Page 54 of The Bachelor Spy
His treachery would wound her as deeply as her father’s or sister’s had when they failed to tell her the truth about their family’s finances. Perhaps even worse. At least Papa and Lillias had givencluesto their deception.
Blake, on the other hand?
She’d searched her mind thoroughly.
Not one hint. Not one suspicious twitch of an eyebrow.
Blake had never given the slightest indication of anything but true care, steadfast loyalty to Frederick, and genuine affection for her.
And this terrible struggle between trusting him and not trusting him had gone on for two entire days, during which Grace had attempted to avoid him as much as possible until she could shore up the courage for a serious confrontation.
Unfortunately,nothinghad arisen to distract her from the current dilemma.
Not even a missing pen.
Or a faint wisp of a ghost.
Or a suspicious footprint outside the morning room window.
Thus, she’d spent far too much time rehearsing:
Blake, I know you’re not wounded.
Too direct.
Dear Blake, might we discuss your rather inconsistent limp?
Too flippant.
Stephen Blake, you are going to tell me what you’re really doing at Havensbrooke this instant, or so help me—
That one felt the most satisfying.
If only she could summon the courage.
Grace pressed her palms against the writing desk and attempted to steady her breathing.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered. “Blake would never hurt you. He loves Frederick. He’d never—”
But what if he would?
The thought froze her.
What if everything she believed about Blake was wrong? What if his charm was merely a mask, his affection for Frederick an elaborate deception? She’d read enough mystery novels to know that sometimes the most trusted characters turned out to be the most notorious.
Mr. Smallwood in Egypt had read Dickens for heaven’s sake and appeared the very model of a pleasant gentleman before he went off shooting people and blowing up ancient tombs to conceal his antiquity heist!
She breathed out a sigh.
Though Grace had also read enough to know that sometimes the detective’s paranoia led them astray.
And in truth, shehadbeen that very detective more than once.
And Blake was no Mr. Smallwood.
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts, and she turned as Brandon stepped inside, the maid Jane hovering pale and shadowed behind him.
“My lady.” He dipped his chin. “Jane has requested an audience with you.” Though his expression remained properly impassive, she noticed the faint tightening around his eyes—a telltale sign of concern. “Would you like me to remain for the interview, madam?”
