Page 27 of The Bachelor Spy
“But nothing else?” Grace gestured to the other items still in the case. “Not the diamond-tipped pen Lord Astley’s grandfather gave him. Or those small silver statues.”
“Hmm …” Blake continued his study with narrowed eyes, then turned to her, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“If I recall correctly, an item that would fit precisely in that spot was a small framed, detailed sketch—ink on paper—of the nave inside the chapel at the ruins by the river.”
The ruins by the river? Her gaze shifted to the far window that opened in the direction of the site. It was a half mile from the house, an easy walk that Grace had taken a few times over the last couple of months. The trail was overgrown from disuse, and the location afforded isolation, which was likely why it had been used as a hiding spot for villains in the past.
And she’d ventured into the nave on several occasions because of its quaint and quiet beauty. It called her heart toward tranquility, especially with Frederick being so very far away. Her heart had been rather unsettled.
But to steal a sketch of an ancient chapel? She attempted to conjure a memory of it. “Does … does it have value?”
“Monetarily?” Blake shook his head slowly. “Not to my knowledge. Grandfather was an excellent artist and hung several other paintings throughout the house that might carry some financial worth, but that particular sketch? I can’t think of any reason it would be valuable to anyone but family.”
“Then that doesn’t fit with the candlesticks at all.” Grace pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make the pieces connect. “A painting of modest value, a sketch worth nothing, and expensive silver candlesticks. What sort of thief takes such random items?”
Blake lowered himself into a nearby chair, his gaze fixed on the bookcase as if the answer might materialize there. “When did this break-in occur, again?”
“A week ago. Near midnight, according to John.”
Blake was silent for another long moment, and Grace could practically see his mind working through possibilities. Finally, he looked up at her, his expression uncharacteristically troubled. “Itdoesn’tmake sense. The randomness of it. The escalation. And that”—he gestured to the bookcase—”bothers me most of all.”
“Why?”
“Because thieves who know what they’re doing have patterns. They target specific items for specific reasons. But this?” He shook his head. “This feels almost like … searching.”
A chill ran down Grace’s spine. “Searching for what?”
“That, my dear lady, is precisely what we need to discover.” He rose and took her arm, his expression shifting to something lighter. “In the meantime, let me escort you to tea. I’m famished and in desperate need of pleasant company to clear my head.”
They walked a few steps down the corridor, Blake moving with easy grace, and then—just as they reached the threshold where others might see—the limp emerged with more pronouncement.
Grace steadied her breathing, pretending not to notice. Was he faking the extent of his wounds? Putting on a display for the patients?
But why? Blake was no coward to escape his duty. And though he had a dramatic flair to his personality, he never seemed the sort to put on a show.
But the shift in his limp had been obvious.
She sent him a look in her peripheral vision, attempting to sort out this sudden revelation.
She knew Stephen Blake cared for her and Frederick.
She knew he would do everything in his power to protect them.
But not for the first time, she wondered what exactly Blake did when he wasn’t in their company. Because from all she knew about his surprising connections, his uncanny ability to know things before anyone else, and his varied skills with weaponry …
She was beginning to think Blake was far more than a leisurely gentleman of independent means.
In fact, she was becoming increasingly certain that Stephen Blake had secrets.
His obvious connection to Miss Gale being one of them.
And perhaps his presence at Havensbrooke had less to do with recovering from wounds and more to do with … what? Investigating? Protecting?
Her breath caught in a silent gasp. Spying?
Grace’s eyes widened at the thought, even as Blake chatted amiably about the weather and the quality of Mrs. Lennox’s scones.
