Page 66 of The Mistletoe Countess
A shiver tiptoed up Grace’s spine, and she scanned the room, looking for proof.
I am caught with no escape. I cannot seek justice for my wife’s treachery without incriminating myself. I am ill, Parks. A sudden fatigue has befallen me—whether from the pains of my own remorse or a viler deviance, I am uncertain. I’ve ruined it all. God have mercy. I cannot trust her. I’ve stripped her of everything in hopes of finding some redemption for Havensbrooke.
Send for Frederick. May he…
The handwriting quaked to such an extent the words became illegi-ble, scratching off the page.
Grace scanned through the loose papers for more of the letter, but nothing matched. How long ago had it been written? Hadn’t Frederick mentioned something about his mother forbidding access to these rooms soon after Edward’s death?
Grace’s attention shot back to the letter in her hand. She’d read about letters scratching off before being completed, usually because the person was dying of some sort of poison or weakness. But hadn’t Frederick said his brother had died from a weak heart?
Grace’s gaze slipped up to catch a glimpse of Celia’s portrait over the mantel in the adjoining room. Her eyes took on a decidedly darker glint, her smile mocking.
Grace swallowed through her dry throat and tucked the page into one of the books in her hand. Something felt unfinished here. Her lips tipped into a responding smile. She may not be fully equipped for a fashion debut, but solving a mystery? She’d been training for this her whole life.
The game was afoot.
Chapter Nineteen
Was his wife going to disappear on him as a rule?
Frederick took another turn around the gardens, Zeus on his heels. This afternoon, they’d meet the tenants of Havensbrooke. His gaze slid toward a cottage tucked behind a screen of trees in the distance. Except that tenant. He’d save that introduction for a more private opportunity, once he’d divulged the worst of his sins to his wife.
But he wanted to hold on to Grace’s look of admiration for one more day.
The Great Hall gave no indication of the whereabouts of his wife, though it did boast a twenty-foot spruce several men had brought in after Frederick gave them instruction on where to find it. He hadn’t been home for Christmas in four years. He smiled as he passed, nodding to a few maids as they draped garland along the massive mantel. After being gone for six months, he was finally starting to feel at home in this house again.
As he passed his office, he caught sight of a flash of green and came to a roaring stop. Peering around the corner of the doorway, he watched as his wife walked faerie-light through the very masculine space.
Her day dress floated around her as she stepped from his desk to the globe in the corner and slid her free hand over the massive leather chair by the fireplace, her other hand clutching two books to her chest. Her beauty stole his breath.
She turned to look out the window, and he swept up behind her, catching her gasp with his lips. Their physical connection bound him to her in a new, more powerful, way. Unlike any woman he’d known, Grace took to their time together with the same voracious curiosity as she did to most things—and he harbored no complaints. In fact, he’d hadn’t thanked God so much in years. Out loud. In several languages.
She giggled as his lips left her mouth to slip to her ear. “I missed you too.”
“Did you?” He raised a brow and then delved back into appreciating the slope of her neck with his mouth. “You seem much more content than I.”
“I’m being scandalously kissed by my roguish husband.” Her breath hitched as he continued his perusal. “Why wouldn’t I—”
“I know my way well enough, Brandon.” A familiar voice from the entry hall ruptured their privacy. “Let me through.”
Frederick hoped his ears played tricks on him. Surely his Aunt Lavenia hadn’t arrived unannounced and with such poor timing.
“Where is she?” her question resounded closer, confirming his thoughts.
“Blast,” Frederick muttered, tucking Grace against him behind the door.
“Who is it?” Grace peeked up at him from her place between him and the wall. His thoughts delved into excellent ways to take advantage of her position—
“Mrs. Redfern, if you would allow me to announce your presence—”
“Pishposh, Brandon. I must see this new bride of my nephew’s.” Her light voice rang through the corridors with purpose. “Upon my word, what a glorious tree!”
She’d made it to the Great Hall.
“Frederick?”
“It’s my mother’s sister,” he responded, voice low.
