not wish the car’s top down. Who gave the order?”

“Why, no one. I mean, with such a beautiful day, I thought . . .” She’d collapsed the top before bringing the car around from the garage. “I thought you might enjoy the warmth of the sun as we drive.”

“In future, you will leave the top intact. Now please replace it and hurry. The morning’s nearly gone.”

Grace took a deep breath. Was he always this autocratic? She did as he commanded.

“Do you have a particular destination in mind,
sir
?” she asked when she’d finished and slipped back behind the wheel.

“Something close to home, I think.” He raised an arm to rest against the back of the seat. “I wish to test your driving skills before we go too far.”

“I assure you, I’m quite capable.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten about my roses. Turn right just beyond the gatehouse. We’ll travel north along the perimeter road of the estate.”

Grace said a prayer for patience as she eased the car forward, making the turn. Soon they were traveling a dirt road with surprisingly few ruts.

“Describe yourself, Miss Mabry, so I can at least envision to whom I’m speaking.”

Grace’s jaw dropped. Didn’t he already know? “I’m . . . of average height for a woman,” she said cautiously after a moment. “I’ve red hair and green eyes and a bit of a pointed chin.”

“Truly?”

She glanced over to see him turned toward her. Seized with dread, Grace felt certain he was about to confront her about
the white feather she’d given him. Then he would fire her and send her back to London.

“Why are you at Roxwood?”

Jarred by the unexpected question, she said, “I told you before. I was sent here to work for the WFC.”

“And your family? Do they live in London? At our first meeting you said you recognized me. Have we met before?”

He didn’t know? Grace gripped the wheel and turned to him, recalling the scene of his rage inside the hedge maze. Why, then, had he been so angry?

“Not too difficult a question, I hope.”

She wet her lips. “Everyone knows you’re Viscount Walenford,” she answered carefully. “I’ve seen your photograph many times in the newspapers. And yes, my father lives in London.”

“Is there a Mrs. Mabry?”

Grace shifted. She didn’t wish to speak about her beloved mother with this stranger. “Why do you ask so many questions, sir?”

He turned his head slightly. “I have been convalescing in that house for three months without a shred of stimulating conversation. Please, humor me, Miss Mabry.”

She swallowed. “My mother died last year of tuberculosis.”

“Any other family?”

Why had she expected condolences from him? “My brother fights in France,” she said, pride in her voice. “I also have an uncle in Dublin and several cousins scattered throughout Britain.” She paused, then added, “My aunt in Oxford.”

“You don’t sound enthused,” he said. “I gather this relative is not your favorite?”

“Aunt Florence isn’t a bad person. She’s just . . . forthright in her opinions on how young ladies should behave.”

“Is she married?”

So many questions! Grace decided it was her turn. After
all, she had a story to write about the mysterious Tin Man. “How long do you plan to recuperate here in the country, Lord Walenford?”

“I’m asking the questions today,” he said. “And out here, I prefer Roxwood, if you don’t mind. So, is she?”

“Is she what?” Grace asked, confused.

“Married,” he said. “Does this aunt of yours have a husband?”

“No, she never married.” Grace was growing tired of their one-sided exchange.

“A spinster, then.” He dropped his arm from the back of the seat. “I take it the ‘behavior’ to which she subscribes prohibits
you
from having fun?”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t say—”

“Is she sister to your father or your mother?”

“My father, but I still don’t see why—”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Lord Roxwood!” Grace brought the car to a halt. “I understand you’ve been without company a long while, but this ‘stimulating conversation’ you seem to think we’re having is all on your part. I haven’t gotten a word in for all of your questions, none of which has to do with my driving skills.” She felt like an insect beneath a microscope.

“I apologize, Miss Mabry. I’m merely curious.” He leaned back against the seat. “Your driving skills seem adequate enough. You haven’t yet hit a rut to knock me out of the car.”

“Thank you,” she said with forced politeness.

“Where are we now?”

Grace surveyed the landscape. “There is a grouping of trees off to the right,” she said. “They surround a lake—”

“Camden Pond. Look for a dirt track coming up beside a large ash tree. It will take us directly to the water’s edge, so remember to brake.”

Grace rolled her eyes. She soon spied the large leafy tree and a wide dirt track beside it. Taking the turn, she brought the Daimler to a stop within a few feet of the bank.

“You didn’t answer my question, Miss Mabry. What is your father’s occupation?”

She struggled for patience. “He’s in the tea business and the owner of Swan’s Tea Room in London.”

“Is he from London?”

“Dublin, if you must know. He came to Britain when he was my own age of twenty and started working at the docks. He came to know men in the tea import business, and after years of hard work and establishing the right connections, he was able to invest with others in a large tea plantation abroad.”

“I imagine he’s a rather affluent tradesman, then?”

“If you mean is he wealthy, the answer is yes,” she said tersely.

“And when did he open this tea room of his?”

The man was relentless. “Seven years ago,” she said wearily. “A few years after my father bought his own tea distributorship. Since he loves all varieties of tea, he opened Swan’s as a way to share his passion with others. He plans to expand the franchise and build four more tea rooms across London. Now, sir, do you wish to cross-examine me further? Perhaps you’d like to go to Swan’s in London yourself and corroborate my story?”

“Not my sort of place.” He spoke with infuriating calm. “I much prefer the club atmosphere. Playing cards and sipping on a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch.”

No truer words, she thought, recalling his exploits from the newspaper. Jack Benningham was hardly one to enjoy a proper tea.

“Does your father entertain much?”

Grace felt like screaming. “Swan’s keeps him extremely busy. Shall I take you back to the house now?” She felt desperate to be rid of him.

“Perhaps you’d care to get out and view the pond.”

His suggestion startled her. “Why, yes, very much. You don’t mind?”

“Go ahead and turn off the car.”

Grace set the brake and pressed the engine’s kill switch. Then she exited the Daimler and went around to open his door.

“You go ahead, Miss Mabry. I’ll wait here. There’s no breeze yet this morning, so you should find the water smooth as glass.”

Stymied at his indulgence toward her, Grace thought he might regret having asked so many questions. “I won’t be long.”

She walked to the bank and surveyed the pond. He was right; without a breeze, the water stretched outward like a mirror. She could see in it the perfect reflection of the trees, tall and unmoving along the opposite bank.

The mirror distorted as a flock of colorful ducks swooped down to skid along the glassy surface and land with a splash. They ruffled their feathers and swam for a patch of reeds near the opposite shore, quickly acclimating to their new gathering place. She smiled over their antics and turned to call out to Lord Roxwood, intending to share her discovery—then realized he wouldn’t be able to see them.

“I heard the ducks,” he said when she’d returned to the car. “Are they pochards? The shovelers are common this time of year, as well.”

“I have no idea,” she said. “They had many of the same colors: browns, creams, a few with green heads. Several were a dull brown.”

He crossed his arms. “Miss Mabry, surely you know the difference between a northern shoveler and a gadwall when you see it?”

She sensed his jeering expression behind the mask. “I’ve lived in the city all my life, sir. Perhaps I could offer you instead the differing species of street pigeons?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “My brother and I sometimes took our small boat out here to fish.”

Grace heard his pensiveness, but the mask hid his expression. She imagined two young boys on the water with their fishing poles, each hoping to catch the bigger prize. More than a year ago, the
Times
had reported the drowning of his brother in Serpentine Lake at London’s Hyde Park. Hugh Benningham was in a boat then, as well. “Did you spend much time at the estate?” she asked.

“Hugh and I spent our childhood summers here.” His voice sounded hollow. “Miss Mabry, I believe I’ve had enough country air for one morning. You may return to the house now.”

“Of course.” Using the car’s throttle and crank, she brought the engine back to life. He said nothing as she drove the car back in the direction they had come. Lord Roxwood’s first outing after being cooped up in the house for so long had doubtless tired him.

His earlier rapid-fire questioning still disturbed her. Grace understood natural curiosity—as a writer, she had it in abundance. Yet he’d seemed insistent, demanding to know as much about her as possible. Why? She felt certain now he had no knowledge of her being at Lady Bassett’s ball. Still, he’d asked so many questions, about her father in particular.

Patrick Mabry had never been introduced to any of the Benninghams, nor did he expect to be. Despite the privilege of Lady Bassett’s patronage, a self-made Irishman, even a wealthy one, didn’t travel in the same circles as an earl of the realm.

Returning to the manor, Grace stepped from the car and was surprised to see the sun almost directly overhead. She checked her watch and saw three hours had passed. She moved around to open her employer’s door. “Shall I call for you again tomorrow?”

“It’s what I pay you for.”

Again his surly self, Lord Roxwood exited and began mounting the steps. “Oh, and Miss Mabry,” he called back. “While you work for me, please notify Edwards if you decide to leave the estate. There may be times I request an afternoon outing.”

How he enjoyed being lord of the manor. “Very well,” she said, holding her temper.

As she watched him continue toward the front door, where the sour Knowles awaited him, Grace reminded herself of the reasons she’d taken the post. She also said a prayer for patience.

Because if her morning with Lord Roxwood was a sampling of the days to come, she would need it desperately.

6

“Jack, you won’t believe what I discovered.”

“So tell me, Marcus.” Jack held the telephone as he sat on the edge of his desk. Since returning from the morning’s ride with Grace Mabry, he’d been reproaching himself over his clumsy interrogation. Like a novice, he’d drummed her with so many questions that even the most innocent person might become suspicious. He’d been trained by the best at MI5, and it unnerved him to think he’d lost his edge.

“Patrick Mabry bribed a clerk in the WFC to place his daughter at Roxwood,” Marcus said. “It seems your hunch was well-founded. She’s obviously there to obtain information for her father. Whether Mabry believes you still have proof against him is debatable. Ordinarily you would already have brought it forward—”

“Except for the fact I’m blind, you mean?” Jack said. “Does he think I perhaps misplaced his letter and now I cannot find it?”

“I
think
if he knows you were on the
Acionna
when it went down, you might have something on him,” Marcus countered.

Jack said nothing. Hearing Marcus corroborate his suspicions about Grace Mabry didn’t offer the anticipated reaction.
Instead of crowing with vindication, he felt disappointment. He rather enjoyed his sparring match with her today. She’d made her annoyance to his questioning quite clear, her responses seeming impulsive and unrehearsed. Despite her father’s bribe to get her here, she certainly didn’t fit the profile of a spy infiltrating her target and gaining his trust.

“Jack, my schedule’s a bear right now with the spy Mata Hari’s upcoming trial, but I can come out after the weekend—”

“No,” Jack cut in swiftly. “I need more time with her.” He relayed to his friend their employment agreement. “Miss Mabry will tell me what I wish to know.”

“Yes, but in light of this new information, I need to come out and meet with her.”

“Your presence will only make my fact-finding more difficult,” Jack insisted. “She’ll become suspicious and the opportunity will be lost. We need information, Marcus, and I feel she can provide it. Right now there’s no direct evidence with which to indict Patrick Mabry. We need to prove his involvement with James Heeren
and
the spy ring MI5’s been after. I can get names from her, other agents her father’s worked with.”

“I don’t know, Jack. The Admiralty is keen to investigate any suspicious activity. There have been recent developments. If Mabry or his family is involved—”

“She’s not going anywhere, Lieutenant.” Jack’s tone hardened. “I’ve put my entire staff in charge of keeping track of Miss Mabry’s whereabouts. When she’s not with me, she’ll be working with the WFC.” He paused. “I need this, Marcus. I’m the one who’s had so much at stake. Please,” he said in a low voice, “let me be useful.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally his friend said, “You’ve got a week. Then I’m coming out.”

“Thanks.” Jack’s shoulders eased. “Anything in particular I
should ask her?” He hoped to discover what “recent developments” his friend spoke of.

“No, it can wait, old boy. Just keep me informed.”

Once Marcus rang off, Jack returned to sit behind his desk. The Admiralty had information they wanted kept hush-hush. Secrets his friend wouldn’t risk talking about over the telephone. And likely it involved Grace Mabry’s presence at Roxwood.

Jack thought back to their outing. Despite his inept interview, he’d manage to learn a bit more about her. Red hair and green eyes . . .

Miss Mabry’s description had brought to his mind another image—the mystery woman whose delicate lines and features had been committed to memory, his goddess in green.
Pandora . . .

She was beautiful, her thick auburn curls held captive in green satin bands, her eyes gleaming like emeralds. Her lithe body, swathed in a gauzy Grecian-styled gown, had walked gracefully toward him, the fullness of her lower lip curved upward as she’d offered him her hand for his kiss. Reaching into his vest pocket, Jack withdrew the white feather that had somehow survived the explosion and gently brushed his thumb along its silken softness. He’d never learned her name, but during his weeks in hospital and the ensuing months of darkness, the vision of her had stayed with him, keeping the night at bay, along with the panic he often felt at never being able to see again.

If only he had stayed by her side that night.

Jack pushed himself up from the desk. Wishful thinking couldn’t alter the past. He had only the present, and right now he thirsted for justice. His friend had just given him the chance to seek it out.

Excitement coursed through him as Jack returned upstairs to his room. He was back in the game. Already he anticipated
his next encounter with Grace Mabry. Ringing for his valet, he mentally prepared the questions he would ask the following day.

He had a week to get his answers. And Jack
would
get them.

The butler answered Grace’s summons with the same sour look the following morning. Perhaps it was permanently etched into the craggy features. Determined to be sunny, she made an effort to smile. “Good morning, Knowles.”

“His lordship will be with you presently, miss.”

“Thank you.” She tugged at her gloves. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Grace remembered to open the passenger door before she moved back around the car and got in. She’d also left the Daimler’s top intact. Lord Roxwood would have no reason today for curmudgeonly behavior.

She gazed up wistfully at the clear July sky. With summer in full force and haymaking to begin on Monday, Grace had hoped to join in with the camaraderie of her co-workers, instead of playing driver to a man whose inconsideration stretched the limits of her patience.

He appeared outside the front door. Again wearing his ugly mask, he was clad in a suit of summer linen and wore a brown felt motoring cap. With her initial fear of him gone, Grace marveled anew at his uncanny sense of direction. He seemed to know exactly where he was going without the use of his sight.

“Miss Mabry?” He paused beside the Daimler.

“Good morning, Lord Roxwood.” Feeling a bit devilish, she said, “Shall I come around and assist you inside?”

“I am blind, woman, not feeble.” He slid onto the seat and closed the door.

Grace felt a moment’s triumph at taking a bite out of the man’s endless supply of arrogance. “Where shall we go today?” She was eager to drive to another new place.

“Take the first left before you reach the village. There’s a post marked Warrenton Road. Travel south until it connects with Isle Crossing, which leads toward Canterbury. We won’t go into the city, but there’s a lake and a wilderness park not far from the turnoff.”

He rested his arm against the back of the seat and turned to her. “And I feel ready to venture a bit farther, knowing you won’t run us off the road.”

As much as he seemed to enjoy being unpleasant, she vowed she would not allow him to ruin this glorious day for her. Releasing the brake, she eased the car along the graveled drive. They traveled in blessed silence for the first few minutes, and she thought she might get a reprieve from yesterday.

She was wrong. “What are your plans for tomorrow, Miss Mabry?” he asked.

“Well, it
is
Sunday.” She glanced at him, hoping he didn’t plan to make her drive him about so he could bombard her with more questions. “Mr. Edwards said I would have the day off.” A sudden thought struck. “Or shall I be taking you to church? I’m happy to do it. I believe service in the village starts at eight o’clock. I’ll fetch you at a quarter till the hour, if you like.”

“Miss Mabry, if I ever decide to step inside another church, be assured, I’ll summon you.”

Didn’t he attend church? The news surprised her—until she remembered his reputation in London. Perhaps he felt beyond saving. Her attitude softened. “If you like, I’ll speak with the vicar, Reverend Price,” she said. “I’m sure he’d be willing to come to the house and talk with you . . .”

The rest of her sentence died with his fit of coughing. Grace slowed the car. “Lord Roxwood, are you unwell?” His shoulders had begun to shake. Was he having some kind of seizure? “What shall I do?” she asked, leaning toward him, alarmed. “Should we go back—?”

“Ah, I’m impressed, Miss Mabry.” He sounded winded as he fell back against the seat. “I had no idea when I hired a driver, I’d be getting a missionary in the bargain.” His tone held amusement.

He’d been . . . laughing at her? “I merely wish to give you the opportunity to receive the benefit of Christian counsel and comfort,” she said hotly. “Reverend Price—”

“Is forbidden to enter my house,” he cut in, all humor gone. “As for ‘counsel,’ you can keep your own in regard to any sermons you might think to impart to me, Miss Mabry, such as those from the good reverend.”

Grace clutched at the steering wheel. “So, you don’t believe in God.”

“What difference would it make? I’d still be blind and have these scars.” He turned his masked face ahead toward the road. “I believe in myself. I ask for nothing from God. I expect nothing. A much simpler philosophy and no one suffers disappointment. Now please, just drive.”

Shocked by his tirade, she resumed the car’s speed. He blamed God for his misfortunes? Grace recalled the townhouse fire, the rumors of his heavy gambling, and his having been drunk when he accidentally set the place ablaze. If he chose to behave abominably and suffer the consequences, it wasn’t God’s fault.

Such un-Christian thinking, she chided herself, glancing at him. Jack Benningham had more than paid the price for his folly.

She slowed the car as she spied the village directly ahead. The wooden post for Warrenton Road was off to her left. Grace made the quick decision to drive into town first. She’d written a letter to her father days before, but postponed its mailing when she thought her career in the WFC had ended. As she was once again secure in her position, she would post it.

Grace glanced at Lord Roxwood beside her. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she took a moment to send it off before they continued their outing.

She eased the car to a halt in front of the post office.

“Why have we stopped?” he demanded.

“I’ve a letter to post. I didn’t think you’d mind. It won’t take but a minute.”

“You . . . you’ve brought me into town?”

Her breath caught at his enraged tone. “I promise I’ll only be a moment.” Then she noticed the knuckles of his left hand whiten as he gripped the frame of the windscreen. His other hand lay fisted against his knee, and if he sat any more rigid he’d be made of stone. She realized her mistake. “I am sorry.”

“Get on with it!”

Grace quickly set the brake and exited the car. As she looked toward the cobbler’s shop where she’d sewn sacks with Lucy, she thought she saw Clare Danner and someone else—a man—standing together inside.

She started for the shop, intending to find out, before she noticed people staring toward the Daimler. The blacksmith, clad in his leather apron and holding a hammer, emerged from his smithy to gawk at the man in the car. Two older men stood outside the butcher’s shop, and a woman with her young daughter paused in front of the greengrocer’s, parcels in hand, each gaping at the Tin Man in his mask. As if he were some kind of monstrous curiosity they’d never seen before.