Page 115 of The Mistletoe Countess
“I promise I won’t tell Brandon. Will that suit you?”
“Lady Astley!”
“Elliott.” She placed her hands on her hips and stared at him. “I admire your great propriety, but my husband is held hostage by an insane woman who has murdered at least two people and most likely has designs to murder a third, so I believe we’ve moved beyond the realms of propriety, don’t you?”
He sighed, closed his eyes, and turned, bracing his hands against the wall for support. She slipped off her shoes to lessen the discomfort for the long-suffering man and adjusted her gown for the occupation as best she could.
Elliott would thank her for this someday. What a story to recount to his progeny!
“Just keep your eyes closed, and you can pretend it never happened.” Grace shoved the rope onto her shoulder and grasped the rickety trellis. “But it would make a great scene in a book, don’t you think?”
He groaned a response, or maybe it was a chuckle. She couldn’t tell.
“After I’m up, I’ll drop the rope for you to follow. If necessary, I’ll cause a distraction so you can get into position.”
“I have no doubt of your abilities to create a distraction,” came his mumbled response.
At least he had faith in her.
With a bit of struggle, she made it to a full stand on his shoulders and was fairly delighted that the windowsill came to her chest. Grasping the edge of the frame, she pushed off Elliott’s shoulders until her elbows hooked over the edge of the sill.
Elliott released a low grunt.
“Sorry, dear Elliott,” she whispered as she clung to the frame and scraped her feet against the stone wall to gain traction.
A shuffling noise came from one corner of the house as Grace struggled through the window. Her gown billowed around her in a most unladylike way. She never imagined the female detectives in novels flapping like fish in their exploits, but in all honesty, what else could be done?
The noise came again. Closer. If the sill hadn’t pressed into her stomach, stealing her breath, she would have told Elliott to hide.
She gripped the frame, her fingers pinching to the point of pain, and finally succeeded in hooking one foot into a crevice in the wall while her other leg flailed in the air. Oh good heavens, hopefully Elliott still had his eyes closed. She’d never been so thankful for pantaloons in her life!
With a final tug of her quivering arms and a push from her foot, she tumbled through the window into a quiet heap on the floor. For a second, she lay there, resting her head in her hands, breathing in and out. Her body ached a little, and the exertion proved a bit more than she’d expected, but in all truth, her other sleuthing exploits had been on the page. Perhaps she should invest in calisthenics to prepare for her next detective opportunity.
After pushing herself to a sitting position, she took inventory of her surroundings. A few pieces of broken furniture, some crumbed stone, a broken vase, and even a partially intact tapestry hinted that this space was some sort of sitting room in a previous generation. About ten feet in front of her a gaping hole opened to the floor beneath, giving more clarity to the voices below.
“I see you’re finally waking, Lord Astley.” A female voice rose into the cavernous space. “Don’t look at me that way. If you hadn’t tried to escape, you wouldn’t have such a headache.”
Grace’s eyes widened. Oh, Lady Celia was marvelous. Exactly as any solid villainess should be!
Grace scooted on her stomach to the edge of the hole and peered down. Celia paced back and forth, the central figure dressed in a magnificent fitted purple day suit with a mummy-type skirt. Grace shook her head. The woman looked resplendent —villainously so —though Grace despised those hobble skirts. If Grace ever became a villainess, which seemed rather unlikely, she’d wear trousers as a uniform of treachery.
“Now here’s what you’re going to do.” Celia’s voice pearled with false sweetness. “You will go to London on the evening train, accompanied by Randolph and Parks. Turner and I will keep your wife and mother company. Then you’ll dip into Lady Astley’s substantial fortune.” She named a ridiculous sum. “Transfer it into Parks’s account and send me a wire that it’s been done.”
A muscular sort of brute stood to Celia’s right, and another man, broad chested with an impressively bushy pair of black eyebrows, waited at her left with a gun in his hand. Grace held in her gasp. Oh dear, it was Captain Hook from the ship to England.
Celia had been after Frederick from the start.
“I didn’t see anyone, Lady Celia.” This from a man out of sight. He must’ve been the one snooping about outside a few seconds before. Parks, if she guessed.
Well, the odds weren’t the best for Grace. Three men. One woman. But at least Elliott had a gun and Grace a pair of scissors.
“I’m not giving you anything, Celia.”
Frederick’s voice pulled Grace’s attention back to her husband. As Celia stepped aside, Grace had a clear view of him. Air closed off in her throat. One of his eyes was swollen almost closed, blood tinged the side of his head, and ropes bound him so tightly they bunched his chest inward.
Heat scorched up from her stomach into her face. How dare they!
She shoved back from her perch, swallowing through her burning throat. This deed would not go unpunished. She searched the room, her attention landing on a broken yet heavy vase nearby. But who to aim for? Every burning coal in her chest wanted to target Celia, but the detective brain took hold. Aim for the man with the gun —she shifted her gaze back to the mastermind in purple —then she would claw Celia’s eyes out.
