Page 25 of The Highland Heist
“And now, to be dragged into this awful scandal with my sister after everything she did to you—”
“Darling.”
The endearment worked like a charm, cutting through her momentary hysteria. She stilled, meeting his gaze.
“I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted, his voice softer. “But I’ve learned something from you.” His lips tipped into a faint, knowing smile, and her own tugged upward in response despite herself. “To have the clearest head for this situation, we must focus our energy in the right place. Right now, what’s important is finding answers for your sister. You needn’t exhaust yourself worrying over future horrors conjured by yourverycreative mind.”
His gentle teasing softened her frown further.
“I can’t promise Lillias’ situation isn’t dire.” He sobered, the weight of his words palpable. “But Icanpromise you this: My thoughts foryouare secure. Havensbrooke may take time, but we’ll manage it together. Do you understand?”
She nodded, desperate to hold fast to the security he offered. And yesterday, she would have done so without hesitation. But now—now, so many truths had surfaced in the past twenty-four hours, shifting the ground beneath her feet. Her sister’s life hung in the balance, and Frederick’s beloved estate teetered on the brink.
Grace prayed the next twenty-four hours wouldn’t bring yet another revelation—a deception so great it could shatter Frederick’s resolve beyond repair.
The cool evening air bit into Frederick’s exposed face as he stepped out into the townhouse’s back garden. A deep breath of night air filled his lungs, its chill seeping into his thoughts and dampening—just slightly—the rising tide of his concern.
He had told Grace the truth: His love for her was unshaken by the deceptions of her family or the financial blows to Havensbrooke. But Tony Dixon’s murder and the unsettling revival of Lillias’ lies had dredged up old insecurities. The ones that whispered he wasn’t enough. That he was, and always had been, second best.
Initially, marrying Lillias had been a pragmatic decision—a dowry for a title. Yet that carefully laid plan had unraveled spectacularly, leaving Grace in its wake. Grace, with her irrepressible wit and warmth, had transformed his life. She’d made him believe in a future beyond obligation and legacy, loving him with a fierceness that refused to be diminished by his flaws. And without an ability to fight against such unfettered adoration, he’d grown to love her.
Fallen for her in turn, wholly and irrevocably.
More than Havensbrooke.
More than reputation.
If he’d learned nothing else, he thought with a grim twist of his lips, it was that God worked in situations in ways he could never understand, so worry about a future he had no ability to see only led to his own frustration and distraction.
And the last thing he needed right now was to be distracted.
He sighed and stepped forward, scanning the darkening area. Grace’s earlier words echoed in his mind as his gaze trailed to a worn footpath leading from the house toward a forested park beyond. The scents of damp earth and hydrangeas mingled with the faint, acrid trace of coal smoke from the surrounding chimneys.
Crouching near the garden door, Frederick ran his fingers over scuffed boards and a faint trail of dirt. Subtle, but undeniable—a heel had dragged here, carving a groove through the grass. The image of Tony’s bloodied body flared in his memory, and he frowned. The path extended farther toward the tree-covered park, where the trail grew faint but discernible.
Grace’s voice echoed in his mind, her earlier question sharp and insistent:Why move Tony’s body into the house?
He straightened, scanning the shadowed expanse ahead. The faint crunch of gravel underfoot—or was it just the rustle of leaves stirring in the evening breeze—pulled him toward the far side of the garden. His hand drifted to the pistol concealed beneath his jacket, a habit born of both his marriage to Grace and their propensity for falling into trouble.
Once their friend Detective Jack Miracle had succeeded in corralling them into a true criminal case, Frederick had accepted the presence of the weapon as a constant means of protection.
A distant bark broke the quiet, but nothing stirred nearby save for the trees swaying gently in the wind. He swept the area with another careful look and took a cautious step forward, his shoe catching on something hard and unyielding. Bending down, he brushed aside a scatter of leaves and twigs. A glint of polished silver met his gaze. He picked it up, holding it closer to catch some fresh hints of moon glow.
A cloak pin? The polished silver glinted in the dim light, its intricate design unmistakable to both his sight and feel.
A Celtic knot wove an intricate pattern around a gleaming emerald at its center.
What on earth was such a personal (and apparently expensive) item doing here? Turning the finely detailed pin over, he noted the faintest of inscriptions etched in Gaelic along the back. He didn’t speak the language but knew a few words, none of which appeared on the inscription except one.
A Mhic.
My son.
This wasn’t an ordinary piece of jewelry. It was deeply personal, its craftsmanship bespoke, its presence here profoundly out of place. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. Whoever had lost this pin wasn’t likely to have done so casually. This pin was far too unique to belong to just anyone, and it was certainly out of place here in a modest townhouse garden in Harrington, Virginia.
He straightened, studying the path that led into the forested park. The smudges and drag marks continued faintly toward the tree line. He could follow them and risk exposure to danger or pocket the pin and retreat for the night.
A faint crunch of gravel drew his attention to the garden’s far edge. Frederick froze, his fingers tightening around the pin. Another step forward, slow and cautious, revealed little beyond the faint play of shadows against the trees. He considered the drag marks leading farther into the park. Should he follow them now or retreat to plan his next steps by daylight?
